Dr. Brinkley's Tower (31 page)

Suddenly it occurred to Francisco why Maria might have led him there. — Ay, Maria, he stammered. — I …

Maria, who seemed not to be listening, gathered thick tresses of blonde hair in her little hands and then shook them, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. She was wearing a skirt and a simple cloth blouse tied at the front by a thin pink ribbon. Looking into Francisco's eyes — eyes that had lost the ability to either blink or look away — she pulled on the end of the ribbon, and the blouse tumbled to the floor around her feet.

— Francisco, she said. — Madam has asked me to give you a little reward for helping out this evening. These days, not too many young men are willing to stick their necks out for the town's fallen women.

— Ay, Maria, he stammered. — I am afraid I am still …

— Sí, sí, you're still in love with Violeta Cruz, everyone knows this. But first let me ask you something.

She took a step towards him, stopping close enough that he could detect the lovely rosewater perfume she put behind her ears, on her wrists, and in the dimpled recesses that exist where the back meets the swell of the buttocks. She looked up into his eyes, craning her neck to do so.

— When you win back the affection of Violeta Cruz, and she accepts you into both her heart and her hammock,
wouldn't you like to know how to please her with something other than your chiselled good looks?

Maria was standing sufficiently close that the tips of her breasts touched the material of Francisco's shirt, creating an effect similar to the one achieved by placing a match to a mound of dried leaves.

— Well? she purred. — Francisco?

She then rose to the tips of her toes and kissed him with a passion that, feigned or not, caused Francisco Ramirez to ponder the existence of God, his alter ego the Devil, and the possibility that both could, at least on a physical level, successfully coexist.

— Sí, he answered when their lips finally parted. — I think you might be right.

AFTER ANOTHER SUMPTUOUS MEAL, VIOLETA CRUZ
and John Romulus Brinkley retired to one of the mansion's other bedchambers, this one located at the far end of the long dark wood hallway that served as the central passage of the mansion's second storey. This time, their congress occurred directly across from a painting by Saturnino Herrán, in which the artist had faithfully captured both the nobility, and the vulnerability, of a pre-Columbian Native.

Through her tour of the good doctor's art collection, Violeta was learning that there were different experiences to be had with the physical expression of love. With Brinkley, there was an almost a regal sense of protection; in his arms she felt sheltered, coddled, pampered even, and definitely impermeable to all the indignities thought up by the world at large. As well, she felt a calm that she had never before known in her life on the other side of the border, and she was finding that this feeling had an almost narcotic effect on her — the more she learned of its taste and texture, the more she wanted
it. (Whereas with Francisco — ay, Dios mío, the effect that muchacho had had upon her. Huddled in their desert lee, his thick arms around her, she often found that lurid images formed in her mind — of unbroken horses, of dragons loosed upon a town, of lightning scampering along a desert floor in sheets of buzzing, intense electric blue. And even though these images presaged a loss of control that frightened her, it was nevertheless true that, when in one of the doctor's art-festooned bedrooms, she occasionally wished she was with Francisco, struggling to survive the bubbling cauldron into which he had pitched her.)

Violeta dined with the doctor the next week as well, their post-meal conjugation occurring in his other other bedroom. This room sported a mural painted by José Orozco, whose stylized depiction of strong, virile Mexicanos made her think, yet again, of Francisco, so much so that, at the moment when the doctor blurted
Te amo, Violeta, te amo!
she was a long way away, thinking of things that made her feel two-faced and shameful. That night, immediately after the doctor's culmination, Violeta crawled out of bed and found one of the mansion's many spotless washrooms. There she cleaned herself with a potion she'd acquired during a midnight trip to the house of the curandera, who'd given her a prophylactic wash composed of herbs, sotol pith, and a mild emetic found in the pineal glands of the desert sidewinder. She'd then returned to bed, feeling guilty about the way she could not give herself fully to one man only.

