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Authors: Donald E. Westlake
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your death scene go?" and I found myself laughing. I said, "It looked great when I left. I haven't heard from anybody since. Tell you the truth, I just got up."
"Do you need something? I could have Esilda make some breakfast—"
"No more," I said, pressing both hands to my stomach. "Esilda — she's the woman in the kitchen? — she just fed me very well."
"Good," Maria said. "She'll take care of you."
"I can see that. My real name, you know—"
"Oh, don't be silly," she said. "I know your real name. I was at your wedding."
"You were? I'm sorry, I don't—"
"Grooms aren't supposed to remember the other people at their wedding," she assured me. "You were very handsome, and Lola was very beautiful, and you both looked as though you couldn't wait to get away from everybody and fuck yourselves silly."
Being around Lola's family and friends, I've noticed that people never treat dirty words in their second language as seriously as those words in their primary tongue. The taboo words you grew up with keep their strength, whether you use them as a grown-up or not, but other languages' taboo words are never more than merely funny. Still, it is always startling — and it was now — to have an elegant woman say
fuck
early in a first conversation.
Trying to stay in the spirit of our chat, I said, "As I remember, we succeeded."
She smiled. "Congratulations."
"Still," I said, "I think it was wrong of me not to remember you."
"That's very gallant of you, Ernesto," she said. "Thank you."
"Ernesto." I tasted the name, since I was hearing it addressed to me for the first time by a new person, and I didn't much like it, not for me. "Ah, well," I said, "I'm a deaf mute, so I don't actually have to get used to answering to that name. And it's only for a little while, anyway."
"Carlos says you might be here a month."
"Oh, less than that, I think," I said, then hastily added, "Not that this isn't a great place. It's just that — to be without Lola. You know."
"Of course." She smiled in sympathy. "But I'll be pleased for you to stay," she told me. "It can get a little boring in Rancio."
"You preferred Ecuador?"
"Not particularly," she said. "It's all the same to me. Every place can get boring sometimes. But after that ridiculous business about the embezzling, of course, Carlos couldn't stay in Ecuador any longer, and he does like to be near his family, so here we are."
Embezzling. She'd said that casually, as though, being a member of the family, I would know all about it. I didn't know all about it, but I couldn't think of a way to ask, so I'd find out from Lola when I saw her again. In the meantime, I had another question, even more urgent. Trying to sound as casual as she had, I said, "The last time I was here, I missed you, I'm sorry to say. Carlos said you were in Caracas to see your dealer."
"To have scenes with my dealer, in fact," she told me. "To threaten I would go elsewhere. I may have to eventually."
This didn't help much. I said, "Has he been your dealer long?"
"Twelve years," she said. "And really, he throws wonderful parties, you can meet the most astonishing people, but after a while you want more than that. You want a real
hit."
Increasingly befuddled, I said, "You go to him for parties?"
She looked confused, then amused, and said, "Ernesto, don't you know what we're talking about?"
"Well, no," I said.
She went off into arias of laughter, rocking on the chaise, looking very alluring but also very self-contained. "Oh, Ernesto," she said, when she could speak again, "that's wonderful. What kind of dealer did you think? Did you think it was my
drugs
dealer?"
"No, that didn't seem to fit," I admitted. "Nothing seems to fit. If it's a riddle, I give up. Tell me the answer."
"Sweetheart," she said, which I knew was horribly condescending, but there was no way out of it, "he's my
art
dealer."
"Your art dealer." She was buying art?
She shook her head at me, still broadly smiling. "The sculptures on the walls?
"Do you need something? I could have Esilda make some breakfast—"
"No more," I said, pressing both hands to my stomach. "Esilda — she's the woman in the kitchen? — she just fed me very well."
"Good," Maria said. "She'll take care of you."
"I can see that. My real name, you know—"
"Oh, don't be silly," she said. "I know your real name. I was at your wedding."
"You were? I'm sorry, I don't—"
"Grooms aren't supposed to remember the other people at their wedding," she assured me. "You were very handsome, and Lola was very beautiful, and you both looked as though you couldn't wait to get away from everybody and fuck yourselves silly."
Being around Lola's family and friends, I've noticed that people never treat dirty words in their second language as seriously as those words in their primary tongue. The taboo words you grew up with keep their strength, whether you use them as a grown-up or not, but other languages' taboo words are never more than merely funny. Still, it is always startling — and it was now — to have an elegant woman say
fuck
early in a first conversation.
Trying to stay in the spirit of our chat, I said, "As I remember, we succeeded."
She smiled. "Congratulations."
"Still," I said, "I think it was wrong of me not to remember you."
"That's very gallant of you, Ernesto," she said. "Thank you."
"Ernesto." I tasted the name, since I was hearing it addressed to me for the first time by a new person, and I didn't much like it, not for me. "Ah, well," I said, "I'm a deaf mute, so I don't actually have to get used to answering to that name. And it's only for a little while, anyway."
"Carlos says you might be here a month."
"Oh, less than that, I think," I said, then hastily added, "Not that this isn't a great place. It's just that — to be without Lola. You know."
"Of course." She smiled in sympathy. "But I'll be pleased for you to stay," she told me. "It can get a little boring in Rancio."
"You preferred Ecuador?"
"Not particularly," she said. "It's all the same to me. Every place can get boring sometimes. But after that ridiculous business about the embezzling, of course, Carlos couldn't stay in Ecuador any longer, and he does like to be near his family, so here we are."
Embezzling. She'd said that casually, as though, being a member of the family, I would know all about it. I didn't know all about it, but I couldn't think of a way to ask, so I'd find out from Lola when I saw her again. In the meantime, I had another question, even more urgent. Trying to sound as casual as she had, I said, "The last time I was here, I missed you, I'm sorry to say. Carlos said you were in Caracas to see your dealer."
"To have scenes with my dealer, in fact," she told me. "To threaten I would go elsewhere. I may have to eventually."
This didn't help much. I said, "Has he been your dealer long?"
"Twelve years," she said. "And really, he throws wonderful parties, you can meet the most astonishing people, but after a while you want more than that. You want a real
hit."
Increasingly befuddled, I said, "You go to him for parties?"
She looked confused, then amused, and said, "Ernesto, don't you know what we're talking about?"
"Well, no," I said.
She went off into arias of laughter, rocking on the chaise, looking very alluring but also very self-contained. "Oh, Ernesto," she said, when she could speak again, "that's wonderful. What kind of dealer did you think? Did you think it was my
drugs
dealer?"
"No, that didn't seem to fit," I admitted. "Nothing seems to fit. If it's a riddle, I give up. Tell me the answer."
"Sweetheart," she said, which I knew was horribly condescending, but there was no way out of it, "he's my
art
dealer."
"Your art dealer." She was buying art?
She shook her head at me, still broadly smiling. "The sculptures on the walls?
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