The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [131]
“You’re an evil fuckin cunt,” snarled Monique.
“I’m a mother and a wife,” said Katharina evenly. “And I lack much motivation to protect a witch. Did Manuel tell you what they did together, in the graveyard before you two left? Did she tell you? Has he shown you the art he’s crafted based on what she showed him? Call me evil if you like, but I sleep very well at night knowing I’ve done all I can to protect the people I know to be good.”
“You wanna tell me again she ain’t a fuckin liar?”
“I knew,” said Manuel, and laughed a stupid, weird little giggle. “I knew. Or I should have. The look on your face when I got home, Kat, the panic in your eyes when you said Moscow to me, and I said do you swear, and you just nodded, as frightened as I’ve ever seen you. I knew right then you’d told them more but I didn’t ask, did I? I just said you, you’d done a good deed. Ah!” Another part of the conversation came to him, and he giggled again. “You said I should write! You said I should write to warn Awa, and I said no, we were, we were probably being watched and she could take care of herself, and and and—”
“Stop crying,” said Katharina, and he tried. Turning to the other woman, Manuel’s wife said, “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“I understand,” Monique said. “I seen enough in my day ta know what direction the piss flows. Devil always shits on the biggest pile.”
“But pray tell,” said Katharina, “how is it that you come here looking for her? We thought she was with you.”
“She left, didn’t she,” said Monique. “Dunno where she went. Cut out not a week fore them prats showed up talkin bout gettin me locked up, closin down the shop an’ all. So don’t act like I wasn’t threatened, too.”
“And what did you tell them?” asked Katharina. “What clever ruse did you employ to send them on their way?”
“I didn’t,” said Monique, “an’ they didn’t go no place but facedown in the shithouse. Come in my fuckin place usin words like dyke ? That term’s reserved for we what hold back the sea, and a select few who’re in our good graces, not some stoat-lookin assholes come tryin to bring the scares with fuckin toothpicks at they waists an’ a matchlock what requires more’n earnest prayer to get primed an’ lit.”
“So now you’re a murderer, and threw away what they threatened to take?” Katharina shook her head as though she were talking to a child.
“Been one longer’n I ’aven’t.” Monique shrugged. “An’ I sold the whole kit to Dario, who’s well aware of what’s ripenin in the shithouse an’ was more’n happy to pay a mite lighter than he might’ve otherwise due ta the inconvenience. There’s a time I could’ve done better by forgettin to mention a detail but didn’t, so maybe the both of you assholes could do with followin the example of Saint Cuntlick ’ere.”
“I think you had best leave,” said Katharina.
“I think that’s fuckin sound,” said Monique, glaring at Manuel. He had not gotten to his feet again but lay on his back in the wreckage of his studio, propped up on his elbows. She walked over to him, leaned down, and extended her hand. He moved to take it but she reached past him and fished a small canvas off the floor beside him. It was a portrait of Awa, one of the few where he had not disguised her by blanching her skin or substituting his wife’s nose, his niece’s lips. Monique held it up and brushed it off, and without looking at the prone artist said, “Should I give’er your apologies or ya gonna come deliver’em yerself?”
“She’ll understand,” said Manuel, and that was the worst, sharper than Monique’s boot or fists, the knowledge that Awa would understand, indeed, she would insist he had no choice at all, and neither had Katharina. People always have a choice, Manuel knew, and looking from Monique to his wife he made his. “Let me give you some crowns before you go. I can spare—”
If she had spit on him it would have been better, but her phlegm struck one of the few paintings not cast about in her rage. He did not watch her leave, instead scrambling up and hurrying to clean the canvas. She had narrowly missed