Twenty miles northwest of Saguero lay the resort town of Antigua, nestled in the tree-studded, waterfall-laced slopes of the Paisa.
With its alpine air and lofty elevation, Antigua afforded both wealthy residents and tourists alike a picturesque vantage from which to peer down on the mist-shrouded world below. Beautiful estates and resorts gleamed from the emerald facets of the mountainside. A posh town square boasted trendy boutiques and terraced cafes staffed with carefully curated locals.
The square served as an oasis for stylish, white-clad Europeans and would-be Europeans to revel in their own sophistication. Strolling about cobblestone paths lined with tropical flowers or sipping coffee and wine from artisan vessels at outdoor bistros, they could take in the sanitized sights of the Colombian countryside at their elegant leisure. Antigua was idyllic, an elitist’s paradise. A charming, characterless place that could have been anywhere.
Every so often, Fernando was obliged to travel to Antigua to pay his dues to Mondragón, whose residence was there. Chico had insisted he take the roadster on this errand. He’d been too proud and enthusiastic in his offer for Fernando to refuse him, though the antique car had proved infernally difficult for him to navigate up the switchback roads. Fernando’s jaw clenched so hard it ached as Mondragón’s guard waved him through the gates of the estate. Tense and agitated all around by the endeavor, Fernando was certainly not looking forward to keeping his teeth gritted while Mondragón held court.
And so it was an unaccountable relief to him, as he parked the roadster in the circular drive and approached the magnificent, sweeping entrance of the Hollywood-style mansion, to learn from the maid who answered the door that the patrón was not there. She led him into a reception room which was so ostentatiously decorated as to look gauche. With its schizophrenic assortment of French silk chaises, baby grand piano, modern art and traditional sculpture, black-and-white marble flooring, silk wallpaper and old-world wainscotting, tigerskin pimp rugs, sabers and suits of armor, Victorian chandelier and gilt-and-glass shelving, the decor seemed an offense to every taste.
After a few minutes of taking in this bizarre scene of pretension, Fernando was greeted by the lady of the house, Mondragón’s woman Felicia. She was unsurprisingly beautiful, a slim but well-proportioned woman who looked to be nearing thirty and, from the frowning set of her full mouth, very much aware of this fact. Her hair was shoulder-length, satin brown as her eyes which assessed Fernando with a sort of idle disdain.
Felicia was smoking a cigarette, poised lightly in the fork of two long-nailed, well-manicured fingers. Her feet were bare. Bits of white styrofoam wedged between her toes, the nails of which had been freshly lacquered crimson. She wore a short kimono robe of turquoise silk. If she were wearing a scrap of anything else beneath it, then Fernando was the king of Spain.
“You’re one of Luis’ boys,” she said with a scornful little smile. She raised the cigarette to her lips and then exhaled a mist of smoke. “What sort of stepping and fetching do you do for him?”
“I run El Toro for him in Cortez.”
The cigarette froze halfway back to her lips. “El Toro…You are Fernando, then. The one who looked out for my brother Alfonso.”
As he nodded, Felicia looked at him with fresh eyes. Then she glanced away, frowning outright.
“Luis isn’t here. He never is.”
Fernando said nothing to this. After a moment, she glanced back to him.
“My name is Felicia.”
Fernando said, “I know.”
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La Gorgona © CS Dark Fantasy