Manny staggered slightly as if he’d had a stroke, and Bourne carried Maricruz into the entryway of the house. Manny, looking white as a sheet, belatedly closed the door, then trotted after Bourne as he lay Maricruz down on one of the plush sofas in the living room.
As she sank into the downy cushions, Maricruz uttered a tiny moan and her eyes started to close. Bourne pinched her, and when her eyes flew open, he said, “Maricruz, you might have a concussion. You can’t fall asleep. Do you understand?”
She nodded, then winced.
“Where is the pain?”
“Behind my eyes, at the back of my head.”
Bourne slipped his hand under her head, felt the lump under her hair. The truck’s bench seat lacked headrests. “You hit your head. You’ll be okay, just keep awake.”
She reached out for him. “Help me sit up.”
He moved her slowly and evenly.
“That’s better,” she said with a sigh.
“Manny, we need water and some food. Also a painkiller for Maricruz.”
“I don’t know whether my stomach can take anything,” Maricruz said.
“Try anyway.” Bourne turned. “Manny!”
Manny was staring at Maricruz. “I see the señora in her face. I…I don’t know what to say.”
“Get us what we need instead of talking,” Bourne said. “And let Constanza know we’re here.”
“I…” Manny stood frozen.
“What is it?” Bourne said, impatient. He stood. “If you won’t tell her I will.”
“Listen, listen…” Manny licked his lips, as nervous now as a cat in the rain. “The señora is ill. Very ill. She has not been out of bed for weeks now. To be honest, she should be in the hospital, but she refuses to leave here. She says the only way she’ll be taken out of her home is feet-first.”
“What’s the matter with her?”
“No one knows.” Manny shrugged. “A virus, maybe. Whatever it is, it seems to be slowly killing her.”
“Let me see her.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, señor. She’s very weak.”
“I want to see her.”
Both men turned to see Maricruz struggling to get to her feet. Bourne helped her up.
“I heard what you said,” Maricruz said. “I want to see her.” She turned to Bourne. “No, don’t carry me. I want to be on my feet when I see her. I feel enough like a child right now as it is.”
Manny nodded, relenting. He was about to lead them up the stairs when Bourne said, “I’ll meet you upstairs.”
Bourne went swiftly back to the entry and out the front door. He got the cases out of the Chevy and brought them back inside, leaving them in the entry. Hearing a car pull up outside, he peered out one of the door’s sidelights. A police cruiser had stopped beside the battered Chevy. A pair of uniforms emerged. They seemed inordinately interested in the crumpled front, which no doubt had chips of paint from the truck it had plowed into. The police here might be incompetent, Bourne thought, but they could also be relentless.
Taking out the badge he’d pulled off the detective, Bourne opened the door, trotted down the steps and across the sidewalk.
Holding up the badge, he said with a great deal of officiousness, “Can I help you fellows?”
One of the cops, a whip-thin, swarthy man with the nose of an Olmec, said, “We’ve been looking for a vehicle involved in a collision and shooting in Taxqueña.”
“You’re a long way from there. What are you doing in Polanco?”
“We go where we’re needed.”
This from Whip-thin’s partner, rising up like a wild boar from where he had been examining the Chevy’s crushed front grille. He had a wide face the color of suet, punctuated by little piggy eyes and a bow of a mouth that was almost feminine. He was older than Whip-thin and obviously the senior in rank.
“Doesn’t matter,” Bourne said. “This is my investigation.”
Piggy came around the front of the Chevy, squinted at Bourne’s badge. “What’s your investigation?”
“The homicide.”
Piggy was full of bluster and belligerence. “What d’you know about it?” He’d obviously been fucked over by suits many times before. There was only one way to handle people like him.
Bourne stepped toward him. “I know the victim’s a foreign national. After the mess over the dead Chinese we’re still trying to clean up, this latest shooting has been elevated to the highest level.”
“Which means you, does it, suit?”
“It sure as hell doesn’t mean you, Sergeant. Why don’t you and your niño get the hell out of here before I radio in a report about you.”
“Fuck you, suit.” But Piggy signaled to his partner and the two of them retreated to the cruiser. “We’ve got bigger tacos to fry than this shit.” Piggy slid behind the wheel, his partner got in beside him, and the cruiser took off.
When Bourne was certain they had gone for good, he went back out to get rid of the Chevy.
Manny led Maricruz down the richly patterned, second-floor hallway. The mahogany floorboards gleamed beneath their feet, the walls were hung with expensive artwork by Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, and Gabriel Orozco.
Once, when she faltered, Manny turned back, held out a steadying hand. “Are you sure you’re up to this, señorita?”
Maricruz smiled through her acute trepidation. “I’m a married woman, Manny.”
“Perdóneme, señora.”
“It’s all right, Manny. Let’s go.”
He nodded, leading her to a wide olivewood door, the center of which was carved into the shapes of birds sitting in the gently curving branches of a tree. He knocked on the door and called out, “Señora, you have a visitor.”
He opened the door, though Maricruz could not discern whether or not he had received a reply. The master bedroom suite was spacious, though not as large as she had imagined during her early childhood spent in her father’s extravagant villa just across the park. Also, there were no religious icons, no portraits of Jesus. The papered walls were unadorned save for a Mary Cassatt painting of a mother smiling down at an angelic child cradled in her arms, which faced the bed.
Sunlight slanted in through the large window, framed by heavy, theatrical drapes. The room was dominated by an oversize bed, its canopy supported by massive pillars of olivewood, obviously carved by the same artist who had sculpted the door. To one side of the bed was a wheelchair, folded like the wings of a bird, perched and waiting.
