Just Another Girl on the Road

by S. Kensington

  * * *

  Amparo was uneasy. He should be gone, but a flurry of last-minute, urgent reports held him in this secluded bay. Damn Emerson and his quests. Anchoring in the same area twice was foolhardy. The German lookouts were stretched thin, but there was only a brief window of time when this small bit of coastline had minimal guard. He and his crew had to get out before dawn.

  He peered at his watch in the darkness. If the agent did not show soon, he would find another way to deliver the plastique. But, in his heart, he knew it would be too late to stop the Germans.

  There was a splash, and Amparo grabbed for his gun. Nicolas, his second mate, appeared from the shadows.

  “Steady, Captain; Santos has arrived, and the agent has as well.”

  Both men leaned into the darkness. Amparo heard soft voices, and a ladder was thrown over the side. In a few minutes, two figures appeared on deck. Amparo approached silently, his pistol ready.

  “Papai?” queried a voice.

  The man lowered his gun. “Katrinka?”

  “Papai!” She ran to his arms.

  He turned to Santos and nodded, and the old man and second mate faded back into the shadows. Amparo held her close, hushing her.

  “Yes, I see you are upset. Calm yourself. What has happened? Why are you here?” He cupped her head in his hands, peering into her face. Seeing the blotches of bruised skin, he pulled back, his voice deadly quiet. “Trinka, what has happened? Who has done this?”

  Katrinka’s teeth were chattering. “Papai, please, there is terrible news. I must speak to you.”

  They went through an open hatch that led down a passageway into his small office. He guided her to the old sofa. “Sit here. I will get you something warm to drink.”

  He returned a few minutes later, holding a steaming cup. “Drink this, then we will talk.”

  He waited until she had finished the tea, then took the cup and sat down beside her, his heart already heavy with foreboding.

  “Now, Trinka, what has happened? What have you to tell me?”

  “It was after you dropped us off,” she began.

  As she related the events of the past few days, Amparo stared at his daughter.

  “She’s dead, Papai. They killed her, and Emerson too. They left them on the road.”

  Amparo thrust himself from the sofa, the world tilting around him. It seemed he’d forgotten how to breathe. Yujana. And Emerson. He spared a moment of compassion for a man he’d once thought his enemy, but over the years had proved a steady friend. Looking down at his daughter’s stricken face, he again saw the bruises, like dark smudges on her skin. She was crying now. That was good. He let her cry. His own eyes felt scorched.

  Later he handed her a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and she dried her face.

  “Find what you need in your cabin, Trinka, and then come to the galley. We will eat.”

  Amparo stood as he watched her go, and the fury came rushing back, choking his brain. He would return with her. He would find out who did this. He would track them down, and with his bare hands, kill each one. He would make sure they knew the reason why.

  He was grinding his teeth and the pain roused him. He must move. Do something. She would be hungry. He passed through a narrow corridor and into the small galley to prepare a meal. A skillet dropped from his hands and he grabbed it up, slamming it onto a pile of dishes again and again, shattering them to pieces. He threw the skillet into the wall. Exhaling in sharp gasps, he stood with hands clenched, his nails scoring his skin.

  * * *

  A short time later, Katrinka entered the galley. Her father had drawn the blackout curtains and was cooking tinned stew in a large pot. Seeing the shattered remains of dishes, she pulled a broom from the corner and swept up the debris. Then she perched on an anchored stool and wrapped herself in an old blanket. Her face felt puffy and tear-streaked, but her hair was neatly brushed back. She watched her father by the stove.

  “It smells good in here, Papa.”

  After the meal was prepared and the dishes laid, they sat across from each other at the table. Amparo poured wine from a bottle. They ate quietly, talking of other things.

  Katrinka waited until the meal was finished. Then carefully, she explained to him her mission. About the German deserters, and Farr, and Wills. The captured agent, and their desperate need for the plastique. Nye’s plans to retrieve Yujana and Emerson’s ashes.

