“What does that mean?”
Mayra shrugged. “Se?or, will you talk to Do?a Angélica about me working here? Julia is so angry with me I doubt she’ll help me.”
This was the second person here who had asked me to do something for her on account of me being a man with money. I was surprised—I was a stranger to them with little influences.
“Of course I’ll talk to her.”
“But Don Cristóbal, promise me you won’t tell her I’m having Father Alberto’s child. It would ruin him.”
If only his reputation depended on me keeping a secret, but it didn’t. Sooner or later, the truth would come out and everyone would know what the town’s priest had been doing with his free time.
“I promise you I won’t tell her, but I don’t think you’ll be able to keep this a secret for much longer.”
I thought about my father and what I’d discovered last night. He’d had an illegitimate daughter with a maid. Now, his son had done the very same thing. Alberto had more in common with Armand Lafont than either one ever knew.
CHAPTER 26
It was so ironic, and unfair, that someone like Alberto—a priest of all people—and this na?ve girl, Mayra, were going to have a baby when they hadn’t even been trying. Not only that, but they also wanted to get rid of it. Meanwhile, Cristóbal and I had been desperately trying to conceive a child for years through amorous encounters that had turned into an item on a checklist we must complete during specific times and days of fertility. A partnership to achieve a common goal—that was what my marriage had become in the last few years.
Mayra’s news had upset me in ways I couldn’t have imagined. It had brought back so many memories: the lists of names that Cristóbal and I had come up with for our unborn children, the tight feel of my swelling stomach, the evenings knitting baby blankets, and inevitably, the blood stains in my drawers.
I would take the nausea and tender breasts if it meant that in the end, I would hold my baby in my arms. I dried my eyes. I hadn’t been lying to Soledad when I mentioned my melancholy.
“Good morning,” Martin said from behind.
I adjusted my glasses and turned to him. Mayra had left a long time ago, but I hadn’t found enough energy to get up from the rock where I sat, numbly staring at the banana peel filling up with ants.
It had been a full day since I’d last seen Martin and my annoyance with him had already dissipated. I should be angry after his offer but there was one thought that had appeased me.
If he truly was a murderer, he could’ve sent someone else to kill me after I arrived at the hacienda, or do it himself. He’d had plenty of opportunities to do so in the last week.
“What are you doing here?” he asked cheerfully.
Would he smile like that if he knew who I was, or if he knew that I was going to decline his business proposition? He was chewing on a cacao bean again. One could easily break a tooth biting on that. What a pity he’d never tried real chocolate.
“Thinking,” I said. “Look, there’s something I would like to talk to you about. But not here.”
I didn’t want either one of my sisters to hear our conversation.
“Sure.” He scratched his head, looking around. “I have to take care of some business now, but come to my house for lunch.”
I nodded. I was dreading my conversation with him, but I couldn’t hide forever. I had to give him an answer and see how he reacted. This way, I’d be able to tell the kind of person he was. You could better understand someone’s character in moments of anger or crisis. What were his limits? What would he be willing to do to get what he wanted?
*
A couple of hours later, I arrived at Martin’s house. Somehow, I’d tamed Pacha enough to bring me. A woman in her fifties with flushed cheeks and a nasal voice opened the door.
“About time!” Martin called from the parlor. “You almost made it to dinner! But don’t just stand there, hombre! Come on in. Have an aperitif.”
As I entered the house, I took in the aroma of something being fried in the kitchen. I glanced at the skylight ceiling, unable to resist its mesmerizing effect.
The maid excused herself and hurried back to the kitchen, where just the other day, Martin had cooked the line-caught bass for me.
“I didn’t know you had a maid,” I said.
“She only comes in the mornings, on weekdays. She has six children in Vinces.” He opened a bottle of aguardiente and served two shots. “Lunch will be ready in a few minutes. You’ll have to excuse Bachita, she’s running late.”