In a Lady’s Service

by Tom Ardies

  Señora Chiché’s girls sat in a semicircle in the grand sala, posing in a variety of provocative positions, flashing their best come-hither smiles.

  Buchanan had to admit that the plump puddings who had serviced Herbert were not typical of the Orr House. Those on display now were of reasonably tender years and didn’t look too bad at all. A few in fact were quite attractive.

  What had prompted Herbert’s choice? Why the worst old hags in the place? Why two?

  Buchanan couldn’t figure it out at all. To dismiss the man as a sex fiend was too glib an explanation. There must be some other answer. Sanity demanded it.

  “Ah,” Pablo breathed, barely able to contain himself. “It is like I said, is it not? Many good women, and see how eager they are, señor? They would fight each other for me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Buchanan told him. “You’re the last customer, that’s all. The tail end of the night, so to speak.”

  Pablo ignored this slander and continued his careful inspection of the delectable flesh arrayed before him. There were ten to choose from and each had her own special attraction. It was difficult for a poor man to make up his mind.

  “What do you think of those two?” he asked at last.

  Buchanan spent a long time considering. “They’re both nice.”

  “Nice?” Pablo said. “They are adorable! Exquisite! Magnificent!”

  Buchanan thought that might be overdoing it. “They’re a bit on the large size.”

  “Large?” Pablo said. “They are enormous! Massive! Gargantuan!”

  “What is her name?” Buchanan asked, not disposed to argue. The girl was indeed endowed. She’d have trouble leaning on her elbows.

  “Miranda,” Pablo said, rolling the r.

  “A beautiful name,” Buchanan acknowledged, sipping thoughtfully on his salty dog. As luck would have it, Pablo had been mistaken. Señora Chiché served drinks after all, and very good ones at that.

  “You want her?”

  “No.”

  Señora Chiché began to tap her toe. She did not like these lengthy inspections. They were bad for morale.

  “The redhead, then?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps the blonde?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Señora Chiché demanded, her patience exhausted. “You can’t just sit and look forever. You have to make up your mind.”

  Buchanan glanced darkly at Pablo. So this was something else he had been mistaken about?

  “They must have changed the rules,” Pablo told him, shrugging off the unspoken question. “It’s been so long since I last had the pleasure …” He took a quick final survey and made up his mind. “I will have Gloria, por favor.”

  “But you had her last week,” Miranda pouted.

  “Sí,” Pablo said, smiling, “and that’s why I want her this week.”

  Buchanan put down his drink. “A week? You call that a long time?”

  Pablo looked at him wonderingly. “Don’t you?”

  There were some titters at this sally and Buchanan could feel his neck start to color.

  “Who’s going to pay?” Señora Chiché asked.

  “I am, naturally,” Pablo said. He turned again to Buchanan. “I wonder if I might have a small advance on my wages? Fifty pesos will do.”

  Buchanan couldn’t believe what was happening. “Your wages?”

  “Sí. For my services as a guide. I have spent the evening showing you Santa Luisa. Surely you would not ask me to work for nothing?”

  “Of course not,” Buchanan said, his neck getting redder. He was being taken—robbed, cheated, swindled—but this was not the time or place to argue. He found his crumpled wad of funds and counted off the blackmail payment.

  “Gracias,” Pablo said, passing the money to Señora Chiché, who promptly tucked it in her bosom. “You are a generous employer. God will reward you.”

  Yes, and you also, Buchanan thought. He sat watching glumly as Pablo tottered away with Gloria. The blatant theft was only half of it. Being left in the lurch with this horde of panting women was what really grieved. How was he supposed to extricate himself?

  “Now,” Señora Chiché said ominously, putting her hands on her broad hips. “It’s your turn to decide. Which is to be your pleasure?”

  Buchanan drained the rest of his salty dog. “Might I have another drink to think on it?”

  “No.”

  Buchanan surveyed the semicircle of eager faces. What had ever made him blunder in here? It was unthinkable for a man of his profession. A mockery. Degrading.

  “Why not Miranda?” Señora Chiché asked.

