The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(22)

That day, as she reached the cenote, she wondered about the texture of snow. It was hot, so it was an odd thought to be having, but it was precisely the heat that inspired her. Ramona said you could cool your body down by thinking about cold things, such as the splash of water against your face. Carlota didn’t believe it worked, but still she amused herself thinking of water and now of snow. If one looked at a snowflake under a microscope it became a series of silvery triangles and hexagons and stars. That is what the textbooks said.

When she lay down on the ground and draped an arm across her eyes, she tried to conjure the taste of ice. The textbooks didn’t talk about the taste of rain or ice, nor the scent of red earth.

She could have lived forever by the water hole, lying peaceful like that. But Montgomery came, stern and serious, and she followed him, hand brushing against the old carving of the jaguar, hand brushing on his sleeve, down the trail, her steps light, barely making the leaves crunch, and his heavy leather boots loud against twigs and minuscule plants.

She liked Montgomery in the same way she liked the ring-tailed coati, the bez-muuch whose croak resembled the baying of the calf rather than the croaking of other frogs, or the cry of the owl, which Ramona thought unlucky. She liked Montgomery because he was part of her world and she loved everything in it. He was like that well-trodden path.

But he could be difficult, and sometimes she wanted to dig her nails into his hand, leave half-moons behind. Lupe could be difficult, too. Not Cachito—he was always friendly. And not her father. She was never cross at her father. She respected him too much, and if they had a disagreement, Carlota was quick to blame herself and never the doctor.

She was to be docile and sweet. That is how Dr. Moreau wished his daughter to act. She attempted to comply. Nevertheless, that morning she had spoken spiteful words, feeling as if Montgomery was baiting her. “Really? What do you find so enticing about the city? That you can lose all your wages on a game of tute or baccarat?” she asked.

“One insult a day is quite enough for me, Miss Moreau,” he said. “Two is more than I will bear on an empty stomach.”

Despite their occasional verbal sparring, Carlota did not seek to hurt Montgomery’s feelings, and she felt contrite as they walked together. When they arrived at Yaxaktun, he stayed by the portón while she went into the courtyard. Lupe was standing by the birdcages, and Carlota sighed, remembering she hadn’t been good to Lupe that day, either.

“You forgot to feed the parrot before you took off,” Lupe said.

“I can do it now.”

“No need. I fed it.”

“Are you still angry at me?”

Lupe looked at Carlota, lips pursed. “I thought you were angry at me.”

“Maybe for a minute or two.”

They walked back into the house slowly, Carlota whispering an “I’m sorry” and Lupe mumbling the same. Then Montgomery brushed past them, and Carlota watched in surprise as he opened a glass case and pulled out one of the rifles. But the surprise was not alarm. It was when Montgomery raised his voice sharply that her body tensed.

“Stay inside,” he said, rifle in hand, and she wondered what he was up to. She followed him quietly, and stood in the shadows, not far from the doorway, and heard him speak.

There were visitors outside. Montgomery talked with that steady tone that concealed his aggravation like a knife in its sheath, while the men spoke back in indignant voices, their words growing louder. She remembered that Montgomery was drinking again, and this troubled her. Drink could deform a man and cloud his brain. What if Montgomery made a mistake?

“Get my father,” she whispered to Lupe, who was standing next to her, also listening intently.

She could picture Montgomery’s finger brushing the trigger of his rifle, and she felt compelled to act. Carlota stepped forward, her agitation never reaching her mouth. The words came out politely.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll forgive me, I’ve taken the liberty of having my father woken up. Dr. Moreau will be with us in a few minutes,” she said.

There were six men, four still on their horses and two who had dismounted and were quarreling with Montgomery. This pair was dressed properly, like gentlemen out of fashion plates. One of them grasped his hat tight between his hands, looking embarrassed the moment he spotted her. She saw the resemblance with Mr. Lizalde, but the young man’s eyes were green and his features were finer than his father’s.

And just like that, it was as if she’d thrown a bucket of water onto a fire. The green-eyed gentleman stumbled forward, kissed her hand, then the other one followed suit. She guided them inside, to the sitting room, which had seldom seen visitors. The mangy old parrot, in its cage, let out a loud cry as if greeting them.

“I must apologize for this unorthodox introduction. My name is Eduardo Lizalde, and this is my cousin, Isidro,” said the handsome young man as she sat down, her hands carefully joined together, resting on her lap.

He had said nothing as they walked through the courtyard, though she had felt his sidewise glances.

“I am pleased to meet you. Though perhaps you do not owe me an apology. Mr. Laughton was merely safeguarding our home,” she said. Her voice was firm, but there was no malice in it. She did not resent the visit.

“Why, of course, I apologize,” the young man replied amicably, turning to Montgomery and pressing a hand against his chest. “It’s been a bothersome day, and I’m afraid the heat got to me.”