The Peacock Emporium(118)

Alejandro stared into the water for some time, then turned to him. “You can tell Mama,” he said, and let out a deep sigh, “that I’m coming home.”

“What is wrong with a nice woman’s shoe?” Jorge stopped, and swallowed the last of his sandwich. “What?”

“I’ve handed in my notice. I’m coming back in three weeks.”

Jorge wondered if he had heard him correctly. “Your mother will be pleased,” he said carefully. Then he wiped his mustache and put his handkerchief back into his pocket. “What happened? The pay is no good?”

“The pay is okay.”

“You don’t like the work?”

“The work is fine. It’s pretty universal, you know.” Alejandro did not smile.

“You can’t settle? Is it your mother? Is she plaguing you? She told me about the lock of hair—I’m so sorry, son. She doesn’t understand, you know. She doesn’t see it like other people. It’s because she doesn’t get out enough, you know? She thinks too much about things . . .” Jorge was suddenly swamped by guilt. This was why he was more comfortable with reticence. Conversation inevitably led to awkwardness. “You shouldn’t let her trouble you.”

“It’s a woman, Pa. She’s killing me.”

The fact that they were in the middle of a thirty-acre lake meant that no one saw Jorge’s eyes widen slightly, then raise to heaven as he uttered a near-silent “Thank God!”

“A woman!” he said, trying to keep his voice free of blatant joy. “A woman!”

Alejandro’s head dropped onto his knees.

Jorge straightened his face. “And this is a problem?”

Alejandro spoke into his knees: “She’s married.”

“So?”

Alejandro looked up, bewildered.

The words bubbled out of Jorge. “You’re getting older, son. You’re not likely to find anyone that doesn’t have a little . . . history.” He was still fighting the urge to dance a little jig round his son.

“History? That’s only part of it.”

A woman. He could have sung it, let the sound burst forth from his lungs. Carry across the lake and bounce back at him off the shore. A woman!

Alejandro’s face was hidden, his back bent as if he were in acute pain. Jorge composed himself, tried to focus on his son’s misery and introduce a more somber tone to his voice.

“So. This woman.”

“Suzanna.”

“Suzanna.” Jorge said the name reverentially. “You—you care for her?”

It was a stupid question. Alejandro lifted his head and Jorge remembered what it was like to be a young man, the agony, the volatility of love.

His son’s voice was stilted: “She—she’s everything. I can’t see anything but her, you know? Even when I’m with her. I don’t even want to blink when I’m near her in case I miss a single moment . . .”

Perhaps if he had been someone else, Jorge might have uttered a few platitudes about first love, about how these things became easier, about how there were plenty more fish in the sea. But this was his son, and Jorge knew better.

“Pa? What do I do?” He looked like he was about to explode with frustration and misery, as if talking about the cause of his unhappiness had made his suffering more acute.

Jorge de Marenas straightened himself up, his shoulders a little squarer, his expression dignified and paternal. “You have told her how you feel?”

Alejandro nodded miserably.

“And do you know how she feels?”

The young man looked out across the water. Eventually he turned back to his father, and shrugged.

“She wants to stay?”

Alejandro made as if to speak, but his mouth closed before it had the chance to form words.

If they had been seated side by side, Jorge would have put his arm around his son. Instead he leaned forward, and laid his hand on his son’s knee. “Then you’re right,” he said. “It’s time to go home.”

The water lapped against the side of the boat. Jorge adjusted the oars, opened another beer, and handed it to his son. “I meant to tell you. This Sofia Guichane . . . the one who asked to be remembered to you.” He leaned back in the boat, blessing God silently for the joy of fishing. “Gente says she and Eduardo Guichane are to split.”



* * *



—

As Suzanna left Cath’s house, she bumped into Father Lenny. He was walking along the pavement, holding a bag under his arm, his robe swinging. “How is she?” he said, nodding at Cath’s house.

Suzanna grimaced, unable to convey what she felt.

“I’m glad you came,” he said. “Not enough do. Shame, really.”

“I don’t know if I was any help,” she said.

“What’s happening with the shop? Are you headed off there now? I notice you’ve been shut a lot lately.”

“It’s been . . . difficult.”

“Hang on in there,” he said. “You might find things easier after the inquest.”

She felt the familiar clench of discomfort. She was not looking forward to giving evidence.

“I’ve done a few,” he said, closing the gate behind him. “They’re not so bad. Really.”