whole place with a cloud of smoke. Not
to let herself be seen too much in public, in case her former
"owners" came looking for her. Not to feel that she owed anything,
especially not to feel that she owed anything to him. Rosa, who
was as prone to silence as Tomas himself, listened quietly to his
three recommendations and then suggested she be allowed to
use a corner of one of the rooms to prepare essences for sale to a
local perfumery, bringing in a little extra money to help out with
expenses. So far so good. Then there was the problem that there
was only one bed which the two of them had to share for four
hours every night. Tomas worked from 11 to 7 and they shared
the bed from 3 or 4 in the morning until about 7 a.m. when Rosa
got up.
It had nothing to do with a lack of imagination. Without
having had to work it out beforehand, they'd taken to sleeping in
shifts, and on separate halves of the bed, head to toe.' he problem
was more fundamental, more essentially pragmatic. A foot is
capable of provoking as much erotic attraction as a face, and Tomas
dreamed he was nibbling on Rosa's tiny toes. For several days now
they'd both slept poorly and little during the few hours when they
occupied the bed together.
While the journalist was busy thinking that any minute the
widow was going to start taking her clothes off in front of him,
and while Tomas thought lovingly about Rosa's toes, in nearby
Tacubaya, on the outskirts of town, the poet Fermin Valencia lay on his bed and listened ecstatically to the esoteric theories of
Celeste the Mysterious.
"...I'm talking about inner fortheth. All around uth. You get
it?... Do you believe in magnetithm? It'th a thientific fact," Celeste
explained to him. She was a different sort of poem, this woman.
About thirty years old, speaking with a lisp, slightly cross-eyed,
red hair, overflowing breasts (the right one a little bigger than the
left, the poet wondered, or was it just a question of perspective?),
a superb pair of legs. A run in her right stocking captivated the
poet's attention. He nodded his head vehemently as she spoke,
lying across his bed on top of the complete works of Voltaire,
smoking a cigarette.
"It'th abtholutely thientific. Electric waveth connecting
your mind with mine. It all dependth on whothe energy ith
thtrongetht."
The woman had appeared unexpectedly at his door, smiling,
dragging her lilac-colored shawl over the dust-covered chairs,
scattered papers, dirty glasses, finally dropping it over a washbasin
filled with tequila the poet had used to disinfect a cut on his leg
where he'd been hit by falling glass the night of the gunfight.
She'd introduced herself as Madame Thuareth and, after confirming that her host was in fact the poet Fermin Valencia, she'd
started in with her story about mysterious electric forces.
"And that'th only part of it.There'th other fortheth that neither
of uth will ever be aware of. Do you believe in God?"
The poet shook his head.
"But thertainly you believe in natural fortheth?"
The poet shook his head, trying to look serious, blowing smoke
up at the ceiling.
"In thienthe? Do you believe in thientific thinking?"
the poet shook his head again. He looked at her suspiciously.
"Don't you believe in anything at all? What a thilly quethtion...
everybody believth in thomething."
"You've got a run in your stocking, ma'am," the poet said, tracing his index finger softly along the inside of her leg.
He almost thought he could see her leg vibrate slightly under
his touch, and wondered if maybe there wasn't something to all
this talk about magnetic fortheth after all.
The woman giggled, inching away from the poet's probing
finger and brushing back a curl of red hair that had fallen flirtatiously across her face.
Pioquinto Manterola glanced cautiously at the dying hod
carrier and confirmed that the man continued his slow slide away
from life, eyes glued to the wall seeing nothing, lightless
to let herself be seen too much in public, in case her former
"owners" came looking for her. Not to feel that she owed anything,
especially not to feel that she owed anything to him. Rosa, who
was as prone to silence as Tomas himself, listened quietly to his
three recommendations and then suggested she be allowed to
use a corner of one of the rooms to prepare essences for sale to a
local perfumery, bringing in a little extra money to help out with
expenses. So far so good. Then there was the problem that there
was only one bed which the two of them had to share for four
hours every night. Tomas worked from 11 to 7 and they shared
the bed from 3 or 4 in the morning until about 7 a.m. when Rosa
got up.
It had nothing to do with a lack of imagination. Without
having had to work it out beforehand, they'd taken to sleeping in
shifts, and on separate halves of the bed, head to toe.' he problem
was more fundamental, more essentially pragmatic. A foot is
capable of provoking as much erotic attraction as a face, and Tomas
dreamed he was nibbling on Rosa's tiny toes. For several days now
they'd both slept poorly and little during the few hours when they
occupied the bed together.
While the journalist was busy thinking that any minute the
widow was going to start taking her clothes off in front of him,
and while Tomas thought lovingly about Rosa's toes, in nearby
Tacubaya, on the outskirts of town, the poet Fermin Valencia lay on his bed and listened ecstatically to the esoteric theories of
Celeste the Mysterious.
"...I'm talking about inner fortheth. All around uth. You get
it?... Do you believe in magnetithm? It'th a thientific fact," Celeste
explained to him. She was a different sort of poem, this woman.
About thirty years old, speaking with a lisp, slightly cross-eyed,
red hair, overflowing breasts (the right one a little bigger than the
left, the poet wondered, or was it just a question of perspective?),
a superb pair of legs. A run in her right stocking captivated the
poet's attention. He nodded his head vehemently as she spoke,
lying across his bed on top of the complete works of Voltaire,
smoking a cigarette.
"It'th abtholutely thientific. Electric waveth connecting
your mind with mine. It all dependth on whothe energy ith
thtrongetht."
The woman had appeared unexpectedly at his door, smiling,
dragging her lilac-colored shawl over the dust-covered chairs,
scattered papers, dirty glasses, finally dropping it over a washbasin
filled with tequila the poet had used to disinfect a cut on his leg
where he'd been hit by falling glass the night of the gunfight.
She'd introduced herself as Madame Thuareth and, after confirming that her host was in fact the poet Fermin Valencia, she'd
started in with her story about mysterious electric forces.
"And that'th only part of it.There'th other fortheth that neither
of uth will ever be aware of. Do you believe in God?"
The poet shook his head.
"But thertainly you believe in natural fortheth?"
The poet shook his head, trying to look serious, blowing smoke
up at the ceiling.
"In thienthe? Do you believe in thientific thinking?"
the poet shook his head again. He looked at her suspiciously.
"Don't you believe in anything at all? What a thilly quethtion...
everybody believth in thomething."
"You've got a run in your stocking, ma'am," the poet said, tracing his index finger softly along the inside of her leg.
He almost thought he could see her leg vibrate slightly under
his touch, and wondered if maybe there wasn't something to all
this talk about magnetic fortheth after all.
The woman giggled, inching away from the poet's probing
finger and brushing back a curl of red hair that had fallen flirtatiously across her face.
Pioquinto Manterola glanced cautiously at the dying hod
carrier and confirmed that the man continued his slow slide away
from life, eyes glued to the wall seeing nothing, lightless
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