II. . . “A corpse will be transported by express!”
The tireless resilient voice that had just lobbed this singular remark over the Bella Vista bar windowsill into the square was, though its owner remained unseen, unmistakable and achingly familiar as the spacious flower-boxed balconied hotel itself, and as unreal, Yvonne thought.
“But why, Fernando, why should a corpse be transported by express, do you suppose?”
The Mexican taxidriver, familiar too, who’d just picked up her bags—there’d been no taxi at the tiny Quauhnahuac air field though, only the bumptious station wagon that insisted on taking her to the Bella Vista—put them down again on the pavement as to assure her: I know why you’re here, but no one’s recognized you except me, and I won’t give you away. “Sí, señora,” he chuckled.
