Read Online The Cutting Room: Dark Reflections of the Silver Screen by Ellen Datlow - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ellen Datlow
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cacophony of insect music hissed on the air.
“Where did you get that?” Wintner indicated the crisp snack. “At the restaurant? I’ve seen people walking around with them all morning. I guess I must be getting hungry.”
The young man offered him a piece.
“No, no. I only want to know what it is.”
“Día de los Muertos.”
“I beg your pardon?” Does he speak English? Wintner wondered. He’s not from around here; probably substituting for the regular man. He doesn’t know—
Then he got a clear look at the object. It was a miniature skull, what remained of one, apparently made of spun candy. Most of the face had been eaten away, and the inner surface glimmered with loose granules of sugar.
“The Day of the Dead,” explained the bartender. “You know, the second of November. It’s a big celebration in Mexico. I have one more, sir, if you’d care to—”
Wintner held up his hand. “No, thanks.”
The bartender shrugged, an expression of bemusement in his polished brown eyes.
California, thought Wintner, shaking his head.
Balancing the drink, he sauntered back to the deck chair. On the way he became aware of a muffled rustling. It was the cabana in the corner of the enclosure. The top billowed as the interior filled like an air sock. Then the breeze died and it collapsed inward and hung limp, nothing more than empty canvas, like the umbrellas over the white enameled tables. But the cabana was not anchored securely; when the wind came up again the pole creaked and the striped cloth puffed out in a simulation of breathing. At this angle the sun backlighted the upper half, transforming it into a glowing, translucent orange. Was that a distorted profile inside? Probably only a shadow of the fence rear-projected against the material. Still, it made him uneasy. He ignored it and returned to the chaise.
There, inserted between the plastic weave of the seat: a small square of paper. A cocktail napkin. He reached down to remove it, and noticed that it contained a handwritten note.
PLEASE HELP ME, read the shaky black letters.
He looked around.
Behind the bar, the attendant emptied his hands of the candy skull and resumed stripping the skin off a pungent lemon.
Now he was convinced that there was someone in the tent. Holding his drink in one hand and the flimsy note in the other, he walked back along the edge of the pool.
Wind ballooned the tent once more and moved on, leaving the sides sunken as empty cheeks. In the interval that followed he heard the rustling quite clearly.
It definitely came from inside.
He approached the structure, aware of the bartender’s watchful eyes. He fought down a compulsion to peek directly into the opening and get it over with. Instead he stood there stiffly and shifted his feet.
A groaning.
Was it only the supports? He couldn’t be sure.
Just inside the orange slit, two eyes locked on him. Startled, he stepped backward and almost fell. The eyes rose higher and the tent opened. A large woman lunged out, glaring at him. Before she drew the flap shut behind her he got a glimpse of something bathed in the unnaturally warm glow of the interior, something pale and nearly shapeless laid out on a white towel.
“Yes?”
He cleared his throat. “Can I be of any help?”
The woman stood guard at the entrance. Her bathing suit stretched to enclose her massive form, rolled black straps cutting into her doughy shoulders.
“You’re new,” she said. Though her protruding eyes did not move he knew that every detail, every inch of his body was being examined.
“Forgive me for bothering you,” he said evenly. “But I didn’t know . . .” He looked to the note as though it would explain everything. Unaccountably his hand shook. Already sweat ran from his wrists and blurred the lettering. He crumpled it and tossed it away.
Behind her something groaned.
“He gets cramps when I leave him in one position too long.” She regarded Wintner warily for another moment, then
“Where did you get that?” Wintner indicated the crisp snack. “At the restaurant? I’ve seen people walking around with them all morning. I guess I must be getting hungry.”
The young man offered him a piece.
“No, no. I only want to know what it is.”
“Día de los Muertos.”
“I beg your pardon?” Does he speak English? Wintner wondered. He’s not from around here; probably substituting for the regular man. He doesn’t know—
Then he got a clear look at the object. It was a miniature skull, what remained of one, apparently made of spun candy. Most of the face had been eaten away, and the inner surface glimmered with loose granules of sugar.
“The Day of the Dead,” explained the bartender. “You know, the second of November. It’s a big celebration in Mexico. I have one more, sir, if you’d care to—”
Wintner held up his hand. “No, thanks.”
The bartender shrugged, an expression of bemusement in his polished brown eyes.
California, thought Wintner, shaking his head.
Balancing the drink, he sauntered back to the deck chair. On the way he became aware of a muffled rustling. It was the cabana in the corner of the enclosure. The top billowed as the interior filled like an air sock. Then the breeze died and it collapsed inward and hung limp, nothing more than empty canvas, like the umbrellas over the white enameled tables. But the cabana was not anchored securely; when the wind came up again the pole creaked and the striped cloth puffed out in a simulation of breathing. At this angle the sun backlighted the upper half, transforming it into a glowing, translucent orange. Was that a distorted profile inside? Probably only a shadow of the fence rear-projected against the material. Still, it made him uneasy. He ignored it and returned to the chaise.
There, inserted between the plastic weave of the seat: a small square of paper. A cocktail napkin. He reached down to remove it, and noticed that it contained a handwritten note.
PLEASE HELP ME, read the shaky black letters.
He looked around.
Behind the bar, the attendant emptied his hands of the candy skull and resumed stripping the skin off a pungent lemon.
Now he was convinced that there was someone in the tent. Holding his drink in one hand and the flimsy note in the other, he walked back along the edge of the pool.
Wind ballooned the tent once more and moved on, leaving the sides sunken as empty cheeks. In the interval that followed he heard the rustling quite clearly.
It definitely came from inside.
He approached the structure, aware of the bartender’s watchful eyes. He fought down a compulsion to peek directly into the opening and get it over with. Instead he stood there stiffly and shifted his feet.
A groaning.
Was it only the supports? He couldn’t be sure.
Just inside the orange slit, two eyes locked on him. Startled, he stepped backward and almost fell. The eyes rose higher and the tent opened. A large woman lunged out, glaring at him. Before she drew the flap shut behind her he got a glimpse of something bathed in the unnaturally warm glow of the interior, something pale and nearly shapeless laid out on a white towel.
“Yes?”
He cleared his throat. “Can I be of any help?”
The woman stood guard at the entrance. Her bathing suit stretched to enclose her massive form, rolled black straps cutting into her doughy shoulders.
“You’re new,” she said. Though her protruding eyes did not move he knew that every detail, every inch of his body was being examined.
“Forgive me for bothering you,” he said evenly. “But I didn’t know . . .” He looked to the note as though it would explain everything. Unaccountably his hand shook. Already sweat ran from his wrists and blurred the lettering. He crumpled it and tossed it away.
Behind her something groaned.
“He gets cramps when I leave him in one position too long.” She regarded Wintner warily for another moment, then
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