  Buchanan shook his head. It would be far too dangerous to flail around with her. He’d suffer titlash for sure.

  “Hey, greengo,” Miranda called, rising to the challenge. She crossed the sala and sat down next to him and whispered wetly in his ear. “You make a beeg meestake, greengo. I know how to do many special theengs. They would make you very happy.”

  “No, gracias,” Buchanan said firmly.

  “You’re sure, greengo?” Miranda cooed, her hand moving to his thigh. “I kees you where it steenks.”

  “Please,” Buchanan said, pushing it away. “I don’t want to do it tonight. I’m sorry—but I’ve got a headache.”

  Señora Chiché’s patience expired. “You make a joke? You mock my best girl?”

  Miranda burst into tears. “Greengo peeg. I theenk we should keel him.”

  “Headache?” Señora Chiché shouted. “I will give you a headache.” She swept a large vase off a table and brought it crashing down on Buchanan’s skull. “How do you like that?”

  Buchanan saw stars and pitched forward onto the floor. He didn’t hear the further abuse and scorn heaped upon him. He was out cold.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Buchanan awoke in heaven. He was absolutely certain of it. Wasn’t that Jesus who had just winked at him?

  “It is a miracle,” a hoarse voice whispered. “Death is conquered. He lives again.”

  “Sí,” was the reply. “La voluntad de Dios. The will of God. Cincuenta pesos, por favor.”

  Buchanan wondered what the hell? Did they charge admission at the Pearly Gates?

  For answer, a hand sneaked into his pocket, feeling for his money, and his poor head reeled at the awful truth. Charge? They lifted your wallet.

  “Diez,” Pablo said, counting. “Veinte … treinte …”

  Pablo? Buchanan gathered his strength and pushed himself up on his elbows. He waited for his head to clear and his eyes to focus properly.

  “… cuarenta … cincuenta,” Pablo said, handing over the last bill to a wrinkled crone. Then he stared covetously at the remaining money. Would a few more pesos be missed from the wad?

  Buchanan smiled weakly. Yes, that was Pablo, all right, and logic therefore demanded that he was mistaken. This could not be heaven after all. He forced himself into a sitting position and slowly adjusted to his strange new surroundings.

  Pablo … the crone in a dirty black shawl … a crude altar piled with religious bric-a-brac … a pitiful mud and stick hut with the sun’s first rays slanting through …

  He shook his head and turned back to the picture hanging on the wall above his cot. It was in 3-D, colored layers of plastic, and as one’s angle of view changed, the eyes blinked open and shut. What lunacy would the idolators think up next to tempt the fallen?

  “Compadre!” Pablo cried, suddenly aware that he was fully conscious. “Be careful, my friend. Careful …” He hurried to the side of the cot. “You have suffered a terrible blow.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Buchanan groaned, gingerly touching his throbbing head. “Señora Chiché presented me with flowers, and the flowers, unfortunately, were still in a vase.” He swung out of the bed holding onto Pablo. “The question is how did I get here?”

  “Through my perseverance,” Pablo said. “Señora Chiché, she thought sure she had killed you, and she was going to
bury you in her garden. The hole was already dug—but I convinced her I had first claim on your body.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Me? That thanks should go to Doña Otelia. It was she who worked the miracle.”

  Buchanan turned shakily to the crone. She was very old, eighty at least, bent, toothless, almost blind, her skin wrinkled beyond belief. So this was the fabled Doña Otelia? “Gracias.”

  “La voluntad de Dios,” Doña Otelia said.

  Buchanan nodded solemnly—had he not been snatched from a hole already dug?—and turned to repeat his thanks before the crowded altar. It was dominated by large pictures of Christ and the Virgin Mary, with many smaller ones on either side, and there was also a display of crucifixes, several rows of candles, and a garland of plastic flowers. The wall behind was covered with faded photographs of Catholic dignitaries clipped from magazines and newspapers. She went back five Popes—an old woman’s simple but sincere homage.

  “You are a believer?” Doña Otelia asked in halting English.

