It disturbed him to have the camera-feeling, as if he were storing up the memories of her for the empty years ahead. He and Sam Boylston had debated how much danger she might be in. It had to be weighed against the danger of destroying the adjustment she had achieved. It was her hiding place, and were it destroyed, she might seek that other hiding place again, the withdrawal, the meek, passive, unresponsive silence he had seen when he had visited her with her brother.
With time and love and understanding, he felt there was a good chance of slowly merging the ’Cisca of now with the Francisca who once had been. And then, little by little, the housemaid would disappear, along with the shop-girl mannerisms, the saucy walk, the shallow pleasures.
But will she then settle for a Raoul Kelly, he thought. It would be a bitter irony to discover that her acceptance of him as a “boyfran” would be outgrown, along with her delight in soap opera, her collection of movie magazines, her taste for bright, tight clothing and semi-theatrical makeup.
As the afternoon did not seem to be going well, he decided to take the risk he had weighed and wondered about. He went up to the big parking lot and came back with the folder from his files. It contained a selection of the articles he had done in Spanish-language newspapers, cut to size and Xeroxed on the newspaper machine on 8½-inch by 14-inch sheets, and fastened into a clasp binder. He had made the selection with great care, leaving out those things which might trigger too many memories for her.
“ ’Cisca, I want to show you why I am unpopular with certain people.”
She opened the folder, read a few lines and closed it. “You said you are. That is enough for me.”
“There is something else.”
“Indeed?”
“Boys climb to the very tops of the tallest trees. They do very dangerous things upon their bicycles. If the girl is watching. This is my work. It is what I do. I would wish you to admire how I balance in my tree tops.”
She shrugged almost imperceptibly and opened the folder again. After a few moments she said, “But I do not have the political mind, Raoul.”
“For much of that it is not necessary.”
“But such difficult writing, and on the beach?”
“I am without mercy. Read, woman!”
She made a face at him and sighed and continued reading. He watched her, and he saw her change. By leaning a little bit he saw which one she was reading. It was the appraisal of the policies of the Twelve Families of the Republic of Panama, and some intimate biographies of those individuals most active in blocking the reforms of the judicial system. She was frowning as she read, her lips compressed. It surprised him that her submerged intelligence should have been awakened by that article. It was one of the more complex ones, and it led with a documented care to the thesis he reiterated in article after article: In countries where men of good will work to achieve honesty and equality under the law, education, literacy, good health standards, the opportunity to lead a better life than one’s forefathers, Communist subversion becomes futile.
“Shall we swim now?” he asked.
“Not now. You go if you wish,” she said absently.
He swam. When he came back, she had rolled onto her stomach and was propped up on her elbows, reading the pages in the shade of her body. He toweled himself, popped open a fresh can of beer from the cooler.
Finally she was done. She closed the folder and put it aside. She was lost in thought for a long time.
“How do you learn these things?” she asked abruptly.
“Research, study, interviews. There is always a pattern, always a slow movement in one direction or another.”
“This is a very very important thing you do, Señor.”
“One would like to believe so.”
“Does anyone listen?”
“Fewer than one would hope.”
It was the steady, thoughtful look of Francisca Torcedo y Sarmantar which met his gaze. “One cannot doubt that they would relish silencing such a man. One man who so carefully stabs at the tenderest parts. I could not know, Raoul. I think it is very possible that you are a great man.”
“Perhaps you have been too long in the hot sun, querida.”
“Greatness is to use the quality of the mind to change these slow directions of history, no?”
“But I am merely...”
She rapped the cover of the folder with her knuckles. “Tell me. This work in California, will it give you a way to make more men listen?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should permit nothing to interfere. Nothing!”
“I have accepted. You will come with me.”
And he saw the little signs of change again, as she edged back into the role more comfortable for her. Small changes in posture, in expression. She laughed, brash and merry, signaling the English that put his teeth on edge. “Crazy sumbitch, you! Eh? Get turned on by sotch a estupid little broad. Looking at your head, I think. So I go with. Okay. Because you crazy as hell, man! Swimming now? Can’t catch.” She hopped up and ran fleetingly toward the gentle surf line.
He left her at the Harkinson house at quarter to five. He had an article to finish and turn in, and he said he thought he could be back by eight. She had told him that Crissy Harkinson had said she wouldn’t need her that evening.
Raoul did not return until eight thirty. He went up the stairs carrying the two warm cartons of Chinese food he had promised to bring. The plan was to heat it up on her little stove and eat there and make the ten o’clock feature three miles away wherein James Bond would cavort his way through windrows of women to be beaten sodden by the minions of some chap of incredible rascality before, at last, outwitting him, slaying him in horrible detail in wide-screen color, with gadgetry devised by M.I.T. dropouts, and then at the fade-out, taking his bemused ease betwixt perfumed breasts of such astonishing pneumatic dimension he would have a slightly exasperated and apologetic look, like that of a man trying to take his bass drum into a phone booth.
The servant quarters were dark and silent. He had noticed that Crissy Harkinson’s little white convertible was gone. The Akard boy’s car was in the parking area, a clumsy, underprivileged shadow.
He opened the screen door and went inside. “ ’Cisca?” he called. “ ’Cisca?”
Fright and apprehension seemed to bulge his heart. He put the food aside hastily and began putting lights on, expecting that it would be one of those plausible domestic accidents. But the small rooms were empty. The candy-striped suit hung from the shower rail.
She came pattering up the outside stairs, calling, “Raoul? Raoul?” His heart lurched and his knees turned watery, and he knew that he could take no chance with her, not from now on, not ever.
She had on sleek white slacks and a fussy little red blouse and far too much lipstick. She gave him a quick little hug and kiss, and then laughed at him and said she had given him a clown face. She hurried and got a kleenex and dabbed the red from his mouth. As she busied herself with reheating the food and laying out the dishes and silverware, he said, “The boy is at the house waiting for her?”
“Oh no. She is there too. Why would you— Of course, her little car is gone. She took it in this morning to be fixed. But by noon it was not done, and they stop work at noon. They will finish it on Monday. A garage man drove her back here. They will deliver the car on Monday. She was very angry. She called me over to speak with her. We talked for a long time. I have good news.”