Everything is Nice (23 page)

She had been pleased at the death of both her parents and her older sister because this left her free to sell the Sitwell homestead and to construct with the proceeds a log house, which she had been planning to do all her life. She had always longed as well to live in a house built on one floor only and to roll her meals into the parlor on a tea-table. This she did with Lane every day, and with unfailing delight. She lived for pleasure alone, which she though was the way of an artist—it being natural for certain women to love even the word artist. And not all of them feel this way for snobbish motives. Sometimes when she was in particularly high spirits she referred to herself as an artist. At other times she merely mentioned that she lived like one. One afternoon when she was really tipsy in the hotel barroom she had referred to herself many times as "the artist in the little log house." Because of the wild and joyous look in her black eyes, her neighbors could not believe that her pleasures were simple ones.

Dora had started to love Lane one night when Lane was five years old and she herself was eleven. Her mother and father had told her to bathe Lane because they were going to a show. She prepared the tin tub with warm water and told Lane to wait in the kitchen while she went to fetch some soap. When she returned Lane was no longer in the kitchen. She searched throughout the house for nearly three hours, but she could not find Lane anywhere. Finally, bewildered and tired, she sat on the floor in the hall, planning to wait for her parents' return. While she sat there, it suddenly came to her that she loved Lane more than anything else in the world. "Lane," she said aloud. "You angel pie—you're better than Baby Jesus." She began feeling in her heart that Lane's flight from the kitchen was in the nature of a declaration of love and secret pact, and her own search through the dark cold rooms—some of them empty of everything but dust and unfamiliar to her—had caused her to feel that in Lane were centered the light and the warm colors of the universe. "Lane is a beautiful rose," she thought, thinking of Lane's curls on her short fat neck.

Later with the help of her parents she searched the barn and they found Lane curled up in the sleigh under some filthy horse blankets.

Dora leaned over and picked Lane up in her arms. Lane, groggy with sleep, bit Dora on the chin and made it bleed. Their mother started to scold, but Dora kissed Lane passionately for a long time, squeezing Lane's head against her own skinny chest. Mrs. Sitwell wrenched them apart in a sudden fury and pulled Dora's hair.

"Why do you kiss her, you little maniac? She just bit you!" Dora smiled but she did not answer.

"Why do you kiss her when she just bit you?" Mrs. Sitwell repeated. "Are you a maniac?"

Dora nodded.

"I won't have it," said Mrs. Sitwell, now cold with fury. "You tell her you're mad she bit you." Dora refused. Mrs. Sitwell twisted her arm. "Tell her you're mad she bit you."

"Lane and me are maniacs," said Dora, in a very quiet voice, still smiling. Mrs. Sitwell slapped her hard on the face.

"No one is a maniac," she said, "and you can't speak to Lane for two days." Then she burst into tears. They all went across the grass to the house. Mrs. Sitwell was sobbing freely. She was a very nervous woman and she had drunk a bit too much at the party. This had made her very gay at first, but later she had grown increasingly belligerent. They all went into the parlor, where Mrs. Sitwell sank into a chair and began staring at Lane through her tear-dimmed eyes.

"They should go to bed," her husband said.

"Lane doesn't look like anybody in the family on either side," said Mrs. Sitwell. "Why does she have such a short neck?"

"One of her antecedents most likely had a short neck," Mr. Sitwell suggested. "An aunt or an uncle."

"I don't feel like going on," said Mrs. Sitwell. "Everything is beyond me." She buried her face in her hands. Dora and Lane left the room.

After that Dora organized a game called "Looking for Lane" which she played with her sister. It was the usual hide-and-seek game that children play but it gave Dora a much keener pleasure than any ordinary game. Finally the search extended over the countryside and Dora allowed her imagination to run wild. For example, she imagined once that she would find Lane's body dismembered on the railroad tracks. Her feelings about this were mixed. The important thing was that the land became a magic one the moment the search began. Sometimes Lane didn't hide at all, and Dora would discover her in the nursery after searching for nearly a whole afternoon. On such occasions she would become so depressed that she wouldn't eat.

Lane never explained anything. She was a quiet child with round eyes and a fat face.

This game stopped abruptly when Dora was fourteen, and she never again thought about it.