  He listened with a forced calmness. “These men took you. Where? For what purpose?”

  “Papa, I do not want to talk about it now. They are dead. Sergeant Farr was patrolling the area. He found me. He killed the men—”

  “All of them? Did he kill them all?”

  Katrinka replied, her voice as hard as his. “The one who murdered A-mah I killed myself, with my knife.”

  A shocked look passed over her father’s face, followed by something else. Was it pride? Gratification?

  She continued, “I escaped. I wanted only to return to you and Le Flâneur. Later, we could go back for their bodies. But Wills heard about them from radio reports. When Sergeant Farr told him what had happened, he thought the girl must be me.”

  “So, our good friend Nye has put you in this mess.”

  “Papa, the men need this plastique. There is a large formation of German troops, coming up from the south. These are the same men who attacked the village of La Sansoune. They killed every man, women and child. The babies too. They cannot be allowed to cross this bridge.”

  She pulled out her silken map. “Here is where they will come, to the Pont du Namandie. The Maquis will plant the plastique I bring back, and destroy the bridge.”

  Her father studied the map, his face grave. “Yes,” he said with a heaviness. “It must be done.”

  After drying the dishes, Katrinka found her father on the lower deck, leaning against the gunwales and staring out at the water. His face was haggard in the moonlight, and his eyes bloodshot, but he managed a smile. They stood together enveloped in light mist, the stars dim lights in the sky.

  “Papa?”

  “Yes, filhinha?”

  “Why did you and A-mah never marry? Before she died… she told me she loved you, she had always loved you.”

  “She said that?”

  “Yes.”

  Amparo nodded, turning back again, to stare at the sea.

  Katrinka waited for him to go on, but he was silent. With a quick embrace and a kiss, she slipped away.

  * * *

  Later, after making a final security check, Amparo snuffed his pipe and walked out along the bridge. Le Flâneur was shrouded in a thick blanket of silence. The light mist had grown heavy, blocking out the stars and making the moon a pale shadow in the sky. Now he had time to think, his heart coated in a protective numbness.

  Yujana dead. He remembered the first time he’d seen her, on stage in a smoke-filled bar in Rangoon, singing to drunken men. Then later, she was dragged before him on his ship. Always so defiant, always so sure of herself and her charms. The discovery of his private letters, and later, her affair with Emerson. That crazy, passionate night in the cabin when she’d shared herself with both men. He’d stayed away from her after that, and in Marseilles she’d departed with Emerson.

  A letter arrived from Emerson months later. She had left him after finding out she was with child, and had gone back to her family in the Andaman Sea.

  He’d continued to stay away as months turned into years, his pride not letting him look for her. Until one summer when Emerson tracked him down, arriving from the desert in Alexandria Port. And throughout the rambling drunken night, the two men talked, swore, and reminisced.

  Then Emerson made a remark that seemed to have no relevance. “Got the mumps when I was in college. Everyone gets it, but they have sense to do it while young. Damnedest thing. Caused a lot of problems, and th
e upshot was that my family took me to a specialist. It turned out my tool was damaged; couldn’t produce what’s needed to get the job done. It looks like you’re it, old man.”

  Amparo stared.

  Emerson continued, “It’s you she loves. Always has. I’m excitement for her, an adventure. But she’s always loved you. I could never compete with that, and I never tried. And if you had an ounce of sense in that fat head of yours, you’d go and get her.”

  After Emerson had left, Amparo turned the facts over. She’d had his child. He felt no surprise. Deep down at some biological level, hadn’t he always known?

  So he’d hauled anchor from Alexandria Port, setting his crew and compass for the Andaman Sea. Many weeks later, Le Flâneur pulled into the port of Myeik, the capital of Mergui, and its main trading center. In the past, Amparo had done profitable business in pearls and had many acquaintances in the main town. It was only a matter of time before he tracked her down.

