Stranger Read Online Free PDF Page A

be. And she suffered jealousy, a feeling she had never experienced in a large way before. The jealousy surprised her. She felt unbalanced, and she wondered where such a strong emotion had come from.
    In the evenings he began to drop by the tienda, where she sat behind the counter serving customers and, when there was a lull, reading and writing. She was always waiting, listening for the sound of his motorcycle—the low, smooth hum of the Honda, which was cleaner and softer than the tinny racket of the Chinese-made motorcycles that moved up the street towards the market. He approached from the playa, following the one-way street, and he parked his bike, turned it off, and pushed back his blond hair. He swung his leg over the saddle and walked into the tienda and said good evening to her in Spanish. She pretended surprise, even though she had been watching him, and she responded in Spanish and for a time they spoke her language, and when his restricted vocabulary was depleted, they spoke English. He was very good at not talking about himself, even though she wanted to hear about his life. He asked her what she was reading and she told him, and he asked about her Saturdays at the American School and she told him that she was taking a class in English literature, and he asked her if she was smart, and she laughed and said she was all right.
    I think so, he said. He asked about her friends and she told him about Illya, who also worked as a keeper. You must know her, she said.
    He did.
    She said that Illya was her best friend. She held her hand toher chest when she said this, surprising herself with the emotion she felt.
    He asked if there was a boy who was also such a good friend, a novio, and she said, Sin novio. She asked him if there was a novia in his life.
    He said no.
    No wife? she asked. This was very forward, but she wanted to know. In fact, she thought that if he was going to flirt with her, she had the right to know.
    No more, he said.
    What does that mean? she asked. She’s dead?
    He laughed. No, I live here and she lives there. We’re separated.
    Ãso nodded. And this is true? she asked. She said that her mother would like to know.
    True, he said. You can tell your mother. Are there any other questions?
    She tilted her head. What’s her name? she asked.
    Susan.
    Is she beautiful?
    In her way.
    What way is that?
    As someone who is aware that others are looking at her.
    He might just as easily have been describing himself, but she did not share this thought. She kept it as part of her tally, in which she gauged who he was and how he behaved, and how he might reveal himself to her. This was still early on, when she was capable of some objectivity, before she tumbled into adoration.
    Sometimes, on those evenings when he called on her, her mother appeared, and then he did what he did best. He paid attention to Señora Perdido, whom he had met during one of his first visits. He looked right at Señora Perdido and said it was a pleasure, and then he asked her if she was happy with her smart daughter who was strong and beautiful, and of course Señora Perdido nodded her head and said yes, yes. Another time he praised the store, saying that it was stocked with things foreigners wanted, and this was a good thing. The first time he met Señora Perdido he said that she could easily be Íso’s sister, and this was true to a point, for she was still young and her face was youthful. Señora Perdido bowed her head. He made little flourishes as he spoke, and Íso was aware of his hands. When he addressed Señora Perdido, his vocabulary was weak, and sometimes they spoke English, a language in which Señora Perdido was quite adept. But the content of his speech was of little matter. It was the presentation, the company of this young man, that impressed Señora Perdido. And she was won over. In those moments.
    Ã SO Did not tell anyone, and she might have denied the truth even to herself, though