Read Online A Young Man's Heart by Cornell Woolrich - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cornell Woolrich
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again forgotten.
He went into the kitchen, and Mariquita was in there, sitting on the stool Estelle had sat upon, eating a tortilla which she held folded in one hand.
“Ola, lazy,” she said. “Every morning he gets up later. He will end by getting up when the stars come out.”
“A lot you know,” he answered matter-of-factly, but with flirtatious overtones, “it’s only nine.”
“For us nine is half the day gone,” said the old woman. “Get him his breakfast,” she added to Mariquita. “Haven’t you eyes to see I’m busy?”
She was on her knees giving the baby a bath in a large, squat tin, ordinarily used for boiling the wash. The baby, undergoing a rite which was evidently blissfully unknown to it in its own home, wore an expression of painful apprehension which puckered into a whimper each time soap flecked its mouth or nose. Each time a whimper manifested itself that threatened to develop into a howl, Mariquita and the old woman cowed it to silence by both hissing “Sh!” at it simultaneously, with the ferocity of adders or steam valves.
“What, you don’t want to be clean?” the old woman said to it at various times. “Aren’t you ashamed at all? Do you want to be like one of the dirty little chickens out in the yard? Malcriada. Look at the señor Blerr looking at you.”
“Poor thing, I don’t blame it,” Blair saw fit to remark, as a challenge to Mariquita.
“Shut up, you,” she smirked, giving him a push on the arm.
When Blair had breakfasted and the baby had been dried and clothed, a simple matter of pulling a coral-pink shift down over its head, Mariquita and he took it outdoors with them. For a little while Blair forgot that to-day was different from other days, that there was to be an end to all this, and the end spelt nostalgia, fright and heart-sickness. How could anything seem to impend, with so new-minted a sky bending low over the world to lend it confidence, with arias of bougainvillea at hand nearly too vivid for the eye to believe in, with houses old and comforting that seemed to say, “I am here—I have always been here—I shall always be here.” Then in the afternoon the familiar, cooling, almost-friendly downpour, diminishing in duration now from day to day as it neared the end of its allotted time.
“Soon we shall have no more rain,” Mariquita said. She kissed her fingers at it through the dripping leaves of the kiosk. “Adios, aguas.”
“When the dry season begins I will be gone,” Blair answered pathetically.
The first day, and nearly all of the second, she could not be made to believe him. She merely laughed outrageously. He was trying to tease her in a new way, her attitude seemed to imply. Presently she fell in with his supposed mood, pretended to believe him, asked questions in a mocking vein—how soon was he going? was he going by the San Lázaro station? if he was, then she would wave to him from the window, her people’s house faced the tracks—and above all (subtle hint of disbelief) had he told his father of his plans yet?
“He was the one told me,” Blair answered limply.
While she rallied him like this for two days, there was no answering glint of humor in his eyes. Eventually she must have noticed this and wondered what it meant. The chatter and the raucous liveliness stopped after awhile, and something like misery shaded her expression.
“Then, seguro, you are going?”
“Seguro que si,” he told her.
She did not say anything more about it.
The third day and the fourth came and went, and on the evening of the fourth Giraldy came home and showed him their railway tickets to the coast. It appeared he intended making the overnight trip to see Blair safely on board the boat. The tickets, dangling like paper festoons from his hand, long and blue and gruesome, were kilometrics, that is, at each successive stop the train made, portions were to be detached and given over to the car-men. On arrival, the remainder, if any, could be
He went into the kitchen, and Mariquita was in there, sitting on the stool Estelle had sat upon, eating a tortilla which she held folded in one hand.
“Ola, lazy,” she said. “Every morning he gets up later. He will end by getting up when the stars come out.”
“A lot you know,” he answered matter-of-factly, but with flirtatious overtones, “it’s only nine.”
“For us nine is half the day gone,” said the old woman. “Get him his breakfast,” she added to Mariquita. “Haven’t you eyes to see I’m busy?”
She was on her knees giving the baby a bath in a large, squat tin, ordinarily used for boiling the wash. The baby, undergoing a rite which was evidently blissfully unknown to it in its own home, wore an expression of painful apprehension which puckered into a whimper each time soap flecked its mouth or nose. Each time a whimper manifested itself that threatened to develop into a howl, Mariquita and the old woman cowed it to silence by both hissing “Sh!” at it simultaneously, with the ferocity of adders or steam valves.
“What, you don’t want to be clean?” the old woman said to it at various times. “Aren’t you ashamed at all? Do you want to be like one of the dirty little chickens out in the yard? Malcriada. Look at the señor Blerr looking at you.”
“Poor thing, I don’t blame it,” Blair saw fit to remark, as a challenge to Mariquita.
“Shut up, you,” she smirked, giving him a push on the arm.
When Blair had breakfasted and the baby had been dried and clothed, a simple matter of pulling a coral-pink shift down over its head, Mariquita and he took it outdoors with them. For a little while Blair forgot that to-day was different from other days, that there was to be an end to all this, and the end spelt nostalgia, fright and heart-sickness. How could anything seem to impend, with so new-minted a sky bending low over the world to lend it confidence, with arias of bougainvillea at hand nearly too vivid for the eye to believe in, with houses old and comforting that seemed to say, “I am here—I have always been here—I shall always be here.” Then in the afternoon the familiar, cooling, almost-friendly downpour, diminishing in duration now from day to day as it neared the end of its allotted time.
“Soon we shall have no more rain,” Mariquita said. She kissed her fingers at it through the dripping leaves of the kiosk. “Adios, aguas.”
“When the dry season begins I will be gone,” Blair answered pathetically.
The first day, and nearly all of the second, she could not be made to believe him. She merely laughed outrageously. He was trying to tease her in a new way, her attitude seemed to imply. Presently she fell in with his supposed mood, pretended to believe him, asked questions in a mocking vein—how soon was he going? was he going by the San Lázaro station? if he was, then she would wave to him from the window, her people’s house faced the tracks—and above all (subtle hint of disbelief) had he told his father of his plans yet?
“He was the one told me,” Blair answered limply.
While she rallied him like this for two days, there was no answering glint of humor in his eyes. Eventually she must have noticed this and wondered what it meant. The chatter and the raucous liveliness stopped after awhile, and something like misery shaded her expression.
“Then, seguro, you are going?”
“Seguro que si,” he told her.
She did not say anything more about it.
The third day and the fourth came and went, and on the evening of the fourth Giraldy came home and showed him their railway tickets to the coast. It appeared he intended making the overnight trip to see Blair safely on board the boat. The tickets, dangling like paper festoons from his hand, long and blue and gruesome, were kilometrics, that is, at each successive stop the train made, portions were to be detached and given over to the car-men. On arrival, the remainder, if any, could be
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