susurrus:
I am yours, and you are mine . . .
He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and found the dirty rags still on the table.
The woman and her daughter stared at him fiercely.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll take them. For the agreed price.”
The woman’s shoulders dropped and she closed her eyes. He noticed a tear slip from her right eye.
Carter stood up, producing an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Thirty thousand pesos. That was what we agreed.”
The old woman would not look up, would not raise her hand to take the money. In the end, the girl took it.
The mother muttered something in Spanish that he failed to catch. He looked to Alita for a translation.
“My mother wants you to understand,” she said, embarrassment darkening her features, “she wanted a woman to take over the guardianship.” The woman looked directly up at him, her bloodshot eyes staring out of cavernous sockets. “She says men find the temptation too hard to resist…”
He shrugged. “I told you at the beginning: they’re not for me, honey. I’m just passing them on to another buyer.”
“Man or…”
“It’s a woman,” he said with an irritable snarl.
He’d put up with enough voodoo bullshit for one evening. All he wanted was to grab the prize and get out of this stinking room.
He reached over and grabbed the bundle, feeling a strange tingle in the palms of his hands. Before he could lift them away, the old woman’s hand seized his wrist. She stared up at him through a mask of fear, speaking hurriedly in Spanish.
“What’re you doing?” he snapped, looking at the girl and back at her mother.
“She says you are weak,” the girl translated. “She can see it in your eyes.”
Anger flooded through him. “Lady, you don’t know me at all.”
He tried to pull his arm away but she held him fast.
“She says don’t give into the temptation. She is begging you, do not touch the bones.”
The mother suddenly convulsed, releasing her grip. She coughed violently and doubled over. Her breath smelled of rotting meat, of something dead inside. Alita placed a cloth over her mouth as her body was wracked with harsh wet coughs. Carter saw the slick of red on the cloth, and the beginnings of pity rose from somewhere deep inside.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “What’s wrong with her?”
The girl didn’t seem to hear him. She stroked her mother’s damp hair and rocked her like a baby, lost in the embrace.
“I can get help,” Carter said.
“Just go,” the girl said, her voice thick with emotion.
“What? I can’t. Your mother . . .”
“Is dying,” the girl finished bitterly. “She has not moved from this room in ten years. She never even noticed the cancer that’s been growing inside her, never complained. Two weeks ago she stopped eating altogether. She needs treatment, expensive treatment.” Her eyes passed momentarily over the filthy package in Carter’s hands. “That is the kind of willpower it takes, senor. I hope you are as strong.”
Carter turned the bundle over slowly, feeling that strange tingle in his palms.
On unsteady legs, he walked to the door.
“I’m truly sorry,” he said.
“You got what you came for,” the girl told him. She glanced at the crumpled envelope in her fist. “So did my mother.”
Carter bowed his head, then turned and fled into the Mexican night.
***
Monday morning dawned as one of the most beautiful mornings in the history of Mexico City. Carter sat on the balcony of his apartment, a half empty bottle of mezcal resting on his bare belly, staring into the blinding orange light of sunrise. A solitary tear spilled over the lower lid of his left eye, rolling slowly down his sun-blistered cheek before falling, absorbed into the dirty cloth bundle resting in the crook of his arm.
He had not slept for days, and everything was beginning to take on a dream-like quality. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate something solid. He seemed to be drinking a lot,
I am yours, and you are mine . . .
He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and found the dirty rags still on the table.
The woman and her daughter stared at him fiercely.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll take them. For the agreed price.”
The woman’s shoulders dropped and she closed her eyes. He noticed a tear slip from her right eye.
Carter stood up, producing an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Thirty thousand pesos. That was what we agreed.”
The old woman would not look up, would not raise her hand to take the money. In the end, the girl took it.
The mother muttered something in Spanish that he failed to catch. He looked to Alita for a translation.
“My mother wants you to understand,” she said, embarrassment darkening her features, “she wanted a woman to take over the guardianship.” The woman looked directly up at him, her bloodshot eyes staring out of cavernous sockets. “She says men find the temptation too hard to resist…”
He shrugged. “I told you at the beginning: they’re not for me, honey. I’m just passing them on to another buyer.”
“Man or…”
“It’s a woman,” he said with an irritable snarl.
He’d put up with enough voodoo bullshit for one evening. All he wanted was to grab the prize and get out of this stinking room.
He reached over and grabbed the bundle, feeling a strange tingle in the palms of his hands. Before he could lift them away, the old woman’s hand seized his wrist. She stared up at him through a mask of fear, speaking hurriedly in Spanish.
“What’re you doing?” he snapped, looking at the girl and back at her mother.
“She says you are weak,” the girl translated. “She can see it in your eyes.”
Anger flooded through him. “Lady, you don’t know me at all.”
He tried to pull his arm away but she held him fast.
“She says don’t give into the temptation. She is begging you, do not touch the bones.”
The mother suddenly convulsed, releasing her grip. She coughed violently and doubled over. Her breath smelled of rotting meat, of something dead inside. Alita placed a cloth over her mouth as her body was wracked with harsh wet coughs. Carter saw the slick of red on the cloth, and the beginnings of pity rose from somewhere deep inside.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “What’s wrong with her?”
The girl didn’t seem to hear him. She stroked her mother’s damp hair and rocked her like a baby, lost in the embrace.
“I can get help,” Carter said.
“Just go,” the girl said, her voice thick with emotion.
“What? I can’t. Your mother . . .”
“Is dying,” the girl finished bitterly. “She has not moved from this room in ten years. She never even noticed the cancer that’s been growing inside her, never complained. Two weeks ago she stopped eating altogether. She needs treatment, expensive treatment.” Her eyes passed momentarily over the filthy package in Carter’s hands. “That is the kind of willpower it takes, senor. I hope you are as strong.”
Carter turned the bundle over slowly, feeling that strange tingle in his palms.
On unsteady legs, he walked to the door.
“I’m truly sorry,” he said.
“You got what you came for,” the girl told him. She glanced at the crumpled envelope in her fist. “So did my mother.”
Carter bowed his head, then turned and fled into the Mexican night.
***
Monday morning dawned as one of the most beautiful mornings in the history of Mexico City. Carter sat on the balcony of his apartment, a half empty bottle of mezcal resting on his bare belly, staring into the blinding orange light of sunrise. A solitary tear spilled over the lower lid of his left eye, rolling slowly down his sun-blistered cheek before falling, absorbed into the dirty cloth bundle resting in the crook of his arm.
He had not slept for days, and everything was beginning to take on a dream-like quality. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate something solid. He seemed to be drinking a lot,
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