"Alberto. Hector is helping me find another."
Hector seemed nervous. He turned to Jean. "I introduce Señora Conklin to eligible men—"
"He pimps for me." Lydia lit a cigarette. "Your Mayan reminds me of Alberto."
"Alfredo. His name is Alfredo." Jean looked at Alfredo. His face was impassive.
"The names are almost the same." Lydia blew smoke in the air above the table.
"Did Alberto care for you?"
"He"—Lydia paused a moment—"he adored me. He was my slave."
"Señoras? Would you care for more drinks?" Hector was perspiring now.
Jean and Lydia stared at one another.
Jean turned to Alfredo. "What do you think of this?"
Alfredo did not speak for a long minute, watching the two women. Then he smiled at Jean. "A Mayan is no woman’s slave." And he laughed.
Lydia stared at him with an open mouth. Hector frowned.
Jean looked at them both in triumph. "I suspect that may be the definitive Mayan answer. Alfredo, would you take me to my room?"
Alfredo stood quickly and led her away.
Jean was thinking: What is in him? What is in there?
It was June now and the island was somewhat hotter and much more humid. The frigate birds flew low over the buildings as if the wet air could not support them. The Mexican fishermen brought in great nets of snapper and bonita. The American sport fishermen disappeared in search of marlin and sailfish.
Lydia Conklin stayed. She always seemed to be watching Alfredo. Hector seemed to leave the island regularly but he always returned. Jean fancied she could tell when either was around just by the feeling of eyes on Alfredo.
Often Lydia would invite them to dinner, or cards, or for drinks. Usually Jean turned her down. Sometimes, though, they would go and Jean never could figure out why. There was a dance here, a dangerous ballet that attracted her.
One evening, they were drinking in Lydia’s apartment in the Presidente.
"You know," Lydia began, swirling tequila in a brandy snifter. "I’ve been seeing you both for a couple of months now. I don’t know what Alfredo does. What do you do, Alfredo?"
Alfredo sat back in his chair and looked at Jean, then back to Lydia. "Do?"
"How do you support yourself?"
For a moment, Alfredo did not seem to understand. "I do contract work."
Jean glanced at him over the rim of her glass. Good God. What have I got here?
"Contract work?" Lydia came over to him. "Did you build these great strong arms at a desk job?"
Alfredo shook his head. "I do nothing with a desk. I work with bricklayers. Tilers. Those who build walls and houses."
"Ah!" Lydia leaned back. "You are a contractor."
"That’s what I said."
"This is how you support her? This is what she left her husband for?" Lydia stiffened and swayed, looked down at him. "Christ, you have sunk low."
Jean didn’t know which of them Lydia was speaking to. Alfredo looked at Jean and suddenly there was pleading in his eyes.
"I think it’s time we left, Lydia." Jean carefully put down her drink. "Thanks and all."
Lydia threw her glass against the wall shattering it. "I’m sick of this! I owned him before you—then, I left him. Hector sold him to me first! Do you understand? To me!" She knelt before him. "Alberto. Tell me you remember me. Tell me I didn’t come back for nothing."
Jean couldn’t move.
Alfredo put out his hand and touched her cheek. He traced the line of her jaw, then held her head in both hands. He tilted her face toward his. Her tears were clearly visible now, hot and pouring. He looked at her closely, staring, searching her face with his eyes.
"I don’t know you," he said softly and let her go.
She fell at his feet and started sobbing.
Alfredo took Jean’s arm and led her out. "It’s been a lovely evening," Jean said as they left.
Later: in bed.
It took her a long time to catch her breath afterward. She was covered in a light sheen of sweat that made her cold in the air-conditioning. "What are you?" she asked quietly.
He did not answer. She drew the tip of her finger down his chest. "Answer me. What are you?"
He looked at her in the dark and she could see a glow in his eyes.
"I don’t know."
You could not call it consciousness, for consciousness determines its own needs and he could not do that. He was predetermined. He was programmed. Neither could you call him a person, for a person has a complex assortment of drives that come from many sources. His drives were simple and their source was singular.
He was a tooclass="underline" intelligent, willful, resourceful. A tool aimed at a specific purpose.
Jean followed him to Cancún.
She sat in the far back section of the crowded ferry, away from him. There had been a storm the day before and though the air was clear, the resulting seas kept the big automobile ferry at dock. But the little ferry that carried only people plowed through the sea. It was close and hot aboard the boat and it stank of animals, sweat, rotten fish, diesel fumes. The sea pitched them back and forth until Jean was sure she was about to be sick. A large rip in the fabric covering the deck rails showed the bobbing horizon and she stared at it until she had the nausea under control.
Alfredo did not seem to notice. He sat on one of the benches leaning on his elbows.
When the boat docked he hailed one of the cabs and left. Jean was barely able to hail one in time to follow him.
His cab stopped just outside the Plaza Hidalgo next to the site of a new library. Alfredo stepped out of the cab and Jean didn’t recognize him at first. He’d changed in the cab. His workman’s dungarees and loose shirt were gone. Now, he was wearing a tie and short-sleeved white shirt and slacks. He walked over to the contractor’s office, never noticing her following him. She saw him talking with the architect in rapid-fire Spanish. He seemed to be in charge of the construction. She withdrew before he could see her.
As Jean left the construction site she saw a woman sitting on the park bench across the street from the office. The woman smoked a cigarette and watched Alfredo through the office window. It was Lydia Conklin.
Jean moved into the shade behind her to watch.
After an hour or so, Alfredo came out with a soda and sat down with the foreman to discuss some detail of the construction. Lydia put out the cigarette and crossed the street to him. He stood to meet her. They spoke for several minutes. Suddenly, Lydia raked his face with her nails—Jean could see the blood—and left him, walking hurriedly.
Jean left hurriedly, too. She had no desire to see Lydia. Jean returned to the ferry and stood on the open deck this time, smiling, watching nothing but the open sea and the frigate birds flying in the wind.
She checked her bank account in Isla Mujeres. There were several thousand dollars more than there should have been. Alfredo must have been in this position for some time. It made her laugh softly.
He is mine, Lydia. He is mine to touch, make, and mold.
The storm in him gradually calmed. The needs that drove him called out other needs, other traits. A sluggish thought blew through him, an inarticulate gale across the continents of what should have been a mind. It shook him. It broke the back of the incoherent storm that raged in him and let in the light. He stood blind and trembling in that light, trying to speak.
Jean awoke and he was not there.
She sat up suddenly and looked around the room. He stood, nude, on the balcony staring at the sea. The sliding door was open. She could smell the ocean through the air-conditioning.