by Tom Ardies
Yes, yes. That’s what awaited. That, and, name any odds, a galloping case of diarrhea come evening’s end.
Marina glanced back at him. “Coming?”
“No,” he said petulantly.
“Oh? Why not?”
“I don’t feel well.”
To his surprise, she merely shrugged, not urging him to reconsider, or offering an expression of sympathy. The Presidente and Gonzales obviously cared not a fig. They were so taken with their hostess that neither looked back. Some compadre—and some doctor. What if he was really ill?
“On second thought, perhaps a little broth will help,” Buchanan said, hurrying after them.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chicken, the menu claimed, but Buchanan was certain it was goat, dead of old age rather than the butcher’s block. He pushed it away barely touched and cursed himself for changing his mind and coming. There had been some deadly dinners in his long career but none had achieved the pinnacle of boredom served up at this table.
Marina persisted in fluttering over Gonzales and the Presidente like a schoolgirl sexpot, utterly fascinated by their manly presence, the curadora supposedly the farthest thing from her addled mind.
Every time Doña Otelia’s name threatened to enter the conversation, she quickly changed the subject, insisting that her guests were far more interesting. They, after all, had so much to tell.
Which, unfortunately, was true, Buchanan lamented. For his part, the Presidente had again recited the history of Santa Luisa, in greater detail than before, and had also provided an extended version of the story of Fabian Orr, promoting him in the process from colonel to general
Gonzales needed even less prompting. Whenever the Presidente was forced to retire, his voice a mere croak, the doctor would swiftly elbow into the void, intent on putting his life story on the record.
The son of impoverished sharecroppers, the tale went, he’d had to work his way through school, beginning in kindergarten. It was only last year, alas, the specter of middle age hanging over him, that he had finally managed to graduate from medical college.
But his woes were far from over. Along the way he had unfortunately been so desperate as to accept government bursaries. In order to repay this largesse, he was required to perform two years’ internship, at little better than a peon’s wages, in a remote area that could not afford a doctor.
Thus he lingered here in Santa Luisa, beans for supper, when by all rights he should be in Mexico City, building up a rich practice. Where was justice?
Bureaucracy was the topic now—a subject not only boring but endless—and Buchanan was certain Gonzales and the Presidente had entered into a conspiracy. Much more of this and they’d all be snoring as loudly as Herbert.
He glanced pleadingly at Marina. Would she never get her questions asked? Dessert was being served and they were as ignorant as ever of the truth of the claims made for Doña Otelia.
If only he could get the twit off to one side. A moment’s privacy and he could tell her that eyelash batting was a waste of time. Gonzales and the Presidente were in cahoots and giving them the runaround. They were happy to stall.
Marina put him off with a black look. This was to be done her way. Remember?
To hell, Buchanan decided, reaching the limit of his endurance. He shot her back an equally black look and the message was clear. Get it over with or I will.
Marina scowled at him fearsomely. The message again was clear. I dare you.
Herbert started awake and averted a brawl. He blinked, tasted his mouth, and made a sour face. “Well?” he asked sleepily. “What have we found out? Is it bullshit or not?”
Gonzales looked at him sharply. “I beg your pardon?”
“Herbert!” Adele exclaimed. “What a thing to say! You really must mind your manners.”
“Sorry,” Herbert mumbled to no one in particular. He avoided a further lecture by going back to sleep.
Buchanan couldn’t understand Gonzales’ reaction to what was essentially an innocent remark. He had been surprised at first, then shocked, almost fearful. The Presidente had choked on his meat—but that might have had nothing to do with Herbert.
“I’m afraid I almost forgot,” Gonzales said. With an obvious effort, he quickly masked his emotions, the casual, self-assured poise reasserting itself. “It was no doubt the pleasant company …” He regarded Herbert distastefully and then turned to Marina. “You wanted my opinion of the curadora’s healing powers.”
“It’s really not that important,” Marina, herself still flustered, managed to say.
