carpeted hall, not wanting to wake anyone. More of those free-form metal sculptures were on the walls here, like the ones I'd noticed on the inside of the perimeter wall. They were interesting abstract things, at the same time both primitive and sophisticated. They didn't seem to go with Cousin Carlos at all. But you never know about people.
I reached the kitchen and looked in, and Luz was there, looking at me. She was seated facing me at a large heavy mahogany table, a paperback photo novel open in front of her, along with a beer bottle and a plate containing half a thick sandwich. She gave me a very loose smile, with mischief twinkling in those large dark eyes, and said, "How you doin', Ernesto?"
I knew enough now to pretend I hadn't heard her, but that I would realize she'd spoken because I'd seen her lips move. So I smiled and nodded and waved my hand at her, and continued on along the hall, thinking, Damn it, what's
she
doing here?
Can it be she wants to check me out anyway, that the thought of syphilis — cured, after all — is becoming less of a deterrent? I don't need this, I really don't. I don't need Luz hanging around, and I don't need Lola
hearing
that Luz is hanging around.
I was closing the door of my pitch-black room when what she'd said floated through my brain again: "How you doin', Ernesto?"
In English.
12
I woke up late; ten-forty by the Rolex, which I still had. I'd thought long and hard about whether to accessorize Mr. X with my watch and wedding ring, in addition to my wallet, and finally decided there was too much likelihood they'd be lost in the crash. So the heck with it; they
were
lost in the crash. I'd keep them both with me, but hidden, until I could get back to the States as Felicio, when they would be given to me, as part of her dead husband's remaining effects, by my grateful sister, Lola.
This was the very tricky part now, when I was floating among identities. I couldn't very well claim to be Lola's brother in front of her family, most of whom weren't in on the scam, so that's why I was having to be Ernesto Lopez, the pitiful but no longer scabrous deaf mute, until the time was right to leave the country. I was hoping it would only be a week or two.
The idea was, Barry Lee would be buried on Monday, after a very touching funeral mass in the same church in which he'd been married only fourteen years ago, and on Tuesday Lola would fly to New York, carrying with her the death certificate and the funeral card and videotape of the funeral and a copy of the order for the gravestone and Señor Ortiz's undertaker bill and the deed for the grave plot, and turn all that over to our insurance agent. Then she'd go out and buy a lot of black.
How I'd love to fly north with her, but of course I couldn't. Or, that is, her brother Felicio couldn't, since he didn't at this point have a passport. Soon he would apply for one — with, as usual, the invaluable assistance of his brother Arturo — but we didn't think it would be safe for Felicio to make any official move until after the insurance company, having decided there was no problem, had paid off. Then, once Lola had that check in hand, Felicio would leave the land of his birth for the very first time just as quickly as he could, to fly north to comfort his widowed sister in her hour of travail.
The death certificate was the key to all this, and one of the reasons we'd decided to work this scam in Guerrera instead of at home is that, in Guerrera, the coronor doesn't actually have to see the body to give you a death certificate, just so he has a signed statement from a mortician. The reason is that there's only one coroner for the whole country, but there are morticians everywhere there's a graveyard. So Señor Ortiz would drive his statement to San Cristobal on Monday, come back with the certificate, and Lola would catch her plane north on Tuesday.
That was the plan, and for the next part of it my job was to do nothing. Not that I had to
I reached the kitchen and looked in, and Luz was there, looking at me. She was seated facing me at a large heavy mahogany table, a paperback photo novel open in front of her, along with a beer bottle and a plate containing half a thick sandwich. She gave me a very loose smile, with mischief twinkling in those large dark eyes, and said, "How you doin', Ernesto?"
I knew enough now to pretend I hadn't heard her, but that I would realize she'd spoken because I'd seen her lips move. So I smiled and nodded and waved my hand at her, and continued on along the hall, thinking, Damn it, what's
she
doing here?
Can it be she wants to check me out anyway, that the thought of syphilis — cured, after all — is becoming less of a deterrent? I don't need this, I really don't. I don't need Luz hanging around, and I don't need Lola
hearing
that Luz is hanging around.
I was closing the door of my pitch-black room when what she'd said floated through my brain again: "How you doin', Ernesto?"
In English.
12
I woke up late; ten-forty by the Rolex, which I still had. I'd thought long and hard about whether to accessorize Mr. X with my watch and wedding ring, in addition to my wallet, and finally decided there was too much likelihood they'd be lost in the crash. So the heck with it; they
were
lost in the crash. I'd keep them both with me, but hidden, until I could get back to the States as Felicio, when they would be given to me, as part of her dead husband's remaining effects, by my grateful sister, Lola.
This was the very tricky part now, when I was floating among identities. I couldn't very well claim to be Lola's brother in front of her family, most of whom weren't in on the scam, so that's why I was having to be Ernesto Lopez, the pitiful but no longer scabrous deaf mute, until the time was right to leave the country. I was hoping it would only be a week or two.
The idea was, Barry Lee would be buried on Monday, after a very touching funeral mass in the same church in which he'd been married only fourteen years ago, and on Tuesday Lola would fly to New York, carrying with her the death certificate and the funeral card and videotape of the funeral and a copy of the order for the gravestone and Señor Ortiz's undertaker bill and the deed for the grave plot, and turn all that over to our insurance agent. Then she'd go out and buy a lot of black.
How I'd love to fly north with her, but of course I couldn't. Or, that is, her brother Felicio couldn't, since he didn't at this point have a passport. Soon he would apply for one — with, as usual, the invaluable assistance of his brother Arturo — but we didn't think it would be safe for Felicio to make any official move until after the insurance company, having decided there was no problem, had paid off. Then, once Lola had that check in hand, Felicio would leave the land of his birth for the very first time just as quickly as he could, to fly north to comfort his widowed sister in her hour of travail.
The death certificate was the key to all this, and one of the reasons we'd decided to work this scam in Guerrera instead of at home is that, in Guerrera, the coronor doesn't actually have to see the body to give you a death certificate, just so he has a signed statement from a mortician. The reason is that there's only one coroner for the whole country, but there are morticians everywhere there's a graveyard. So Señor Ortiz would drive his statement to San Cristobal on Monday, come back with the certificate, and Lola would catch her plane north on Tuesday.
That was the plan, and for the next part of it my job was to do nothing. Not that I had to
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