Montega's Mistress

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “How is Richard?” Helen asked about the man who had been trying to get her mother to marry him for twenty years. Poor Richard, he just never had enough assets to interest Sophia on a serious basis.

  “Divorced again,” Sophia replied. “I hear she ran off with a tuba player.”

  Helen managed not to laugh but her grin was roguish.

  “Yes, I know,” Sophia said airily, “we’re all very funny to you, aren’t we? You think you’re so superior, with your principled phantom lover and your precious little bundle on the way. I can’t wait for you to become a mother. Then maybe you’ll know what it’s like to have your child reject you and everything you represent. Maybe you’ll understand my pain.”

  Helen was shocked to see that there were tears in Sophia’s eyes. She went to her mother and put her arm around her shoulder, hugging her close.

  “I’m not rejecting you, mother,” she said quietly. “I’m just different, that’s all, you know I always have been. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I do.”

  “And I love you, baby,” Sophia said huskily, kissing her cheek. Then she collected herself and dabbed at her eyes with her forefinger, making sure that her mascara didn’t smear.

  “I suppose I’ll be permitted to buy a layette for my grandchild. That won’t be forbidden, will it?” Sophia said briskly, smoothing the unwrinkled skirt of her dress.

  “Nothing is forbidden except purchasing a husband for me.”

  “I’ve given up on that idea,” Sophia said. “Never fear.”

  “Good.”

  “And you’ll visit, with the baby?”

  “Of course,” Helen said. She knew that for all Sophia’s constant traveling and partying, her mother was lonely.

  “Then I suppose that’s all I can do,” Sophia announced. “You will call me if you need anything?”

  “I’ll call, but I don’t think I’ll be needing anything.”

  “As independent as ever,” Sophia said, shaking her head. “If your child is anything like you, I’ll wind up devoting all my time to good works.”

  “That might be a nice change,” Helen said.

  Sophia shot her a look. “Just don’t disappear without letting me know, all right?”

  “All right, I promise.”

  Sophia turned to go and then stopped, eyeing Helen with something like envy.

  “You say you were in love with this man, the baby’s father?”

  “Very much. I still am.”

  “Well, that’s something, anyway.”

  “That’s everything,” Helen replied, and Sophia surprised her once more by nodding slowly.

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said softly. “I was in love with your father when I had you.”

  “I know,” Helen whispered sympathetically.

  Sophia shook her head as if to dispense with unproductive memories. “Goodbye, darling, and keep in touch,” she said, going for the door.

  “Goodbye,” Helen echoed, watching through the window as her mother climbed into her hired limousine and headed off to a rendezvous with her admirer.

  Helen went back to her work and didn’t get up from the table until dinnertime. She flicked on the television as she walked past it, intending to listen to the five o’clock news and see if the Indian summer heat was about to break.

  The announcer reviewed various domestic crises and then said, “At the top of the international news is the revolution in the tiny Central American country of Puerta Linda. Rebel forces under the leadership of Matteo Salazar de Montega last night deposed the military government there and are now in control of the capital city of San Jacinta. The coup was bloodless, and Montega is reportedly advocating a policy of non-retaliation against the members of the previous regime. A free election is scheduled to take place in a matter of months.”

  Helen sank to the sofa in silence, her hands to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears of joy.

  Chapter 11

  “Montega,” the news commentator went on to say, “considered to be one of the young turks of Central American politics, was educated in the United States, where he lived and worked for thirteen years. He is a democratic thinker whose American ideas were said to offend some of his colleagues, who resented the old government’s alliance with the U.S. There is little doubt, however, that these differences will fade in light of yesterday’s victory, largely the result of his brilliant field tactics and charismatic leadership.”

  Helen sat transfixed, her gaze never wavering from the television. An old photograph of Matteo flashed onto the screen, identified as his Columbia yearbook picture. His hair was cut in the style of the mid-seventies, and he grinned confidently into the camera, totally at ease.

  The hair had changed but not the smile.

  “Montega orchestrated a carefully mounted campaign of raids on government installations, gradually weakening the military’s power to resist, and then struck the final blow, taking over the official buildings in San Jacinta about 1:00 a.m. this morning, Eastern Standard Time. The leading figures of the ousted regime are in custody and Montega insists that they will be treated fairly. He will head a provisional government until power can be passed into the hands of ministers duly elected by the people.”

  “Good for you, Matteo,” Helen whispered, clasping her hands at her breast. “Good for you.”

  “And in a related story,” the newscaster said, “the FBI today announced that it was dropping illegal purchase of firearms charges against Montega, who had been wanted for an incident involving stolen guns last March. The Bureau insists that its move has nothing to do with the coup in Puerta Linda, but speculation is rife that this gesture of goodwill to the newly powerful Central American leader was an effort to keep an ally the United States needs in that troubled area of the globe.”

  The commentator moved along to another story, and Helen rose to shut off the set, still in a daze.

  Matteo had realized his dream. He would now have what he’d worked so long and hard to achieve: freedom for his people to control their own government.

