She shook her head. "What kind of act is this?"
"No act. I control him from this panel. The—master? maestro?—would not need this."
Control. Such control.
Hector seemed uncertain for a moment. "You wish to see still more? You are unsure of how he is controlled?" He thought for a moment. "Let me show you a feature."
In the stark light and shadows, she had not noticed Alfredo was nude. The Mayan turned into the light.
"There are several choices one could make when using Alfredo." Hector manipulated the box. "Pequeno." Alfredo had a normal-sized erection.
She wanted to look away and could not. The Mayan face was before her, dark, strong, and blank.
"Medio," said Hector softly.
She looked again and the erection was twice as large, pulsing to Alfredo’s breathing.
"Y monstruoso!" cried Hector.
Alfredo looked fit to be a bull, a goat, or some other animal. There was never any expression in Alfredo’s eyes.
"Y nada," said Hector. And Alfredo’s erection wilted and disappeared.
She couldn’t breathe. She wanted to run, to hide from Alfredo, but she didn’t want to be anywhere else.
"You are pleased, Señora?" Hector stood beside her.
Jean tried to clear her head. She looked away from both of them. No man could fake this. It was real, a marvelous control, a total subjugation. Was this what she had wanted all this time?
"A very nice show." She took a deep breath. "How much do I owe you?"
"You owe me nothing, Señora." Hector bowed to her. "But Alfredo is for sale." When she did not answer immediately, he continued. "He imprints on the owner, Señora. Then voice commands are sufficient. He will show initiative if you desire it, or not. He is intelligent, but only in your service."
"But you have the controls."
"They do not operate once imprinting occurs."
Crazy. Ridiculous.
"How much?" she heard herself asking.
Alfredo followed her home, mute, below the birds and the sky. She could smell him on the evening wind, a clean, strong smell.
"Do you speak?" she asked as he followed her up the steps to her room.
Alfredo did not answer for a moment. "Yes."
She asked him no more questions that night.
His mind was like a thunderstorm: thick, murky, dark, shot through intermittently by lightning. These were not blasts of intelligence or insight but the brightness of activity, the heat of flesh, the electricity of impulse. He was no more conscious of what happened or what caused his actions than lightning was conscious of the friction between clouds. Occasionally, very occasionally, a light came through him, like the sun through the distant rain, and things stilled within him.
He was a chained thunderbolt, unaware of his chains.
She copulated with Alfredo almost continuously the first three days. It was as if a beast had been loosed within her. If she wanted him to stroke her thus, he did so. If she wanted him to bite her there, it was done. Something broke within her and she tried to devour him.
It was only when she fully realized she owned him, that he would be there as long as she wanted him, that this abated. Then it was like coming up from underwater, and she looked around her.
Alfredo had cost her almost everything she had, nearly all the money she would have used to start a new life. She could not go back to Marc now. Perhaps buying Alfredo had been an act ensuring that. She didn’t know. There were jobs on the island for Americans, but they were tricky and illegal to get.
At the end of the first day of a waitress job, she came to their room tired and angry. Alfredo was sitting on the edge of the bed staring out the window. It was suddenly too much for her.
"You! I do this to feed you." She stared at him. He stared back with his dark eyes.
"I can’t go home because of you." She slapped him. There was no response.
She turned away from him and looked out at the sea and the birds. This wasn’t going to work.
Wait.
Jean turned to him. "Can you work?"
He ponderously turned his head toward her. "Yes."
"You do speak Spanish?"
"Sí."
"Come with me."
She looked through her toilet bag and found a pair of scissors. They were almost too long for what she wanted but they would do. The fluorescent light in the bathroom glittered off the steel as she cut his hair, a sharp, pointed light. After a few moments, she turned his head up toward her. The hair was nearly right. His cheek was smooth against her hand. Impulsively, she kissed him and he moved toward her but she pushed him back down in the chair. "All right," she said finally. "Take a shower." He started the water and she watched him for a long minute. After that, she thought, after that, we’ll see.
Alfredo found a job almost immediately and made enough to keep them both alive. Now, Jean lay on the beach and tanned. Alfredo worked hard and his strength was such that he could work through the siesta. He had only to watch a thing done and then could do it. The workers on Isla Mujeres grumbled. Jean shrewdly noticed this and sent him across the bay into Cancún where the wages were higher.
Two weeks after this they had enough to move into the El Presidente Hotel.
That night she looked at him. "Ever the sophisticate," she murmured. "Go get clothes fit to wear here."
Alfredo did and she went to dinner in the Caribe on his arm. He looked so strong and dignified the other women in the room looked at him, then away. Jean felt a thrill go through her. Over dinner she murmured instructions which he executed flawlessly. She felt quite fond of him.
Over coffee, the waiter brought them a message from a Lydia Conklin and friend, inviting them for cocktails.
She read it. Alfredo did not—yet—read and stared away toward the open doorway of the bar.
"What are you looking at?" she asked.
He turned to her. "Nothing."
"Look around the room regularly like a normal person."
He did not answer but instead watched the room as if bored or waiting for the check.
Jean read the note again.
She shrugged and signed the check. The two of them went to the bar for a drink.
"Excuse me." A woman stood up in front of them. "I am Lydia Conklin."
Jean looked first at her, then at Alfredo. "I’m Jean Summat. I got your note—"
"I was dying for American speech." As she spoke she only glanced at Jean. Her eyes were full of Alfredo. "You don’t know what it’s like." Now, she turned to Jean. "Or perhaps you do."
"I’ve been here a few weeks."
"Señora Summat."
That voice Jean knew. Behind and to her left was Hector. "Good evening, Hector."
"You know Hector too?" Lydia said idly. "How wonderful."
"Sit with us, Señora. Please." Hector pulled out a chair for her. Jean looked at Alfredo. Alfredo paused a moment, watched her closely, then sat across from her at the table.
Hector sat next to Jean. He leaned toward Lydia. "Señora Summat, Alfredo and myself were business partners."
"‘Were?" Lydia raised her eyebrows.
"The business is accomplished. It is of no matter."
Jean interrupted. "Are you down for a vacation, Lydia?"
Lydia shrugged. "In a way. I’m down for my health. This last year I went mad."
Hector laughed. Jean smiled uneasily. Lydia shrugged again.
"Señora Conklin makes a good joke."
"It was, I suppose." Lydia sipped her drink. "I came down here two years ago and fell in love with a Mayan. I’m back to see if lightning can strike twice."
Something in her face was hard to look at for more than a moment. Jean looked away. "What was the Mayan’s name?"