Flashback (The Saskia Brandt Series Book Two) by Ian Hocking Page B
Authors: Ian Hocking
Tags: Science-Fiction, technothriller
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away.
Chapter Nine
August, 1947, a hotel in Buenos Aires
He had been told the city was wintering, but Cory lay in his hotel room cursing the heat. Through the shuttered window came birdsong, bicycle bells, and the occasional drill of an automobile. The hotel itself was quiet. Its owner, an old Spanish prostitute, strictly observed siesta between one o’clock and four. It was now 3:16 p.m., and, in the stillness, Cory was at the edge of panic. He fiddled with the long key around his neck. Each touch made him think of the tomb it would open.
At 3:39 p.m., a knock.
Cory rolled from the bed, tensed as its old coils pinged, and looked at his cane.
To me.
The factor did not obey his thought. His intention lacked clarity.
‘To me,’ he growled.
Still, the cane did not move.
Another knock.
Finally, he took the cane. Icons appeared beneath his thumb. He selected the symbol that represented projectile response and the factor transformed in his grip until he was holding a pearl-grey gun. He put the barrel to the centre of the door and stood against the wall, beyond the doorframe.
He struggled to get in character: Simon Wilberforce, English, a local agent for the Shell Oil Company. Rather. What.
‘ Um... duermo ,’ he said in his British accent. ‘ Salga por favor .’
‘ Lisandro, Señor Wilberforce .’
Cory relaxed. He returned his gun to its cane form and opened the door on the grinning boy. As usual, Lisandro wore a mismatched ensemble of his older brothers’ clothes. ‘ ¿Qué desea usted, Lisandro? ’
‘ Hay una camisa roja en la ventana, como me dijiste. Me llevó un buen rato llegar hasta allí. .’ He offered his palm.
Cory gave him a peso but kept his finger on the coin. ‘What do you say?’
‘Thank you, Mr Will-for.’
‘Wil-ber-force.’
‘Wil-ber-force.’
‘Good lad.’ Cory released the coin. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll start on some verbs.’
Nice touch , he thought. Wilberforce had worked at Rutherford Boys’ School during the war.
Cory untied the string that passed through his hanging jacket – he had stayed in too many of these hotels to expect a wardrobe – and brushed the cockroaches from its armpits.
‘Tomorrow more hungry than today, Mr Wilberforce.’
Dirt cracked around Lisandro’s mouth as he smiled. Cory had sufficient anxiety to loose a curt remark, to remind him that Mr Wilberforce was an elder, not a friend, but the boy’s charm had flanked him. Cory tried on his new Dorfzaun panama hat. He pinched the brim. ‘What do you think? Too Mark Twain?’
‘ Usted esta enojado, Señor Wilberforce . You pretty.’
‘Handsome, Lisandro. Not pretty.’ He smiled. The moment grew long, and he put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘About the verbs. In all honesty, I won’t be coming back tomorrow. I’ll be gone. Debo irme. Lo siento. . Understand?’
Lisandro pouted.
Cory took a thousand peso clip from his belt buckle, tugged out a note, and placed it over the one peso coin. Lisandro stared at it with wonder.
‘Please pay the señora . You can keep the rest. Buy something for your mother.’
‘I buy her house!’
Cory left the room and strolled along the gloomy corridor. His semi-brogue shoes - white bodies, tan heels and toes - made hollow clonks on the floor. He swung about the balustrade, ready to take the stairs two at a time, when Lisandro called, ‘Cheerio, Mr Wilberforce!’
‘Cheerio, Lisandro!’
He raised his hat and clattered down the stairs. Siesta be damned.
