Read Online The Crime of Julian Wells by Thomas H. Cook - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thomas H. Cook
Ads: Link
forgotten,” he said, as if shielding the murderers had been one of the book’s metaphorical devices. “It’s the innocent who deserve to be remembered.”
“But don’t you think the perpetrators need to be remembered, too?” I asked.
He turned to me and something in his eyes told me that this was a subject that pained him.
“What would be the point of telling some little boy that on a particular day, in a particular place, his father was complicit in a terrible crime?” he demanded. “What good would come of it?”
“But otherwise the father would get away with it,” I answered. “And a man who does a terrible thing should be identified.”
Julian gave no response, so I hammered home the point.
“Like whoever killed Marisol,” I added because the unsolved crime of her disappearance suddenly occurred to me. “He got away with it.”
One of Julian’s gloved hands wrapped around the other. “Yes,” he muttered.
He seemed so abruptly moved by the mention of Marisol that I quickly added, “You did your best to find her, Julian.”
Then, to change the subject, I glanced at the book peeking out from the pocket of his coat.
“What are you reading?” I asked. He drew the book from his pocket and I looked at the title, quite surprised by what I saw.
“Eric Ambler, I see. So, you’re reading spy fiction now?”
“It helps to pass the time,” Julian said.
“Betrayal and false identities,” I said jokingly. “People who are not what they appear. Thrilling stuff,” I added with a laugh, “but not the stuff of great literature.”
“ You might be surprised,” Julian said softly. “Life is a shadow game, after all.”
I absently opened the book and saw that he’d underlined its most famous line. “It’s not who fires the shot,” I read, “but who pays for the bullet.”
He removed the book from my hands and returned it to his pocket. “It helps to pass the time,” he repeated. “And I don’t read Borges anymore.”
Borges, I thought, and felt the dust of the Chaco settle over us once again, a place I’d never seen, but which our guide had called home.
Borges.
A sure sign, I knew, that Julian’s mind remained on Marisol.
8
In the great tales, she is always beautiful, of course, the one whose loss torments a man. Since Helen walked the ramparts of Sparta and equally dazzled the men of two opposing armies, we have given little value, in literature at least, to a plain-looking girl.
That is not to say that Marisol was plain, but simply to say that she was by no means a dazzling Helen or a fiery Antigone. She was Cordelia, the loyal daughter of King Lear, quiet, modest, motionless at her center, a pendulum at rest.
She came into the lobby of the hotel like a small breeze off the pampas, the sort that barely moves the grasses.
“I am Marisol,” she said in her softly accented English. “I am pleased to meet with you.” Her eyes were black, but striking, and her skin brown, but with a golden undertone, so that in a certain light, as Julian once observed, she seemed carved from a muted amber.
A week before, my father had contacted the American consulate in Buenos Aires, and someone in that office had recommended Marisol as a guide. She was fluent in English, according to the consulate, and others had been satisfied with her services. With a slightly comic edge, my father had added that Marisol had been properly vetted by the consulate, which meant, of course, that she was no female Che Guevara.
On that first morning, she wore a dark gray skirt that fell just below the knee, with a matching jacket. Her blouse was white, with a tailored collar, and she wore it open at the throat. The shoes were black and well polished, with a modest, businesslike heel. But such gestures toward urbanity did not conceal the depth of her indigenous roots. These were in the oval shape of her eyes and the width of her nose and the black panther sheen of her hair. Europe had made no invasion of her
“But don’t you think the perpetrators need to be remembered, too?” I asked.
He turned to me and something in his eyes told me that this was a subject that pained him.
“What would be the point of telling some little boy that on a particular day, in a particular place, his father was complicit in a terrible crime?” he demanded. “What good would come of it?”
“But otherwise the father would get away with it,” I answered. “And a man who does a terrible thing should be identified.”
Julian gave no response, so I hammered home the point.
“Like whoever killed Marisol,” I added because the unsolved crime of her disappearance suddenly occurred to me. “He got away with it.”
One of Julian’s gloved hands wrapped around the other. “Yes,” he muttered.
He seemed so abruptly moved by the mention of Marisol that I quickly added, “You did your best to find her, Julian.”
Then, to change the subject, I glanced at the book peeking out from the pocket of his coat.
“What are you reading?” I asked. He drew the book from his pocket and I looked at the title, quite surprised by what I saw.
“Eric Ambler, I see. So, you’re reading spy fiction now?”
“It helps to pass the time,” Julian said.
“Betrayal and false identities,” I said jokingly. “People who are not what they appear. Thrilling stuff,” I added with a laugh, “but not the stuff of great literature.”
“ You might be surprised,” Julian said softly. “Life is a shadow game, after all.”
I absently opened the book and saw that he’d underlined its most famous line. “It’s not who fires the shot,” I read, “but who pays for the bullet.”
He removed the book from my hands and returned it to his pocket. “It helps to pass the time,” he repeated. “And I don’t read Borges anymore.”
Borges, I thought, and felt the dust of the Chaco settle over us once again, a place I’d never seen, but which our guide had called home.
Borges.
A sure sign, I knew, that Julian’s mind remained on Marisol.
8
In the great tales, she is always beautiful, of course, the one whose loss torments a man. Since Helen walked the ramparts of Sparta and equally dazzled the men of two opposing armies, we have given little value, in literature at least, to a plain-looking girl.
That is not to say that Marisol was plain, but simply to say that she was by no means a dazzling Helen or a fiery Antigone. She was Cordelia, the loyal daughter of King Lear, quiet, modest, motionless at her center, a pendulum at rest.
She came into the lobby of the hotel like a small breeze off the pampas, the sort that barely moves the grasses.
“I am Marisol,” she said in her softly accented English. “I am pleased to meet with you.” Her eyes were black, but striking, and her skin brown, but with a golden undertone, so that in a certain light, as Julian once observed, she seemed carved from a muted amber.
A week before, my father had contacted the American consulate in Buenos Aires, and someone in that office had recommended Marisol as a guide. She was fluent in English, according to the consulate, and others had been satisfied with her services. With a slightly comic edge, my father had added that Marisol had been properly vetted by the consulate, which meant, of course, that she was no female Che Guevara.
On that first morning, she wore a dark gray skirt that fell just below the knee, with a matching jacket. Her blouse was white, with a tailored collar, and she wore it open at the throat. The shoes were black and well polished, with a modest, businesslike heel. But such gestures toward urbanity did not conceal the depth of her indigenous roots. These were in the oval shape of her eyes and the width of her nose and the black panther sheen of her hair. Europe had made no invasion of her
Similar Books
