Bradbury, Ray - SSC 09 (7 page)

 
          
She
nodded.

 
          
He
said, “But these are good.”

 
          
“They
look poisonous.”

 
          
“Just because they’re skull-shaped?”

 
          
“No.
The sugar itself looks raw, how do you know what kind of people made them, they
might have the colic.”

 
          
“My
dear Marie, all people in
Mexico
have colic,” he said.

 
          
“You
can eat them both,” she said.

 
          
“Alas,
poor
Yorick
,” he said, peeking into the bag.

 
          
They
walked along a street that was held between high buildings in which were yellow
window frames and pink iron grilles and the smell of tamales came from them and
the sound of lost fountains splashing on hidden tiles and little birds
clustering and peeping in bamboo cages and someone playing Chopin on a piano.

 
          
“Chopin,
here,” said Joseph.
“How strange and swell.”
He looked
up. “I like that bridge. Hold this.” He handed her the candy bag while he
clicked a picture of a red bridge spanning two white buildings with a man
walking on it, a red serape on his shoulder. “Fine,” said Joseph.

 
          
Marie
walked looking at Joseph, looking away from him and then back at him, her lips
moving but not speaking, her eyes fluttering, a little neck muscle under her
chin like a wire, a little nerve in her brow ticking. She passed the candy bag
from one hand to the other. She stepped up a curb, leaned back somehow,
gestured, said something to restore balance, and dropped the bag.

 
          
“For Christ’s sake.”
Joseph snatched up the bag. “Look what
you’ve done!
Clumsy!”

 
          
“I
should have broken my ankle,” she said, “I suppose.”

 
          
“These
were the best skulls; both of them smashed; I wanted to save them for friends
up home.”

 
          
“I’m
sorry,” she said, vaguely.

 
          
“For
God’s sake, oh, damn it to hell.” He scowled into the bag. “I might not find
any more good as these. Oh, I don’t know, I give up!”

 
          
The
wind blew and they were alone in the street, he staring down into the shattered
debris in the bag, she with the street shadows all around her, sun on the other
side of the street, nobody about, and the world far away, the two of them
alone, two thousand miles from anywhere, on a street in a false town behind
which was nothing and around which was nothing but blank desert and circled
hawks. On top the State Opera House, a block down, the golden Greek statues stood
sun-bright and high, and in a beer place a shouting phonograph cried AY,
MARIMBA .
 . .
corazon
. . .
and all kinds of alien words which the wind
stirred away.

 
          
Joseph
twisted the bag shut, stuck it furiously in his pocket.

 
          
They
walked back to the two-thirty lunch at the hotel.

 
          
He
sat at the table with Marie, sipping
Albondigas
soup
from his moving spoon, silently. Twice she commented cheer-fully upon the wall
murals and he looked at her steadily and sipped. The bag of cracked skulls lay
on the table. . . .

 
          
“
Senora .
 . .
”

 
          
The
soup plates were cleared by a brown hand. A large plate of
enchiladas
was set down.

 
          
Marie
looked at the plate.

 
          
There
were sixteen
enchiladas.

 
          
She
put her fork and knife out to take one and stopped. She put her fork and knife
down at each side of her plate. She glanced at the walls and then at her
husband and then at the sixteen
enchiladas.

 
          
Sixteen.
One by one.
A long row of
them, crowded together.

 
          
She
counted them.

 
          
One, two, three, four, five, six.

 
          
Joseph
took one on his plate and ate it.

 
          
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven.

 
          
She
put her hands on her lap.

 
          
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.
She finished
counting.

 
          
“I’m
not hungry,” she said.

 
          
He
placed another
enchilada
before
himself. It had an interior clothed in a papyrus of corn
tortilla.
It was slender and it was one of many he cut and placed
in his mouth and she chewed it for him in her mind’s mouth, and squeezed her
eyes tight.

 
          
“Eh?”
he asked.

 
          
“Nothing,”
she said.

 
          
Thirteen
enchiladas
remained, like tiny
bundles, like scrolls.

 
          
He
ate five more.

 
          
“I
don’t feel well,” she said.

 
          
“Feel
better if you ate,” he said.

 
          
“No.”

 
          
He
finished, then opened the sack and took out one of the half-demolished skulls.

 
          
“Not
here
?” she said.

