In no time they were back at her apartment. She went to feed the cat. Rubén asked her why she didn’t bring the cat into her apartment, so she didn’t have to be walking into Leonora’s place three times a day.
“It’d be easier. But I don’t know. I don’t like cats,” she admitted.
She supposed if Leonora didn’t return soon she’d have to do something about the damn animal. At least Rubén was the one who paid for the cat food when they stopped at the supermarket to get a few grocery items. She preferred buying her fruits and vegetables at the tianguis because you could haggle there, but there had been no chance of that, so they ended at a Superama.
“Maybe I can bring the cat over here in the morning, I don’t know,” she said wearily.
“You don’t have to. It was a suggestion.”
She took off her shoes and sat on the couch, rubbing her feet. She felt tired, although they hadn’t done much that day. It was the excitement of the trip, she supposed. He’d sleep there that night, then they’d talk to Sócrates…and then what? This situation couldn’t go on forever. Chasing after some girl…and there was that man, Anaya, and whoever had beat up Rubén’s friend from Asterisk. Anaya might show his face around her office again. That might be embarrassing. Or dangerous.
“I’m going to put on a bit of music,” she said and went into her atelier.
Rubén followed her, looking at Maite as she fiddled with her records, unsure of whether she should pick an old-fashioned bolero or attempt something newer.
“You have a huge record collection.”
“It’s not that big,” she replied, a little defensively, because that was the same thing her mother said when she complained about Maite’s lifestyle: “Maite, you spend all your money on records and books and comics and nonsense.”
He bent down and grabbed a copy of the comic book she’d left on her chair. “Secret Romance.”
“Oh, yes,” Maite muttered, feeling even more flustered and clutching her hands together as he flipped through the pages. “Let me put that away.”
He handed her the issue. “Does this one have the Aztec sacrifice in it?”
“No, it’s not the one.”
Maite tucked the comic book away and put on “No Me Platiques Más,” not because she felt particularly like she wanted to hear Vicente Garrido’s romantic lyrics, but because she couldn’t make up her mind. She wanted to impress Rubén with her taste, but she also suspected it would be futile.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry, by the way.”
“Sorry?”
“Yeah. I’ve been a bit rude, you know. Saying you don’t read the papers or know anything. Saying you read syrupy stuff—”
She didn’t want him talking about her reading habits.Nurse romances, that’s what he’d said, like it was very funny. And so what! What if people wanted a bit of romance once in a while? A bit of fantasy? Didn’t he fantasize about things? People? Maybe about Leonora?
“I suppose you readimportantbooks, being a literature major,” she muttered, even though her instinct was to shut her mouth. Speaking would invite further commentary.
“Not lately,” he said.
Rubén had moved from one side of the room to the other. He stood by the window and looked out, even if there wasn’t anything to look at. Just another building, very much like her own. The blinds traced dark lines over the worn square of red-and-white carpet she’d bought from a Lebanese shopkeeper. She told herself it was a Persian rug, but knew it was not. It was a fancy she had, like calling this room the atelier.
“It might be dangerous, getting involved with those people in Guerrero.”
“Better than being dragged to Lecumberri and rotting in a cell there,” Rubén replied with a shrug. “And don’t doubt it, we’ll all be dragged one day, over nothing. I’d rather be running from the cops around Guerrero than ending up a political prisoner.”
“It can’t only be those two options.”
“That’s what people like Emilio say, but trust me, in the end you either fight or lie down to be trampled.”
“But what does a print shop worker know about guerillas?”
“There’re all kinds of people with the guerilla. Lucio Cabañas used to be a teacher. You might say, what does a teacher know about revolution? Hell, what did Emiliano Zapata know about revolution when he organized a bunch of peasants?”
“I guess I can’t see how you’d change anything. It all feels complicated. And the cops! We all know what the cops might do to you.” She took a couple of Elvis Presley records from the shelf and flipped them over, looking at the song list. “Love Me Tender.” She slid her nail along the record sleeve.
“You’re direct.”
