They walked until they came to the banks of the stream Matteo mentioned, and he took off his pack gratefully and dropped it to the ground. Helen sank to her knees and studied him as he took out fruit and cheese and handed them to her. She should have been hungry, but she wasn’t; she settled for a long drink of water and then relaxed on the grass, easing her aching back.
“The stream has its source in the mountains to the east,” Matteo said, “and it’s always fresh. You can drink from it if you want.”
He continued the travelogue as she listened without comment, aware that he was talking for her sake, and maybe for his own. He stretched out on the ground and put his hands behind his head, staring up at the night sky.
“Everything looks so peaceful up there,” he said softly. “You’d never believe that all over the world tonight people are trying to kill each other.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” she replied.
“Yes, it does,” he answered flatly. “As long as some people are trying to take advantage of others, there will be those who’ll fight to stop them.”
And that about sums it up, Helen thought, the thing that will keep us apart. She was a “have,” and he was a “have not”—had chosen to become one in fact—and all the love in the universe couldn’t change that one simple fact.
Matteo didn’t speak again and didn’t move. After a while she concluded that he had fallen asleep. She got up quietly, taking off her borrowed clothes, and slipped into the stream. It was tepid but refreshing, and she moved around in the water almost noiselessly, rinsing the dust of the trip from her skin and hair.
“Helen.”
Matteo’s voice was husky with anticipation, with desire. She turned to see him standing on the bank, watching her. She went toward him, and when the water was about knee deep he could wait no longer, splashing in to meet her, seizing her about the waist and lifting her into his arms.
She was slippery, streaming, but he didn’t pause to dry her off, merely set her on the pile of her discarded clothes and covered her with his body. His mouth was everywhere, hot against her flesh cooled by the recent bath. He was silent, transferring his eloquence to his hands and his lips, telling her without words how much she meant to him. Helen writhed beneath him, clutching his waist, the back of his head, hanging on to the reality that would soon become a memory. When he finally rose to strip, she watched his shadowed movements in the moonlight, reaching up for him eagerly as he descended to embrace her.
Their lovemaking had the bittersweet quality of parting, and when it was over and she had settled against his shoulder, he caught the glitter of tears on her cheeks. Matteo said nothing, holding her until she drifted off and looking into the vault of stars above his head until he fell asleep as well.
He woke before it was light and saw by his watch that the sun would rise in half an hour. He dressed and waited until the last possible moment to wake Helen, who hadn’t even stirred when he left her to get up.
She opened her eyes and saw the mist clinging to the water, saw the orange streaks of sunrise bisecting the sky. She dressed without saying a word, avoiding his eyes, then faced him when she had pinned up her hair and adjusted her clothes and there was nothing left to do.
“I’m ready,” she said, and he picked up his pack.
The walk to the mesa took twenty minutes, and for the last eight they climbed all the way. They reached the top of the rock wall that formed its side and Matteo took Helen’s arm, holding her back.
“Let me look,” he said quietly, and she remained behind as he went over the top of the ridge. He was back in a minute.
“He’s there,” Matteo announced, and her heart sank. She had been hoping until the last second that Alma’s brother wouldn’t show and she could go back with Matteo.
“I guess you were right about Alma,” she said simply, and he dropped his eyes.
Helen followed Matteo over the top, taking his hand to help her negotiate some of the rocks, and then shielded her eyes from the blazing sunrise. She could see the helicopter some distance away, its rotary blade stilled, a tall man in mirrored sunglasses leaning against its side.
They approached it together, and as they got closer the man walked out to meet them, extending his hand to Matteo. Helen could see that he was dark and resembled Alma, with her thick lustrous hair and graceful movements. She wondered if there were any ugly Puerta Lindans; she hadn’t seen one.
Matteo clasped the other man’s hand briefly, not shaking it as he would have done with an American, and then embraced him, clapping him on the back. They talked for a few moments and Matteo accepted a packet from him. He turned and gave it to Helen.
