Lisboa.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A cantina. It’s near where he works.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘He’ll know where your wife is. He’ll take you to her. Please, Mr Liddon, let me have that card.’
He studied her thoughtfully. She was attractive, and if she was to be believed, she was in a jam. But thousands of other girls were attractive and in jams too and they weren’t impersonating his wife. She had stirred him, absurdly, because she had come or said she had come from Czechoslovakia and reminded him of his own family. He resented her for having moved him.
He said: ‘Maybe I’ll give it to you when I find my wife.’ He put the card in his pocket and took her arm. ‘Let’s go see George.’
12
SURELY this time he was on his way to his wife.
It was strange how little what had actually happened in New York seemed to matter now. The chase had carried him so far from that apartment that the chase itself was absorbing all his emotional reserves.
The taxi had passed out of the tourist section of the city into a long, tired street of little shops and shabby barred houses. As always, it seemed, in Mexico, a Ferris wheel in some corner lot carnival loomed against the evening clouds. What was it in Mexicans that made them want to swing up in the sky on little seats in a child’s toy? Was it the same passion for the Big Moment that kept them buying lottery tickets and yelling at the bullfights?
Sidewalk stalls of a market had narrowed the street to the proportions of an alley. The taxi had reluctantly slowed its speed. Shoddy merchandise — cheap rosaries, hanging dungarees — brushed against the car window like twigs in a country lane. The taxi turned a corner and stopped at the broken curb beside a black-shawled woman frying tortillas over a charcoal brazier. Behind her, painted swing doors showed the entrance to a cantina. Above them, in faded white lettering, were the words: Salon de Lisboa.
Mark and the girl picked their way past a half-starved dog and a pock-marked beggar to the swing doors. This wasn’t Mark’s idea of a place to meet anyone. He paused suspiciously outside the swing doors.
The girl glanced at him with faint mockery. ‘Don’t be elegant, Mr Liddon. All the real Mexican cantinas are like this. The others are for tourists.’
She pushed through the swing doors. He followed.
The cantina was small, squalid and loud with guitar music. A wooden bar curved at one side and wooden chairs and benches stood around rickety wooden tables. There was a sour odor of people and a strange sweetish stench of fermentation. The customers were all men, quiet, dark men sitting alone or in couples playing dominoes or in crowded groups. Three musicians in costumes ornate as matadors were standing, strumming guitars, by one of the tightly packed clusters of men. One of the musicians started to sing in a high, off-key tenor.
The girl studied the room. ‘George isn’t here yet.’
She made her way to an empty table in a corner. They sat down. She was the only woman in the room, fantastically conspicuous for her white skin, her blonde hair, her elegant clothes. Black male eyes watched her guardedly, but she showed no embarrassment.
A waiter came. The girl ordered tequila. She said: ‘You’re going to end up drinking tequila, Mr Liddon. You might as well get used to it.’
The waiter brought two jiggers of colorless liquid and a plate of sliced limes. The girl put salt on the base of her thumb, squeezed lime juice on it, swallowed her tequila and licked the salt. Mark followed her lead. He didn’t like the tequila. He didn’t like this place. It was too much like a trap.
The girl was looking at him across the table.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Liddon. George will know where your wife is.’
‘He will?’
‘And he’ll take you to her — ‘She paused. ‘Unless, of course, it’s you she’s disappearing from.’
‘It isn’t me.’
‘I’ve heard about your wife. Eleanor Ross. She used
‘What’s that?’
‘A cantina. It’s near where he works.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘He’ll know where your wife is. He’ll take you to her. Please, Mr Liddon, let me have that card.’
He studied her thoughtfully. She was attractive, and if she was to be believed, she was in a jam. But thousands of other girls were attractive and in jams too and they weren’t impersonating his wife. She had stirred him, absurdly, because she had come or said she had come from Czechoslovakia and reminded him of his own family. He resented her for having moved him.
He said: ‘Maybe I’ll give it to you when I find my wife.’ He put the card in his pocket and took her arm. ‘Let’s go see George.’
12
SURELY this time he was on his way to his wife.
It was strange how little what had actually happened in New York seemed to matter now. The chase had carried him so far from that apartment that the chase itself was absorbing all his emotional reserves.
The taxi had passed out of the tourist section of the city into a long, tired street of little shops and shabby barred houses. As always, it seemed, in Mexico, a Ferris wheel in some corner lot carnival loomed against the evening clouds. What was it in Mexicans that made them want to swing up in the sky on little seats in a child’s toy? Was it the same passion for the Big Moment that kept them buying lottery tickets and yelling at the bullfights?
Sidewalk stalls of a market had narrowed the street to the proportions of an alley. The taxi had reluctantly slowed its speed. Shoddy merchandise — cheap rosaries, hanging dungarees — brushed against the car window like twigs in a country lane. The taxi turned a corner and stopped at the broken curb beside a black-shawled woman frying tortillas over a charcoal brazier. Behind her, painted swing doors showed the entrance to a cantina. Above them, in faded white lettering, were the words: Salon de Lisboa.
Mark and the girl picked their way past a half-starved dog and a pock-marked beggar to the swing doors. This wasn’t Mark’s idea of a place to meet anyone. He paused suspiciously outside the swing doors.
The girl glanced at him with faint mockery. ‘Don’t be elegant, Mr Liddon. All the real Mexican cantinas are like this. The others are for tourists.’
She pushed through the swing doors. He followed.
The cantina was small, squalid and loud with guitar music. A wooden bar curved at one side and wooden chairs and benches stood around rickety wooden tables. There was a sour odor of people and a strange sweetish stench of fermentation. The customers were all men, quiet, dark men sitting alone or in couples playing dominoes or in crowded groups. Three musicians in costumes ornate as matadors were standing, strumming guitars, by one of the tightly packed clusters of men. One of the musicians started to sing in a high, off-key tenor.
The girl studied the room. ‘George isn’t here yet.’
She made her way to an empty table in a corner. They sat down. She was the only woman in the room, fantastically conspicuous for her white skin, her blonde hair, her elegant clothes. Black male eyes watched her guardedly, but she showed no embarrassment.
A waiter came. The girl ordered tequila. She said: ‘You’re going to end up drinking tequila, Mr Liddon. You might as well get used to it.’
The waiter brought two jiggers of colorless liquid and a plate of sliced limes. The girl put salt on the base of her thumb, squeezed lime juice on it, swallowed her tequila and licked the salt. Mark followed her lead. He didn’t like the tequila. He didn’t like this place. It was too much like a trap.
The girl was looking at him across the table.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Liddon. George will know where your wife is.’
‘He will?’
‘And he’ll take you to her — ‘She paused. ‘Unless, of course, it’s you she’s disappearing from.’
‘It isn’t me.’
‘I’ve heard about your wife. Eleanor Ross. She used
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