“Oh, my opinions are always important,” Gonzales told her. He smiled and poured an extra portion of Rompope over his lime Jell-O. “But first I have a question of my own. How is it that you came to know of our curadora?”
Marina was about to reach for her purse and its clipping from The Good Earth’s Good News. Then something made her change her mind. “From a friend,” she answered, a glance silencing Adele.
“Word of mouth?”
“Yes.”
“Strange,” Gonzales said. He tucked a spoonful of dessert in his mouth and swallowed it thoughtfully. “I have been here what?—six months now, isn’t it, Presidente?—and in all that time you’re the first tourists I’ve seen in Santa Luisa. Did this friend mention a source for the information?”
Marina made a vague gesture. “A newspaper. I think.”
“Too bad,” Gonzales said. “I would have liked to read the account. Do you recall what was reported?”
“Not precisely. The mention of the curadora’s salve—with its supposedly remarkable healing powers—was the only thing of real interest.”
Gonzales paused with his spoon. “And that was enough to bring you all the way to Santa Luisa?”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” Gonzales repeated, smiling once more. “You must forgive my questions. We doctors, as you know, are forbidden to advertise, and I was merely curious as to how a simple peasant woman could attract such wide attention. It might help in my practice.”
“You call her simple?”
Gonzales shrugged. “If you prefer, unschooled.”
“You’re not suggesting she’s a bruja—a witch doctor?”
“Oh, no,” Gonzales said quickly. “Doña Otelia doesn’t claim any magical powers. You won’t find her mixing potions or sticking pins in dolls. On the contrary, she’s deeply religious, wouldn’t you say, Presidente? She always makes a point of telling her patients, ‘God willing, I can help you.’ ”
Marina interjected before the Presidente could reply. “You make it sound like a disclaimer.”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Gonzales said. “Though she has no formal training, I have a certain grudging admiration and respect for Doña Otelia. The woman has really magnificent hands—you can feel the warmth in them—and she does know her anatomy. What is fatty tissue, muscle, tendon, and bone …” He took the time to help himself to a bit more of the Rompope. “Over the years, completely self-taught, she has acquired a degree of competence in her specialty, which is sprains, dislocations, and fractures. I don’t know how I would classify her exactly. Part osteopath, I suppose. Part chiropractor. Part masseuse.”
Oh, good, Buchanan thought. They had come all the way from Mexico City to visit a massage parlor.
“And that’s all?” Marina wanted to know.
“It is very much,” the Presidente said. “It is what we call a don, a gift, a natural talent. The story goes that she began as a small child, fixing the broken wing of a bird, and that she progressed from there, treating dogs and domestic animals, then members of her family, then other villagers.” His tone changed for Gonzales’ benefit. “There was a need and she filled it. The government wasn’t so quick to send us doctors then as it is now.”
Marina, still looking at Gonzales, seemed not to have heard. “That wasn’t my question …”
Gonzales, busy with his dessert, appeared equally deaf. “There’s also her cast,” the P
residente prompted.
“You’re right,” Gonzales said, spooning out the last mouthful and pushing away the bowl. “I should mention the cast. Though I personally disagree, the Presidente here, like many others, feels that Doña Otelia’s great contribution is the lightweight cast.”
Marina frowned in annoyance. The subject was being purposely changed.
Gonzales took the end of the tablecloth and held it up for inspection. “This is manta, a crude cotton, and when it is first washed, the shrinkage is enormous. Mexican bed sheets are made of the same material and that is why you should ask for king-size when buying for a cot.”
Adele’s interest perked at the mention of sheets. She reached over to finger the sample. “How does it ever get hard enough?”
“All I know,” Gonzales told her, “is that after Doña Otelia sets a fracture, she tears a few strips off a sheet, wraps them around the broken limb, and then applies some foul goop containing resins, cactus juices, and various other ingredients. The formula is her secret.”
