held the balloon.
I don’t think he had noticed Marietta. She was just a girl sitting with me. He pulled two chairs together and sat down, still holding Iris’s arm. Once again I was amazed by his absence of sensitivity. The tension in Marietta was so strong I could feel it like the throb of dance music very far away.
And then I remembered that they had quarreled. Sally had deviously engineered a break. They hadn’t seen each other or spoken to each other for years. Maybe he was deliberately ignoring her.
But I was wrong about that too. For he looked away from Iris across the table and saw Marietta. She was in control again. They looked at each other, grave, polite, as if they were people who had met once a long time ago at a house party. Friendly but completely casual. It was such an English meeting that it scarcely seemed real to me. Two people from another planet meeting the way people don’t meet on earth.
“Hello, Marietta,” he said.
“Hello, Martin.”
And that was all. Martin turned back to Iris. Marietta lit a cigarette. Her hand wasn’t even trembling.
“I’d better have another tequila, Peter. I spilt mine.”
I called the waiter. He brought drinks for everyone. I said to Marietta, “You heard what I said about Sally?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t know.” She picked a blossom from the magenta stock and started gravely to dissect it. “How did she die?”
“She fell off the balcony.”
For a moment I thought she would be as fantastically stage-British as to say, “Oh.” But she didn’t say anything. Silence descended on the table, a silence charged by Iris’s fear, my anxiety—and nothing from the Havens.
Suddenly Marietta said, “You came up from Acapulco, Martin?”
“Yes, Marietta.”
She was peering at the stock blossom as if she wanted to examine the minutest detail of its botanical make-up. “To see Sally?”
The question hung in the air. Down in the Zocalo the pipe organ had stopped. We could hear the Paco orchestra now, the sob of the violins and the tinkle of the marimba.
I didn’t pay much attention to what they were playing until I noticed a change in Martin. He had dropped Iris’s arm. He was watching Marietta across the table. She wasn’t looking at him. Then suddenly she was. I shall never forget her face, radiant, tentative.
The preposterously important question was still left unanswered. But they both rose. Martin released the yellow balloon. It floated up to the unpainted rafter. Martin went around the table and caught Marietta’s waist. They drifted together, dancing, through the narrow, empty tables.
I listened to the music then, and I recognized the bittersweet, defeated melody.
Borrachitá, me voy par olvidarle.
Le quero muchoy el también me quere.
Borrachitá, me voy hasta la capital …
It was the song the mariachi had played for Marietta last night at the Delta, the song that had brought the slow, quiet tears to her eyes. I remembered a snatch of the dialogue.
“Someone was all for me once.”
“Who?”
“Martin.”
They swayed, very close together, Marietta’s dark profile against Martin’s golden cheek. And for the first time I resented them both, resented a glamour that seemed fake, a beauty that seemed false. Real people don’t dance when they’ve just been told that a woman is dead. They seemed suddenly self-conscious to me, flotsam of charm, pallid ghosts unexorcized from an old novel by Michael Arlen.
Borrachitá, me voy hasta la capital
Par servirme al patron
Que me mandó llamar…
They weren’t dancing like brother and sister. They were dancing like lovers.
I looked at Iris. She was staring at them as if she had lost something secret and priceless.
Thirteen
While Martin and Marietta were dancing, I thought of Jake up at the Casa Haven, taking care of the body, taking care of the police, doing everything that Martin as Sally’s husband should have been doing. I was
I don’t think he had noticed Marietta. She was just a girl sitting with me. He pulled two chairs together and sat down, still holding Iris’s arm. Once again I was amazed by his absence of sensitivity. The tension in Marietta was so strong I could feel it like the throb of dance music very far away.
And then I remembered that they had quarreled. Sally had deviously engineered a break. They hadn’t seen each other or spoken to each other for years. Maybe he was deliberately ignoring her.
But I was wrong about that too. For he looked away from Iris across the table and saw Marietta. She was in control again. They looked at each other, grave, polite, as if they were people who had met once a long time ago at a house party. Friendly but completely casual. It was such an English meeting that it scarcely seemed real to me. Two people from another planet meeting the way people don’t meet on earth.
“Hello, Marietta,” he said.
“Hello, Martin.”
And that was all. Martin turned back to Iris. Marietta lit a cigarette. Her hand wasn’t even trembling.
“I’d better have another tequila, Peter. I spilt mine.”
I called the waiter. He brought drinks for everyone. I said to Marietta, “You heard what I said about Sally?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t know.” She picked a blossom from the magenta stock and started gravely to dissect it. “How did she die?”
“She fell off the balcony.”
For a moment I thought she would be as fantastically stage-British as to say, “Oh.” But she didn’t say anything. Silence descended on the table, a silence charged by Iris’s fear, my anxiety—and nothing from the Havens.
Suddenly Marietta said, “You came up from Acapulco, Martin?”
“Yes, Marietta.”
She was peering at the stock blossom as if she wanted to examine the minutest detail of its botanical make-up. “To see Sally?”
The question hung in the air. Down in the Zocalo the pipe organ had stopped. We could hear the Paco orchestra now, the sob of the violins and the tinkle of the marimba.
I didn’t pay much attention to what they were playing until I noticed a change in Martin. He had dropped Iris’s arm. He was watching Marietta across the table. She wasn’t looking at him. Then suddenly she was. I shall never forget her face, radiant, tentative.
The preposterously important question was still left unanswered. But they both rose. Martin released the yellow balloon. It floated up to the unpainted rafter. Martin went around the table and caught Marietta’s waist. They drifted together, dancing, through the narrow, empty tables.
I listened to the music then, and I recognized the bittersweet, defeated melody.
Borrachitá, me voy par olvidarle.
Le quero muchoy el también me quere.
Borrachitá, me voy hasta la capital …
It was the song the mariachi had played for Marietta last night at the Delta, the song that had brought the slow, quiet tears to her eyes. I remembered a snatch of the dialogue.
“Someone was all for me once.”
“Who?”
“Martin.”
They swayed, very close together, Marietta’s dark profile against Martin’s golden cheek. And for the first time I resented them both, resented a glamour that seemed fake, a beauty that seemed false. Real people don’t dance when they’ve just been told that a woman is dead. They seemed suddenly self-conscious to me, flotsam of charm, pallid ghosts unexorcized from an old novel by Michael Arlen.
Borrachitá, me voy hasta la capital
Par servirme al patron
Que me mandó llamar…
They weren’t dancing like brother and sister. They were dancing like lovers.
I looked at Iris. She was staring at them as if she had lost something secret and priceless.
Thirteen
While Martin and Marietta were dancing, I thought of Jake up at the Casa Haven, taking care of the body, taking care of the police, doing everything that Martin as Sally’s husband should have been doing. I was
Similar Books