 
          
“Why not?”
And he put one sugar socket to his lips, chewing.
“Not bad,” he said, thinking the taste. He popped in another section of skull.
“Not bad at all.”

 
          
She
looked at the name on the skull he was eating.

 
          
Marie,
it said.

 
          
It
was tremendous, the way she helped him pack. In those newsreels you see men
leap off diving-boards into pools, only, a moment later when the reel is
reversed, to jump back up in airy fantasy to alight once more safe on the
diving-board. Now, as Joseph watched, the suits and dresses flew into their
boxes and cases, the hats were like birds darting, clapped into round, bright
hatboxes, the shoes seemed to run across the floor like mice to leap into
valises. The suitcases banged shut, the hasps clicked, the keys turned.

 
          
“There!”
she cried. “All packed! Oh, Joe, I’m so glad you let me change your mind.”

 
          
She
started for the door.

 
          
“Here,
let me help,” he said.

 
          
“They’re
not heavy,” she said.

 
          
“But
you never carry suitcases. You never have. I’ll call a boy.”

 
          
“Nonsense,”
she said, breathless with the weight of the valises.

 
          
A
boy seized the cases outside the door.
“
Senora,
por
favor
!”

 
          
“Have
we forgotten anything?” He looked under the two beds, he went out on the
balcony and gazed at the plaza, came in, went to the bathroom, looked in the
cabinet and on the washbowl. “Here,” he said, coming out and handing her
something. “You forgot your wrist watch.”

 
          
“Did
I?” She put it on and went out the door.

 
          
“I
don’t know,” he said. “It’s damn late in the day to be moving out.”

 
          
“It’s
only three-thirty,” she said.
“Only three-thirty.”

 
          
“I
don’t know,” he said, doubtfully.

 
          
He
looked around the room, stepped out, closed the door, locked it,
went
downstairs, jingling the keys.

 
          
She
was outside in the car already, settled in, her coat folded on her lap, her
gloved hands folded on the coat. He came out, supervised the loading of what
luggage remained into the trunk receptacle, came to the front door and tapped
on the window. She unlocked it and let him in.

 
          
“Well,
here we
go
!” She cried with a laugh,
her face rosy,
her
eyes frantically bright. She was
leaning forward as if by this movement she might set the car rolling merrily
down the hill. “Thank you, darling, for letting me get the refund on the money
you paid for our room tonight. I’m sure we’ll like it much better in
Guadalajara
tonight. Thank you!”

 
          
“Yeah,”
he said.

 
          
Inserting
the ignition keys he stepped on the starter.

 
          
Nothing
happened.

 
          
He
stepped on the starter again. Her mouth twitched.

 
          
“It
needs warming,” she said. “It was a cold night last night.”

 
          
He
tried it again.
Nothing.

 
          
Marie’s
hands tumbled on her lap.

 
          
He
tried it six more times. “Well,” he said, lying back, ceasing.

 
          
“Try
it again, next time it’ll work,” she said.

 
          
“It’s
no use,” he said. “Something’s wrong.”

 
          
“Well,
you’ve got to try it once more.”

 
          
He
tried it once more.

 
          
“It’ll
work, I’m sure,” she said. “Is the ignition on?”

 
          
“Is
the ignition on,” he said. “Yes, it’s
on.
”

 
          
“It
doesn’t look like it’s on,” she said.

 
          
“It’s
on.” He showed her by twisting the key.

 
          
“Now,
try it,” she said.

 
          
“There,”
he
said,
when nothing happened. “I
told
you.”

 
          
“You’re
not doing it right; it almost caught that time,” she cried.

 
          
“I’ll
wear out the battery, and God knows where you can buy a battery here.”

 
          
“Wear
it out, then. I’m sure it’ll start next time!”

 
          
“Well,
if you’re so good, you try it.” He slipped from the car and beckoned her over
behind the wheel. “Go ahead!”

 
          
She
bit her lips and settled behind the wheel. She did things with her hands that
were like a little mystic ceremony; with moves of hands and body she was trying
to overcome gravity, friction and every other natural law. She patted the
starter with her toeless shoe. The car remained solemnly quiet. A little squeak
came out of Marie’s tightened lips. She rammed the starter home and there was a
clear smell in the air as she fluttered the choke.