Troubling a Star

by Madeleine L'engle

  We landed bumpily but safely. In the bus on the drive to the hotel we were told to put our bags outside our doors when we went to bed, and we’d see them again when we boarded the Argosy.

  I took a swim to cool off before dinner. There were only a couple of other people in the pool, so I swam laps, not pushing, just swimming back and forth, back and forth, enjoying the water. I used to think that the farther south anyone traveled, the hotter it would be, but I forgot that once you crossed the equator and headed down, you’d be aiming for the South Pole. Antarctica is the southernmost part of the planet. Bitter cold.

  My rather chaotic thoughts were broken by the sensation that someone was swimming beside me.

  Esteban.

  He beamed at me. His hair was wet and slicked back, showing the modeling of his face, which reminded me of pictures of Greek statues. Obviously, Esteban wasn’t Greek; he was descended from the Welsh colonists. Still, there was something classical about his looks, and his eyes were bluer than the sky.

  “Vickee?”

  I stopped my stroke and dog-paddled until he came up to me. He frowned, as though troubled, and said, “Ad-am?”

  “What about Adam?” I looked at him questioningly.

  He frowned again, frustrated by our inability to communicate. “Ad-am amigo?”

  Amigo. That means friend. I nodded vigorously. “Good friend. Good amigo.”

  We were face-to-face, paddling in the warm water. “Adam amigo—Guedder amigo—Guedder—” He said something that sounded like “virtue,” and “honor,” but I didn’t quite get the words, and I didn’t know much about Guedder, one way or another, though my conditioned reflexes make me suspicious of dictators.

  He spoke again, and I caught “Vespugia” and “Guedder,” and I think he was praising the General. I nodded, vaguely. Conversation between Esteban and me could not get very far. Then I looked around and Siri was standing at the side of the pool, wearing a sundress and sandals. “Will you and Esteban join me for a Coke?”

  Coke is evidently an international word. “Sí, sí.” Esteban beamed.

  “Sure,” I called. “Love to.” I was thirsty from the heat, and it was hard not to be able to turn on the tap in our room and drink the water.

  As we turned to swim to the shallow end of the pool, Esteban stopped me, looking at me with an expression of distress. Spoke. I was sure it was some kind of apology. For what had happened on the pyramid? Did Esteban, or Captain Nausinio, know that the letter I was reading was from Adam? Even if they did, why would they want it? As Cook had said, Adam II’s death was long ago. There was no connection between the two Adams.

  We climbed out and joined Siri at an umbrellaed table. Esteban got me a towel. Our Cokes were brought. Conversation was pretty much zilch; Siri spoke a few words of Spanish, but she certainly wasn’t fluent. Esteban wanted to talk, but though he waved his hands a lot, I had no idea what he was trying to say, and neither did Siri. We all laughed, and it was pleasant to sit there and let the light breeze dry us off.

  Sam came and joined us, and I thought he might be able to translate for us, but suddenly Esteban stopped and swiveled to look at Captain Nausinio, obviously come to get him. Esteban stood up, smiled at me, then at Siri and Sam, saying, “Muchas gracias,” and other words that sounded like even more enthusiastic thank yous, and left.

  Sam grinned at me. “I think that kid is smitten with you, Vicky.”

  Siri smiled. “He’s a nice young man. Too bad to take him away from his musical studies. He’s really good, and two years of military service at this time in his life is a lot.” She emptied her glass and set it on the table.

  Sam said, “Jorge was talking to me about him. He’s evidently a cousin of Guedder’s, and the General doesn’t want to show any favoritism, but they’re not letting Esteban do anything which would hurt his hands. Vespugia would be happy to brag about a world-class oboist.”

  Siri stretched luxuriously. “I’m hungry. We didn’t have much of a lunch.”

  I was hungry, too. After all, I’d given half my lunch to Esteban.

  Siri, Sam, Cook, and I ate together. Dick and Angelique had gone to a restaurant high up in the mountains where they were told the view was magnificent. Cook remarked, “The view may be worth it, but the food is mediocre. The best chef in San Sebastián is right here.”

  While I was eating carrot-and-ginger soup, I thought I heard my name and turned to see who was at the next table. To my surprise, it was Jorge Maldonado with two other men. One had brown hair turning grey, and was dressed like a cowboy, in tight jeans and tooled-leather boots with high heels. The other was young, maybe even as young as my brother John, and absolutely spectacular. He had hair pale as wheat, and skin which was tanned to gold, and he had golden or maybe amber eyes, somewhat the same color as Aunt Serena’s, but hers were firelight and his were sunlight. He wore brown corduroy pants and a bottle-green silk shirt, open in front just enough to show the brightly curling hair on his chest. Sexy, but not overdone.

  I guess I was staring pretty obviously, because Jorge looked right at me, gave me a big smile, rose, and came over to our table. “I hope you enjoyed your time at our pyramids?”

  “Fascinating,” Siri said.

  “And still a mystery,” Sam added.

  I had thought Jorge was going to stay with his family. Evidently Cook had, too, because he said, “It’s a surprise to see you, Jorge.”

  “The trip from my ranch to San Sebastián is dependent on the plane schedule. I took the last plane from the pyramids. We’ll be leaving for the Argosy early tomorrow. It was too brief a visit at home, but better than nothing. So now I am enjoying a meal with two of our fellow passengers.”

  The two men stood up, bowing. “Prince Otto Zla-tovitcx,” Jorge introduced, “and Mr. Jack Nessinger.”

  Prince Otto had to be the golden one. The man in the cowboy clothes took my hand and shook it heartily. “Jack Nessinger, Miss Vicky Austin. How fine to know that you will be with us on the Argosy. We seldom have anyone so young and lovely.” He spoke with a Texas drawl, which I suppose explained his outfit.

  The golden young man took my hand, but instead of shaking it, he kissed it. “I am enchanted,” he murmured. “I look forward to many pleasant times together.” He had a crisp English accent.

  Jorge said, “Prince Otto was educated in England. I’m sure you two young people will find pleasure in each other’s company.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured. “I’m sure we will.” I think even Suzy would have been dazzled. She’d certainly have fallen for his looks, if not his title. But, unlike me, she’d have known exactly what to say. Or what not to say. I looked at my hand where Prince Otto had kissed it, then dropped it. Just as I’d forgotten that there was still a world where people had chauffeurs and cooks, I’d forgotten that there were still places with princes.

  Prince Otto said, “I arrived only an hour ago from Zlatovica. It took four planes and two days and I am in jet lag. A couple of good nights’ sleep and I will be ready to enjoy myself and”—he smiled at me—“you.”

  Otto and Esteban were both strikingly handsome. Adam was not. Adam’s looks were perfectly okay on the outside, but it was his inside looks which got to me. Adam’s dazzle was inner, not outer.

  Jorge smiled at us. “I hope you have had an enjoyable time in my country.”

  Cook replied in his most courteous voice, “Vespugia is beautiful and full of interesting history.”

  “Did you see our museum, and the Inquisition wing?”

  “It is very well done,” Cook said.

  “And quite horrible,” Siri added. “Missionaries did no good service to either South America or religion.”

  Again, I wondered how Cook felt about this.

  Sam said, “I heard about a Sunday school class where the kids were asked who the pagans were, and one child put up a hand and said, ‘The pagans are the people who don’t quarrel about God.’”

  We all laughed then, and Jorge, Prince Otto,
and Jack returned to their table. Sam saw me watching Prince Otto as he pulled out his chair and sat down. I couldn’t help staring. To cover my embarrassment, I asked, “How did he get that suntan in January?”

  Sam said, “Zlatovica, his little principality, is well known for its ski slopes. It’s mountainous country and quite magnificently beautiful. I used to ski there quite often.”

  “Is it still a principality?” Siri asked.

  “Again,” Sam said. “When it was under the Soviet umbrella the prince, Otto’s father, managed to go underground. Once the Soviets realized he wasn’t going to give in to torture and become one of their puppets, they’d have got rid of him, if he hadn’t managed to escape. His wife was killed, but somehow he got Otto off to England, and nobody knows where he was hiding. Now he’s back in power, and an able ruler, and determined to make Zlatovica a viable small nation.”

  Cook asked, “Is he as democratic as he seems?”

  Sam said, “He uses very good P.R. Basically, we don’t know much about him, and he wants it that way.”

  “How old is Prince Otto?” I asked.

  Sam raised his bushy white eyebrows, “Oh, late teens or early twenties, I think. This fish is superb. I wonder if it comes from one of the local lakes?”

  “I enjoy fishing,” Cook said, “largely because it is such a quiet pleasure.”

  I glanced at the other table, where Otto was leaning back, looking weary, his long legs stretched out. Had I really heard Jorge say my name before he introduced Prince Otto and Jack Nessinger to us?

  We went to our rooms right after dinner. While I was brushing my teeth, using my own spit and not tap water, I heard Siri stroking the strings of her harp.

  “Are you going to play?” I asked hopefully as I came back in.

  “Just checking the strings. They don’t like this heat. Is something on your mind?”

  Was I that obvious? “When I was swimming, just before we had Cokes with you, Esteban was trying to ask me something about Adam.”

  “Who’s Adam?” Siri looked at me questioningly.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Adam Eddington’s a friend I’m looking forward to seeing when we get to LeNoir Station. Adam, my friend, is an intern there, and last month when he was in Vespugia, Esteban was his guide.”

  Siri kept plucking one of her strings, tuning it. “Does Adam speak Spanish?”

  “Yes, though he said in his letter that he found the Vespugian accent a little difficult.”

  “Well, then”—Siri started on another string—“they could probably communicate a lot more easily than you and Esteban and I.”

  “True. But something about Adam seemed to bother Esteban.”

  “Oh?” Siri swept her fingers across the strings in a minor arpeggio.

  I sat on the edge of my bed and watched her fingers moving gently on the strings. Finally I asked, “Did you see Esteban on the pyramid?”

  She looked at me over the harp. “No. I was on the other side. But Sam told me you nearly fell. He seemed very concerned.”

  “Esteban kept me from falling.”

  Siri put her harp in its case. “Thank heavens. I didn’t like the pyramids. Too hot, too many mosquitoes. And where there’s been a long history of violence there’s usually a residue in the atmosphere. I’m glad we’re leaving here tomorrow and heading for Antarctica. Did you remember to put your bags out the door?”

  I nodded. “Siri, you’ve been in Vespugia before?”

  She got into bed. “Once, as part of a trip to the Galápa-gos. Guedder the younger had just taken over and there were soldiers everywhere, far more than now. It’s a beautiful country, but—” She shoved down her blanket.

  “But what?”

  “I don’t like police states. We had to show our passports everywhere and our group leader warned us never to let them out of our hands. People who knew Vespugia before the coup were horrified. They said it had been peaceful and pleasant, and now it was totally changed.”

  “Why would Guedder want to change it? Wouldn’t that be bad for tourism?”

  She shrugged. “Vespugia is a small country, hot in summer, bitter cold in winter, and over the centuries its borders have been nibbled by Argentina and Chile. Vespugia has only one port city left, and Guedder wants to get back the slice of land Argentina took nearly a century ago.”

  “Do you think he might go to war for it? Like the Argentineans with the Falklands?”

  “I doubt it. Proclaiming world peace and dismantling nuclear stockpiles is very popular right now, and I think he’s smart enough not to start something he couldn’t finish.”

  “The Argentineans did. They didn’t get the Falklands.”

  “I’m sure Guedder remembers that. But he took over his own country with a bloody coup, and dictators tend to be fearful despite their fierce fronts. Guedder scares me. I think he has a case of missile envy. Enough. What I’m really interested in is music, and I’d love to hear Esteban play his oboe again. But we’re off to the Argosy in the morning.”

  “Esteban seems to think Guedder is terrific.”

  “Maybe to the Vespugians he is. Who knows? I like Esteban. Sleep well.”

  “You, too.”

  In the morning we had a five o’clock call, and by six-thirty we were heading for Santiago. It was only an hour’s flight. We were given seat assignments before we boarded, and I sat next to Jack Nessinger. He was in the oil business, though, he said, things were pretty tough right now.

  “Is Prince Otto in the oil business, too?”

  “He’s from Zlatovica, and after tourism, which helps give them the hard currency they desperately need, oil is their only hope. Otto’s father is working hard for peace, but it’s an uphill road.”

  “Have you known Otto long?”

  “I met the kid only last night, but Zlatovica’s been in the news fairly often since the Soviet Union’s dissolution.”

  I felt very ignorant. I know all that part of the world has been overturned, but there’s been so much change I haven’t been able to keep up with it, and I haven’t tried very hard to keep up. Suzy’s right about my political illiteracy. I may know enough about Hamlet to recognize ‘miching mallecho,’ but Suzy’s not the only one to think that a passion for English literature leaves me a little one-sided.

  Suddenly my ears felt plugged up and uncomfortable, and Jack Nessinger said, “We’re starting the descent. Good. We’re on our way to the Argosy. I’m really looking forward to some R and R.”

  In Santiago we changed to a Chilean plane for Punta Arenas. Someone remarked that at least it would be cooler there, not cold yet, maybe fifty degrees.

  On this plane I sat between Cook and Siri. The flight attendants had beautiful long black braids, so it wasn’t just Vespugian women who wore their hair like that. I thought fleetingly about letting my hair grow. But it’s just ordinary brown hair and I like being able to wash it and towel it dry and not have to worry about it.

  We landed in another crowded, noisy airport, and had to go through long passport lines. Again we were told not to worry about our bags, that they’d be delivered to our cabins. There were two buses waiting to take us to the Argosy.

  We climbed in and sat where we could. I headed for a window, and to my surprise Prince Otto sat down beside me and Cook took the window seat behind. Otto was carrying a large leather camera case.

  “Not mine,” he said. “Jorge Maldonado’s. Mere princes cannot afford this kind of state-of-the-art equipment. Are you excited about getting on the Argosy?”

  “Very. Are you?”

  “Equally very. You have done a lot of traveling?”

  “This is my first time outside North America. A couple of years ago we took a tent camping trip all across the continent.”

  “My father and I sometimes play a game about guessing where people come from by their speech. Of course I know you are American. Not from the Southern states. Or the Midwest. I’ll guess New England. Am I right?”

  “You are!”


  “Jorge says you are traveling with Cookie, and he has me baffled. English but not quite English. Not Australia or New Zealand. Not South Africa. Where? Tell me,” he wheedled.

  “The Falklands. Our first stop on the Argosy.”

  “Somehow when I visualize the Falklands I see sheep and ancient shepherds in sheepskin coats.”

  “Penguins, too,” I reminded him.

  “Penguins, too. Where you live, are there sheep?”

  “A few. It used to be dairy-farm country, but the small farmers are having a hard time.”

  “Your father farms?”

  “No, he’s a doctor. But we live in what used to be a farmhouse, and for our country it’s old, over two hundred years.”

  “Would you like to see where I live? Part of it was built in the ninth century.”

  “Sure, I’d love to.”

  He pulled out his wallet and opened it to a snapshot encased in plastic. It was a picture of a castle, with turrets and what looked like a moat, high up on a mountain. Behind it was an even higher snowcapped mountain.

  Otto made a face. “In the winter we freeze. There is no way to put in central heating or modern plumbing. I would much prefer a nice, cozy little cottage.”

  “It’s right out of a fairy tale!”

  “There are no fairies or gnomes or goblins to keep us warm on a cold winter morning when the coffee has started to freeze before it even gets to the table.” He grinned at me. “But really, I love it. It has been my home and that of my family for hundreds of years. We even managed to survive being swallowed by the Soviets.” He gave a harsh, unhappy laugh. “We are so small that they scarcely noticed what they had swallowed, and now we have been regurgitated.” Then he pointed out the window. “Look, Vicky, at those wild purple lupines. They are the largest I have ever seen.”

  “Gorgeous.”

  “The economy here is not good. See these little houses—it looks as though the wind would blow right through them in bad weather.” He yawned, holding his hand up to his mouth. “I needed several hours more sleep this morning. On the Argosy I plan to catch up.”