“Isabel, Isabel.”
“Ayyy, papacito.”
“Is it good, my love?”
“It’s good, good.”
“Listen to me. So it won’t stop. It’s like the first time.”
“Don’t talk. Let me concentrate.”
“Let me do it, Ligeia.”
“Yes, darling. Keep on. Keep on.”
“I don’t want to begin all over each time…”
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
“In, out, slowly, slowly.”
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
“And now…”
“Yes.”
“Now no more.”
Javier moved off of your body and fell face down on the pillow as if he were hiding. You remained as you were. Javier looked at you from the corner of his eye. You did not turn your head, did not seek him.
“Isabel,” he murmured.
“Not so good, Javier?”
“No, my love. Not so good. This miserable room. We can’t go on this way, Isabel. Now we’ll go back to Mexico City and it will be motel rooms again, the cold sheets and the cold walls. The telephone beside the bed. The taxi waiting for us outside. The window with a curtain of orange stripes. Bah. When I think about the places we’ve met on the road to Toluca, I feel sick. Maybe…”
“I know. Yes, Javier!”
“Yes what?”
“We’ll rent a little apartment!”
“An apartment?”
“Of course, darling, and I have it picked out already! A really cool studio in Coyoacán. You won’t believe it when you see it. We’ll…”
“But Isabel, I didn’t mean…”
“Look, it’s right over a pop-art store. I’ll decorate it.”
“But I…”
“It’s really only a studio. One huge room, a little bath, and a kitchen. Oh, it’s terrific, Javier! I’ll have them wax the floor as soon as we get back.”
“Isabel, I meant…”
“Paint the beams and whitewash the walls. Yellow curtains, good thick ones, for the big window. It looks out on the plaza of Chimalistac.”
“But I was thinking that…”
“I’ll track down some light cedar furniture and have the cushions made of blue Indian-head cotton. We’ll need some tables, wrought-iron and glass. I’ll buy some papier-mâché Judas figures downstairs in the pop-art store and hang them around the walls. A sofa that converts into a bed. You’ll bring your books and I’ll buy an antique writing table I saw in San Angel. It’s a colonial table of marquetry, with drawers and all sorts of things. You can keep your writing there, eh?”
“But how much is all this going to cost?”
“Cost? Well, figure it yourself. Furniture, curtains, material for the cushions, paint, varnish, wax, ashtrays, utensils for the kitchen, light, gas, telephone … I’d say about forty thousand pesos.”
“A motel room is only thirty pesos, Isabel. Well, at least we will save on food. We won’t be eating out.”
“Oh, yes, we will. I like to show you off and I don’t know how to cook. I like to broil my steaks at Delmonico’s, Javier, to cook my Dutch tongue on Jena and my quenelles in La Lorraine…” You laughed. Then you went on, “No, I don’t mean it. I don’t care about fancy restaurants. The important thing is to be with you, and it doesn’t matter where. There’s another point … we won’t waste so much time. Oh, yes, a record player. I can’t live without a record player.”
“Live?”
“Two or three nights a week, silly. And if one of us wants to be alone, the other takes off. Don’t you like to be alone now and then?”
You rubbed your chin, put on a record, and began to whirl slowly.
“Trini López at PJ’s. Recorded live. If I had a hammer…”
You went into the bathroom and closed the door behind you. Javier sat alone on the bed. He tapped his stomach reflectively. Water began to run loudly.
“Isabel?”
You did not answer.
“Isabel!” he raised his voice.
“What?” you said from the bathroom.
“I didn’t expect you to suggest an apartment. I was hoping that…”
“I can’t hear you, Javier. I’ll be out in a second.”
“You’re tired of it now. You have other things to do. Okay, I understand. Yes. Thanks anyhow…”
I’d hammer in the morning …
“… ‘You’re older than I am. Your life is settled, you don’t want to change it. Your character, too. I can understand … Thanks, thanks for everything. It was nice while it lasted. I’ll never forget you…’ Oh, shit.”
If I had a bell …
“‘… Oh, I knew it couldn’t go on. I never had any illusions…’”
I’d ring it in the morning …
“‘… But I didn’t just make you up. I touched you and you were real…’”
It’s the bell of freedom …
“A motel room on the road to Toluca, Isabel. With the taxi waiting outside. Is that all?”
“I’m coming right out. Be a little patient.”
“The same old thing? Believing that now it is different?”
The record ended. Javier listened to the gurgle and bubble of the water running from the faucets and in the bowl of the toilet.
You came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. With one hand you shook out your wet hair.
“What were you saying?”
Javier covered his lower abdomen. You hummed to yourself as you worked your hair into a ponytail and tied it with a yellow ribbon. You threw your hair forward over your head again, the hairpins between your teeth. When you finished putting your hair up, you rubbed your head with both hands and looked for your lipstick in the disorder of the dresser top. You pursed your lips to paint them orange.
“Isabel, when we were at Xochicalco today…” Javier began quietly.
You stopped with the lipstick raised to your mouth. “No, Javier.”
“Yes, no. None of you ever understand.”
“Just no.” You got up, dropping the towel.
“But listen to me.”
“I told you no.” You retrieved the towel and folded it like a wet, heavy whip.
“I want to talk with you about Xochicalco. About what we saw this morning.”
“I know what you want to talk about. No, it bores me.” You slapped Javier’s legs with the wet towel.
“Stop it, Isabel.” Javier drew his legs back. Laughing, you slapped his buttocks. “Stop it, it hurts.” He hunched up, chin to his knees, and closed his eyes.
“The silly things you say hurt more. Who wants to hear about Xochicalco? What’s Xochicalco to me?” You knelt on the bed beside him and tickled his waist. “What a tummy you have.”
Javier opened his eyes. “Why did you open that door this morning?”
“Which door?”
“The car door.” Javier did not look at you.