Esteban threw his hands high in impatience. “Where do you want to go?”
“Here and there. You may take me up Calle Maduro for a start.”
“That of course is possible. Do you wish to look at the cemetery?”
“No. I want to look at the houses.”
“On Calle Maduro there is little to see, and my charges will be minimal. For one half hour the fare will be one sol.”
“What! That is double Ignaldo's rate!”
Esteban made a sound of disgust and gave in so readily that Wayness knew that her outcry had been justified. “Very well; I have nothing better to do. Climb in. The rate is one sol per hour."
Wayness stepped primly into the cab. “Mind you, I am not hiring the cab for an hour, For one-half hour, I pay one-half sol, and this rate must include the gratuities."
Esteban roared: “Why do I not just give you the cab and all my miserable belongings and walk from the town a pauper?”
Esteban's emotion was so genuine that Wayness knew they had arrived at his ordinary rate.
Wayness laughed. "Calm yourself! You cannot hope for sudden wealth every time some poor innocent enters your cab."
"You are not so innocent as you look,” grumbled Esteban. He closed the door and the cab set off up the Calle Luneta. “Where do you want to go?”
“First, let us drive up Calle Maduro.”
Esteban gave a nod of comprehension. "You have relatives in the cemetery, so it seems."
“I don’t know of any.”
Esteban raised his eyebrows. What kind of odd conduct was this? "There is little to see from one end of town to the other even less along Calle Maduro."
“Do you know the folk who live along the street?"
“I know everyone in Pombareales." Esteban turned the cab into Calle Maduro, which had been hard-surfaced a very long time ago and was now pocked with potholes. Only about half of the lots had been developed; houses stood in isolation at intervals of twenty yards or more. Each was surrounded by a yard, where occasionally a few sickly shrubs or a wind-beaten tree indicated someone's attempt at a garden. Esteban pointed to a house which showed blank windows to the street, and patches of thistle in the yard. “There is a house you might buy at the cheap."
"It looks rather dismal.”
"That is because it is haunted by the ghost of Edgar Sambaster, who hanged himself one night at midnight when the wind blew down from the mountains."
“And no one has lived there since?"
Esteban shook his head. “The owners have gone off-world. A few years ago a certain Professor Solomon became involved in a scandal and hid there for a few weeks, and no one has heard from him since.”
“Hm. Has anyone looked in the house to see whether he might be hanging there too?”
“Yes, that was considered, and the constables made an inspection, but found nothing.”
“Odd.” The cab had drawn abreast of another house, which was like any of the others except for a pair of life size statues in the front yard, representing nymphs with their arms raised in benediction. “Who lives there?"
“That is the house of Hector Lopez, who works as gardener at the cemetery. He brought home the statues when a tract of graves was relocated.”
“They make an interesting decoration."
"So it may be. There are some who think that Hector Lopez is putting on airs. What is your opinion?”
“I don't find them offensives. Could it be that the neighbors are envious?"
“Possible, I suppose. There you see the house of Leon Casinde, the pork butcher. He is a great singer and may often be heard, drunk or sober, in the cantina.”
The cab proceeded up the Calle Maduro. Esteban warmed to his task and Wayness learned much of the lives and habits of those in the houses along the way. Presently they came to No. 31, Casa Lucasta: a house of two stories, somewhat larger than others along the street, with a stout fence enclosing its yard. A garden of sorts grew along the north side of the house, in an angle protected from the wind, where the sun shone its brightest. There were geraniums, hydrangeas, marigolds, a lemon verbena, a ragged clump of bamboo. To the side were miscellaneous pieces of inexpensive outdoor furniture: a table, a bench, several chairs, a lawn swing, a large sandbox, another wooden box containing oddments of hardware. In this area, a boy of about twelve and a girl two or three years younger were occupied, each absorbed in his private concerns.
Noticing Wayness' interest, Esteban slowed the cab. He tapped his forehead significantly. “Both mental cases; very hard for the mother."
“So I should think,” said Wayness. “Stop here for a moment if you please. “She watched the children with interest. The girl sat at the table, busy with what might have been a puzzle; the boy knelt in the sandbox, building a complicated edifice from damp sand, which he had moistened with liquid from a bucket. Both children were thin: slender rather than frail, long of leg and arm. Their chestnut hair was cut short without affectation of fashion, as if no one cared much how they looked, much less themselves. Their faces were thin, with cleanly modeled features, gray eyes, pale tan skin almost imperceptibly warmed with pink and orange. They were rather attractive children, thought Wayness, though clearly not native to the locality, The girl's face showed more animation than that of the boy, who worked with thoughtful precision. Nether of the two spoke. Each, after a single disinterested glance toward the cab, paid no further heed.
"Hm!” said Wayness. “Those are the first children I have seen along the street."
“No mystery here," said Esteban. "Other children are at school."
"Yes, of course. What is wrong with these two?”
“That is hard to say. The doctors come regularly, and all leave shaking their heads, while the children continue to do as they see fit. The girl goes wild with rage if she is thwarted in any way and falls into a foaming fit, so that everyone fears for her life. The boy is sullen and won’t say a word, though he is said to be clever in certain ways. Some say that they need no more than a few good switching’s to bring them around; others say it is all a matter of hormones, or some such substance."
"For a fact, they don’t look deficient, or slack-witted. Usually the doctors can cure such folk.”
“Not these two. The doctor comes up every week from the Institute at Montalvo, but nothing seems to change."
“That’s a pity. Who is the father?”
"It is a complicated story. I mentioned Professor Solomon, who was involved in a scandal. He is off-world now, and no one seems to know where, though quite a few folk would like to find him. He is the father.”
“And the mother?”
“That would be Madame Portils who goes about proud as a Countess, even though she's a local. Her mother is Madame Clara, who was born a Salgas, and is common as dirt."
“How does Madame Portils support herself?”
“She works at the library mending books, or some such footling job. With two children and her own mother in the household she receives a public stipend, which brings her the necessities of life. No cause for vanity there; still she tilts her nose to everyone, even the upper class folk."
“She would seem to be a peculiar woman," said Wayness. "Perhaps she has secret talents.”
“If so, she is as jealous with them as if they were crimes. Ah well, it is sad, all the same.”
Down from the hill came a gust of wind, blowing dust and litter along the road, hissing among the brambles of the waste. Esteban indicated the girl. "Look! The wind excites her!"
Wayness saw that the girl had jumped to her feet, to face the wind, with feet somewhat apart, swaying and nodding her head to some slow inner cadence.
The boy paid her no heed and continued with his work. From the house came a sharp call. The girl's body lost its tension. Reluctantly she turned toward the house. The boy ignored the call, and continued his work, molding damp sand into a structure of many complications. From the house came a second call, even shorter than before. The girl halted, looked over her shoulder, went to the sandbox and with her foot obliterated the boy's handiwork. He froze into rigidity, staring at the devastation. The girl waited. The boy slowly turned his head to look at her. As best Wayness could see, his face was blank of expression. The girl turned away and with head drooping pensively, went to the house. The boy followed, slowly and sadly.