However, all this was peripheral. Maricruz’s gaze was entirely focused on the woman sitting up in the center of the bed. Though ravaged by the mysterious disease afflicting her, she was nevertheless the most exquisite woman Maricruz had ever seen. Whatever Manny had seen in her own face that reminded him of this woman Maricruz couldn’t fathom, but then that was often the way with daughters and mothers.
Manny, stepping in front of Maricruz, approached the bed. “Señora,” he said. “May I present your daughter, Maricruz Encarnación.”
Maricruz didn’t bother to correct him.
Constanza Camargo’s deep-set eyes glittered like jewels as they turned toward Maricruz.
“What?” she said in a voice soft as velvet. “Manny, what did you say?”
Manny beckoned Maricruz forward, took her hand, and led her to the foot of the bed. “Your daughter, señora. Your daughter, Maricruz, has returned to you.”
“Maricruz,” Constanza said, “is it you? Is it really you?”
Maricruz could not speak. She felt as if she were choking, as if at any moment her knees would give out and she would fall on the bed, to be gathered up in her mother’s arms like the angelic child in Mary Cassatt’s painting.
“Manny, is this my daughter,” Constanza said, “or am I dreaming?”
“This is no dream, señora. Look at her face. Her face is your face. There can be no doubt.”
For long moments, there was an uncanny silence as Constanza Camargo stared at her long-lost child, her eyes half glazed, her expression still one of shock.
“It’s the painting,” she whispered at last. “I bought the Cassatt to have you close to me, Maricruz, wherever in the world you were.” The tears glittering in her eyes began to spill out onto her cheeks. “Now it has brought you back to me.”
Maricruz felt light-headed. She swayed, as if at any moment she would pass out. She could not believe this was happening. So many times she had thought of her mother, wondering who she was, why she had abandoned her, why her father adamantly refused to talk about her, wondering what she looked like, how she sounded, smelled, how she moved, whether she was dead or alive.
“I know you must hate me, Maricruz. You must, I know you must, but I can’t help that, can I? He took you away from me.” Her mother began to weep in earnest. “I hated him, but I loved him. God help me, I couldn’t stop loving him, and I despised myself for that. He could be so loving, and so cruel. How to explain him? How to explain what happened?”
“No more,” Maricruz begged. She did not want this moment spoiled by resurrecting the specter of her father. She didn’t want to hear any explanation of the event she had spent her entire life believing was unexplainable. She wanted to bury it in the deepest, darkest part of her, never to be examined again. “Please.”
“Will you come here, then?” Constanza held out her arms. “Will you let your mother hold you as she’s ached to do for so long?” She swallowed, though it clearly pained her. “Will you call me Mama?”
Something broke like crystal inside Maricruz, and she found herself climbing onto the bed, crawling across the covers, into her mother’s arms, where she lay with her head on her mother’s breast, listening with the naked wonder of a child to the steady beating of her mother’s heart.
Bourne returned to the house and arrived at Constanza’s bedroom to find Maricruz in her mother’s arms. The two of them spoke to each other so softly, their conversation was nothing more than a murmur.
“Is everything all right?” Manny said with a worried expression.
“For the moment, anyway.”
Manny moved to the doorway. “I think we should leave them for a while.”
Bourne followed him out into the hall and downstairs into the kitchen, where the cook was preparing what looked like an enormous meal.
As in most Mexican houses, the kitchen was large, spacious, and filled with arrays of fired clay plates, bowls, and pots. A central station held a counter and dual sink. Bourne sat at a simple carved wood refectory table while Manny brought food and drink over.
The two men ate while the cook, a heavyset Mexican woman, bustled about, preparing tacos, tamales, and their various fillings.
“Are you expecting company?” Bourne asked around a bite of refried beans.
Manny winced good-naturedly. “Hope springs eternal in Bernarda’s ample breast. At any moment, she expects the señora to come down the stairs with her appetite resurrected. If you ask her, she’s preparing for that moment, for which she prays to the Virgin Mary three times a day.”
Bourne was struck by his expression. “But you don’t believe Constanza will recover.”
Manny shrugged. “The doctor who comes is of no use, but he’s the only one she trusts, God knows why. Each day she seems worse. She has no appetite, as I’ve said, her skin is pale—sometimes, toward noon, it looks blue-gray—and lately, there are moments of confusion, when she thinks Maceo is still alive, still in love with her.”
Behind him, Bernarda, finished with the tacos and tamales, was preparing a tray presumably to take up to her mistress and her daughter.
“Then she knows Maceo Encarnación is dead.”
Manny nodded.
“How did she take it?”
“Difficult to say. She didn’t cry, didn’t even look sad. She just gazed out the window at the treetops in Lincoln Park and said, ‘It all looks the same. Just the same.’”
“She did love him, then.”
“Oh, yes. In her heart of hearts she kept certain memories of him alive, like eternal flames.”
“Even after all the hurt he caused her.”
“Well, you know, señor, humans often carry conflicting feelings at the same time.” He shrugged. “Who among us can say why?”
Bernarda crossed the kitchen with her food- and drink-laden tray, and started down the hall, heading to the stairway.
“It’s a matter of what we want versus what we have.” Bourne looked down at his coffee. Something was bothering him. He looked up. “Manny, you said that at times Constanza’s skin has a bluish tinge?”
Manny nodded. “Odd, yes?”
“Did you tell this to the doctor?”
“Honestly, I can’t remember. It’s a little thing.”
A little thing. Bourne thought about Anunciata, about how her mother had been murdered.
“Manny, how long has Bernarda been Constanza’s cook?”
“Many years, señor. She’s become part of the family.”
“Where did she come from?”
“Her cousin was originally part of Señor Encarnación’s staff.”
Bourne was up and running down the hallway.