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Authors: The Small Assassin (v2.1)
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again. “Americano—uh— maggah-zeenas ?”
“Oh, no, senorita! ”
Her
hands opened wide at her waist, then closed, like
mouths. Her mouth opened and closed. The shop had a veil over it, in her eyes.
Here she was and here were these small baked adobe people to whom she could say
nothing and from whom she could get no words she understood, and she was in a
town of people who said no words to her and she said no words to them except in
blushing confusion and bewilderment. And the town was circled by desert and time,
and home was far away, far away in another life.
She
whirled and fled.
Shop
following shop she found no magazines save those giving bullfights in blood on
their covers or murdered people or lace-confection priests. But at last three
poor copies of the Post were bought
with much display and loud laughter and she gave the vendor of this small shop
a handsome tip.
Rushing
out with the Posts eagerly on her
bosom in both hands she hurried along the narrow walk, took a skip over the
gutter, ran across the street, sang la-la, jumped onto the further walk, made
another little scamper with her feet, smiled an inside smile, moving along
swiftly, pressing the magazines tightly to her, half-closing her eyes,
breathing the charcoal evening air, feeling the wind watering past her ears.
Starlight
tinkled in golden nuclei off the highly perched Greek figures atop the State theater . A man shambled by in the shadow, balancing upon his
head a basket. The basket contained bread loaves.
She
saw the man and the balanced basket and suddenly she did not move and there was
no inside smile, nor did her hands clasp tight the magazines. She watched the
man walk, with one hand of his gently poised up to tap the basket any time it
unbalanced, and down the street he dwindled, while the magazines slipped from
Marie’s fingers and scattered on the walk.
Snatching
them up, she ran into the hotel and almost fell going upstairs.
She
sat in the room. The magazines were piled on each side of her and in a circle
at her feet. She had made a little castle with portcullises of words and into
this she was withdrawn. All about her were the magazines she had bought and
bought and looked at and looked at on other days, and these were the outer
barrier, and upon the inside of the barrier, upon her lap, as yet unopened, but
her hands were trembling to open them and read and read and read again with
hungry eyes, were the three battered Post magazines. She opened the first page. She would go through them page by page,
line by line, she decided. Not a line would go unnoticed, a comma unread, every
little ad and every color would be fixed by her. And—she smiled with
discovery—in those other magazines at her feet were still advertisements and
cartoons she had neglected—there would be little morsels of stuff for her to
reclaim and utilize later.
She
would read this first Post tonight, yes tonight she would read this first delicious Post . Page on page she would eat it and
tomorrow night, if there was going to be a tomorrow night, but maybe there wouldn’t
be a tomorrow night here, maybe the motor would start and there’d be odors of
exhaust and round hum of rubber tire on road and wind riding in the window and pennanting her hair—but, suppose, just suppose there would
Be a tomorrow night here, in this room. Well, then, there would be two more Posts, one for tomorrow night, and the
next for the next night. How neatly she said it to herself with her mind’s
tongue. She turned the first page.
She
turned the second page. Her eyes moved over it and over it and her fingers
unknown to her slipped under the next page and flickered it in preparation for
turning,
“Oh, no, senorita! ”
Her
hands opened wide at her waist, then closed, like
mouths. Her mouth opened and closed. The shop had a veil over it, in her eyes.
Here she was and here were these small baked adobe people to whom she could say
nothing and from whom she could get no words she understood, and she was in a
town of people who said no words to her and she said no words to them except in
blushing confusion and bewilderment. And the town was circled by desert and time,
and home was far away, far away in another life.
She
whirled and fled.
Shop
following shop she found no magazines save those giving bullfights in blood on
their covers or murdered people or lace-confection priests. But at last three
poor copies of the Post were bought
with much display and loud laughter and she gave the vendor of this small shop
a handsome tip.
Rushing
out with the Posts eagerly on her
bosom in both hands she hurried along the narrow walk, took a skip over the
gutter, ran across the street, sang la-la, jumped onto the further walk, made
another little scamper with her feet, smiled an inside smile, moving along
swiftly, pressing the magazines tightly to her, half-closing her eyes,
breathing the charcoal evening air, feeling the wind watering past her ears.
Starlight
tinkled in golden nuclei off the highly perched Greek figures atop the State theater . A man shambled by in the shadow, balancing upon his
head a basket. The basket contained bread loaves.
She
saw the man and the balanced basket and suddenly she did not move and there was
no inside smile, nor did her hands clasp tight the magazines. She watched the
man walk, with one hand of his gently poised up to tap the basket any time it
unbalanced, and down the street he dwindled, while the magazines slipped from
Marie’s fingers and scattered on the walk.
Snatching
them up, she ran into the hotel and almost fell going upstairs.
She
sat in the room. The magazines were piled on each side of her and in a circle
at her feet. She had made a little castle with portcullises of words and into
this she was withdrawn. All about her were the magazines she had bought and
bought and looked at and looked at on other days, and these were the outer
barrier, and upon the inside of the barrier, upon her lap, as yet unopened, but
her hands were trembling to open them and read and read and read again with
hungry eyes, were the three battered Post magazines. She opened the first page. She would go through them page by page,
line by line, she decided. Not a line would go unnoticed, a comma unread, every
little ad and every color would be fixed by her. And—she smiled with
discovery—in those other magazines at her feet were still advertisements and
cartoons she had neglected—there would be little morsels of stuff for her to
reclaim and utilize later.
She
would read this first Post tonight, yes tonight she would read this first delicious Post . Page on page she would eat it and
tomorrow night, if there was going to be a tomorrow night, but maybe there wouldn’t
be a tomorrow night here, maybe the motor would start and there’d be odors of
exhaust and round hum of rubber tire on road and wind riding in the window and pennanting her hair—but, suppose, just suppose there would
Be a tomorrow night here, in this room. Well, then, there would be two more Posts, one for tomorrow night, and the
next for the next night. How neatly she said it to herself with her mind’s
tongue. She turned the first page.
She
turned the second page. Her eyes moved over it and over it and her fingers
unknown to her slipped under the next page and flickered it in preparation for
turning,
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