Violeta returned the following Saturday evening for yet another staff appreciation dinner, her ambivalence thankfully lessened by a week spent in Corazón de la Fuente,
which seemed to grow more chaotic with each passing day — one of the Marias had even been attacked, all manner of sordid actions committed against her body. That week's coupling took place in yet another room, this one graced by a mural by David Alfaro Siqueiros; it was a rendering of México's revolutionary leaders, and quite frankly it made Violeta nervous. This was more than made up for the following week, when they made amor just inches from a night table supporting a tiny line drawing of an oleander. When Violeta inquired as to its authorship, the doctor smiled and told her that it was by an up-and-coming female artist who, it was rumoured, had a moustache, a single eyebrow, a twisted spinal column, and a romantic involvement with the great Diego Rivera.

— I love it, she told him.

— It now belongs to you.

The following Saturday, however, her doctor was not himself; when he met her at the door, he merely backed away, saying
Ah, Violeta, you are a sight for sore eyes.
He barely ate his dinner, and throughout he complained that he was at war with forces determined to put a cap on both individual initiative and the march of science. When Violeta asked what he meant, he clammed up and seemed to fume. She resolved this by giving him a rudimentary massage and pouring him flutes of champagne.

— Violeta, he said after barely touching his dessert. — I have one more room to show you.

He led her upstairs, and they reached a short passageway that bisected the second floor of the house. At the end of this passageway was a door. The doctor opened it, revealing a
winding staircase. Violeta began to climb it, emerging in a room that the doctor referred to as the belvedere. The chamber was hexagonal, with large windows interspersed with wall space. She walked along the windows. Through them she could see the distant lights of Del Rio, moonlight gleaming off the Río Grande, and, from a window facing south, the smouldering street fires of her own little village. Occasionally the distant landscape flared green.

— No, he said. — You're missing it. My pride and joy …

The doctor pointed to a small painting of a bull's head.

— It's by Pablo Picasso, he said.

— Who?

— Picasso. Soon he'll be the most famous artist in all the world.

— It's beautiful, Violeta said, though in truth she found the painting disturbing. From whatever angle she chose to regard it, the bull still stared her straight in the eye, as though benefiting from some demonic ability.

There was, of course, a bed in the middle of the room, directly beneath a pane of glass that looked upon the stars. According to the doctor, this most special of rooms had hosted governors, titans of industry, and famous authors. She blushed, and kissed him as he fumbled with her petticoat. They lay together, slowly proceeding to the point at which two become one, a conjoining that was accompanied this night by a strange metallic taste in her mouth — it washed over her lips and tongue as surely as the rush of a stream.

They lay admiring the heavens, Violeta feeling as though the night sky was a gift she'd been given. Around midnight she rose and dressed, a cue that the doctor should alert the
chauffeur. Instead he lay looking at her, his petulance having clearly returned.

— Violeta, he said to her. — Can't you stay just this one time?

— My mother would kill me.

— I will give you caviar and eggs for breakfast. We can swim in my private pool. I can shower you with riches. I can give you anything you want.

— Ay no, amor. I can't.

— It's just that … it's just that I have to go out of town for a while. A professional obligation, Violeta. The thought of being separated from you kills me. It absolutely slays me. Don't you see? I need to have you here with me now. I need to have you here right this
instant.

The desperation in Brinkley's voice further melted her heart, and made her feel certain that his love was something she would enjoy forever.

— You don't have to worry, she said. — I'll be here when you get back.

— But Violeta …

They embraced inside the front door of Brinkley's mansion. Fortunately, it was late, and Brinkley's servants were, in almost all cases, in their quarters. They parted, the doctor holding her shoulders in his small hands while his eyes roved over her features, as if trying to commit every detail of her face to memory.