  At the same time Helen knew that there was no place in his life for her. Ever since she’d left him she had hoped there would be, but as the weeks passed without word she accepted what she’d known in her heart since she climbed into Paolo’s helicopter.

  There was no question in Helen’s mind that Matteo had cared about her, perhaps more than he’d cared about any other other woman in his life. But she had a rival, as Theresa said, and Helen had always come second to Puerta Linda. That had never been more true than at this moment of triumph, when he could look to the future and see the possibility of things he had once only imagined.

  She wiped her eyes and got up to make her dinner, thinking that three months was too long to wait for the arrival of Matteo’s child.

  * * *

  Matteo Montega stared out the window of the military barracks in San Jacinta, his mind in turmoil. He hardly looked up when he heard the door across the room shut, but he was forced to recognize the man who moved into his field of vision and stood there, waiting for an audience.

  “Martin, what is it?” Matteo finally said.

  “The temporary headquarters are ready,” Martin announced. “We are still clearing out the old offices, though. Just organizing the files is going to take a long time.”

  “That’s all right,” Matteo answered distractedly. “We’ve had twenty-five years of those gangsters; we can wait another couple of weeks in order to set it up right.” He paused and looked directly at the other man for the first time. “Any word from the United States?” he asked. “Any cables or wires, letters?”

  “Plenty,” Martin replied quietly. “There’s a flood of mail. But not from her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Martin nodded. “Very sure. I checked myself.”

  “Massachusetts. It would be from there; that’s where she lives.”

  “Nothing.”

  Matteo sighed. “Maybe she hasn’t heard.”

 
; Martin shook his head. “It’s been all over American newspapers and television. They love the fact that you lived there for so long, and they’re playing it up big. She’d have to be hibernating in a cave to miss it.”

  Matteo favored him with a wry smile. “I hope that’s not supposed to make me feel better.”

  Martin shrugged. “You asked me.” He paused and shuffled his feet. “Why don’t you get in touch with her?”

  “I’m not sure she’ll want to hear from me.”

  “Why not? That girl was crazy about you.”

  “Six months ago she was. She hasn’t heard a word from me since then.”

  Martin simply stared at him.

  “I wanted to wait until I had something to offer her,” Matteo said defensively.

  “Don’t you think you waited a bit too long?”

  “Thanks, Martin. That idea never occurred to me.”

  Matteo stood and thrust his fingers through his hair. “I knew we were going to make the big push at the end of this summer, and it seemed like a good idea to see how things turned out before I contacted her.” He shrugged slightly. “Change takes time. I couldn’t ask her to come back and be a camp follower again.”

  “What are you going to do?” Martin asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’ll have to go and get her.” Matteo moved around the desk as if to leave right then.

  “Shouldn’t you let her know you’re coming?”

  Matteo shook his head. “I don’t want to give her the chance to say no before she sees me in person.”

  “Think she won’t be able to resist you, eh?” Martin said, grinning conspiratorially.

  Matteo’s reply indicated that he had a lot less confidence in his personal magnetism than Martin did.

  “Six months is a long time,” he said thoughtfully. “She could be married to someone else already. She could have moved to another country—anything.”

  “Do you really think she would have done something like that?” Martin asked doubtfully.

  Matteo didn’t answer for a moment and then said, “She had a lot invested in me. When I sent her away, well, I don’t know how she reacted once she left here.” He stopped, then whispered, “I only hope I can find her.”

  “I don’t know if you should leave right now,” Martin said carefully. “Things are still pretty unsettled; you know that.”

  “You and Ricardo can handle it,” Matteo said firmly. “I’ve given up enough. It’s about time I did something for myself.”

  Martin couldn’t argue with that and so said nothing.

  “The most important thing,” Matteo said, “is to control the people, make sure they don’t take revenge. We have to set an example, show everyone that we’re better than the group we just booted out.”

  “I understand,” Martin said quietly.

  “Call them all together for a meeting in an hour,” Matteo directed him. “I want to give some last minute instructions before I go. I’ll see if I can get a flight out this afternoon.”

  Martin moved to leave, then paused and said, “Good luck.”

  “I think I’m going to need it.” Matteo sighed and turned to pick up a sheaf of papers on his desk.

  Three hours later he boarded his flight for the United States. He had covered everything he could think of in his meeting and then packed lightly for the trip, taking only one change of clothes. His stay would be brief; it wouldn’t take her long to say yes, or no.

  Matteo was not prepared for what happened at the airport. He was recognized and greeted as a hero; his flight was delayed for him. He finally had to detach himself from the crowds and run for the plane. He had refused to bring his bodyguards along on this trip. His mission had been accomplished, and if something happened to him now, Martin and the others would be able to go on without him. He had also declined to commandeer a military plane for himself; such abuses had been the hallmark of the previous administration and he wanted to start off with a clean slate.

  As the plane taxied down the runway and gathered speed, Matteo settled into his seat, his expression sober as he wondered what the next couple of days would bring.

