by Rachel Dann
‘Did you know this is the largest neo-gothic cathedral in the whole of the American continent?’ I babble, fumbling with Dad’s guidebook in one hand and wiping the sweat from my forehand with the other.
‘If we get closer, you’ll see they have gargoyles in the form of native Ecuadorian animals, like iguanas, giant Galápagos tortoises…’ The drunk, a few feet away from us under the shade of one of the trees, makes a grunting sound and turns over, almost rolling away down the hillside.
‘Er, shall we go over this way a bit…’ I try to steer Dad and Dorice away from him and further up the hill. ‘Look, if you feel like it, we could go right to the top…’ I point up to where miniature tourists are just visible as coloured dots, snaking their way up the spiral staircase on one of the pinnacles above us. ‘We can climb up, and get some fantastic photos of the city from the top…’
The last thing I see is the hard, impassive line of Dorice’s mouth before something thuds into me and I’m in the air. I see a flash of sky, city, grass, hear the sound of someone yelling my name, then hit the ground hard, a searing pain shooting across my shoulder and down my back.
‘What the…’ I reach out and feel grass between my fingers, then a hand on my arm, and look up unsteadily to see Dad’s frowning face inches from my own.
‘Oh my God, are you okay?’ He’s gripping my arms tightly and peering into my face with an intense expression.
‘My handbag…’ As my legs begin to shake violently I finally make sense of what has happened, looking up at the figure sprinting away from us, already on the other side of the park, then down to the angry red wheels on my shoulder where the bag’s strap grazed my skin, and the guidebook still clutched uselessly in my hands.
‘He took… that man took my handbag.’
‘Our passports were in that bag!’ Dorice exclaims shrilly, clasping her hand to her mouth dramatically.
Still holding my arm, Dad shoots her an absolutely filthy look, making frantic ‘shut up’ gestures. Despite the panicky feeling of shock that is only just starting to subside, I can’t help thinking ha – take that!
Then I realise with a sinking feeling that my own passport was in the bag, too, after I had to show it at the prison door this morning.
Suddenly freezing to the spot in fear, I notice a figure shuffling towards us across the grass. It takes me a few heart-stopping moments to realise we are not being mugged again. It’s just one of the Quichua ladies who have been selling candles in the church doorway.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks in broken Spanish, finally coming to a stop in front of us. Her face is barely visible under her black bowler-style hat, but I can make out heavily wrinkled skin and a look of genuine concern. She’s wearing a bright-green shawl around her shoulders, the long embroidered skirts typical to the Quichua dress, and strings of tiny gold beads around her neck. I notice the rest of the group is watching avidly from a few metres away in the doorway, and get a fleeting, bizarre image of them bickering over who should come to talk to us:
‘No, Violet, it’s your turn, I went last time.’
‘But you speak the better English, Doreen.’
‘Why don’t we ask Gladys, she’s the eldest. Go on, Gladys, go over there, you never go.’
‘Um, yes, we’re fine, thank you for asking.’ I smile down at the woman – she barely comes up to my chest – and also turn to smile and give a bit of a wave to the group in the doorway.
‘Tourists – you need to be careful around here,’ she continues, then reaches forward, pats me lightly on the arm, inclines her head at Dad and Dorice, and turns to begin her slow ascent back up the hill to her outpost in the church doorway.
Watching her go I remember what Rodrigo, the taxi driver on our first day here, said about the indigenous Quichua people being in many ways like outsiders in their own country, and I feel a rush of affection and solidarity for this little old woman who recognised another outsider in me.
‘So what do we do now?’ Dorice asks loudly, standing with her arms folded and staring at my father, obviously expecting him to provide an instant solution.
‘Well, I think Kirsty could probably do with a drink and a sit down,’ he replies pointedly, starting to lead me by the arm towards the cathedral’s main entrance. ‘Then I’m sure we’ll figure out a plan of action from there.’
Chapter Fifteen
The cathedral café is pretty much like any cathedral café in England. People around us queue for overpriced coffees, pastries and postcards while I dial Harry’s number for the fifth time, squeezing my eyes shut and willing him to answer. The insistent ringing sound echoes in my ear and drains away the last of my hope. No one has spoken since we sat down except for Dad ordering me a cup of sweet tea and a large slice of chocolate cake, and Dorice haughtily offering me her mobile phone. My own phone, of course, was in the handbag.