The Presidente nodded approvingly. “It makes the manta shrink to exactly the right tightness and it becomes as hard as plaster of paris. Yet it weighs almost nothing.”
“Marvelous,” Adele enthused, and Buchanan thought, from the gleam in her eye, that she had a more practical purpose in mind for Doña Otelia’s goop. Was here the wherewithal for a permanent erection?
“If you want my opinion, not really,” Gonzales cautioned. “The goop is water-soluble and it is very difficult to determine how much is exactly the right amount. Too little, and it isn’t hard enough; too much, and you’ve cut off circulation and are asking for gangrene.”
“No,” Adele cried, aghast.
“You want my professional advice?” Gonzales asked. “Stick to plaster of paris.”
Buchanan couldn’t resist. “In other words, don’t cast about, my dear,” he said, patting Adele’s hand.
“This is all very interesting,” Marina said, kicking him under the table, “but we’re forgetting something, aren’t we?”
“Ah,” Gonzales said. “Of course. The salve. The ungüento …” He caught the eye of the hovering waitress and pointed to his coffee cup. “That’s Doña Otelia’s other brand of goop. The weird mixture she uses for all manner of ailments. Cuts, burns, sores.”
Marina put a hand over her own cup as the waitress began to move around the table. “Well?” she asked, becoming impatient.
“Does it have remarkable healing powers?” Gonzales sipped at his coffee. “Not really. I see a few of the curadora’s patients from time to time. The most I can say is that her ungüento does no harm. The cut or burn or whatever has healed. But whether this is due to the salve—or nature simply taking its course?” He shrugged elaborately. “Quién sabe? Who knows?”
Marina’s reaction was to harden in her purpose. “Isn’t it odd for a doctor to be so uninterested in what might be a new medication of considerable potential?”
“Odd?” Gonzales took another sip of his coffee while he carefully phrased his answer. “The potential I would argue, and as to the lack of interest, that’s simply not true. I’d very much like to know what the curadora’s slops contain and in precisely what proportions. But Doña Otelia, unfortunately, doesn’t see fit to share her secrets with me, and my facilities for analysis are somewhat less than adequate.” He was smiling without rancor when he finally looked up from his coffee. “Now—is there anything else you find odd?”
Marina was not to be put off. “Couldn’t the salve be sent away for analysis?”
“To the Departamento?” Gonzales laughed. “Have you not yet encountered my country’s famed bureaucracy? The job would take forever, it wouldn’t be done properly, and the report would be promptly lost.”
“There are private laboratories in Mexico City,” Marina reminded him quietly. “Surely some are of good reputation. Or is your disdain universal?”
“Not at all. There are several labs of exceptionally high standard—almost as high, in fact, as their rates.”
“It’s a matter of expense?”
“Yes,” Gonzales said. “It is a matter of expense.” He took out a worn handkerchief to illustrate his poverty. “Doña Otelia’s ungüento is apparently composed of a complex mixture of little known plants, roots, and secretions. To have a proper analysis carried out might cost me several months’ salary—and even then the results probably would be inconclusive.”
Marina flushed slightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
Gonzales managed a small smile for her. He examined his handkerchief and decided he would not need it. “A lack of knowledge does not necessarily imply rudeness.”
“Let me understand this correctly,” Buchanan said, deciding it was past time he had his say. “What you’re suggesting, Doctor, is that without Doña Otelia’s co-operation, it might be extremely difficult to determine the formula of her salve?”
“It might well be impossible,” Gonzales told him. “Coca-Cola is often cited as a classic example. Chemists have spent years vainly trying to crack its formula. With a vast fortune at stake, they have good reason for their relentless search, but in the case of Doña Otelia’s ungüento?”
“It’s a complete waste of time?”
“I’m afraid so,” Gonzales said, pushing away from the table. He folded his handkerchief and carefully returned it to the pocket of his ill-fitting suit. “Newspapers can be very irresponsible in the way they print these rumors. There’s reputedly a Mayo Indian at Navajoa who can ‘cure’ rabies, and the Tarascans, if you’re interested, are said to drink some concoction which limits each couple to only two children.”
