Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia Read Free Book Online Page B

curious.
    “Mesoamerican artifacts, zapote ice cream, Pedro Infante’s movies, music, dancing, and driving,” she said, counting a finger as she listed each item. She also liked to banter, but she was certain he could figure that out on his own.
    “I’m afraid I can’t be much help with that. What kind of car do you drive?”
    “The prettiest Buick you’ve ever seen. A convertible, of course.”
    “Of course?”
    “It’s more fun driving without the hood on. It makes your hair look movie-star perfect. Also, it gives you ideas, you think better,” she said, running a hand through her wavy hair jokingly. Noemí’s father said she cared too much about her looks and parties to take school seriously, as if a woman could not do two things at once.
    “What kind of ideas?”
    “Ideas for my thesis, when I get to it,” she said. “Ideas about what to do on the weekend, anything really. I do my best thinking when I’m in motion.”
    Francis had been looking at her, but now he lowered his eyes. “You’re very different from your cousin,” he told her.
    “Are you also going to tell me I lean toward a ‘darker’ type, both my hair and coloration?”
    “No,” he said. “I didn’t mean physically.”
    “Then?”
    “I think you’re charming.” A panicked look contorted his face. “Not that your cousin lacks charm. You are charming in a special way,” he said quickly.
    If you’d seen Catalina before , she thought. If he’d seen her in the city with a pretty velvet dress, going from one side of the room to the other, that gentle smile on her lips and her eyes full of stars. But here, in that musty room, with those eyes dimmed and whatever sickness had taken hold of her body…but then, perhaps it wasn’t that bad. Perhaps before the illness Catalina still smiled her sweet smile and took her husband by the hand, guiding him outside to count the stars.
    “You say that because you haven’t met my mother,” Noemí replied lightly, not wishing to voice her thoughts on Catalina. “She is the most charming woman on Earth. In her presence I feel rather tacky and unremarkable.”
    He nodded. “I know what that is like. Virgil is the family’s heir, the shining promise of the Doyles.”
    “You envy him?” she asked.
    Francis was very thin; his face was that of a plaster saint haunted by his impending martyrdom. The dark circles under his eyes, almost like bruises against that pale skin, made her suspect a hidden ailment. Virgil Doyle on the other hand had been carved from marble: he exuded strength where Francis irradiated weakness, and Virgil’s features—the eyebrows, the cheekbones, the full mouth—were bolder, entirely more attractive.
    She could not judge Francis ill if he wished for that same vitality.
    “I don’t envy him his ease with words or his looks or his position, I envy his ability to go places. The farthest I’ve ever been is El Triunfo. That’s it. He’s traveled a bit. Not for long, he’s always quick to return, but it’s a respite.”
    There was no bitterness in Francis’s words, only a tired sort of resignation as he continued speaking. “When my father was still alive he’d take me to town and I’d stare at the train station. I’d try to sneak in to look at the sign with the departure times.”
    Noemí adjusted her rebozo, trying to find warmth in its folds, but the cemetery was terribly damp and chilly; she could almost swear the temperature had dropped a couple of degrees the more they’d pressed into it. She shivered, and he noticed.
    “I’m so stupid,” Francis said, removing his sweater. “Here, have this.”
    “It’s fine. Really, I couldn’t let you freeze for my sake. Maybe if we start walking back I’ll be better.”
    “Well, fine, but please, wear it. I swear I won’t be cold.”
    She put on the sweater and wrapped the rebozo around her head. She thought he might pick up the pace since she was now walking in his sweater, but he didn’t rush back home.