Free Lilia's Secret by Erina Reddan Page B

the quiet this order brought him.
    He threw a scratchy, colourless towel that had been foldedat the end of his bed over his shoulder and made his way down the corridor to the bathroom. There he had to lay his things across the toilet seat because there was nowhere else to put them. He picked up the bar of soap and weighed it in his hand: it was square and rough, but it smelt like palm trees.
    Despite Gerardo’s arrogance, despite the cheap polyester sheets, despite his exhaustion, he felt more alive than he had since he’d retired.
    Back in his room with the door locked he flopped down on to the bed. His blubber lolled comfortably around him. In this moment, in this house, in this country, he felt light and he felt good. A hazy, smiley drift took him down into sleep.

    The space between Bill and Gerardo across the table seemed to go on and on. Gerardo didn’t even look up as he ate his beans and mole sauce. ‘Not bad,’ he pronounced, mopping up the last bit of sauce with a scrap of tortilla.
    Bill didn’t even grunt.
    â€˜The priest we need to speak to is out of town,’ Gerardo said. ‘Of course, here in Mexico the priests know everything, so he would have been the best place to start, but that is not possible. I will make inquiries on your behalf about your father. You stay here.’
    â€˜Hold on just a minute. Shouldn’t we have a plan?’ Bill asked.
    Gerardo arched an eyebrow. ‘This is the plan, Mr Bixton. We’ll start here, in the local café, where there is a form of artificial intimacy because we all share the one space, undertakingthe same activity, albeit not with each other. Where people are sated from taking their fill of food, and perhaps even more relaxed after a tequila or two. Does that meet your approval?’
    Bill pursed his lips. Gerardo’s disdain for him was clear, which made it all the harder to stomach. He nodded.
    He watched Gerardo as he went from table to table in the café. He was doing it all wrong. There should have been a round of tequila first, then talk of soccer, and children and Mexico. Gerardo hardly even bent over. Bill did his best by nodding and smiling whenever anybody looked his way. He stood up to join Gerardo but faltered at his raised palm and, blushing, sank back into his chair.
    He ordered another coffee, feeling impatient. He was a man of action – waiting on somebody else’s action went against the grain.
    Finally Gerardo slid into the seat opposite him. ‘Apparently nobody knows anything about your father,’ he reported.
    â€˜What about the woman he married?’
    â€˜She has been dead twenty years and they say they don’t remember much about her.’
    â€˜But they must.’ Bill snorted. ‘Twenty years is nothing. Some of these people are old enough to remember. You just didn’t smile enough.’
    â€˜With all due respect,’ Gerardo replied. ‘I understand these people better than you.’
    There was further failure on the second day of inquiry. Gerardo asked in the market place, in the square and at the school. He reported that people shook their heads openly at the mention of Bill’s father’s name, and with less enthusiasm when he asked about Doña Lilia de Las Flores. He reportedthat he wasn’t sure how to interpret this. Bill stared at him, feeling a small knot of anxiety growing in his chest again.
    The calm he’d found when he first settled in his dark square room was melting away. He realised he’d imagined that he’d get what he needed a lot more easily than this. He wasn’t sure what to do and the not-knowing was undoing him.

    â€˜Today, we’re going to the municipal office to see if we can find your father’s name in the births and deaths records,’ Gerardo announced to Bill when they met on the morning of the third day.
    â€˜Municipal office?’ Bill asked loudly. ‘Why didn’t you mention that