  “Only at times,” Buchanan confessed sadly, glancing back at the picture above the cot. “That is my greatest regret. Only at times.”

  “You are no different from the rest of us,” Pablo assured him. “We all stray from the path of righteousness from time to time. Let he who is without sin …”

  Buchanan held up a restraining hand. “Is this leading to an apology?”

  “Sí,” Pablo admitted, eyes downcast. “God’s truth, I don’t know what came over me, compadre. All control vanished at the sight of those women. My desire was so fierce … so relentless … so overpowering …” He shook his head and gave up. “What can I say? That Gloria!”

  Buchanan managed to smile. “She is good, eh?”

  Pablo nodded happily. “Sí.”

  “Well,” Buchanan said, deciding that he had reason to be gracious, “I can’t think of fifty pesos better spent, unless it was those paid Doña Otelia.” He again gingerly touched his bandaged head. “What did she put on it?”

  “The magic salve.”

  “Really?” Buchanan mused, sniffing his fingers. He had been wondering what smelled so badly. “I thought it was cow dung.”

  “It is not a thing to joke about,” Pablo cautioned. “Doña Otelia’s ungüento has worked many miracles. She is famous for her cures. You stand as another. Resurrected.”

  Perhaps, Buchanan thought, but now that he was alive again, he almost wished he was dead. The pain in his head was becoming unbearable. He wondered if there might be something more conventional than the ungüento on hand—such as a couple of aspirin. Groaning, he carefully made his way to the other side of the hut, where a dispensary was set out on a rough wooden table, but there was nothing from a farmacia. The old woman manufactured all of her own medicine.

  “Do you, uh, have anything for a headache?” Buchanan asked, picking through the lot, none of which bore labels.

  Pablo was offended. “It has already been applied.”

  “The magic salve?”

  “Sí.”

  Buchanan wondered if Pablo had been reading The Good Earth’s Good News. “It’s a cure-all, is it? Saves my life, mends my skull, reduces the lump—and it also makes the pain go away?”

  “Sí.”

  If only, Buchanan lamented, a jackhammer inside his skull. He turned to Doña Otelia. “Do you also make this claim?”

  The curadora offered a non-committal shrug in reply. “My patients, they are happy.”

  Yes, yes, Buchanan thought. Practically everybody in the stupid village was happy. But if the salve worked, why was he suffering so?

  “Have you ever tried it on yourself?” he asked Doña Otelia.

  There was another shrug. “Why? I never have been ill.”

  Buchanan turned back to Pablo. “And you?”

  Pablo was again offended. “Me? Ill?”

  Fakes, both of them, Buchanan decided, just like the salve. It didn’t relieve pain, there was no evidence of its healing powers (he could have regained consciousness on his own), and where were the longtime patients so vigorous and youthful in appearance? The old people in the village, like Pablo, like Doña Otelia herself, were moldier than Joe Miller.

  Poor Marina. Wasn’t she in for a dire disappointment? Wasn’t that too bad?

  “You claim it’s the will of God, Doña Otelia,” Buchanan said, opening a tequila bottle containing a reddish liquid. It smelled of resins and was apparently the goop she used to make casts. “Does God tell you what ingredients to use?”

  Pablo spoke for her. “A thousand pardons, but these are matters you should not pry into, compadre.”

  “Was I prying?” Buchanan asked innocently. He opened a jar of yellow paste and was assaulted by the same smell he carried on his bandaged head. “But surely a patient has the right to know what kind of medication he has been given.”

  “That is Doña Otelia’s secret,” Pablo admonished. “If she revealed the ingredients, the people would make their own ungüento, not come to her for it. Do you think it wise that an old woman put herself out of work?”

  “Of course not,” Buchanan said, replacing the cap on the jar and putting it back on the table. He thought of Marina back at the Burócrata, her fat purse, its wad of bills. “I was, uh, thinking the curadora might want to retire, that’s all.” He swung around and directed his question to Doña Otelia. “Is your secret for sale?”

  Doña Otelia shook her head firmly. “No.”

  “Not at any price?”

  “No.”