~
Tierra Argentina , land of silver, and this jewel on her eastern hip: Cory loved both. He strode through the San Telmo district, where, on his first visit, he had lingered hours over the bright collision of architectures: Spanish colonial style with Italian flourish and a nod to French Classicism. The Dutch painter, Mondrian was three years dead in 1947, but Buenos Aires held a colourful requiem. Even the streets were geometrically arranged. He skirted a pair of strutting porteños and their
Chapter Nine
August, 1947, a hotel in Buenos Aires
He had been told the city was wintering, but Cory lay in his hotel room cursing the heat. Through the shuttered window came birdsong, bicycle bells, and the occasional drill of an automobile. The hotel itself was quiet. Its owner, an old Spanish prostitute, strictly observed siesta between one o’clock and four. It was now 3:16 p.m., and, in the stillness, Cory was at the edge of panic. He fiddled with the long key around his neck. Each touch made him think of the tomb it would open.
At 3:39 p.m., a knock.
Cory rolled from the bed, tensed as its old coils pinged, and looked at his cane.
To me.
The factor did not obey his thought. His intention lacked clarity.
‘To me,’ he growled.
Still, the cane did not move.
Another knock.
Finally, he took the cane. Icons appeared beneath his thumb. He selected the symbol that represented projectile response and the factor transformed in his grip until he was holding a pearl-grey gun. He put the barrel to the centre of the door and stood against the wall, beyond the doorframe.
He struggled to get in character: Simon Wilberforce, English, a local agent for the Shell Oil Company. Rather. What.
‘ Um... duermo ,’ he said in his British accent. ‘ Salga por favor .’
‘ Lisandro, Señor Wilberforce .’
Cory relaxed. He returned his gun to its cane form and opened the door on the grinning boy. As usual, Lisandro wore a mismatched ensemble of his older brothers’ clothes. ‘ ¿Qué desea usted, Lisandro? ’
‘ Hay una camisa roja en la ventana, como me dijiste. Me llevó un buen rato llegar hasta allí. .’ He offered his palm.
Cory gave him a peso but kept his finger on the coin. ‘What do you say?’
‘Thank you, Mr Will-for.’
‘Wil-ber-force.’
‘Wil-ber-force.’
‘Good lad.’ Cory released the coin. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll start on some verbs.’
Nice touch , he thought. Wilberforce had worked at Rutherford Boys’ School during the war.
Cory untied the string that passed through his hanging jacket – he had stayed in too many of these hotels to expect a wardrobe – and brushed the cockroaches from its armpits.
‘Tomorrow more hungry than today, Mr Wilberforce.’
Dirt cracked around Lisandro’s mouth as he smiled. Cory had sufficient anxiety to loose a curt remark, to remind him that Mr Wilberforce was an elder, not a friend, but the boy’s charm had flanked him. Cory tried on his new Dorfzaun panama hat. He pinched the brim. ‘What do you think? Too Mark Twain?’
‘ Usted esta enojado, Señor Wilberforce . You pretty.’
‘Handsome, Lisandro. Not pretty.’ He smiled. The moment grew long, and he put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘About the verbs. In all honesty, I won’t be coming back tomorrow. I’ll be gone. Debo irme. Lo siento. . Understand?’
Lisandro pouted.
Cory took a thousand peso clip from his belt buckle, tugged out a note, and placed it over the one peso coin. Lisandro stared at it with wonder.
‘Please pay the señora . You can keep the rest. Buy something for your mother.’
‘I buy her house!’
Cory left the room and strolled along the gloomy corridor. His semi-brogue shoes - white bodies, tan heels and toes - made hollow clonks on the floor. He swung about the balustrade, ready to take the stairs two at a time, when Lisandro called, ‘Cheerio, Mr Wilberforce!’
‘Cheerio, Lisandro!’
He raised his hat and clattered down the stairs. Siesta be damned.
~
Tierra Argentina , land of silver, and this jewel on her eastern hip: Cory loved both. He strode through the San Telmo district, where, on his first visit, he had lingered hours over the bright collision of architectures: Spanish colonial style with Italian flourish and a nod to French Classicism. The Dutch painter, Mondrian was three years dead in 1947, but Buenos Aires held a colourful requiem. Even the streets were geometrically arranged. He skirted a pair of strutting porteños and their
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