Read Online Puzzle for Pilgrims by Patrick Quentin - Free Book Online
Authors: Patrick Quentin
Tags: Crime
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sorted out their problems. My own position was anomalous to say the least. If I did persuade Sally to give a divorce, I lost Iris for good. But I also saved Marietta from something very nasty.
Oddly enough, I was thinking mostly of Marietta.
She had never given me her address. That was part of the enigma of her. But I had a telephone number. I called it. Sally had said not to tell Marietta, but I didn’t let that worry me. She was just sitting there in Taxco gloating over the thought of Marietta being frightened. I had no sympathy with infantile sadists. At the telephone number they told me Marietta was not there. They also told me she hadn’t been home all night. I knew that already. I was worried. I had a hunch that she was planning something foolish.
I finished shaving and went out. Everything was rinsed in clean sunlight. My Indian was back with his peanuts. Today there were little scarlet rosettes of radishes too. He had spread them on a sheet of yellow tissue paper. It looked very gay. His whole stock could not have been worth more than a dollar.
I walked to Sanborn’s for breakfast. Sanborn’s is where the American tourists congregate over strawberry shortcakes, bandying stomach conditions and bargains in silver. The brassy normalcy of my compatriots was refreshing. To them Mexico wasn’t a place where you lost your wife; it was something at the other end of Thomas Cook & Sons where you had to be careful about the water and where a lot of quaintness could be stored up on Kodachrome to bore the folks back home in Minnesota.
After breakfast I called Marietta again from an antiseptic booth near a rack of post cards. She still wasn’t there. I felt restless and I had nothing to do until it was time to start for Taxco. I wandered out into the narrow bustle of Madera. A little boy with silver watch chains slung like worms over his arm pursued me. Someone tried to sell me a puppy. An old man staggered past with a load of bird cages strapped on his back. The birds hopped around and whistled, brassy as the tourists. I like Mexican streets. The small things that happen on them have so much vitality.
I strolled down San Juan de Letran and made my way home past the San Juan Market, wandering through the flower stalls opulent with roses, scarlet carnations, tuberoses, lilac stock, and tall blue spider lilies. I had hoped to find Marietta at home or some word from her, but there was nothing.
The futility of my life in Mexico City was never more apparent to me than on that morning. I had nothing to do. I knew no one except Marietta and wanted to know no one. In contrast to this nothingness, the trip to Taxco seemed almost inviting. At least it was something definite to do. I called Marietta again. They told me she had come in with an American man and gone out almost immediately, saying she would not be back until the next day. She’d left no message for me. I asked what the American man looked like. They said he was big and redheaded.
The news staggered me. Last night Marietta had been shivering with disgust at Jake. This morning she had left my apartment and gone straight to him. I felt a frustrated indignation. I felt anxious too. Where was she going with her dubious citrus-grower? To Taxco?
Urgency came on me. I went to the garage for my car. I’d reach Taxco too early for my date with Sally. That didn’t matter. I wanted to be there. It seemed important now.
I swung up into the mountains, dust-brown and parched from the lack of rain. At startling intervals, the two great volcanoes that brood over Mexico slid in and out of view, Popocatepetl’s snow-lonely peak, the Sleeping Woman, quiet and ominous with a scarf of cloud. A single Indian led a burro loaded with taffy cornhusks. A yellow butterfly flapped nowhere. There was nothing else. Up here the whole world seemed empty.
In Mexico, climate isn’t north and south. It’s up and down. I toppled from barren highland into sudden valleys lush with chartreuse
Oddly enough, I was thinking mostly of Marietta.
She had never given me her address. That was part of the enigma of her. But I had a telephone number. I called it. Sally had said not to tell Marietta, but I didn’t let that worry me. She was just sitting there in Taxco gloating over the thought of Marietta being frightened. I had no sympathy with infantile sadists. At the telephone number they told me Marietta was not there. They also told me she hadn’t been home all night. I knew that already. I was worried. I had a hunch that she was planning something foolish.
I finished shaving and went out. Everything was rinsed in clean sunlight. My Indian was back with his peanuts. Today there were little scarlet rosettes of radishes too. He had spread them on a sheet of yellow tissue paper. It looked very gay. His whole stock could not have been worth more than a dollar.
I walked to Sanborn’s for breakfast. Sanborn’s is where the American tourists congregate over strawberry shortcakes, bandying stomach conditions and bargains in silver. The brassy normalcy of my compatriots was refreshing. To them Mexico wasn’t a place where you lost your wife; it was something at the other end of Thomas Cook & Sons where you had to be careful about the water and where a lot of quaintness could be stored up on Kodachrome to bore the folks back home in Minnesota.
After breakfast I called Marietta again from an antiseptic booth near a rack of post cards. She still wasn’t there. I felt restless and I had nothing to do until it was time to start for Taxco. I wandered out into the narrow bustle of Madera. A little boy with silver watch chains slung like worms over his arm pursued me. Someone tried to sell me a puppy. An old man staggered past with a load of bird cages strapped on his back. The birds hopped around and whistled, brassy as the tourists. I like Mexican streets. The small things that happen on them have so much vitality.
I strolled down San Juan de Letran and made my way home past the San Juan Market, wandering through the flower stalls opulent with roses, scarlet carnations, tuberoses, lilac stock, and tall blue spider lilies. I had hoped to find Marietta at home or some word from her, but there was nothing.
The futility of my life in Mexico City was never more apparent to me than on that morning. I had nothing to do. I knew no one except Marietta and wanted to know no one. In contrast to this nothingness, the trip to Taxco seemed almost inviting. At least it was something definite to do. I called Marietta again. They told me she had come in with an American man and gone out almost immediately, saying she would not be back until the next day. She’d left no message for me. I asked what the American man looked like. They said he was big and redheaded.
The news staggered me. Last night Marietta had been shivering with disgust at Jake. This morning she had left my apartment and gone straight to him. I felt a frustrated indignation. I felt anxious too. Where was she going with her dubious citrus-grower? To Taxco?
Urgency came on me. I went to the garage for my car. I’d reach Taxco too early for my date with Sally. That didn’t matter. I wanted to be there. It seemed important now.
I swung up into the mountains, dust-brown and parched from the lack of rain. At startling intervals, the two great volcanoes that brood over Mexico slid in and out of view, Popocatepetl’s snow-lonely peak, the Sleeping Woman, quiet and ominous with a scarf of cloud. A single Indian led a burro loaded with taffy cornhusks. A yellow butterfly flapped nowhere. There was nothing else. Up here the whole world seemed empty.
In Mexico, climate isn’t north and south. It’s up and down. I toppled from barren highland into sudden valleys lush with chartreuse
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