“These are your papers,” he said. “Paolo assures me everything is in order.”
Matteo drew Helen forward and introduced her. Paolo made a short courtly bow and said, “Con much gusto, senorita.”
Matteo asked Paolo to wait and then took Helen aside as the other man glanced around nervously, obviously anxious to be on his way. They were exposed on the mesa, highly visible from the air and for miles on land because of its height.
“Listen to me,” Matteo said. “I would like to go with you to Soledad but Playa del Sol has an extradition treaty with Puerta Linda, and if I’m caught there it’s the same as being caught at home. Paolo is wanted, too, so all he can do is drop you off on the road to Soledad and leave.”
Helen nodded, thinking that this was really happening and in a few minutes she would be gone.
“This is a compass,” he said, pulling a metal object out of his pocket. “When you get to the road, face east and keep walking. You’ll hit the outskirts of Soledad eventually. How long will depend on how close Paolo can get you. Make sure you get the direction right, because if you go the wrong way you’ll end up in the bush.”
She nodded again, taking the compass and closing her fingers around it.
“Here is some American money,” he went on, handing her a stack of bills. “Soledad is a resort and all the stores accept it.”
“Matteo, this is too much,” she protested, looking down at the denominations.
“Take it,” he said impatiently. “You have to buy a plane ticket, stay in a hotel; you don’t know what might come up.” He took a deep breath and put his hands on her shoulders. “When you get there, not to Soledad but all the way to the U.S., I want you to send me a cable at the Cristobal Hotel in San Jacinta. Send it to Mr. Dominguez; he’s the manager there and a friend of mine. He’ll hold it for me.”
“What about Esteban? Wouldn’t it be better if I sent it to his place?”
Matteo shook his head. “They know he’s a sympathizer; Dominguez is safer. Have you got that now?”
“Dominguez at the Cristobal,” she repeated.
“Good.” He paused, glancing over at Paolo, who was moving around restively. “I have to know that you got home all right.”
Helen stepped away from him and unzipped her duffel bag, taking out a pad and pencil.
“This is the address of my apartment in Massachusetts,” she said, writing. “Just in case you might need it.”
She ripped off the sheet of paper and handed it to him. He took it, folded it and placed it in the breast pocket of his shirt.
They looked at each other.
“Oh, mi corazon,” he murmured, pulling her into his arms. “How can I live without my heart?”
“This trip was your idea, buddy,” she said against his shoulder, her throat closing. “Remember that.”
He held her off and searched her face. “Take care of yourself,” he said huskily. “Make sure you eat and sleep, things like that.”
Helen swallowed and then said rapidly, not meeting his eyes, “Look, I understand that you don’t want me to stay with you, but I can still help. How about if I send you some money? You could certainly use it, for food and medicine, arms, whatever you need. I’ve never asked my father for a dime; he’d give it to me and he wouldn’t even care what I did with it. Or I could get an
advance on my trust fund. I’ve never done that either; the bank would go along with it....”
He put his hand to her mouth, silencing her. When she looked up at him she saw that his eyes were wet.
“I love you,” he said.
Helen felt something like despair. “Why do you tell me that now, when I’m leaving?” she asked, struggling to maintain her composure.
“Maybe because it’s too late,” he answered, his tone fatalistic, resigned.
As if to comment on that statement, Paolo started the helicopter’s engine. Its big blade began to spin slowly, stirring up dust and creating a wind that blew loose strands of Helen’s hair about her face.
“Are you sure you can get back all right?” she asked him, and he smiled.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine,” he answered, and then there wasn’t anything more to say.
“Kiss me,” Matteo said and seized her, crushing her mouth with his. The blade picked up speed and the craft hovered on its landing runners.
“Go,” he said, releasing her. “Adios, majita. Vaya con Dios, mi princesa.”
“Stay here,” she said, and turned her back on him deliberately, blinking to clear her vision. But her eyes were still misty as she ran toward the helicopter. When she got there Paolo, already in the pilot’s seat, reached down to help her climb aboard.
