—
“Perla, I wanted to talk about the bank account.”
“What about it?” she said.
They were taking a leisurely stroll. These walks were her favorite part of the day, her chance to promenade with her husband and reap the greetings and attention of the townsfolk.
It was before noon and Puerco Ahogado was bustling with activity. The one café had arranged its tables and chairs under the arches of the square, with a perfect view of the wrought-iron gazebo topped by a cupola in the center of the plaza. That was where the musicians played on festival days.
The humbler fonda that served cheap meals and a fixed-price menu was located around the corner, and sadly did not command this iconic view. Next to the café there was a narrow door and a window with thewordBarbershoppainted on it. The barber sat by the door, on a stool, next to the boy who shined shoes. The barber was in conversation with Dr. Carrel. The doctor was locked in a competition with the pharmacist, who liked to dispense drugs without a prescription, and regularly shared his woes with his audience.
When Perla and Ulises walked by, the men acknowledged them with a “Good day” and went back to talking.
At this time of the day, Perla believed that the sunlight streaming down upon the cobblestoned streets gave the modest town square an almost Italian air. Not that she’d visited Italy, but her father had been to Rome and told her about it when she was young.
Yes, the neoclassical brick buildings flanking the gazebo, built before the horrid Revolution set fire to the countryside, and the church, which was much older, with its florid stucco decorations on its façade, had a delightful Italian air.
Perla thought about a trip to Italy. They hadn’t had a proper honeymoon, their whirlwind wedding did not allow for such an event. It had been an exciting time, and she had thought it an excellent idea to marry quickly and be done with it, but now she wondered about a leisurely European escape. They could not visit Europe now, not with the war, but maybe later. Surely the conflict must come to an end.
If her father had not lost all his money, Perla would have had a tour of Europe. Once again, she remembered the wretched Revolution and the misery that followed it. She didn’t want to dwell on those dark times. She’d think of another destination. Buenos Aires sounded like a sophisticated enough place, didn’t it?
“It’s just that every time I need to get anything, you must fetch it for me. It would be much easier if you’d add me to your bank account,” her husband said, interrupting her thoughts, which had been far from the mundane concerns of checks and bank accounts.
Perla’s easy, joyful steps slowed down. “What would you need? We have everything at the house.”
“I’m saying, if I should want something…for example, yesterday I was thinking I might take the train to the city and buy myself more film for my camera, maybe even a new lens, but I can’t do it unless you go with me.”
“You told me you have all that photo equipment stored away in Mexico City.”
“Yes, of course, most of my things are stored there, but we both agreed it would be a hassle to fetch it, and needless expense when I might be able to find a friend to buy most of it. But you don’t want me to take the car to Mexico City either, and—”
“You don’t need to. You could ride the train.”
“Some of the equipment I didn’t sell would have to come back with me. There’s the matter of hotels and meals; I don’t think I could possibly dispose of it all in one day. And how could I pay for the meals if I can’t draw money from the account? I’m not working now; until I open a studio or figure out something else, I depend on you entirely.”
“A studio,” Perla said, arching an eyebrow.
“I know I could succeed with it, even in a town like this. People need their portrait taken, don’t they? Or if you’d prefer, I could see about setting it up in a bigger city. I’d have to travel back and forth, or maybe partner up with someone, but it would work. I could keep some of my old equipment, use it there, and I’d need a little capital—”
“You’d be taxed,” she said. “And then there would be bribes to pay to get the permits for a business, and the expense of setting up a studio in a town that’s too small to need one. Taxed to death, that’s what would happen.”
“All businesses are taxed,” her husband said, with an effortlessness that exasperated her.
“I make money without the government nosing around.”
“I know the guesthouse makes money, and sometimes you are kind enough to extend people credit, but a respectable business like a photographer’s studio has lucrative possibilities. What about the port?What about a house there, with a studio attached to it?” he asked, smiling sunnily at her.
“We could not afford a move there. Besides, the port brings me bad memories,” she said, remembering Norberto and their evenings at her aunt’s home. She would always associate the city with him, and with her heartbreak.
“Perla, a wife can’t make all the decisions in a marriage. A husband must have his place in a house. He must have respect.”
She was already infuriated by the memory of Norberto, but these words made her want to dig her nails into his skin. This time he reminded her of her father. Respect! Yes, how much respect he’d demanded, and in turn, how much life he’d leached out of her.
“A husband who can’t pay for his own coffee is cause for laughter in a town, you know that.”
“If you don’t want them to laugh at you, then you ought to get a job,” she replied. “But don’t start thinking you’ll open a fancy studio with my money.”
His amicable smile faded. “I see. How quickly ‘love of my life’ turns into ‘get a job.’ What job should I apply for, do you think? The butcher is looking for an assistant, I’m told.”