Each time that Lane "passed into darkness" Dora had a curious reaction that was not unlike that of a person who remembers a sexual gratification when he does not expect to. She was never alarmed, nor did she feel lonely. To live with a person who is something of a lunatic is certainly a lonely experience even if it is not an alarming one, but Dora had never felt loneliness. Sometimes, although she knew Lane was having a spell, she continued talking.

"Suppose," she said on this particular day, "that we plan our itinerary for next spring. There are several mountains that I'd like to visit. As one grows older one has access to many more pleasures than one ever had as a young person. It's as if at a certain age a thick black curtain were wrenched aside, disclosing row upon row of goodies ready to be snatched. We're put on this earth for us to enjoy—although certain others get their thrill out of abstinence and devotion. That's just doing it the other way around. Not that I care at all what others do—too much contact spoils the essence of things. You'll agree to that, because you're a first-class hermit, anyway. Do you want to have dinner at the hotel?"

Lane did not answer, but looked again out of the window. "If you're looking for that white dog, Lane, he's certainly deep into the woods by this time."

Señorita Cordoba

One morning Señorita Cordoba received a letter from her mother. She sat beside the fountain reading it.

My Dear Violeta—

I do hope you are enjoying every minute of your stay in the city of Antigua. It is a great miracle to think that Antigua has been destroyed once by fire and once by water. My father pointed out the beauty of this city to me at an early age. He said to me, "When you go to Europe, you need not bow your head in shame that you have come from a country inhabited almost entirely by Indians, as many Europeans are wont to believe. But say to them proudly, "If Europe were a crown and in this crown one jewel were missing— the most beautiful jewel of all—you would find it in my country situated between two volcanoes and surrounded by hills. Its name is Antigua." At that age I loved to sit among the ruins, but Aunt Mercedes (who has come to agree with me), Aunt Mercedes and I still think it a little unwise for you to have taken such a trip at this particular moment. I realize it is only a few hours away, of course. Did you say that your board was fifty cents a day? For that they should serve you all the chicken you wanted and if they don't I hope you will be sure to demand your just rights. The lady of the pension will understand. I think perhaps that I as your mother have been a little too spiritual all my life. I do not want you to be the same. Perhaps, though, spiritual would not be the correct term to apply to you. Aunt Mercedes and I have been contenting ourselves with eggs and beans. The meat has been unusually hard this week and so very dear. I don't want you to worry about this or let it spoil your lovely holiday. You might try to buy a picture of the All Saints Day parade from someone who has a camera. Try not to buy it—ask for it, nicely. Señora Sanchez was in the other evening. She was riding by on a horse and she stopped in. She was complaining bitterly about prices, and insulted me grossly, I thought, by handing me half a chicken enveloped in some newspaper, which I handed over to the servants, of course. Aunt Mercedes didn't think that was quite wise. She is a great chicken eater, while I myself am more or less indifferent to all foods, as you know. Aunt Mercedes thought it dreadful that she should be riding on a horse, so soon after her husband's death. We send you our best wishes for an agreeable holiday. May the Lord bless you and keep you well.

Your mother

Señorita Cordoba frowned and looked into the fountain. "Such an old-fashioned letter," she thought to herself. "My mother and my aunt are living like cliff dwellers. Such people write a letter about a chicken." She took a pencil from her bag and made some figures on a piece of paper. She knew just about how much money she needed to get back to Paris and to live there for a little while, while she was starting her dress establishment. She was going to make dresses with a Latin spirit. There was only one way for her to get hold of this money, she was certain, and that was through a man. She had seen a lot of this going on in Paris, and she thought that she would know how to handle such a situation if she could possibly meet a man rich enough in Guatemala. "It would all be in a first-class way," she had assured herself.

