“Well, then, get some sleep,” Catalina said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “They’ll be here early in the morning.”
The women hugged, one long, tight embrace, Noemí unwilling to cry. Not now. Then Catalina gently brushed the hair from her face and smiled again.
“I’m down the hall if you need me,” she said.
Catalina took one last look at the young man and closed the door behind her.
Noemí placed her hand in the pocket of her sweater and felt the lighter there. Her lucky talisman. Finally she took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes that Camarillo had given her the previous day.
She lit the cigarette, tapped her foot, and let the ashes fall into an empty bowl. Her back ached. She had been sitting in that uncomfortable chair for a long time but refused to go away even though first Camarillo and then Catalina had come to poke at her. When she had taken but a few puffs of the cigarette Francis stirred, and she dropped the cigarette onto the bowl and placed the bowl on the dresser, waiting.
He had moved like this before, a faint tilting of the head, but this time she thought it was different. She touched his hand.
“Open your eyes,” she whispered. Ruth had said the same words to her many times, in fear and terror, but Noemí’s voice was warm.
She was rewarded by his eyes fluttering a little, then more, until they focused on her.
“Hello there,” she said.
“Hi.”
“Let me get you some water.”
There was a carafe on the dresser. She filled a glass and helped him drink.
“You hungry?” she asked.
“God, no. Maybe later. I feel terrible.”
“You look terrible,” she replied.
His lips formed a fragile smile, and he let out a chuckle. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“You slept two whole days. I thought I’d have to dislodge an apple from your throat, like a poor imitation of Sleeping Beauty.”
“Snow White.”
“Well. You look pale enough.”
He smiled anew and attempted to position himself better against the headboard, his smile waning. “Is it all gone?” he asked, his voice a worried, anxious whisper.
“A couple of townspeople went up the mountain to see what was left of the house. They told us it was a bunch of smoldering ruins. High Place is gone, and the fungus must be gone with it.”
“Yes, I think it is. Although…mycelia can be pretty resistant to fire. And I’ve heard that certain mushrooms…like…like morels, they’ll sprout more easily after a forest fire.”
“It wasn’t a morel and it wasn’t a forest fire,” she said. “If there’s anything left we could find it and burn it.”
“I suppose we could.”
The thought seemed to relax him; he had been clutching the covers quite fiercely and now he released them and sighed, his eyes settling on her.
“What happens tomorrow, then, when your father arrives?” he asked.
“You sneaky man. Were you listening to us the whole time?”
He seemed abashed and shook his head. “No. I suppose you woke me up or I was half awake already. Anyway, I heard your cousin say your father is arriving in the morning.”
“That’s right. He’ll be here soon. I think you’ll like him. And you’re going to love Mexico City.”
