El Paso: A Novel (28 page)

Rodriguez broke the silence. “There’s a nice place about fifteen miles west of here. A family named Gonzales; real decent people. He manages the orchards in your San Pietra River section. He’d be honored to have you.”

Finally the Colonel spoke. “Well, that’s it, I guess. Rod, will you see that everything’s prepared for them? Luggage, fresh bed linens, lamps, books, whatever they need. Bomba will be going with them, and I want you to take a dozen or so of your best men. Have them posted as lookouts and guard the place, but don’t make it look conspicuous. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Rodriguez nodded and left the room.

Arthur glared in disgust at his father, but said nothing.

“Now, look, Arthur,” said the Colonel, “what else can we do? There’s no safe way to get them out. We’ve happened to have come at a bad time. Whether Villa wins or loses, he won’t stay in Chihuahua indefinitely. Carranza’s got plenty more troops to send up here and drive him away. The best thing to do with the family is keep them put until this situation blows over and the trains start running again. As for us, we’re going to get those cattle out of here. Come along if you wish.”

That again. A challenge since the day he arrived on the Shaughnessy doorstep.

“Don’t worry,” Arthur said. “I’ll be there.”

ARTHUR WENT TO XENIA SHORTLY AFTERWARD
and told her the plan. She seemed shaken by it—and Xenia was not often shaken.

“I know it sounds frightening,” he said, “but you’re safer staying here.”

They were in her room at Valle del Sol; a breeze from the blue distant mountains fluttered the curtains, reminding Arthur of those afternoons in Paris when they’d first met. Through the big window, they could see the orchards spread out along a hillside crowned with the silhouetted dots of cattle walking slowly along the crest.

“Well, I said wanted an adventure,” Xenia remarked.

“Something to tell our grandchildren.” God, he thought, I’m beginning to sound exactly like Papa. “I wish Mick was here,” Arthur said.

“Why do you say that?” she snapped.

There was something in her tone Arthur didn’t understand. “He’s a negotiator,” Arthur replied. “I’ll bet he could negotiate with Pancho Villa, if it came to that.”

“I thought he was the lawyer for the gangs,” she said. Arthur sensed discomfort in her voice.

“Did you know the government once hired him to arrange the release of one of its diplomats?”

She shook her head.

“Mick’s a salesman. He sells ideas to people—puts ideas in their heads they thought they’d never have.”

Xenia came to him for what he at first took for a hug of affection. He took her gently in his arms, not holding her tightly, but enough to feel the warm curves of her body, and ran his hands over her back, and then moved them down.

“Oh, Arthur . . .” she said.

He didn’t answer, but continued touching her, until she suddenly pushed herself away and turned her back to him.

“There is something I need to tell you,” Xenia said. As she sat on the bed facing him, noise from the courtyard below swelled up,
charros
flirting with señoritas. Then she let out a breath and began.

WHEN ARTHUR WAS AWAY IN CHICAGO
a couple of months back and she had gone to Back Bay for a ladies’ luncheon at the Copley House, Mick had spied her in the lobby as she was leaving.

“Well, now,” Mick said jovially. “Where is our young Arthur? In Chicago, I’ll bet, counting his money.” Mick was dressed to the nines, his face tanned, his shirt collar starched and firm around his muscular neck. He’d removed his top hat and bowed.

“Yes, you have it right,” Xenia said. “We’ve been wanting to have you to dinner, but Arthur is just so busy these days . . .”

“Not to worry, my dear, I understand. I’m just old Mick, a poor relation . . .” He began to scrape and tug at his forelock, an old joke between him and Arthur. It made Xenia laugh.

“So if the man himself is not available, why don’t you come and join poor old Mick for a libation? You see, I just settled a rather large matter, and crave companionship.”

Mick was already a drink or two in, but Xenia didn’t want to seem rude, even if it
was
the height of impropriety to be seen in public with a man not her husband. And just at the moment Xenia didn’t care. Seeing Mick always put her in a good humor, as it did for Arthur. Mick was full of smiles and stories and dash, and she found him handsome. Besides, she was a modern woman who’d just had an excruciating lunch with a hundred biddies whom she couldn’t care about less. It had not been her avant-guarde literary set today, but the obligatory annual luncheon of the Back Bay Women’s Society, which had devolved into a silly society of bluenoses partially interested in planting flowers in the city’s parks.

“All right,” Xenia said.

They sat at a table beside big palms growing in hammered brass urns. Mick ordered a whiskey and a bottle of white Bordeaux, which was brought to their table in a bucket. It was midafternoon and there were few patrons there, which made Xenia feel more comfortable. She sipped her wine and made small talk, then had another glass, which she drank a little faster. It was terribly unlike her, but by the end of an hour she’d drained two-thirds of the bottle.

“I’m going to Paris, France, at the end of the month,” Mick was saying.

“Oh, wonderful,” Xenia said. “That’s where—”

“I know,” he cut her off.

“There’s a little pension, just off the Champs—”

“I know about that, too.”

“I bet you’ll meet a girl there,” Xenia said. “Just the way Arthur and I—”

“Such luck.” He sighed. He seemed to be cutting off all her thoughts.

“I wish Arthur and I could go back there.”

“For a renewal?” Mick asked.

“Something like that. He’s just so—”

“I know.” He cut her off again.

Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Could I have another glass?” she said. “I’m worried about Arthur.” She told him: Arthur worked too hard, was away so much of the time, and when he was home he didn’t seem to enjoy the company of her friends. He either went flying or stayed up in his study with the butterflies or coins and stamps. He didn’t even seem to have much time for the children.

Mick nodded and listened. He offered an opinion that Arthur actually didn’t like her friends or enjoy her salon parties.

“But he’s always encouraged me,” she said. “He seemed to be having a good time, at first, anyway . . .” She nodded when the waiter offered to refill her wine glass.

Xenia still had trouble piecing together what happened next; it seemed like a long, odd blur. She remembered talking to Mick about Arthur, about their lives. She remembered at one point that he reached over and put his hand on top of hers. She didn’t remove it, and then she recalled turning her hand over and taking his in hers, the fingers entwining. The sun seemed to be going down outside, casting bright slanted shadows on the palm fronds. Another bottle of wine arrived. People began to fill up the place. She remembered looking into Mick’s eyes. Both of them were leaning toward each other across the table. The point she tried to make seemed important. Mick was terribly sympathetic, the most sympathetic person she’d ever met.

Then he looked up and said:

“Xenia, I think that’s old Thomaston, from the bank. He’ll have with him a party you’ll know. I keep rooms here. Do you think we might be more comfortable up there?”

She didn’t think. She nodded. Waiters came, chairs were moved. They were on an elevator, in a hallway, a door opened. She was in a large elegant suite. Wine was put to chill in a silver cooler. A glass. He pressed against her from behind. She could feel his breath, his excitement. She tried to move away, but he held her firmly and put his hands around her waist. She tried again, but he had her tightly, pressing harder and harder.

“No, Mick,” she said, “no—what’s this?” It seemed like something that was not actually happening and that her voice was incorporeal.

He turned her around and began to kiss her. She turned her head away, but he grabbed her hair and pulled her back. She tried to talk through his mouth on hers, telling him, “No, no . . .” But he held her arms tightly and pushed her onto a sofa. She kept saying, “No, no, Mick, please . . .” But he was too strong. She started to scream, but he put his hand over her mouth and with the other was fumbling under her dress. She remembered feeling fright, panic. Then he was on top of her, with his hand still over her mouth. She managed to get an arm free and raked his face hard with her nails, but he twisted it back and held it down. She kept struggling and crying, “No, no,” but all that came out were muffled noises.

Afterward he’d gone into the bedroom and she lay there, finally staggering to the bathroom, where she threw up. She looked into the mirror: her makeup was smeared and there were black streaks on her cheeks where the mascara ran. She washed her face and straightened herself up as best she could. There was blood on her collar. When she came out of the bathroom, he was waiting for her.

Mick offered to escort her down to her car and she let him, stunned, shocked, and still under the influence of drink. No words were exchanged.

She woke up before dawn in her own bed, head splitting, and it took several minutes for her to remember, but it hit her like a blow to the stomach. Her mind was swimming and confused. She was still dressed and she began to tear at the clothing and throw it in all directions. This kind of thing doesn’t happen, she kept repeating to herself.

Arthur’s best friend! What if anybody found out? Who would believe her? For a moment she decided it hadn’t happened; only a monstrous dream. But no, no dream. She went into the bathroom and became sick again, then bathed, and that’s when she noticed blood under her fingernails. At least she’d fought.

She sat on the edge of her bed as her mind raced hysterically. How could she explain to Arthur, or anyone, what she had been doing in Mick’s hotel suite—drinking? It would be Mick’s word against hers, and he was a skillful lawyer. Suppose no one believed her? Suppose . . .

That morning a spray of roses arrived. No card. She knew who they were from. An hour later the maid came to her room to announce a visitor. She knew who that was, too. Xenia came down in her dressing gown and robe. They sat in the parlor with the door closed.

“What have you done, to come here?” she demanded desperately.

“Not me—us.”

“You rotten thing! You know exactly what . . .” There were deep ugly scratch marks on his right cheek. She was glad to see that; it was like the mark of Cain.

“I want to apologize,” he said.

“You . . . raped me!” she spat between clenched teeth.

“Xenia, that’s not so!” His voice was firm; even. His opening argument clearly had not worked.

“I was drinking wine, Mick. I only wanted to tell you about Arthur.”

“You didn’t need to tell me a thing.”

She remembered how he kept cutting her off, her thoughts truncated by this smooth-tongued killer of men.

“I want you to leave now,” Xenia told him. She had to look away because she was confused by what she felt—other than sheer revulsion.

“Why? Because of something we’ve both known was bound to happen between us for the past ten years?”

“That’s not true!
Nothing
was bound to happen! I was trying to talk to you, and you took advantage of me!”

“I
am
Arthur!” he burst out. “Arthur and I are as the same person, and we have been all our lives—since either of us can remember. I would do anything under the sun for him, or for you.”

“You are insane! Get out!” she said, but Mick ignored the order.

Mick, too, had tried to make sense of it in his own desperate, impulsive way. He told her that the three of them could work it out—Arthur in Chicago four days a week and then . . .

“You’re crazy!” Xenia said to him, appalled. “Do you have any idea what you did?”

Mick was not paying attention to her. She watched as he began to grovel. Yesterday he had forced her; today he fell to his knees. It would have been comical in a play, with her in the audience and not onstage. He began blubbering, “I am not a bad man. Believe me, I’ll make it right.”