On the following morning Señorita Cordoba overheard Señora Ramirez telling the children that their father would arrive that day. She was delighted to hear this, because she knew Señor Ramirez to be one of the richest men in the country .. . and a great lady lover. It was on the chance that he would come to Antigua to visit his wife and children that she herself had decided to spend the Holy Week in Señora Espinoza's pension. She knew that Señora Ramirez had been spending the Semana Santa there now for many years, or so she had heard tell from her mother and her mother's friends, who had never understood why Señor Ramirez did not send his wife to a more expensive touristic hotel. He had never been seen at the pension with her until the previous year, when he had suddenly appeared in Antigua and stayed there for several days. However, most people said that he had come to spend his time with his friend Alfonso Gutierres, who had opened an unfrequented but very elegant hotel which was reputed to have the best wine cellar and hard liquor stock in the country. Señorita Cordoba, having heard of his former visit, had been very much in hopes that he would return again this season. She had thought the short journey well worth the risk, particularly as she was tired of helping her mother with the coffee finca and the house — two things which interested her less than anything in the world. She was delighted that he was arriving so promptly. She was never able to relax or enjoy anything that was not concerned directly with the making of her life. Now she was in a feverish state, pulling her dresses out of her trunk and examining them for holes. The figure that she had decided was the minimum sum which she would demand for her trip and to cover the initial investment in her dress shop, and of course her first six months living in Paris, she had marked down on a pad which lay on the bureau. She went over and looked at the pad now, and her cheeks were quite flushed with the intensity of her figuring. She stood there for a long time and then she changed the number on the pad. She made it a little lower.

She picked up a long silk ball dress that she had not worn for many years. It was pink, and to the bodice were pinned some shapeless silk flowers. She decided to wear this to dinner, as it was the fanciest thing she had and was certain to please a Spanish man. She lay down on the bed. Her face was strained and stiff. She shut her eyes for a moment and thought of the name of her shop. It was to be called "Casa Cordoba." "Now," she said to herself, "for what the French call beauty sleep. No thoughts—no thoughts—-just rest." She could hear marimba music playing over the radio. She loved listening to music, and it made her think of all the things which she considered beautiful—Venice and the opera and the hall of mirrors in the palace at Versailles. To her, luxury and beauty (beauty there was none without at least the luxury of past splendor) were synonymous with morality, and when people lived well she considered them to be good people and when they lived really luxuriously she considered them to be saints. The marimba music and her memory of Venice and her walk through the hall of mirrors gave her such a feeling of the goodness of God that she crossed herself and decided to buy a candle in the church after her siesta.

The diners had all taken their places when Señorita Cordoba entered the room. The Ramirez daughters, Consuelo and Lilina, were seated on either side of their father, wearing their fiesta dresses. The servant stood in confusion before Señor Ramirez because he had ordered her not to bother with the soup but to bring him instead a large portion of meat and some beer right away.

"Wouldn't you like some soup first?" Maria asked him. Ramirez was beginning to lose his temper when he saw Señorita Cordoba enter the room. She had brightened her cheeks with some rouge, and on the whole she looked quite beautiful. Señor Ramirez's mouth hung open. He turned completely around in his chair and stared at Violeta. The traveler rose at the same time and rushed over to Señorita Cordoba as though he had never seen her before. She blushed a bright pink and her eyebrow twitched. To get away from all this attention she went over to the English lady in the corner and began to talk to her. The English lady was very much surprised because she had never received more than a curt nod from Miss Cordoba before this moment.

"Miss," said Violeta, "I wish you would take a walk with me some morning. I think it is a shame that we haven't become better acquainted with one another."

"Yes, it is, isn't it," answered the English lady. Miss Cordoba's armpits were wet with nervous sweat. She was terribly embarrassed since she had enered the room in her ball dress. She was bending over the English lady with one hand placed flat on the table, and she noticed that the English lady was looking into her bodice, a faint expression of disgust visible in her face, the disgust of an English person who does not like to be near to a foreigner.

"You Spanish girls all have such beautiful olive skin," she said. This was a completely hysterical thing for her to say because Violeta's skin was whiter than her own. She continued, "I would be very glad to take a walk with you but I am sure you will still be in the arms of Morpheus when I have already eaten my breakfast and written my letters for the day. I can't walk after ten because the sun tires me so. I have as a matter of fact covered the ground here thoroughly but I am looking forward to the processions. A friend described them to me so beautifully that I've been longing to see them ever since. A wonderful gift, to make other people see things. I am more or less mute myself. I have been impressed by the colors here. What a sense of color the Indians have. They are famous for it, aren't they?"