“Not likely,” he said. “I think you have the wrong idea about us, Clyde.”
I laughed. “I show I know what you’re reading from a three-word description and you still take me for a cube.” I shook my head. “What does it take, mano!?”
“More than what you’ve got,” Gunnar said. “A lot more.”
“Oh, really?” I asked. “I think if you’re digging that speech then I must have made quite an impression the other night, otherwise you wouldn’t be reading something that makes an assertion Lenin rejected.”
“All right,” he confessed with a self-conscious laugh, “you got me. I was reminding myself of the unexpected directions the dialectic can lead us. I suggested to Alexi and Slisko they do the same but they just quoted at me from The State and Revolution.” He laughed again.
“Ah,” I said, as if just now seeing the light, “so that’s why Alexi’s been grumpier than usual.”
Gunnar’s chuckle died away as something drew his attention. I looked over in the direction of his gaze and saw Slisko about fifteen feet away looking sour. Gunnar stood and without a word walked over to Slisko who said something to him. Gunnar, louder than he needed to, replied with, “He’s not that bad, Sly.” Slisko said something else, obviously more pungent than his first remark. Gunnar shrugged and walked away. Slisko glared at me and then followed after his friend.
Jesus seemed distracted when I went back to work the next day so I gave him his space. He had a lot of thinking to do and I figured that if I pushed, he might push back. During the days that passed, I sent Glottis out again to search for Meche, but there was still no news and he found it harder to talk to people than before. They were becoming more reluctant to open up, either from being repeatedly questioned on the subject or having had their silence bought by Domino. I was starting to have similar troubles with my follow-up calls.
On the home front, my relationship with Carla was evolving from just friends into a little bit more, but there was a small hitch: Meche. Not that Carla could be in any way jealous, I thought. I mean, how could she be jealous of a woman whose whereabouts were unknown and for whom I had only a professional interest? But, by this time, everyone in Rubacava knew I wanted to locate someone called Mercedes Colomar and I think, for Carla, Meche was almost the Other Woman. It didn’t help that as time kept on passing, I kept getting more and more down about having no news concerning Meche.
One evening I took Carla to a quiet little restaurant in Rubacava’s old quarter—a dense cluster of Plateresque buildings tucked into a little notch in the cliffs near the docks. It was one of those neighborhoods where time had done its damage and moved on only to be followed by chic entrepreneurs who renovated the buildings into ironic shops and sardonic bistros, all having a kind of shabby elegance like an aging starlet in a débutante’s gown. Carla ate it up. I picked that particular restaurant because it didn’t have a bar and served nothing stronger than wine.
We were seated at a small table near a wall and tucked in between two suits of armor from the wrong period. A Gypsy violinist meandered among the tables. The owners were confused about geography, too. We got our drinks, ordered, and I settled into a quiet funk because it was nearly two months since I’d arrived in Rubacava. Carla clicked her fingertips on the table top, waiting for me to say something.
“Bad day?” she asked eventually, sounding idly concerned.
I shifted to sit up a little straighter in my chair and reached for my wine glass, filled with something white and a little too sweet for my tastes; possibly Riesling although God only knows how when not even grapes grow in the Land of the Dead. “No,” I answered, “about average. I’ve been thinking about things and it’s getting me down a little. I’m sorry.” I elaborated with some moody silence.
Carla picked up her purse and opened it. She took out a centavo and pushed it across the table toward me. It was a cute gesture. I picked up the small coin and turned it over in my fingers.
“These don’t buy as much as they used to,” I pointed out.
Carla shrugged lightly and projected a small smile. “It’s still the going rate.”
“All right,” I said and put the centavo down. “I’ve been thinking about unfinished business. Old unfinished business. And I think the older it gets, the harder it’s going to be to finish at all.” Carla took a sip from her glass but didn’t say anything. Nice to see she knew how to sip. “You know what the Petrified Forest is like. After all this time, you have to wonder.” I didn’t have to specify what unfinished business I was talking about or why I should be thinking about that damn forest.
Carla began to set her glass down quickly, then stopped, then lowered it so it didn’t even click against the table top. “Yeah, Manny, I remember the forest,” she said, “but it’s not all that bad if you just keep your head.” She paused for a few moments. “Are you sure that Colomar dame is just old business to you?” she asked. The question seemed a little more insistent than it’s sisters had been in the past, but not unreasonably so. “I’m starting to think she’s your secret wife.”
“No, nothing like that,” I came close to snapping at her. First Salvador, and now Carla. “She was only a client.” Which wasn’t exactly true even if there was no romantic attachment, but I couldn’t explain that to Carla, not if I wanted to keep my cover. “I’ve told you that before. I only met her that one time, you know.” A brief encounter, but without the complications, I thought.
“Yeah, I remember. But, if she really is just an old client, why are you making your demon buddy Glottis look for her?” Carla asked, sounding reasonable. “I mean, like, isn’t your responsibility over once someone’s on their way? It’s not like you’re even a reaper any more. And, anyway, even if her paperwork was messed up, like you always say, that wasn’t your fault.”
“No,” I said, “maybe it’s not, except you’re only partly right. Sure, when someone walked out of my office, usually the only thing left to do was close the case and file the paperwork.” I stopped and got a pack of cigarettes out of my breast pocket. I took my time taking one out and lighting it, giving myself more time to think over my next words. “But you’re also partly wrong about it not being my fault. Some of it was. I mean, I should’ve been able to pick up on what was happening,” like from the day Domino turned up, “but I didn’t, and Meche got the wrong idea about her situation.”
“Is that why you’re carrying a torch for her,” Carla asked, “because you feel guilty about making a mistake?”
“I am not carrying a torch,” I said with some heat. “And I’m not exactly guilty. Call it a sense of responsibility. I owe it to her to fix things. I’d feel the same way if it had been, I don’t know, let’s say Velasco.”
“You’re very conscientious,” she said a little coolly, either simply because of what I was saying to justify my concern for Meche, or maybe because I had used Rubacava’s dockmaster for the example.
I reached out to her hand that rested on the table. She didn’t withdraw it but she didn’t turn it over to clasp mine back. “Don’t be that way,” I said. “She might be lost… or worse. What kind of person would I be if that thought didn’t bother me?”
After a moment’s consideration she admitted, with a reluctant sigh, “Probably a pretty sorry excuse for one.” Her hand finally turned and grasped mine back hard enough to hurt. “But I don’t like being taken out by men who talk about other women,” she added with emphasis, but not anger.