Moved before Senor el Greco brought up the rear.
The whisper was softer than breath. “Senor!”
He stopped, balancing on the teetering step.
“Senor!” The sound, if you could call it a sound, came from the doorway of the next house. The shadow stepped away from the shadow and was a little thing, a sorbita. He didn’t believe it but he was off the steps, against Senor Praxiteles’ wall, and edging toward her.
“For the mercy of God,” he breathed. It was the girl, the sloe-eyed child, got up in a mourning shawl that covered her long black hair and most of her face, all but the eyes; that also covered her brown shoulders and thin white blouse, hanging down over her red flowered skirt. In the dark the skirt was black.
She said, “There is no time. Give to me the package.”
With his free hand he shoved her back into the doorway, flattened himself beside her. “What package?”
“The one you carry.” Her thin little hand reached for it.
He closed his free hand over hers. “Listen to me, Sorbita. I have here perfume for my girl, get it? I’m not giving it to you or anyone.”
She was breathing soundlessly but too fast. He realized all at once that she was terribly frightened. Her hand, despite the firmness of his clutch, was trembling.
“You will not return to your friends with that package. You will not be permitted. Give it to me and I will bring it to you safely. I swear by Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
He didn’t believe her. He wasn’t expected to believe her but it was a brave try. He played along out of pity for her inexperience in these matters. “How is it you can carry it safely?”
“No one will see.” He could feel the trembling all over her fragile body. “Beneath my shawl.”
“Each man has a nose.”
One small flicker of amusement lifted her voice. “I will smell only like a girl of Juarez.”
He wanted to help her, to warn her to get out of this tumble; whatever it was, it wasn’t for a kid. Also he wanted to find out what she knew about it. If the unknown who smoked should peer around a corner, he would see only a man with a girl, eluding the watchful eyes of those who had forgotten what it was to be sick with love and separation. This close they stood together in the doorway.
At his silence, a sudden bleak anger was in her. “I will not steal it. I have sworn to you.” Her hand touched the package.
He held on. “What’s so important about it?”
The waft of smoke seemed sharper as he spoke. She twisted the package out of his hands.
“Sorbita!” He exclaimed aloud in his anger, reaching out for her but this soon she had melted away. He could hear no disappearing footsteps. The anger rose up hot in him and then burned out. There was nothing he could do now. He wouldn’t know which way to start out chasing her through the labyrinth of dark streets. He could only hope hopelessly that she had meant what she said. If not he’d find her even if he had to put the seersucker man on the job.
Right now he was free to investigate the cigarillo. And incidentally give her time to get safely away. He whistled as he rounded the corner, making sure his approach was announced. Nor did his step falter when he discerned not one but two men leaning against the side wall of the Praxiteles tienda. He walked directly up to them. “Hey, Bud,” he used American, “which way to the market?” He put a cigarette in his own mouth, struck a match.
They were Mexicans, hirelings. Not good Mexicans, youths corrupted by the evil that washed back and forth over the bridge. They wore like suits, bluish purple in this unlight, pinched at the waist, sharp-lapeled. Their shirts and ties were garish in pinks and greens, their dark homburgs shaded their faces. Jose shook out the match and pitched it to the ground. Their shoes were narrow and pointed, patent leather.
“El Mercado?” one said.
Jose was not the man they were waiting for. He carried no box of perfume.
“You go this way,” a thumb
The whisper was softer than breath. “Senor!”
He stopped, balancing on the teetering step.
“Senor!” The sound, if you could call it a sound, came from the doorway of the next house. The shadow stepped away from the shadow and was a little thing, a sorbita. He didn’t believe it but he was off the steps, against Senor Praxiteles’ wall, and edging toward her.
“For the mercy of God,” he breathed. It was the girl, the sloe-eyed child, got up in a mourning shawl that covered her long black hair and most of her face, all but the eyes; that also covered her brown shoulders and thin white blouse, hanging down over her red flowered skirt. In the dark the skirt was black.
She said, “There is no time. Give to me the package.”
With his free hand he shoved her back into the doorway, flattened himself beside her. “What package?”
“The one you carry.” Her thin little hand reached for it.
He closed his free hand over hers. “Listen to me, Sorbita. I have here perfume for my girl, get it? I’m not giving it to you or anyone.”
She was breathing soundlessly but too fast. He realized all at once that she was terribly frightened. Her hand, despite the firmness of his clutch, was trembling.
“You will not return to your friends with that package. You will not be permitted. Give it to me and I will bring it to you safely. I swear by Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
He didn’t believe her. He wasn’t expected to believe her but it was a brave try. He played along out of pity for her inexperience in these matters. “How is it you can carry it safely?”
“No one will see.” He could feel the trembling all over her fragile body. “Beneath my shawl.”
“Each man has a nose.”
One small flicker of amusement lifted her voice. “I will smell only like a girl of Juarez.”
He wanted to help her, to warn her to get out of this tumble; whatever it was, it wasn’t for a kid. Also he wanted to find out what she knew about it. If the unknown who smoked should peer around a corner, he would see only a man with a girl, eluding the watchful eyes of those who had forgotten what it was to be sick with love and separation. This close they stood together in the doorway.
At his silence, a sudden bleak anger was in her. “I will not steal it. I have sworn to you.” Her hand touched the package.
He held on. “What’s so important about it?”
The waft of smoke seemed sharper as he spoke. She twisted the package out of his hands.
“Sorbita!” He exclaimed aloud in his anger, reaching out for her but this soon she had melted away. He could hear no disappearing footsteps. The anger rose up hot in him and then burned out. There was nothing he could do now. He wouldn’t know which way to start out chasing her through the labyrinth of dark streets. He could only hope hopelessly that she had meant what she said. If not he’d find her even if he had to put the seersucker man on the job.
Right now he was free to investigate the cigarillo. And incidentally give her time to get safely away. He whistled as he rounded the corner, making sure his approach was announced. Nor did his step falter when he discerned not one but two men leaning against the side wall of the Praxiteles tienda. He walked directly up to them. “Hey, Bud,” he used American, “which way to the market?” He put a cigarette in his own mouth, struck a match.
They were Mexicans, hirelings. Not good Mexicans, youths corrupted by the evil that washed back and forth over the bridge. They wore like suits, bluish purple in this unlight, pinched at the waist, sharp-lapeled. Their shirts and ties were garish in pinks and greens, their dark homburgs shaded their faces. Jose shook out the match and pitched it to the ground. Their shoes were narrow and pointed, patent leather.
“El Mercado?” one said.
Jose was not the man they were waiting for. He carried no box of perfume.
“You go this way,” a thumb
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