Esteban set the cab into motion. “Next we will inspect the cemetery, which must be considered the climactic event for anyone who like yourself has chosen to explore Calle Maduro. To do a proper job, we must count upon investing at least half an hour, or even better.
Wayness laughed. “I have seen enough for now. You may take me back to the hotel."
Esteban gave a fatalistic shrug and started back down Calle Maduro. “You might enjoy a drive along the Avandia de las Floritas, where the patricians reside. Also, the park is well worth a visit, what with the fountain and the Palladium, where the band performs each Sunday afternoon. You would enjoy the music, which is played freely, for the ears of all. You might well meet a handsome young gentleman or two — who knows? — or even end up with a fine husband!"
“That would be a wonderful surprise,” said Wayness.
Esteban pointed to a tall lean woman approaching along the sidewalk. “There is Madame Portils herself, on her way home from work.”
Esteban slowed the cab. Wayness watched Irena Portils marching swiftly along the sidewalk, head bent, leaning forward into the wind. At first glance and from a distance she seemed comely; almost instantly the illusion shattered and vanished. She was dressed in a well-worn skirt of russet tweed and a tight-fitting black jacket. From beneath a small shapeless hat, lank black hair hung down past her cheeks. Middle age was close upon her and the years had not treated her kindly. Black eyes in dark sockets were set too closely beside a long pinched nose; her complexion was pasty and ravaged by the deep lines of stress and pessimism.
Esteban turned his head to watch her as the cab passed by. "Strange to say, she was a handsome piece of goods when she was young. But she went off to actor's school and next we heard she had joined a troupe of comic impressionists or dramaturgists — whatever — these groups are called, and the word came that she had gone off-world with the troupe and no one thought of her again until one day she returned and then she was married to Professor Solomon, who called himself an archaeologist. They only stayed a month or two and were gone off-world again."
Esteban had arrived at a long low concrete building shaded by a half dozen eucalyptus trees. Wayness said: “This is not the Hotel Monopole!"
"I took a wrong turning,” Esteban explained. “This is the poultry cooperative. Now that we are here, perhaps you will want to look at the chickens. No? Then I'll take you to the hotel, at best speed.”
Wayness settled back into the seat. “You were telling me about Professor Solomon.”
“Ah, yes. The Professor and Irena returned a few years ago, with the children. For a time Professor Solomon was well-regarded, and considered a credit to the community, being a scientist and a man of education. He occupied himself, exploring the mountains and looking for prehistoric ruins. Then he claimed he had found some buried treasure and involved himself in a terrible scandal, so that he was forced to take himself off-world. Irena claims she knows nothing of his whereabouts, but no one believes her."
Esteban guided the cab from Calle Luneta to its previous place beside the hotel. "And that is the state of affairs along Calle Maduro."
Wayness sat in a corner of the hotel lobby, eyes half-closed, notebook in her lap. Under the heading ‘Irena Portils’ she had started to organize a few ideas, but the topic was baffling and her thinking blurred. Her mind needed rest. A few tranquil hours might clarify her problems. Wayness settled back into the chair and tried not to think.
A soothing murmur permeated the lobby. It was an enormous room, with massive wooden beams supporting a high ceiling. Furnishings were heavy: leather upholstered chairs and couches, long low tables whose tops were single slabs of chirique. In the far wall an archway opened into the restaurant.
A party of ranchers entered from the square and seated themselves to drink beer and discuss business before moving into the restaurant for lunch. Wayness found that their joviality, loud voices and sudden claps of hand on leg interfered with her efforts not to think: Also, one of the ranchers boasted a very large bushy black mustache, at which Wayness could not avoid staring, even though she began to fear that the rancher might notice and come over to ask why she was looking at his mustache.
Wayness decided that it was time for her own lunch. She went into the restaurant and was seated where she could overlook the square, though at this time of day nothing of consequence was happening.
According to the menu, one of the daily specials was ptarmigan: an item which intrigued Wayness, since she had never seen it offered on a menu before. Well then, she thought: why not? She so placed her order, but in the end found the ptarmigan too gamy for her taste.
Wayness lingered at the table over dessert and coffee. The afternoon lay before her, but she decided not to attempt another period of serenity, and once again she took up the matter of Irena Portils.
The basic problem was straightforward: how to induce Irena to reveal the whereabouts of the man known as ‘Professor Solomon’?
Wayness brought out her notebook and examined the entries she had inscribed earlier in the day.
Problem: Find Moncurio.
— Solution 1; Make a full explanation to Irena and request cooperation.
— Solution 2; Similar to No.1, but offer of money — perhaps considerable money.
— Solution 3: Hypnotize or drug Irena Portils, and so extract the information from her.
— Solution 4; While house is unoccupied, search for clues.
— Solution 5; Question Irena's mother and/or children. (???)
— Solution 6: None of above.
Wayness was not encouraged by her review of the notes. Solution 1, the most reasonable, would almost surely embroil her in an emotional confrontation with Madame Portils and cause her to become more intractable than ever. The same could be said for Solution 2. Solutions 3, 4, and 5 were almost equally impractical. Solution 6 was clearly the most feasible of the group.
Wayness returned to the lobby. The time was a few minutes after two o'clock, with the balance of the afternoon still ahead. Wayness went to the desk, where the clerk directed her to the public library.
“It is a five minute walk," said the clerk. He pointed his pencil. "Go along Calle Luneta a single block, to Calle Basilio; on the corner you will find a large acacia tree. Turn to the left and walk a block, which will bring you to the library.”
“That seems simple enough."
“Just so. Do not neglect the collection of primitive pottery on display in the reference department. Even here in Patagonia, where the gauchos once roamed, we honor the ideals of high culture.”
A door of bronze and glass slid aside; Wayness entered a foyer equipped with the usual amenities. Halls to left and right led to the various special departments. Wayness wandered here and there, at all times covertly watching for Irena Portils. She had formed no plan; still it seemed certain that these particular premises might be the best, perhaps the only, environment in which to make Irena‘s acquaintance. She paused to examine a rack of periodicals, pretended to consult the information banks, stopped to ponder the schedule of library hours, as posted on a sign. Nowhere did she so much as glimpse Irena, who perhaps had gone home for the day.