There was nobody to confide in. She couldn’t talk to Manuel because he was her ex and they weren’t exactly on good terms, she had been shunned by her friends and shunned them in turn, and speaking to her mother would only invite disaster. She could attempt to phone her father, but he might, in turn, phone her mother. That left Reynier.
Viridiana’s relationship with Reynier was warm, but rested on a bedrock of chess and other board games, books, and foreign languages. Offhandedly, she had mentioned some difficulties she had at home, but was vague. This would be a very specific problem.
Although, she didn’t even know if it was a problem. It was odd. Worrisome. But maybe it wasn’t her problem. If people were walking around using false IDs, that was their business, and she could remove herself from their presence quickly. It wouldn’t take long to pack.
But every time Viridiana looked around her room, she realized leaving Gregory and Daisy meant heading back to her home. No Paris.
She rode the bicycle to town and stopped in the town square, propping her bicycle next to the coin-operated horse which had an “out of order” sign. A bus had stopped on the other side of the street, and she spotted people with cameras around their necks—a small flock of tourists—and some locals who had gone to another town and now returned. Her period had started that morning, and she bought a box of sanitary napkins, gum, and more cigarettes for Daisy and Gregory at the pharmacy.
When she went outside again, she stuffed her purchases in her backpack. A young man with a suitcase, Panama hat on his head, was standing on the sidewalk, resting a hand on the head of the coin-operated horse. He was talking in English to Alejandro Esparza and Paco Ibarra.
“1050 Aristoteles?” the foreigner asked. He sounded American. “You know the street?”
“Sure, we drop you off there after the tour is done,” Alejandro said, pointing to a car. Paco was holding the door open. The car looked like any other, but Paco had affixed a “Licensed Tours and Taxi” sign to the side of it. It didn’t mean anything, because there wasn’t any office that licensed tours and taxis in town.
“No, I don’t think you understand,” the American said, a book under his arm. “I’m looking for 1050 Aristoteles, not a tour.”
“We’ll drop you off. The tour is eight dollars.”
“You’re going to Reynier’s house?” Viridiana asked.
The American turned around. He wore sunglasses, which he took off and tucked in the back pocket of his trousers. He was neatly dressed, but that was all she could say about him. A neat man, in his twenties, but not a backpacker or a stray party boy, which is what younger people who came here tended to be. The older visitors were a mix of fly fishermen and families.
“Yes. You know him?” the man asked.
“I’m headed there,” Viridiana said. “We can walk together, if you want. It’s five blocks.”
Viridiana walked her bike while the guy grabbed his luggage. Alejandro Esparza and Paco Ibarra looked at them with ill-concealed irritation.
“Thanks. They wouldn’t let off and kept insisting on a tour,” the man said.
“They were trying to fleece you. Eight dollars is way too much for a spin around town.”
If Alejandro Esparza and Paco Ibarra hadn’t been such monumental assholes to her the last time they met, maybe she wouldn’t have said anything. But they had been, and they were being real cheeky trying to get eight dollars out of the guy when all he needed was a simple set of directions.
“I’m so tired and sweaty I might have paid them twenty to leave me alone.”
“I can walk you back to them,” Viridiana said with a shrug.
“Of course not,” he replied, seriously.
She didn’t want him to feel like she truly meant it, so she tried to make her tone sound friendlier. Could be he might need a tour guide later on, after all. A fair one, not one who tried to scam him out of his cash.
As they walked, he paused to take off his suit jacket. His shirt clung to his skin, drenched with sweat, but it was buttoned up to his chin, like he was a clerk or government functionary who couldn’t quite shed his formal wear. The color of the jacket and the shirt did him no favors, either. Brown jacket and beige shirt. Slacks and shirts were supposed to have a little color, these days.
“You must have taken the public bus, now that’s bravery,” she said, while he looked at her, perplexed. “There’s no air conditioning in it.”
“You tell me,” he said, grabbing his book and fanning himself with it, and now he tried to sound friendly, although his eyes still seemed serious.
