Mexican Gothic - Silvia Moreno-Garcia Page 0,67

for her to follow her. They went into a room she had not visited before. It had a large, solid table with an old-fashioned sewing machine set atop it. Open shelves held sewing baskets and yellowed fashion magazines. On a wall you could see old nails, signaling the spot where there had once been paintings and now there were smudges, faint traces of frames. But the room was very tidy, very clean.

“What do you need?” Florence asked.

“I asked Francis to take me to town this morning. I know you don’t like it when we leave without speaking to you. I wanted you to know it was my fault. You shouldn’t be angry at him.”

Florence sat down on a large chair that was set next to the table, her fingers laced together, and stared at Noemí. “You think me harsh, don’t you? No, don’t deny it.”

“Strict would be the most appropriate word,” Noemí said politely.

“It is important to maintain a sense of order in one’s house, in one’s life. It helps you determine your place in the world, where you belong. Taxonomical classifications help place each creature atop its right branch. It’s no good to forget yourself, nor your obligations. Francis has duties, he has chores. You pull him away from those chores. You make him forget his obligations.”

“But surely he doesn’t have chores all day long.”

“Doesn’t he? How would you know? Even if his days are made of leisure, why should he spend them with you?”

“I don’t mean to take up all his time, but I don’t see—”

“He’s silly when he is with you. He completely forgets who he’s supposed to be. And do you think Howard would let him have you?” Florence shook her head. “The poor boy,” she muttered. “What do you want, hmm? What do you want from us? There’s nothing left to give.”

“I wanted to apologize,” Noemí said.

Florence pressed a hand against her right temple and closed her eyes. “You have. Go, go.”

And like the wretched creature that Florence had mentioned, that does not know its place nor how to find it, Noemí sat on the stairs for a while, staring at the nymph on the newel post and contemplating the motes of dust dancing in a ray of light.

16

Florence would not let Noemí sit alone with Catalina. One of the maids, Mary, had been ordered to stand guard in a corner. Noemí was not to be trusted ever again. Nobody said that was the case, but while she approached her cousin’s bed the maid moved slowly around, arranging the clothes in the armoire, folding a blanket. Needless tasks.

“Could you do that later, please?” she asked Mary.

“No time for it in the morning,” the maid replied, her voice even.

“Mary, please.”

“Don’t worry about her,” Catalina said. “Sit.”

“Oh, I…Yes, it doesn’t matter,” Noemí said, trying not to be upset about this. She wanted to maintain a positive façade for Catalina. Besides, Florence had said she could have a half hour with Catalina, nothing more, and she wanted to make the best of it. “You look much better.”

“Liar,” Catalina said, but she smiled.

“Should I fluff your pillows? Hand you your slippers so tonight you can dance like one of the Twelve Dancing Princesses?”

“You liked the illustrations in that book,” Catalina said softly.

“I did. I admit I’d read it right now if I could.”

The maid began fussing with the curtains, turning her back to them, and Catalina gave Noemí an eager look. “Maybe you’d read me poetry? There’s my old book of poems there. You know how I like Sor Juana.”

She did remember the book, which rested on the night table. Like the tome packed with fairy tales, this was a familiar treasure. “Which one should I read?” Noemí asked.

“ ‘Foolish Men.’ ”

Noemí turned the pages. There it was, the well-worn pages as she remembered. And there too was an unusual element. A yellow, folded piece of paper tucked against the pages. Noemí glanced at her cousin. Catalina said nothing, her lips were pressed tight, but in her eyes Noemí read a naked fear. She glanced in Mary’s direction. The woman was still busy with the curtains. Noemí pocketed the piece of paper and began reading. She went through several poems, keeping her voice steady. Eventually Florence arrived at the doorway carrying a silver tray with a matching teapot and a cup and a handful of cookies on a porcelain plate.

“It’s time to let Catalina rest,” Florence said.

“Of course.”

Noemí clapped the book shut and docilely bid her cousin goodbye. When

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