I press ‘dial’ again in growing desperation. My legs have stopped shaking now and the mark on my shoulder has faded to a dull throb. I just need Harry to pick up the bloody phone. He’ll know what to do. He’ll ask Liza or Roberto to come and get us, or call Ray, or at least go online and cancel my phone and credit cards. Harry, PLEASE, I will him silently. With every unanswered ring I can feel myself sweating under the heat of Dorice’s scrutiny and obvious anger. I wonder absently how long she’ll be able to maintain the crimson facial tone without actually exploding messily all over the other people in the café.
‘It’s no good,’ I sigh, dropping the phone back on the table. ‘He’s not answering.’
‘Yes, we can see that,’ remarks Dorice, turning her eyes heavenwards. ‘So what now? Don’t we need to cancel our passports urgently? I mean, every moment we spend sitting here they could be being used on the black market…’
‘Oh, give it a rest,’ Dad snaps irritably back at her.
Without even realising I’ve done it, my hand drops to my pocket where Sebastian North’s business card is still safely tucked. I pull the card out and stare at it for a moment. He did say to call him if I needed anything. And we have had our passports stolen… would it be such an unreasonable thing to call the British Consul?
On a Saturday afternoon?
On his mobile?
Swallowing, I reach for Dorice’s phone again.
‘Give me one more call… I’ve got an idea.’
He answers on the second ring, sounding slightly out of breath.
‘Sebastian… er, hi. It’s Kirsty.’ I just manage to stop myself saying ‘from the prison’ again. ‘Look, I’m really sorry to bother you on a weekend. But… we’ve had a bit of a problem and I was wondering if you could help.’
‘Kirsty! No problem.’ He sounds like he’s shouting to me from down the end of a tunnel. ‘Hang on a minute – don’t go anywhere…’ I hear a rustling sound, a whistle, Sebastian’s voice shouting something, then the slam of a car door before he is back on the line sounding clearer.
‘Sorry about that – what’s happened, are you all right?’
I briefly explain the events of the last twenty minutes, skimming over the part where I actually got knocked to the ground by a speeding bag-snatcher.
‘Oh, you poor thing – awful bad luck for that to happen on your dad’s first day out here, too. I’m so sorry.’ I realise, with relief, he really sounds like he means it. ‘Look, I’ll be there in ten minutes. You need to do a police report to get new passports – I’ll help with that. And I’ll bring all the forms. Just sit tight where you are and I’ll be there right away. You’re at the cathedral, right?’
Dizzy with relief I nod, then realise he can’t see me nodding and say ‘yes’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry’ about a hundred times before hanging up the phone. I can barely believe it – he’s coming all the way here to help us. I remember Naomi saying something like ‘not all consuls are as accommodating as ours’. She was right – this man really is dedicated to his job.
I barely have time to explain to a s
ceptical-looking Dad and Dorice before Sebastian himself bursts in, panting slightly, his eyes skimming the café for me. It takes me a moment to realise it’s actually him, as he could not look more different to the smartly suited man I encountered at the prison and embassy. His hair is messily sticking out in some places and flattened down in others, as if he’s just recently removed a baseball cap. He’s wearing what I can only describe as Serious Running Clothes, shorts and a T-shirt clinging slightly to his broad chest, and there’s a spread of dark stubble across his jaw.
I am suddenly rooted to the spot by a wave a self-consciousness, and only manage to raise an arm stiffly to get his attention, completely incapable of using my voice. Sebastian catches sight of me and breaks into a huge, relieved smile.
‘There you are! Thank goodness.’ He shakes my father’s and Dorice’s hands heartily, then leans over the table to kiss me on the cheek. ‘I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.’ It takes all my self-control to defy the hot flush of colour creeping up my cheeks. ‘Kirsty, I’m sorry, but we’ll have to go outside as they won’t let me stay in here with him…’ He gestures behind him and suddenly I spot the large, floppy-eared black dog, panting happily on the end of a lead and staring up in adoration at his owner. Even as Sebastian says this, I notice the more grumpy-looking of the waitresses already making her way through the tables towards us, frowning and gesturing.
‘I’m so sorry, we’re just leaving.’ Sebastian flashes her his most charming smile and indicates for us to follow him.
***
It takes less than ten minutes to get to the nearest police station in Sebastian’s dusty Land Rover, which, I noticed as we left the café, he had parked illegally across the cathedral lawn at a haphazard angle, carving muddy skid marks into the grass.