  He first saw her squatting on the deck of her family kabang, chopping seaweed. Her fair hair was caught up in a scarf, and a longyi was knotted tightly around her waist. She glanced up, shocked at seeing him clamber over the side, surrounded by her chattering family members. A flash of undisguised joy crossed her face. Wiping her hands on the longyi, she walked up to him, cupping his face in her hands.

  “Remi, you’ve been so long away,” was all she said.

  That afternoon, they swam out to board Le Flâneur and made love in the afternoon heat of his cabin. When it became too hot, they plunged over the side and made love again, in the ship’s cool green shade. In the evening, they swam back to the kabang.

  Later, as the stars were coming out, a small girl came splashing up to the kabang, and hoisted herself onto its deck, laughing and shaking water from her dark curls. She stopped when she saw him, and he got a clear view of her face. It was as if he were gazing into a mirror, with his own large, blue eyes looking back at him, and the last doubt vanished. Yujana always claimed that the minute they had placed Katrinka in her arms, she had known the child was his.

  She’d followed Emerson on that last expedition, soon after Amparo had explained to her about his wife, Maria, the woman who had written the letters. Was that why she’d left? Surely, she had known the risks. But Emerson could ignite anyone’s imagination with his stories. He had an aura of excitement and intrigue about him that many found irresistible, including Yujana. She’d lived most of her youth without a home or roots. She had the ability to float about the world, happily experiencing life events and the men that came with them. A half-wild, passionate woman, moody and intense. She’d found something in him worth loving, returning to him again and again. But ultimately, unholdable. He’d never been able to hold her.

  * * *

  Early next morning, they assembled a packet of food from the remains of dinner, and placed the bars of plastique under the false bottom of the basket. Nestled next to it incongruously, was a small bottle of Porto wine, a favorite of Katrinka’s. Spying it, she smiled. She placed the food from the safe house atop the false bottom.

  “You will need money. I’ve written the contact information of my solicitor in Switzerland. He will know where to find me, and will give you whatever you need. In the meantime, take this.” Amparo handed her a small packet of French francs. “It is not much, but it may be useful.”

  She tucked the bills into her skirt.

  “This man, Sergeant Farr. I would like to meet him someday and thank him.”

  “I would like that as well,” she replied.

  They slipped over the side into a small dinghy, and Santos rowed them ashore. The water was silent; it was still very dark. Katrinka found the place where she’d hidden the bicycle. Settling the basket on the handlebars, she turned to face her father.

  “Papa, you know I want to bring A-mah’s ashes back.”

  “Back?”

  “To Coronado. She wanted to be scattered among the roses.”

  “Trinka, that may not be possible.”

  “I promised her, Papa.”

  He sighed. “Then we will do it. What of Emerson?”

  Her voice tightened, “I would like to take him to Lascaux. I think he would be happy there.”

  He nodded and embraced her one last time before standing back, watching as she pushed her bike up to the road.

  Turning back, she called to him softly, “I love you, Papa.”

  Amparo stared into the blackness, long after her small figure had faded into the distance.

  * * *

  Katrinka made good time on her return, pulling into the woods whenever vehicles approached and avoiding roadblocks. The long night’s sleep and hot food had rejuvenated her, and the terrible burden of having to tell her father was over. There had been no problems. The plastique would arrive on time.

  She stopped around noon, eating a hurried lunch. Later, needing to relieve herself, she found a secluded area of trees away from the road. When finished, she separated the lips of her vulva and probed inside with an exploratory finger. Although the pills had put them in a constant state of sexual arousal, the soldiers at the farmhouse had experienced problems maintaining their erections. Except for one soldier. Well. She had taken care of him.

  Gently she moved her finger around, searching for anything amiss. It was still sore, but much better than yesterday. Katrinka felt the anger building inside her. Would she ever have pleasure again? Would it stay numb and deadened as it had been these past few days? Was she broken? A glance around satisfied her that she was alone, sheltered by the leafy greenery. She could find out for herself. She didn’t need a doctor for that. A doctor wouldn’t care about that.