Matteo didn’t follow her, as she’d requested, but stared after her as she settled into the passenger seat and the helicopter began to rise. She glanced down and saw him standing below, his head tilted back, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. When he saw her looking he raised his hand in farewell, and she put her palm against the clear bubble by her face as if she could touch him through the glass.
Then the dirt swirling below them in the wake of their ascent obscured her vision, and when she looked again Matteo was gone.
Chapter 10
The helicopter ride was noisy, and all Helen could see below was dense vegetation that extended in all directions. Paolo looked straight ahead, monitoring his instrument panel and resting his right hand on the throttle. He was keeping to the jungle to avoid being spotted by border patrols, but Helen knew that the riskiest part of the journey would be when he set her down near Soledad and civilization was uncomfortably close. They had been flying for about ten minutes when the blue ribbon of a river appeared below them, with a road running parallel to one of its banks.
“Playa,” Paolo said, nodding at it, and Helen understood that the river served as a natural boundary between the two countries. Soon after that he began to descend, and she could see a large city spreading out toward the sparkling bay that hugged the coastline.
“Soledad?” she asked, pointing into the distance.
“Si, Soledad,” he answered, and flew even lower, almost skirting the tops of the trees that rushed up at them. Helen looked down and saw what he was aiming for: a flat stretch of road wide enough for a landing. He would have to drop straight down onto it, but Paolo was apparently used to operating under such conditions in this mountainous region. He approached it calmly, making adjustments in the speed of the rotor as they fell. Helen closed her eyes until she felt the jolt of the landing, and when she opened them Paolo was smiling at her.
“Esta aqui, senorita,” he said, gesturing to the surrounding scenery.
Helen reached over and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Muchas gracias,” she said, grabbing her duffel, aware that speed was of the essence.
“De nada,” he replied as she pulled out the compass and stared at its face.
He took it from her and glanced at the sky, then at the instrument in his hand. “Soledad,” he said firmly, stabbing his finger emphatically in the direction of the ascending sun.
Helen nodded, took the compass back and then put her hand on his arm.
“¿Por que?” she asked. “Why? Why did you help me?”
“Por mi hermana,” he answered, and she smiled to think that in Puerta Linda, as in the rest of the world, brothers loved their sisters.
They both looked up as a car approached in the distance, and Helen jumped to the ground, waving Paolo away. She dashed into the trees and the helicopter rose. The car swept past, the people inside it craning their necks up at Paolo’s helicopter as he headed back home.
Helen waited a couple of minutes, making sure that the road was empty, then came out of hiding and strode off in the direction that Paolo had indicated. She made an effort to look casual until she realized that no one was paying any attention to her; the drivers of the vehicles that passed apparently dismissed her as a hiker, and she settled into a rhythm that ate up the distance she had to cover. After a while her energy flagged and she was tempted to hitch a ride but, fearful of the questions she might be asked, she continued on foot. She reached the height above the city an hour later and began the descent to Soledad.
Once inside the city limits, she saw taxis and flagged one down. She managed to make the cabbie understand that she wanted a hotel where the staff spoke English. She suspected that he took the global route to get her there, but she was satisfied when she saw it. The facade looked modern and the people streaming in and out of it were obviously tourists. She paid the cabbie with Matteo’s American money, which he was happy to get, and walked up the wide stone steps into the coolness of an air-conditioned lobby.
“I’d like a room with a bath for the night,” she said to the clerk, who looked down his nose at her.
“All our rooms have baths, madam,” he replied, surveying her wrinkled, dirty shorts and field blouse with disdain.
“Fine,” Helen said. “And I want to book a plane ticket. Can I do that here?”
“The concierge will take care of that for you, madam,” the clerk said. “Will that be cash or credit card?”
“Cash,” Helen said. “Do you have a room service menu?”
The clerk extended one to her, and when she saw the prices she knew the reason for his pseudo-British accent and exalted manner. The cabbie had brought her to the most expensive hotel in the city, possibly in the country, but she was too tired to care. She stuck the menu in her bag and took her key, stopping at an overpriced boutique on the mezzanine to buy some clothes. She felt too grimy to try anything on but guessed at the sizes. She took the package to her room and tossed it on a chair. She debated taking a shower, which she certainly needed, but decided it could wait. She hardly glanced at the accommodations before she flung herself on the bed and fell instantly asleep.
When Helen awoke it was late afternoon and her first thought was of Matteo. He must be well on his way back by now. She remembered his lovemaking of the previous night, so urgent, almost desperate, with the lingering sadness of their coming separation, and knew that she would never experience anything like that again. It was over, and the rest of her life would be a pale reflection of what she had had with him.
Helen got up and went into the bathroom, noting with amusement the supply of soap, shampoo, toothpaste and other toiletries, all packaged in the miniature sizes favored by American hotels. She took a long shower, washed her hair, and brushed her teeth with a tiny utensil that looked like a nailbrush.
Seeing herself in the mirror was a revelation. Her skin was a deep gold and her hair was bleached to the shade of a ripe lemon peel. She looked like a Malibu beach girl and smiled when she remembered Sophia’s many admonitions to stay out of the sun because it aged the skin. Too late, she thought. She might look eighty tomorrow, but for the moment she stared back at the thin, pale eyed, suntanned stranger, wondering where Helen had gone.
The clothes were all too big, including the shoes, which seemed impossible. She had lost more weight than she’d realized. She put the belt of the slacks on its innermost notch and tucked in the loose blouse, deciding to buy thick socks to fill out the shoes. It wasn’t worth exchanging the clothes; she would probably put the weight back on once she got home. She took the room service menu out of her bag and read it, observing the comforting presence of such items as hamburgers
and grilled cheese sandwiches. The management was going all out to cater to its American guests, printing the menu in Spanish on one side and English on the other. She picked up the phone and ordered dinner. Given the hotel’s desire to please the turistas, it was probably easier to get served promptly here than in Los Angeles. She was glad she didn’t have to face the downstairs dining room, and while she waited for the food to arrive she called the concierge and arranged for her flight. It was departing the next morning for New York from the Ferdinand airport at the western end of the city, and she reflected that by tomorrow evening she would be back in Manhattan.
Helen turned on the television, which broadcast two Spanish-language stations carrying mostly American reruns. She was treated to the spectacle of a dubbed Bonanza, with Little Joe referring to his brother Hoss as “Jose.” Her dinner came and she ate most of it, forcing herself to consume more than she wanted. Then she reclined on the bed and watched The Big Valley and I Dream of Jeannie, wondering if Matteo had reached the stream where they’d made love. Finally she fell asleep again and was awakened by the morning sun shining through the hotel window.
Her trip back to New York was uneventful, even at American immigration where she had anticipated trouble. She was prepared to call her father and have him raise hell with his politician friends to get her back into the country, but the necessity never arose. The uniformed officer merely glanced at her papers and passed her along, turning to the person behind her without change of expression. Once in the Kennedy terminal Helen felt as if she had never left home; the whole experience seemed surreal, like the memory of a fragmented dream. Impossible to believe that two days before she had been in a Puerta Lindan jungle; impossible to accept that she would never see Matteo again. She walked along, glancing at the concession stands and restaurants, telling herself that this was going to be her life from now on.
She stayed overnight in New York and sent the cable to Matteo’s friend from there. She flew to Boston the next morning, rented a car at the airport, and drove to Cambridge, unhappy to see that New England was experiencing a wet spring. Her apartment was stuffy from the lack of ventilation, and she opened all the windows despite the rain, thinking how much her life had changed since she had closed them. Then she went to bed. Her exhaustion was complete and inexplicable; since she had left Matteo she’d done almost nothing but sleep. She nodded off constantly, unconsciously seeking the oblivion that allowed her to forget that she had lost him.
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