  * * *

  Helen finished with her shower and turned off the water, bundling into an oversize terry robe and wrapping her dripping hair in a towel. As she padded barefoot into the hall the doorbell rang, and she groaned. This was becoming a regular occurrence, except that usually the bell rang while she was still in the shower, and she had to emerge to greet her visitor while streaming suds marked up the floor. The visitor was usually a messenger from Sophia. Since she had discovered her daughter’s pregnancy, Helen’s mother had sent an array of wildly impractical baby gifts, such as a sterling silver bottle holder and a raw silk baby blanket. Where Sophia found such things Helen couldn’t imagine; she would have settled for a dozen cotton nightshirts, but Sophia could not be expected to descend to such a mundane level.

  Helen belted the robe around her burgeoning middle, effectively concealed by its voluminous folds, and yanked open the door, ready for a solid gold pram or a jewel encrusted high chair, almost anything.

  Except what she saw. Matteo was standing on the welcome mat, holding an envelope in his hand.

  Helen was speechless. A myriad of thoughts flew through her mind, but the only one she held on to was relief that her attire, albeit unglamorous, concealed her condition.

  “Hello, Helen,” he said, and she managed a smile that felt stiff on her mouth.

  She wanted to fling her arms around his neck, but too much time had passed, too many things had changed, and she wasn’t sure he would welcome the attention.

  “Hello, Matteo,” she answered, thinking that they sounded like a couple of characters in a bad play. But she simply didn’t know what to say to him, and sterile politeness was an acceptable substitute for honesty when the latter was burdened with too much risk.

  “May I come in?” he asked, and she stepped aside, noticing that he signaled covertly to two men leaning against a long black sedan at the curb. They were attired in almost identical gray suits, with cropped hair and an indefinable air of competence seasoned with menace.

  “Who are those people?” she asked him in a low voice, nodding over his shoulder.

  “Secret Service men,” he answered, flushing faintly, obviously embarrassed. “It seems I’m not a private citizen anymore. Your government insisted.”

  “You’re sure they’ll wait outside?” she asked warily.

  “I’m sure,” he replied firmly, and pulled the door closed after them.

  They stared at one another in silence.

  “I’m sorry I’m not dressed,” Helen began. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I came to give you this,” he replied, extending the envelope to her.

  “What is it?” Helen asked, taking it and ripping open the flap.

  “You’ll find out.”

  Helen removed the slip of paper inside and saw that it was a receipt, typed in Spanish.

  “There’s a translation on the back,” Matteo said.

  Helen turned it over and realized that he had given her a voucher for the price of a motorcycle of the type and year they had stolen from the street in San Jacinta. He had done as he promised—tracked down the owner and refunded the money for the bike they’d taken.

  “Thank you,” she said, touched. “But you could have mailed this to me; you didn’t have to come all this way. I know you must be... busy these days.”

  I want to kiss her, Matteo thought, drinking in the light blue eyes, the fine, pale brows, the edible mouth. He longed to remove the towel from her head and run his hands through her damp, golden hair.

  “I am busy. There’s a lot to do,” he said aloud.

  “Matteo, I was so happy when I heard the news about your country,” Helen said quietly, feeling that the words were inadequate.

  “I’m sure you were,” he answered, smiling slightly.

  “I felt like something had been given to me,” she went on. “I kn
ow it sounds silly.”

  “Of course it doesn’t,” he murmured, taking a step closer to her.

  “So how’s Theresa?” Helen asked brightly. “Still running the show?”

  He nodded. “There’s no stopping her now. Everybody’s afraid of her.”

  “You, too?” she asked, smiling.

  “Oh, me,” he said casually, “I always was.”

  “And … Alma?” Helen asked carefully.

  “She’s fine. She has a new boyfriend, some friend of her brother’s.” He reached out and touched her shoulder.

  “Helen...”

  She remained still under his fingers. “Matteo, why did you really come here? I mean, this trip, those guards, you had to have a good reason.”

  “I do. I want you to come back to Puerta Linda with me.”

  “Back to Puerta Linda?” she repeated faintly, as if trying to understand.

  “Yes. As my wife.”

  Helen backed up unsteadily and sank into a chair.

  Matteo followed, looming over her, concerned. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Helen managed. “I just wasn’t... expecting this.”

  “I know it must come as a shock, me suddenly arriving and announcing this, but surely you knew how I felt about you,” he said quietly.

  “I thought it was over,” she murmured, still trying to absorb his presence, the proposal.

  “Helen,” he said hesitantly, sitting next to her on the small sofa and looking into her eyes, “is there someone else?”

  “Oh, Matteo, don’t be ridiculous,” she answered, and leaned forward to put her head on his shoulder.

  His arm came around her and he said, “Does this mean you’ll marry me?”

  “There’s something I have to tell you first,” she replied, her voice muffled by the cloth of his shirt.

  “What?”

  She raised her head and looked at him. “It’s a surprise.”

  “Helen, I don’t care, you can tell me anything. You’re a member of the secret witness program, your father is a spy, your mother was once a man, anything.”