Sarita blushed. “What a lovely name you have,” she said.
“The name of a hero, a king of Ithaca,” Nepomuceno said.
“You like the classics, Professor?” Ulises asked.
“I taught them, in another life. And, if we open the apricot brandy and I wet my throat, I can recite a few lines fromThe Odyssey.Or, if there’s no brandy, a glass of sherry would do. Do we have sherry?”
“Reciting from that musty book!” the doctor said. “I would prefer music. It’s been ages since you played the piano, Perla. Why don’t you oblige us tonight? Play for us.”
“The piano is dreadfully out of tune, and I haven’t practiced in forever.”
“People used to come from far away to listen to Perla play when she was a girl,” Sarita Novo said excitedly.
“Our great-uncle, Monsignor Luis Manuel, used to visit each summer to listen to me play, yes. I’ll see what I can do in a little while,” Perla said with a false modesty that made Ulises suspect she would subject them to a one-hour concert in that “little while.”
“Do you like music, Ulises?” Sarita asked, blushing again as she spoke his name. “What do you do for fun in Mexico City?”
“Most important, what do you do for a living, Mr. Linares?” Cándido asked, and his voice was chilly. At once Ulises recognized an enemy. He could have avoided the question, but he decided it would be best to answer.
“I’m a photographer. Portraits, that’s what I do,” he said.
This was a lie, but seasoned with sufficient truth that if he was questioned further, he could provide satisfactory answers, for he knew about cameras, about darkrooms, and had pored over negatives with zeal when the occasion—his father’s methods had included the sporadic bit of blackmail—required it.
“That can’t provide you with a good living, taking carnival snapshots and the like.”
“It depends on whom you take pictures of. I’ve worked for one of the best studios in the city and photographed several debutantes and starlets.”
“Movie people!” Sarita said, practically spilling a cup of coffee over her blouse as she leaned forward. “Why, that’s wonderful! Have you met anybody famous?”
“A few. I photographed Dolores del Río not too long ago. Sadly, the owner of the studio where I worked passed away recently and I’m on a sabbatical, although I have a mind to open a studio of my own. Still, there are many elements to consider. I wouldn’t want to rush heedlessly into a business venture.”
“You can’t run a business these days,” the doctor said. “The government picks our pockets at every turn. Taxes and more taxes. When my father was young, he owned a proper estate in Ovejuna, but the rebels burned the house down and the government stole the land. They’re all corrupt clowns.”
“If Carranza hadn’t shot every good man in the nation, beginning with Zapata, it wouldn’t have turned out the way it did,” the professor said.
“Zapata! That criminal had that bullet coming.”
“I suppose you prefer the corrupt perfume of the oligarchs.”
“Tell me one good thing the Revolution did for anyone in this town. All that violence and destruction, for what?”
“For equality and justice. Not that I’d expect you to know the meaning of those words,” the professor declared with aplomb.
The men glared at each other, but before their conversation could devolve into a brawl, Cándido interrupted them and spoke again to Ulises. “Then you’re unemployed at this time,” he said, pressing on undeterred.
“I’m on vacation. Three weeks in your beautiful town, away from the chaos of the capital.”
“Is that where you’re from originally? From Mexico City?”
“You heard the professor. I’m from Ithaca.”
Cándido frowned and rattled the spoon in his cup of coffee. Ulises thought he was going to be interrogated further, but Lulú turned worriedly toward the doctor and began to speak.
“Dr. Carrel, my wrist has been hurting for the past two days, and since I have you here, I thought I’d better ask if you can take a quick look at it. I fear I’ve sprained it. I can barely hold my cup, see?”
The conversation shifted to the subject of ailments and aches. The evening dragged on. Perla played compositions that sounded as worn as the battered keys while the dog curled up by the piano. Ulises was certain that her repertoire had not been updated in a couple of decades, and her movements had a soulless precision that could not invite true praise. Monsignor Luis Manuel must have been half blind if he’d picked that yellow settee for his living room and half deaf if he enjoyed Perla’s playing. Yet the audience clapped effusively, and Perla smiled as proudly as if she’d been performing at Bellas Artes.
Inés distributed the apricot brandy, much to the delight of Professor Nepomuceno. She carried a tray, cleared plates, handed a glass, emptied an ashtray, moving around the room silently and unobtrusively.
