By Carlos Fuentes, Lysander Kemp
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Extra info for Aura
You put your hand in your pocket, search among the coins, and finally take out thirty centavos. You've got to be prepared. You grab the hand-rail—the bus slows down but doesn't stop — and jump aboard. Then you shove your way forward, pay the driver the thirty centavos, squeeze yourself in among the passengers already standing in the aisle, hang onto the overhead rail, press your brief case tighter under your left arm, and automatically put your left hand over the back pocket where you keep your billfold.
IV Now you know why Aura is living in this house: to perpetuate the illusion of youth and beauty in that poor, crazed old lady. Aura, kept here like a mirror, like one more icon on that votive wall with its clustered offerings, preserved hearts, imagined saints and demons. You put the manuscript aside and go downstairs, suspecting there's only one place Aura could be in the morning—the place that greedy old woman has assigned to her. Yes, you find her in the kitchen, at the moment she's beheading a kid: the vapor that rises from the open throat, the smell of spilt blood, the animal's glazed eyes, all give you nausea.
Thank you . . Here . " The old lady raises her hand to her collar, unbuttons it, and lowers her head to remove the frayed purple ribbon that she hands to you. It's heavy because there's a copper key hanging from it. "Over in that corner . . Open that trunk and bring me the papers at the right, on top of the others . . " "I can't see very well . " "Ah, yes . . it's just that I'm so accustomed to the darkness. To my right . . Keep going till you come to the trunk. They've walled us in, Senor Mon-tero.