“Really?” Marina asked softly.
“I’m sorry,” Gonzales said. He got up and stood looking down at her awkwardly. “It was a very pleasant and enjoyable dinner. I regret I must disappoint you in tendering my thanks.”
Buchanan and the Presidente rose with him, and Herbert, still fast asleep, was wisely left that way by Adele.
“What else can I say?” Gonzales asked, still addressing himself to Marina. “If, as you suggest, there actually was something remarkable about Doña Otelia’s ungüento, I would have seen evidence of it by now, or at the very least have heard claims on its behalf. It is not something that could be kept secret for long in a village the size of Santa Luisa.”
“You’re right, of course,” Marina said, not offering her hand, which remained firmly in her lap. “Thank you for joining us—and buenas noches.”
“Buenas noches.” Gonzales bowed to her and Adele and then turned as if to plead to Buchanan. “The big drug companies have had their people in and out of Mexico for the past thirty years. They would have been sniffing around here long ago if there was any truth to this story.” He sighed and glanced back briefly at Marina. “I beg again to say I am sorry, but the plain truth of the matter, señorita, is that drug discoveries are best left to professionals. It is not a business for amateurs.”
Marina didn’t answer and there was a sudden heavy silence at the table. Gonzales gave a final shrug and strode out of the dining room. The Presidente hesitated, mumbled his thanks for the dinner, and then hurried after him, not even bothering to mention Merci.
“What about our appointment tomorrow?” Adele asked, totally confused. “Do we get to see the curadora or not?”
The Presidente waited until he had reached the door. “Didn’t I tell you? I canceled your appointment. Why bother going? You heard the doctor. It’s a complete waste of time.”
Adele started to protest. “But …”
It was too late. The Presidente was gone.
Well, Buchanan thought, regarding Marina unfondly. She had handled it her way, she had made a complete botch, and they were farther than ever from the truth. Who knew what to believe now? “Satisfied?”
Marina, eyes downcast, made no reply.
Buchanan waited a moment and then turned angrily on his heel. The dinner had been demeaning enough for one night. He w
asn’t going to compound it by standing around talking to himself.
Marina caught up to him at the door. “Wait …”
“For what?” Buchanan asked. “You’ve obviously no need of me. Your womanly wiles serve you sufficient, do they not?”
Marina looked at him unsurely. “Is that why you’re angry? My playing up to Gonzales?”
“Don’t be foolish. Of course not.”
“Oh, God,” Marina breathed. “That’s it. You’re jealous, aren’t you?”
Buchanan pulled away roughly. He refused even to consider such blasphemy. “No.”
“You are. Admit it.”
“No.”
“You needn’t be,” Marina said, reaching out to touch him. “I do need you. Very, very much.” She glanced back at Adele and Herbert. “Can’t we discuss this later?”
“What’s wrong with now?” Buchanan asked, determined to be obstinate.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Marina said. She lowered her eyes and her voice was the merest whisper. “It will be more convenient later. Your room.”
Buchanan was rendered speechless. What was he supposed to make of that? Did she mean something else?—or was that actually a sweet promise?
CHAPTER NINE
Poor, dear, sweet Marina, Buchanan murmured to himself, padding barefoot from his shower. To give it her best shot and to be dismissed as an amateur! The child must be heartbroken. Completely shattered. Broken, twisted, and bent.
How fortunate that strong arms were ready to comfort her. How fortuitous that firm lips were waiting to kiss away the tears. How favored …
How come there was an envelope on the floor?
Buchanan paused with his towel and stood staring down at the intruder, wondering how it had sneaked in, and then the obvious answer, under the door, penetrated his romance-dulled brain. He picked it up and tore it open and removed a single sheet of notepaper bearing a brief handwritten message in Spanish. He translated it as he read: