Atticus

“A little,” he said.

A Brooklyn voice officially informed him, “You have the passport section.”

Atticus stalled by saying, “I was afraid I had the wrong number.”

“Your question?”

Wildly guessing, he asked, “Wondered if you had that passport ready for Scott Cody?”

“Was it Cody?”

“Really appreciate it.”

“Hold on, sir,” the man said.

Atticus waited half a minute.

“We do,” the man said.

Atticus thanked the official and got off the phone. Was it Reinhardt who was flying to Germany? Was he trying to go there as his son for some reason? Had he hunted high and low in the house before he found out how to get another passport? Atticus got up from the bed, and then the phone rang insistently. That’ll be Rosa, he thought. He held the zippered portfolio under his left arm as he locked the hotel room behind him. In the hallway he saw a heavy maid heave a white cart full of towels and bedding from a freight elevator, and he took it to the first floor, getting there just as Rosa was heading upstairs.

***

Then there was nothing to do but go back to the house. The front door was open for the fresh air, and María was furiously hammering an old-fashioned steam iron on handkerchiefs at the dining room table. “Buenos días, señor,’ she said. “¿Cómo está usted?”

In English he told her, “I have no idea what’s going on.”

She smiled. “Bueno.”

Exhausted, he got a Coca-Cola from the refrigerator and went out to the first-floor terrace. What next? he thought, and had no answer. A flock of seagulls fought and screeched over food thrown from the kitchen of the Maya. A hundred yards out a whining speedboat fanned right and spanked along the chop of a trawler, and farther out a freighter warped from view in the heat waves of the eastern horizon. Atticus thought of the choices Reinhardt would have if he wanted to hide out in Mexico: fishing boats, a tent in the forest, waterless shacks in the barrio you could rent for nine dollars a month.

Was the phone ringing? He stiffly turned, but the window glass offered nothing but a reflection of himself and what was behind him. He held the cold Coca-Cola can to his forehead. Kids were playing volleyball and running into the sea. White sailboats heeled in the wind farther north.

The pool door slid open. María was standing there with both hands on it. “Teléfono, señor,” she called.

Atticus went back inside and she tilted her head toward the flashing green light on the answering machine. “Es urgente,” she said.

Atticus got to it and pushed the rewind button, heard the reels spin to a halt, and pushed playback. Again he heard a soft, foreign, male voice saying, “Hola, Scott. Are you at the fiesta with Renata? Have a fantastic time—”

María shifted her ironing and frowned at a familiar voice on the machine. Reinhardt. Atticus hit the pause button. “¿Lo conoce?” You know him?

She flushed and said, “Sí.”

“¿Cuál es su aspecto?” What is his aspect?

“Rubio.” Blond. She thought further. “Guapo.” Handsome. “Pero no me hace buena impresión.” But she didn’t like him.

He hunted the term for height. “¿Cuál es su altura?”

She shrugged. “Como usted.” Like you.

“¿Usted lo ver aquí? ¿En la casa?” You see him here? In the house?

“Sí.”

“¿Con mi hijo?” With my son?

“Una vez.” Once.