“You ought to have taken the tour bus. It’s more comfortable.”
“But it only runs once a week.”
It was also more expensive. He didn’t look like a backpacker but he also might not be flush with money. If he was headed to see Reynier, he could be the son of a friend, trying to find a spare room to sleep in. A boy on a budget. If that was the case, he’d try to save face and might use the schedule as an excuse.
“It’s right there,” Viridiana said, pointing at the yellow house on the other side of the street.
The man set down his suitcase, as if to ring the bell.
“The bell does not work. It’s open, anyway.”
“Open?” the man said. “I’d never leave my front door open.”
“You’re from a big city,” she replied, giving the door a shove.
“I’m from Boston.”
“You don’t have the accent.”
She set her bicycle by the door and held the door open for him. He nodded and walked in, looking around the foyer which was small and dark. The whole house was poorly lit. A marvel in a town with such a sun. Yet Reynier lived like a delicate plant which requires its shade.
“Did you paak the caa in Haavaad yard?” he drawled.
“In the beginning there was the word,” she intoned. “That accent is non-rhotic. They have it in Wales, too. You know, the really posh accent of Hollywood movies does not exist?”
She headed towards the office because that was where she always headed when she visited Reynier. When he was home they could play chess and when he wasn’t she might wait for him and read a book.
“What kinds of movies?”
“Black and white. Bette Davis and Cary Grant films. If you heard it, you’d know what I’m talking about. It’s called a Mid-Atlantic accent. They invented it so it would be the ‘correct’ sort of English, but any linguist will tell you there is no ‘correct’ way to use a language. They’re living things.”
The American TV shows were dubbed, but they’d show the old films with subtitles, which was the best way to view them. You could get the right cadence of the English language listening to the actors declaim their dramatic lines. Joan Crawford, Katharine Hepburn, she’d picked up many things from the TV set.
“I had no idea.”
The office was empty, the shades drawn. But the fan was gone, this meant Reynier was about. She pulled a cord, by the couch, which rang a bell upstairs.
“He’ll know we’re here and come down,” she said.
“He doesn’t have a doorbell but he has a bell inside?”
“A quirk.”
The man had been carrying his luggage with him the entire time, but now he finally set it down by the window and put his book on a side table. It was a travel guide of Baja California. She recognized the red cover, it was a popular line for maps and travel guides found at every tourist shop. Guía de Lugares de Interés Turístico: Baja California.
An old tabby cat lazily walked into the room and rubbed itself against her legs. She picked it up, scratching its head. It was a stray. It came and went as it pleased.
She came and went, too.
“God, I forgot. I’m Lawrence. But everyone calls me Law,” the man said, sticking his hand out for her to shake.
Viridiana put the cat down and shook it.
“I’m Viridiana. Don’t call me Diana,” she
said.
He had been smiling, and the smile did not quite die away, but it suddenly acquired a certain crispness which had not been there.
“You knew my uncle,” he said.
She did not reply, merely sliding her hand away and bent down to pet the cat again, and her fingers trembled a little against the animal’s fur.
“I’m Stanley Lawrence Landry.”
“S.L. Landry. I put his letters in the mail for you,” she said and looked up at him.
His nephew. And she’d thought he was a boy on a budget. And she’d chatted mindlessly with him, but that was what she did often with tourists. Tried to seem friendly and approachable because that is how you get good tips.
She attempted to find something in his face which resembled Ambrose, but there was little of his uncle in him. He was plain-faced, bordering on the sour (in this perhaps he did resemble Ambrose), although his eyebrows had an elegant curve to them. The eyebrows had been stolen from another face, from an old portrait in a fine Boston house with equally fine linens and teacups.
“Yes,” he said.
She looked down, again pretending to be interested in the cat. Thankfully, she heard Reynier’s hallmark stride.
“Viridiana,” the older man said. “You’ve brought a friend.”
Not a friend. God knows what this man was. But she nodded and stood up.