  For shame, Buchanan mused. It would warm his heart to see Marina spend a fortune on the “secret” to this worthless stinking gunk. But, as he well knew, it was an imperfect world, and though …

  Buchanan stopped in mid-thought, staring at Pablo, the intractable thief, the ultimate con man.

  Might Pablo not be encouraged to dream up a long list of false but probable ingredients?

  Might he not be disposed to peddle this information to Marina at a staggering price?

  And might he not—under the threat of dismemberment—be inclined to share the profits?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The dirty deal made, Pablo stayed behind at the curadoras hut, asleep under a nearby tree, while Buchanan headed back alone for Santa Luisa. Their plan was simple and foolproof.

  Buchanan would return with Marina, he would make a valiant bid to help her buy the secret of the salve, and when all efforts with Doña Otelia failed—as fail they would—Buchanan would suddenly notice Pablo. Could this wise old fox be of help?

  Perhaps, and he would be approached and kicked awake, and miracle of miracles, guess what? Marina, Marina, come quickly—and bring your fat purse.

  The thought of the reward to be reaped was all that kept Buchanan going as he painfully made his way back. Pablo’s idea of adequate directions, a grimy finger pointed down a cow path, a mumbled “Adiós, amigo,” proved grossly insufficient. Buchanan was soon lost, blundering about hopelessly, taking the long way around—another epic journey he could ill afford in his condition.

  Footsore, throat parched, head pounding relentlessly, he was still smarting over Pablo’s cavalier attitude when at last he dragged himself into the village. The least a business pact demanded was some small concern for the partner’s survival. Some small show of some small spark of humanity.

  Oh well, the lack was typical, wasn’t it? Even now, in the village itself, he was confused by the maze of narrow side streets, unsure of which way to go to find the square, and again there was no one who cared.

  Yes, typical, Buchanan thought bitterly. Everyone was at church, praying for themselves, while he, a poor lost soul, wandered in circles. You’d think a few would have the sense to stay at home just in case a stranger happened by. But no, they all went to church. And they called themselves Christians!

  Cursing, he staggered onward, his strength slowly ebbing. He was almost ready to give up—like Manuel, the harness maker, expiring within a stone’s throw of Nirvana�
��when he came upon an ancient Volkswagen. It was parked in the middle of the street, the door on the driver’s side open, a wooden box lashed to the roof.

  What luck. Someone was planning a trip—and they could hardly deny him a short lift to the Burócrata.

  As Buchanan walked around it, wondering who the owner might be, Gonzales came out of a nearby doorway, staggering under the weight of a second box. They almost collided with each other.

  “You!” Gonzales cried, aghast.

  “Yes,” Buchanan admitted, wondering why the mere sight of him should rouse such panic. “Going somewhere?”

  “N-no,” Gonzales stammered. “I mean yes …” He bent at the knees and struggled to get a better grip on the box. “What business is it of yours?”

  “None,” Buchanan said, thoroughly confused. “My I give you a hand with that?”

  “No!” Gonzales shouted, wrestling desperately with the box. “Touch it and I’ll scream! Get away from me!”

  Buchanan stood dumbfounded. “Scream … ?”

  “You heard me,” Gonzales said. With a superhuman effort, he hoisted the box onto the Volkswagen’s roof rack, then fell back exhausted. “You think I’m not onto your game?”

  “Game … ?”

  “Ha,” Gonzales said, breathing heavily. “Aren’t you the innocent?” He pulled a length of cord from his pocket and attacked his task with renewed fury. “Let’s get a few things straight, and let’s get them straight now, Señor Buchanan. One, I’m leaving. Two, you’re not following me.”

  “Following you … ?”

  “Three,” Gonzales said, wildly looping cord around the box, “there will be no ambush. Do you understand that? No ambush!”

  Buchanan stopped repeating his stupid questions. The man must be crazy. Taken by dementia.

  Gonzales got the last knot tied and jumped down from the car’s rear bumper. His bleary, bloodshot eyes—the mark of a sleepless night—burned into Buchanan’s. “Well?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Buchanan protested.