Inés scooped up the empty bottles of booze and stacked them outside the door, along with the bowl. Then she turned to the books. She held one up. Poetry.
“ ‘It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea, that a maiden there lived whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee,’ ” he recited smoothly. “Now, who’s that?”
“Poe.”
She went to the bookcases and slid the volume back in its place. Then she stripped off the bedsheets and replaced them with freshly laundered ones.
“ ‘Your hair is black as the wing of mystery; dark as a gloomy never, like a farewell, or as the words “who knows!” Yet there is something darker still: your eyes!’ ” the professor said. “And that?”
“Nervo. Professor, you make it too easy some days.”
“You know me too well.”
She did. She’d had no proper father, as her aunt liked to remind her. Her mother had been abandoned, cast off, and her father had erased any bonds he’d had with them. No letters ever came, no birthday cards or gifts. Nepomuceno had become her father. He was the one who sat her down to hear tales of long-gone heroes and the dusty rhymes of dead poets. The lessons he’d once taught his pupils had been shared with the eager child.
Nepomuceno smiled and handed her the tray, which she set upon the desk once more.
“ ‘Midway upon the journey of our life I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost,’ ” he said.
This time she did not recognize the line and remained mute. “Dante,” the professor said, and he stood up, heading to the bookshelf. “Youhaven’t been reading lately, my tenacious Atalanta. Now, let me see, for a young soul such as you, I would recommend—”
He winced and paused, bending a little and pressing a hand against his stomach. Inés dropped the pillow she’d been holding and went around the bed to his side. “Professor, what’s wrong?”
“It’s that old twinge. My war wounds.”
“War wounds, my ass, Professor. You were not a soldier.”
“There are all types of wars,” he said as he leaned on her and she sat him down on the freshly made bed. He rubbed his belly with his right hand and looked up at her, sighing. “You must not use crude language. It’s not becoming of a lady.”
“What kind of lady might I be in this house? Lady of lye and soap?” she asked, showing him her hands, which were rough from household chores.
“A lady is a lady, no matter if she scrubs pots and pans,” he said solemnly.
He lay down. Inés picked up the pillow and placed it behind his head. He laced his hands together and rested them on his stomach.
“You should make an appointment with Dr. Carrel.”
“That butcher! No, thank you. I detest the man. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to pay his fee. I’m already behind on the rent and your aunt has threatened to haul me out of the house if I don’t pay her by next week.”
Inés opened the top drawer of a bureau and took out a blanket. She wrapped it around Nepomuceno. “She always says that and then you pay her a month and she’s happy to have you around.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve exhausted all my charitable friends. Affection has its limits.”
“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” she said, patting his hand.
Nepomuceno smiled. “Thank you. And the dog? Might you take it for a walk?”
“Of course. Around and around the block, as usual.”
She went to the kitchen, where Estrella was chopping onions with an expert hand. They had a little radio—a birthday gift from Estrella’s oldest son, who fixed radios and vacuum cleaners in the port—and were listening to boleros. A woman sang “No Vuelvo Contigo” while Fito sat at the table reading the funnies.
“Fito, can you take the dog for a walk?” Inés asked.
“Can’t right now. I need to buy ice. But there ain’t no point in going until it’s noon. The fishmonger was out drinking last night.”
Inés had heard there were houses in the bigger cities where they had home freezers, but those were for wealthy folks, and so in Puerco Ahogado people bought their ice from the fishmonger and someone had to walk there and fill a pot.
“How do you know that?” she asked.