“Sir, we spoke on the phone. I’m Lawrence,” the young man said.
“Mr. Landry,” Reynier said. “I hope you had a good trip. Are you thirsty?”
“A glass of water would be nice.”
“I’ll fetch it,” Viridiana offered, needing to get out of the room.
She filled a pitcher with water and took out an ice tray from the freezer. Struggling with the tray, she dislodged a handful of ice cubs, but dropped half on the floor. Cursing, she picked them up and tossed them in the sink.
She managed to find a tray and a placed couple of glasses and the pitcher on it. When she walked back into the office, Lawrence was sitting in the chair she normally used.
“… by bus,” Lawrence was saying. “I don’t like driving, if I can help it.”
“The town is small enough that you won’t need it. You could borrow my car if it’s necessary. I don’t drive much either, these days.”
She set the tray down on a table. “Thank you,” Reynier said. “Aren’t you having a glass of water?”
“I only came by to return a book,” Viridiana said, taking out her copy of Bel Ami and also setting it on the circular table, next to the guidebook. “It was nice meeting you,” she told Lawrence.
He stood up to bid her goodbye. “Thank you for showing me the way. I’ll stop by to see Daisy and Gregory tomorrow.”
Viridiana clutched one of her backpack’s straps, nodding. She did not hurry out of the room, but once she was outside, she quickly grabbed her bicycle and pedaled furiously. She saw none of the scenery, like she normally would. The giant cardons, which she found so pleasant as they stood against a blue sky like painted enamel, were of no importance today.
When she arrived in the house she was drenched in sweat. She took off her hat as she walked into the living room. Daisy and Gregory were sitting there, smoking. They had a bottle of rum and a couple glasses, plus a plate with cold cuts. A deck of cards sat by the plate.
“Ambrose’s nephew is in town,” she said.
Gregory lifted his head to look at her. Daisy held her cigarette against her lips, frowning.
“Are you sure?” Daisy asked.
“I spoke to him!”
“Are you kidding me?” Gregory said. “They said they were sending a lawyer. What’s he doing here?”
“I don’t know. He was at Reynier’s house.”
Gregory stood up, running a hand through his hair. He looked outraged and very, very worried. Viridiana was worried, too.
“Fuck,” Gregory said. “Fuck that asshole. What are we going to do? Should we get packing?”
“For the last time, have a bit of a spine,” Daisy said tartly. She held her cigarette in her right hand and looked at Viridiana instead of speaking to Gregory. As if he was not worthy of her attention.
“A spine?”
“A spine, yes. Or a drink. Pour yourself a fucking drink.”
Gregory frowned, but he obeyed.
“You too,” Daisy said to Viridiana.
“I don’t know—”
“Relax,” Daisy said, smiling at her. “It doesn’t mean anything that he’s here. It’s only an obnoxious relative who is not going to spoil our fun. Because we were having fun, weren’t we? Gregory, get the girl a clean glass.”
Viridiana bit her lip, which Daisy must have taken as a sign of acceptance, because she smiled even more, and when Gregory returned with the glass, she filled it to the rim. Viridiana pressed the glass against the hollow of her throat. It felt cold.
“How about a little music?” Daisy asked.
She switched on the stereo, tuning to a radio station which was playing disco music. Viridiana had been suffering for the whole day, racked with doubt. She had thought very bad things about Gregory and Daisy. She wondered about the kind of people they might be. But now that she was back there, with them all that didn’t seem serious. Daisy was so self-assured and calm, the worries melted away.
She knew she should not be standing there, drinking with them, but she was. And the rum was quickly putting her in a good mood, and the beat of the music was pleasant, and Gregory had sat down, and she was sitting next to him.
“How’s your poker?” Daisy asked.
“I don’t play cards.”
“No cards?”
“I’m good at chess,” she ventured. “And dominoes.”
“No smoking or makeup either.”
Viridiana blushed, recalling that night when she had put on lipstick and mascara for Gregory. It was the first time she’d given him a blow job.
