“Very cute,” River said. “But I don’t believe that. Not all women want money.”
“No, they don’t,” Beluga agreed. “What can I say? All women are different. I don’t know what they want. Maybe some of them want a nest—somewhere they can make their home. Perhaps they want to fly and party and play. But they want a home to go to when they’re tired. More than that, maybe, they need to feel that they are adored and needed. Yes, just love. Real love. If you love a woman with all your heart—but maintain your soul, the you she fell in love with—you will find what you’re looking for. That’s it in this world, River. We need to care, and have others care for us. That’s what is good about us, eh? ’Cause there’s a lot that’s very bad in human nature. Love—give her love. Honest love. And then, I believe, a good woman will be there for you.”
River stood up. “Can I use the shower and maybe get some coffee?”
Beluga seemed to consider his request. “Yes, but I need payment.”
“Of course.”
“Not in money. I would like a drawing.”
“A drawing of anything in particular?”
“Yes—your woman.”
“Well, sadly, she’s not my woman.”
“Your flirtation, then—I would like a drawing of this woman, yes? Maybe I’ll see the future in your drawing. Or, at least, tell you if she’s a good woman or not.”
“You know her, Beluga. Or you have seen her. I first saw her here—she must have taken a bed for the night just a day or so ago.”
“I don’t remember a beautiful woman,” Beluga said. “But maybe Maria let her in.”
River drew out his sketchpad. For a minute, he closed his eyes. He envisioned Natal. He saw the sun in her hair and saw the laughter in her eyes when she teased. He saw everything that he loved about her—he thought that he saw her spirit and her sense of freedom.
It wasn’t real.
Or, it was. In her heart, it was real. But perhaps Beluga was right. She liked to fly—but return to a nest where she knew that she was loved and protected.
He drew. Beluga, at his side, watching him, drew in a breath now and then.
River’s fingers began to fly. He shaded areas, drew back, smudged in others. And when he was done, he knew that the drawing—done so quickly with night falling and Beluga looking over his shoulder—was one of his best.
It was Natal. And while it was nothing but pencil on paper, it captured the essence of the woman as River saw her—as he had fallen in love with her.
Mischief was in her eyes—as well as kindness. The beauty of her face and perfection of her features were enhanced by the light that seemed to shimmer from her. The likeness was so real, River almost expected her to come to life and speak to him.
“It’s magnificent,” Beluga said. “I can’t take this for just a shower and some coffee.”
“Then take it because you’re my friend. It’s a gift. I can draw her again. I could draw her forever.”
Beluga, holding the picture, looked down at him. “One day, I believe, you will be a great artist. And I will be rich too, because I will have your early drawings. But this one I will never sell.”
River grinned. “I’m taking my shower now.”
Convict whined when River approached. River patted his head. “Stay with Beluga for a bit—then run and see Maria. She’ll have something for you, I’m sure. Then we’ll be on our way.”
Convict curled up by Beluga.
River showered and dressed, taking more care than usual. As he suspected, by the time he came out, Convict was in the kitchen with Maria and the woman was feeding him scraps.
“He is the best beggar in the world,” Maria huffed, stroking the dog while he ate.
“He’s not begging, not really,” River said.
“Oh? Then, what?”
“He’s performing for pay—his performance happens to be a sad face and a lot of whining, but it’s a performance.”
Maria laughed. “And I suppose you have come for coffee? Will you eat something?”
“I would love coffee. But you don’t need to feed me.”
Maria felt a need to feed everyone. He wound up sitting at the table with a bowl of delicious stew. He didn’t know what it was—he didn’t ask. It was good.
As he ate, he asked her, “Maria, do you remember Natal? The beautiful young woman who was here a few nights ago?”
“Americana?” Maria asked.
“No, no. Brazilian.”
Maria frowned. “We were very busy, many pretty young girls—ah, Canadian girls, yes, I think. But, a Brazilian woman…?”
“It would have been before the night you were so busy,” he said.
Maria shook her head. “No, I don’t remember a Brazilian woman. She was here? You are certain?”
He was about to say yes. Then he lowered his head over his stew, smiling.
It was Natal.
She had somehow snuck in without paying. That was her way; she simply liked the game of it. Or, perhaps financially, Tio Amato held her on a tight leash.
“Maybe I’m mistaken. I thought I saw her here first. I might have just seen her likeness in the paper,” he said.
Maria shrugged and went about her work. A few minutes later, River thanked her, called to Convict, and was on his way.
He and Convict easily hitched a ride into the city. When they arrived, they had to walk the final leg to the giant compound that was Tio Amato’s, but River didn’t mind. He didn’t even know what he was doing—or why he was doing it.
Convict liked the walk too.
River reached the compound and stood across the street. For a long moment he just stared at the grandeur of the little empire Tio Amato had created for himself.
The structure and property were beautiful—truly fit for a king. The architecture was fairly modern; River thought that it had been built perhaps in the early seventies. The estate had to cover an acre or perhaps two within the city. The wall surrounded it all. The house itself had to have been about ten thousand square feet. It was three stories high, painted not white but an opaque color that would set it apart. A porch led to the front door and the door itself was arched. Above it were elegant carvings and what must have been Amato’s coat of arms.
The yard was equally splendid. Matching fountains—with Perseus shooting an arrow—stood on either side of the elegantly tiled walk that led to the porch.
Great gates were the only break in the stone wall, which stood about ten feet high, keeping visitors out. The gates, ornate and also topped with the coat of arms, opened and closed for cars to come in and out and sweep through the arc of a driveway that allowed for visitors to get out at the front porch and the door.
It seemed that while people were meant to be kept out, they were also meant to be able to see in.
See the wealth, perhaps.
See the power.
Because it was easy to see the house—at a bit of a distance—from the street.
Elegant etched-glass windows adorned the double front doors.
Picture windows allowed those inside to look out on the world.
Out on the little people.
But those picture windows allowed those who looked through the gates to look right into the center of the house as well.