“Come on, Maite, you didn’t really think…and Leonora and I…well…”
He trailed off and looked at her, as if the smile on his lips could do all the talking for him. They had reconciled, then. She supposed it was simple enough for people so young to blow hot and cold from one instant to the next. Maybe Rubén had portrayed himself as the wounded hero and that had reeled Leonora in. Or maybe he had been on her mind all along.
Maite felt her face growing warm with shame. He didn’t say anything else, instead looking down at the newspaper on his lap.
She realized, with his silence, how inadequate and meager she was, and how utterly she had misinterpreted his every gesture. Yet she almost felt like laughing. There was something furiously funny about the situation.
Maite turned around and saw Leonora standing by the doorway. She realized that the person who had been written out of the story was her, not Leonora.
“Don’t forget your damn cat this time,” Maite told her as she walked out.
Epilogue
MAITE’S FEET WEREsopping wet. She’d waited for the bus forever, but when it came at least it was half-empty, and she took a seat with a sigh and placed her bag with groceries on her lap. She glanced out the window, at the city lights and the water droplets sliding down the glass and thought of nothing, her mind as numb as her chilled fingers.
It was Sunday. Sunday she went to the movies. But not that Sunday. She’d gone shopping instead and bought chicken and a few vegetables. At the supermarket, not the tianguis, because she’d missed the damn tianguis again. She was planning on making consommé. It was simple enough, and it should last her for a few days.
Someone sat next to her. She slid a hand against the glass, traced a circle with her fingertips.
“I’m wondering if you’d go for coffee with me.”
She took a while to raise her head and look at the man speaking, because she didn’t think he was talking to her. But then she glanced at him and realized he was. And she knew him. It was the man from Emilio’s house, the one who had killed the colonel.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Following you,” he said simply.
“Why?”
“Habit. You were under surveillance.”
“By you?”
“Me and my teammates.”
So she’d been right. Shehadseen him before the confrontation at Emilio’s house. Up close she was able to place him: he’d been at the diner. He’d cocked his head a little, smiled at her while he lit a cigarette. Now she remembered.
“You played a song,” she said and then she frowned. “Am I under surveillance again?”
“No. That’s all over. Plus, it would be pretty dumb for me to talk to you if that was the case.”
“Whyareyou talking to me?”
“I’m curious about you. And I told myself I would. Talk to you, that is. After it was all over.”
It was odd how she wasn’t nervous, sitting there, talking to a killer. Because the young man was a killer and God knew what else. Maybe she was tired. She felt old, as if life had drained out of her body, and her soul was as numb as her cold hands.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I was a Hawk. I’m not anything in particular now.”
“I meant what’s your name.”
“Oh. That. I suppose it’s Ermenegildo,” he said.
“Suppose?”
“Yeah. I could tell you. Over coffee. It’s kind of cold in this bus.”