“Bit of a saint, aren’t you? We’ll teach you,” Daisy offered.
She’d seen them playing cards before, the three of them. When there had been three. Viridiana had not been invited to partake in those games and it was a good thing, since Ambrose bet real money.
Ambrose.
“Gregory, would you deal?” Daisy said.
Daisy had a great voice. Or, no, not a great voice, but it was the way she said the words and how the words matched her gestures. Like now, how she shook her head, making her earrings sparkle. Viridiana touched her own earlobe, which was bare.
Viridiana told them she’d play one hand of cards, but she ended playing five or six. She didn’t know how many glasses of rum she had. Where did the booze come from? Gregory must have gone to town and bought half the liquor store.
What a difference. Ambrose would not have allowed a drop of beer near him. It had only been a few days since he died, and already the house felt entirely scrubbed of his presence. Daisy had not even worn mourning clothes, not beyond the day of the funeral. She was draped in a fluid, vibrant blue dress which felt Grecian in its cut.
When Viridiana tried to excuse herself, Daisy said it was time to do Viridiana’s makeup. She thought the woman was joking, but Daisy urged Viridiana upstairs, glasses in hand, to her room. Viridiana sat in front of Daisy’s vanity, which was littered with eyebrow pencils and lipsticks and eyeshadows.
“You don’t wear makeup at all, ever?” Daisy said, as she opened a shiny compact.
“My mother is strict,” Viridiana replied, looking down at her hands and blushed again.
She felt a child with these people, sometimes. A naughty child who was playing doctor with Gregory and now dress up with Daisy.
Daisy tipped Viridiana’s chin up and looked at her carefully. “Gregory thinks you’re pretty. He’s right, but pretty doesn’t really mean much at all. The important part is improvising. I wonder if you can improvise?”
Viridiana had no idea what she meant. It was no doubt something very
clever. Daisy seemed the very clever type. Clever and sophisticated, her blonde hair out of a glossy magazine ad. Viridiana always jumped to the back pages of those magazines, which was where you found the romance stories and the serialized novels. Sometimes the stories were illustrated, and the drawings featured women like Daisy.
“I guess we’ll find out,” Daisy said and she handed Viridiana the cigarette she had been smoking. Viridiana took a puff and coughed. Daisy laughed at her.
Chapter 13
Viridiana woke up late, with a massive hangover. She didn’t remember how much she’d had to drink, although she did remember vomiting her guts out in the bathroom and then rolling into her bed. Daisy and Gregory had been amused by her lack of tolerance. They could probably drink the night away.
Viridiana showered, and when she came out, she found Delfina and her daughter cleaning the living room. It was Wednesday already? The visits from Delfina were the only thing that helped her to keep track of the calendar.
“Thank God you’re awake,” Daisy said, walking down the stairs, leaning against the banister and sighing dramatically. “Could you tell them not to cook the fish in that horrid tomato sauce, like last time? Keep it simple. And nothing that stinks, all right?”
Daisy walked back upstairs. Viridiana explained what Daisy wanted.
“We brought cazón,” Delfina said. “How else would you cook if not with jitomate?”
What a pity. This was a nice bit of shark, and would taste best with a bit of chile habanero and tomatoes.
“Don’t you have anything else?” Viridiana asked.
“Shrimp.”
“Good. I think a cocktail would suit her fine. You must have brought some other fish. Maybe you can bake it with garlic and lemon.”
Delfina didn’t seem pleased with the idea, and the way she was eyeing the living room, with the overflowing ashtray and the dirty glasses. Viridiana knew she was wondering if whatever carousing had taken place the night before had involved three people. Rather than giving her a chance to question her, Viridiana escaped back to her room.
When she came out again, Delfina and her daughter had departed. Gregory and Daisy were sitting outside, on the patio with the white chairs and the large umbrella. They’d eaten their shrimp cocktails already and were languidly resting, doing nothing, like lizards sunning themselves.
Untamed Shore Page 13