friends,
but I can assure you we had nothing to do with this.. .this attempt
on your life."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Absolutely. And I came to let you know, so there wouldn't be
any doubt. Now, I won't deny that there's been a certain amount
of friction. Or that on occasion your presence has been somewhat,
shall we say, inopportune. What I mean is that your interest in me
has caused a certain amount of suspicion among my friends, but
that's far from being a motive for murder..."
Manterola sat up in the bed and, without taking his eyes off
the violet sparks flashing in hers, reached out for her hand and
kissed it.
"We should have met several years ago, sir," said Margarita,
letting her eyes wander around the room until they settled stubbornly on the flowers, their sweet odor filling the air.
"That's nothing we can't start to make up for now, Margarita.
Do you mind if I call you Margarita?" he said.
"That's what my friends call me."
Manterola remained upright in the bed despite the throbbing
pain that shot up his bad leg, holding on to the woman's hand and
obliging her to lean toward him to ease the tension between their
two bodies.
"You know what's the worst thing about being a reporter?" he
said. "It makes a man forget his own preconceived ideas just for
the sake of curiosity. The search for the truth takes the place of
everything else..."
"It's hard to know the truth..."
"The search for truth, or anything that looks like the truth, the best approximation, what each of us thinks might have happened...
You see, I accept alternatives..."
"I've got the feeling you're leading me into risky territory,
Senor Journalist."
"Your eyes have had me in risky territory for a while now,
Margarita."
Manterola was starting to enjoy this melodramatic dialogue,
reminiscent of the most tawdry newspaper serials. And he'd read
enough Dumas fils, Montepin, and Victor Hugo to be able to hold
up his end of the conversation without any trouble.
"I read your article. You didn't say who actually killed those
men who attacked you... Was it you?" she asked, taking away her
hand and drawing back slightly.
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but if I killed anyone it was pure
luck. Somehow I lost my glasses when the shooting started and I
just fired at the biggest thing I could see, which happened to be
the car they were driving... By the way, you do own an Exeter,
don't you?"
The widow stared at him intently. Then she glanced over at the
man in the next bed to assure herself he hadn't moved since she'd
gotten there. He lay motionless as before, his face to the wall, and
she let her shawl fall completely off her shoulders onto the bed.
The reporter's instincts were highly tuned from so many years
of working in out-of-the-ordinary situations, and that apparently
casual gesture was all he needed to realize that this woman was
about to undress in front of him.
And while the journalist was pulling that unlikely conclusion
out of thin air, several miles away in the village of Contreras, Tomas
Wong the Chinaman sat down to a plateful of eggs and chorizo
prepared for him by Rosa Lopez Chang.
The Chinaman lived in a miserable two-room shack, with
an outhouse he shared with his next-door neighbors. One room
was taken up by a bed, books, photographs, keepsakes, a table and
chair, maps on the wall, stacks of newspapers. The other room held his clothes, hung from an old sawed-off broom handle, another
slightly larger table, and the stove.
A certain intimacy had grown up between the two of them,
enough for them to share a bed but not enough to overcome
their mutual walls of silence. In his own reticent way, Tomas had
explained to Rosa the basic rules of the game: not to interrupt the
meetings of the anarchist affinity group that came together each
week in the house, overflowing into both rooms, and occupying
the three chairs, the table, the bed, finishing off his meager store
of coffee, and filling the
but I can assure you we had nothing to do with this.. .this attempt
on your life."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Absolutely. And I came to let you know, so there wouldn't be
any doubt. Now, I won't deny that there's been a certain amount
of friction. Or that on occasion your presence has been somewhat,
shall we say, inopportune. What I mean is that your interest in me
has caused a certain amount of suspicion among my friends, but
that's far from being a motive for murder..."
Manterola sat up in the bed and, without taking his eyes off
the violet sparks flashing in hers, reached out for her hand and
kissed it.
"We should have met several years ago, sir," said Margarita,
letting her eyes wander around the room until they settled stubbornly on the flowers, their sweet odor filling the air.
"That's nothing we can't start to make up for now, Margarita.
Do you mind if I call you Margarita?" he said.
"That's what my friends call me."
Manterola remained upright in the bed despite the throbbing
pain that shot up his bad leg, holding on to the woman's hand and
obliging her to lean toward him to ease the tension between their
two bodies.
"You know what's the worst thing about being a reporter?" he
said. "It makes a man forget his own preconceived ideas just for
the sake of curiosity. The search for the truth takes the place of
everything else..."
"It's hard to know the truth..."
"The search for truth, or anything that looks like the truth, the best approximation, what each of us thinks might have happened...
You see, I accept alternatives..."
"I've got the feeling you're leading me into risky territory,
Senor Journalist."
"Your eyes have had me in risky territory for a while now,
Margarita."
Manterola was starting to enjoy this melodramatic dialogue,
reminiscent of the most tawdry newspaper serials. And he'd read
enough Dumas fils, Montepin, and Victor Hugo to be able to hold
up his end of the conversation without any trouble.
"I read your article. You didn't say who actually killed those
men who attacked you... Was it you?" she asked, taking away her
hand and drawing back slightly.
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but if I killed anyone it was pure
luck. Somehow I lost my glasses when the shooting started and I
just fired at the biggest thing I could see, which happened to be
the car they were driving... By the way, you do own an Exeter,
don't you?"
The widow stared at him intently. Then she glanced over at the
man in the next bed to assure herself he hadn't moved since she'd
gotten there. He lay motionless as before, his face to the wall, and
she let her shawl fall completely off her shoulders onto the bed.
The reporter's instincts were highly tuned from so many years
of working in out-of-the-ordinary situations, and that apparently
casual gesture was all he needed to realize that this woman was
about to undress in front of him.
And while the journalist was pulling that unlikely conclusion
out of thin air, several miles away in the village of Contreras, Tomas
Wong the Chinaman sat down to a plateful of eggs and chorizo
prepared for him by Rosa Lopez Chang.
The Chinaman lived in a miserable two-room shack, with
an outhouse he shared with his next-door neighbors. One room
was taken up by a bed, books, photographs, keepsakes, a table and
chair, maps on the wall, stacks of newspapers. The other room held his clothes, hung from an old sawed-off broom handle, another
slightly larger table, and the stove.
A certain intimacy had grown up between the two of them,
enough for them to share a bed but not enough to overcome
their mutual walls of silence. In his own reticent way, Tomas had
explained to Rosa the basic rules of the game: not to interrupt the
meetings of the anarchist affinity group that came together each
week in the house, overflowing into both rooms, and occupying
the three chairs, the table, the bed, finishing off his meager store
of coffee, and filling the
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