“And to think you told my aunt that your father was a proper gentleman from La Rioja.”
Perla had been impressed by that lie, and he couldn’t even feel bad for telling it, because it had pleased her so much to think her future husband descended from a line of noble “peninsulares.”
“He was a gutter rat, obviously. But most people want to think they come from royalty, and your aunt wants a man who is a prince.”
“Then your beautiful eyes were not handed down by a great hidalgo of Nájera.”
“My father’s father was a pimp, and the closest we’ve ever been to La Rioja is drinking a bottle of wine from there, I would think.”
“How shocking,” she said with mock surprise.
“Now you’ll tell me you really believed I sailed from Ithaca.”
He immediately had to stop talking, catching his breath, suddenly aware of how intensely comfortable he felt with her close to him. He’d pulled her to his side hoping to startle or embarrass her, but it was he who felt like blushing.
“My legs are falling asleep,” he muttered, and shoved her out of the bed.
She gave him a murderous glare but thankfully didn’t seem to notice his flustered state and stepped out of his room with a muffled curse.
He lay back upon the pillows and looked at the front page of the newspaper, but the words swam before his eyes and he cursed back at her even though she was gone. Annoying, distracting chit.
He spent most of the morning feeling vaguely peeved, more at himself than her, for speaking so earnestly with her, for jesting like he had. They were business partners, not cronies. He needed to remember that.
To top it all off, it was damn hot that day, and he wiped a handkerchief across his brow. His blood sizzled with frustration and resentment as he opened a window to try to let a breeze in, but there was no wind.
Only a few hours later Inés pulled him aside. At first, he didn’t understand what she was saying, she was all nerves and adrenaline. “Cándido is back in three days. You need to be quick.”
“You said he’d be gone for three weeks.”
“I know what I said, but he telegrammed my aunt today and asked to see her on the evening he arrives. He has big news and a gift for her. I bet he’s bought an engagement ring!”
“Keep your voice low,” he said. They were standing near the front entrance. He maneuvered her toward the back of the stairs, where they might remain unseen in the shadows. “The civil registry is an hour away by car. We can head there tomorrow morning and be married before lunch.”
“All the way in Las Tunas, and on Fridays the judge is always drunk and the office is closed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“We can pull him and two witnesses out of a cantina if necessary, it won’t matter. If that fails, we can convince the priest in town to marry us.”
“That’s not binding! The valid certificate is the one issued by the judge.”
He pulled her farther into the shadows and lowered his voice even more, but spoke in a brisk, hard tone. “I know that. But if we’re married by the church, I’m sure your aunt will also want a civil wedding, it’s logical. One or the other, whichever comes first. Now, go about your work and don’t fret.”
He rushed back to his room and opened the box where he stored his studs, his watch, and two wedding rings. They had belonged to his mother and father, two simple golden circles that he had yet to pawn outof misguided sentimentality. He counted the money in his wallet and uttered a curse. If this didn’t work, he was going to be in a dire position.
He looked in the mirror, inspecting his face, and dabbed a dash of cologne against his wrists.
He knocked at Perla’s door and asked if they might go for a drive, the two of them alone. She didn’t like the idea of it—he’d learned by now that to her not having a driver was synonymous with being low-class; ladies always had a chauffeur—but he said there was something vital he needed to discuss, and he’d drive her anyway, there was no need for her to take the wheel.
They drove past the fields with trees laden with fruit, crossed a bridge, and stopped by a clearing. The exuberant vegetation of the mountain loomed nearby, nourished by rivers and constant rains, growing wild. It was not the manicured beauty of the orange groves or the coffee fields, but a chaos of oyamel and pines, as if every seed that fell upon the soil had sprouted and tried to scratch the sky.
The air was warm, and the smell of wet earth perfumed the afternoon. It rained quite a bit in this place. Yet the rain was often light, like mist, and arrived with a suddenness that shocked him. They’d told him that when the rains came down heavier, later in the year, the rivers would turn torrential, swelling and dragging everything in their path. They said he hadn’t seen anything yet. He didn’t want to be here to witness it.
He opened the door for Perla and helped her out of the car. “Are we sightseeing?” she asked. She’d said nothing in the car, and he’d also been quiet.
“I wanted to get out of the house, to speak to you far from the guesthouse with all those prying eyes.”