A few days later, Violeta awoke in her room in Corazón de la Fuente. While normally this would have filled her with an aching, low-level regret — all the noise, all the filth in the
streets, “Will the Circle Be Unbroken” broadcasting from the rain-barrel spigot — she was imbued with an odd elation. It was as though there were some gaseous elixir in the air, leaving her giddy and carefree. As she went about her day, she caught herself smiling at the sight of children, or at the way the sun filtered through the branches of trees, throwing spiderweb shadows upon the earth. Other times she smiled at nothing at all. Around midday she decided to visit the store of Fajardo Jimenez: the latest news was that he'd acquired a freezer, and that the miracle of ice cream had finally come to the little village of Corazón de la Fuente.

She left her home, humming as she walked through the crowded, filthy streets, the calls of
Mamacita!
and
Ay, qué bella!
failing to deflate her blissful mood. The store bell chimed when she walked in.

— Violeta Cruz! Fajardo said by way of a greeting. — So lovely to see you. Usually it's your mother who does the shopping.

— And it's going to stay that way. But a little bird told me that …

She didn't have to finish her statement. Fajardo was already beaming, his teeth gleaming through the hair matting his face.

— So you wish to try some ice cream? I have vanilla and chocolate. Tell me which you'd prefer, Señorita Cruz. Or should I call you Miss Rose Dawn, high priestess of the Secret Order of the Maya?

Violeta giggled. — Pues … can I have a little of each?

— How can I say no to a priestess?

Fajardo walked over to his freezer, extracted two tubs,
and spooned a portion of each in a small glass dish. He then handed it to her along with a long, slender spoon that, like every other metal object in Corazón, was broadcasting the signal of her beloved's radio station. Violeta accepted the dish and spooned a tiny bit of the vanilla into her mouth.

— Dios mío! she exclaimed. — I have never, ever tasted anything as delicious!

— Now try the chocolate.

— Mmmm. It's impossible to say which is better!

— In that case, enjoy them both.

Violeta took another spoonful, and then another, and another, finding that the surface of her tongue had actually come alive, had turned into a ravenous, pleasure-demanding infant who could only be satisfied by yet another mouthful. As Fajardo looked on, she ate away, humming all the while, her vocal cords drowning out the music coming from her spoon.

Suddenly she stopped and peered at Fajardo. — Honestly, she said. — This is the most delicious thing I have ever tasted. But do you know what would really go with it? You know what would make it taste even better?

— What's that, Violeta?

She paused, as if to confirm her suspicions with her taste buds. She then smiled and said: — You wouldn't … I mean … you wouldn't happen to have a pickle to go with this, would you?

When the inevitable, and not entirely subtle, physical changes began to occur in Violeta's body, her mother noticed.

— Violeta, Malfil exclaimed one afternoon. — Am I just crazy or is your hair getting even thicker?

— Mami, you know this happens every year around this time. It has something to do with the barometer.

— Well, if the barometer keeps changing, pretty soon there won't be a brush in all of Coahuila that will tame it.

A few days after that, Violeta walked into the main room of the house wearing only a camisole. Malfil looked up, and her face tightened with confusion.

— Violeta, she said. — Is it my imagination, or are your senos getting bigger?

Violeta glanced at her bosom and smiled. For once, she was pleased to possess these fleshy encumbrances, items that had always done nothing more than turn the boys of the town into salivating hogs. But now, thanks to the curandera's useless prophylactic rinse, she would soon need her swollen breasts to feed the life growing inside her.

— It's my time of the moon, Mami. This always happens.

— Maybe you had better cut down on the tortillas just to make sure.

And then, one morning just past dawn, Violeta awoke with the absolute certainty that she was about to be ill. She leapt from her hammock, raced through the room where her mother slept, and made it to the expanse of desert backing her house. The sound of her retching soon awoke the dogs in the Callejón of the Sleeping Curs, who all lifted their snouts skyward and started crooning. This in turn roused Malfil. She emerged from the rear of the house to find her daughter on her hands and knees, the first rays of the morning sun turning her back orange.

— Mija! she exclaimed. — What did you …

Her voice trailed off. Seconds ticked by. All those little clues had suddenly added up to something that was not in any way little. — Oh, Violeta, she muttered in a voice turned brittle with exhaustion.