  She lay in the soft grasses, feeling the sun’s warmth on her face. Lifting her skirt, she cupped her fingers around herself. She rubbed with a languid motion for several minutes, enjoying the buildup, probing softly with her finger. As the pleasure intensified, she rubbed faster, arching her body and grunting tightly from the back of her throat until her muscles contracted in a clenched spasm. Then it was over, and she flopped back, panting.

  Gradually removing her hand, she gave herself one last affectionate squeeze. She felt immense relief. Everything appeared to be in working order. The poor thing had just wanted a friendly touch.

  A tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away, overcome with an intense desire to sleep. The droning of bees made a peaceful sound in the stillness. Couldn’t she just stay here? She would curl up into an invisible ball, hidden by the tall grasses, and let herself heal.

  But Wills was depending on her. She stood and adjusted her skirt. Then mounting the bicycle, she continued on her way with a sleepy but much lighter heart. The sun sprinkled its dappled rays through the tree leaves, and the air hovering above the road seemed freckled with golden dust. She drowsed along, with half-closed eyes.

  Too late, Katrinka spotted a pair of soldiers ahead and a small German jeep parked across the road. A checkpoint? There was no time to hide. They were signaling her forward.

  With stomach lurching, she coasted up to one soldier who stood a little away from the other. He looked young, and not quite at ease with his gangly, broad-shouldered body.

  Smiling, she spoke in halting, schoolgirl German. “Hallo, may I pass by here?”

  The youth broke into a grin. “Your Deutsch is admirable, mademoiselle, but there is no need. I know a bit of French, as you can see. I would ask you where you are going and to view your papers.” His green eyes gave her an appraising look. Seeing the bruises, he was suddenly alert, his face hard-edged.

  Katrinka noticed and switched tactics. Placing a trembling hand on his sleeve, her eyes filled with easy tears. “Oh, monsieur, as you see, I have had a bad time. My grandfather… he is difficult when he is drinking. I have ridden this bike to my aunt’s, near Les Sabit, where there is more food. I bring back some good cheese, potatoes, and beans. Yes
, a few eggs as well and some apples. It will please him.”

  He glanced at her papers, then handed them back. He seemed more interested in the basket of food. The other soldier had come over, and looked—if possible—even younger than the first. They had a quick conference, giving her glances, which she returned with a warm smile. She waited.

  The tall one, called Josef, spoke again. “Yes, mademoiselle, all is in order. You may go.”

  She began to wheel away.

  “But first…” Josef reached out and took hold of her arm.

  She winced but turned with a smile. “Yes?”

  “It is warm today, and you are fatigued. Perhaps you would like to share with us an apple? We are hot and tired as well.”

  Relief made her weak, and she smiled again.

  “Of course, that is a good idea. They come from my aunt’s trees.” She pulled the basket over. “Please take one.”

  Both boys crowded around her basket. Katrinka held her breath, trying not to think of the bars of plastique nestled just inches away, under the flimsy false bottom.

  They finally selected a sweet-smelling red one with yellowish freckles. Josef laughed. “Yes, this one, I think. It looks like your face, Horst!”

  They offered her a seat on the hood of their jeep, and Josef gave her the first bite. He watched as she broke into the flesh, a bit of juicy sweetness dribbling down her chin. Reaching over, he gently wiped away the juice, licking his fingers.

  She flushed. It was as if he’d left a trail of flame upon her face. He took the apple and handed it to Horst, who took a bite and handed it back to Josef.

  There was a scrabbling sound, and a small dog with a bent ear and freckled muzzle bounded from the back of the jeep, skittering onto the hood with them.

  Josef burst out laughing, “Of course, when there is something to eat… mademoiselle, I present Monsieur Rolf. A connoisseur of good food, lately living in the gutters, and rescued by me. He has rough manners, as you can see.”