‘You caught me off duty, I’m afraid!’ He smiles at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘We like to go out for long runs in the park on Saturday mornings. Luckily we were really nearby when you called… Oh dear, sorry about Lewis – just push him off, honestly, don’t let him…’
‘It’s fine,’ I laugh, as the dog tries to climb over on to the back seat and into my lap, his tongue swiping at my ear. ‘I love animals, it’s no problem.’ I feel Dorice stiffen in her seat beside me and notice she has edged as far away from me as possible to press herself up against the window. ‘Er, I think you’d better sit – that’s it, good dog.’ I resist the temptation to let him climb across me and do his worst to Dorice’s silk pashmina. ‘Lewis… that’s really his name?’
‘I know, I know. Silly name, really. Not my idea… the name came as part of the deal, I’m afraid.’
I feel the atmosphere gradually thawing as Sebastian chats to my father in the front about his job, Quito, and the state of the UK economy. Although he turns round to Dorice and me to involve us or ask a question as often as driving will allow, it’s hard to hear much with the noises of the traffic around us and Lewis constantly scrabbling against the leather seats to press himself as close up against my side as possible. But my father seems to be chatting back, and nodding, and in response to something Sebastian says about the Prime Minister, I even see him throw his head back and laugh.
The police station is a tiny building wedged between an internet café and a laundrette, with a crooked sign above the door saying ‘Tourist Security Police’. Inside, three policemen are sitting in an impossibly hot, windowless room, all typing avidly away at their computers. Sebastian hangs back at the car, having what looks like a very serious conversation with Lewis through the open window, before locking the doors and turning to follow us inside.
‘He absolutely hates being left in the car,’ he mutters to me in the doorway. ‘I should probably be stricter with him, but…’ He turns to look up at my father, Dorice, and the three policemen, with an apologetic wince. ‘All I can say is, I’m sorry.’
I soon understand why as an ear-shattering howl wracks the air. It’s so loud and mournful that it reverberates in my skull for several moments afterwards. Just as the last echo of the terrible noise dies away, Lewis begins another one.
‘Seriously? This is just because you’ve left him in the car?’
Sebastian nods, looking mortified. ‘He wasn’t always like this… but he’s a bit… he’s been through a lot lately.’ He turns to the nearest police officer, who is cowering behind his computer with his hands over his ears. ‘Right, three stolen passports. Can we get this over with as quickly as possible please?’
It takes eight attempts to get my name right in the system, but finally we are each presented with a freshly typed report detailing the theft of our passports, stamped with an elaborate royal blue ‘Tourist Security Police’ seal at the bottom. Dorice hardly speaks, despite closing her eyes with a long-suffering expression every time Lewis howls. While we’re waiting for the reports to be printed Sebastian sits with my father in the corner, working his way through a pile of papers. Just as I go over to see what they’re doing, he scrapes his chair back, gathering the papers together and smiling.
‘That’s the forms filled in for your emergency passports… I should have them ready for you early next week.’
Oh God – the passports! I hadn’t even thought of that.
‘Then perhaps, Kirsty, you could… drop in and pick them up?’ I’m about to respond when the police officer who seems to be in charge marches over, hands us photocopies of everything, then physically begins to steer us all towards the door. ‘That’ll be all. Now please can you remove that infernal animal from anywhere near our property?’
As soon as Lewis catches sight of Sebastian, he stops trying to destroy the rear car seats and instantly drops to the floor, his head resting on his paws and wide eyes staring up at us quietly.
‘Crazy animal – you’re going to have to get over it at some point, you know,’ I hear Sebastian mutter to him before opening the door for me. ‘So, let me just give you the passport application forms to fill in. Then I can drop you back at the hotel, or wherever you like?’
‘Thank you, that would be lovely,’ I say, at the same time as I hear my father ask, ‘Have you had lunch?’
Oh no.
‘Because – I don’t know about you – but we’re starving.’ Dad indicates Dorice, who is busily reapplying lipstick in the wing mirror. ‘And we’d love to buy you lunch, it’s the least we can do after how much you’ve helped us.’
‘Um, Dad? We’ve already taken up enough of Sebastian’s time. I’m sure he wants to get home and back to his fam—’
‘I’d love to.’ Sebastian is beaming. ‘That’s very kind of you. In fact, we’re not far from La Ronda – a great part of the old town here, very traditional, if you fancy some Ecuadorian cuisine?’
La Ronda… it takes me a few moments to realise why the name seems familiar. Then I remember my late-night reading sessions of Harry’s old guidebook, and its description of this part of the historic town centre. It had been an Inca road, I recall, used to carry water from its source to the heart of the city, which after the Conquest was preserved as one of the oldest parts of Quito. Now it’s a popular tourist area filled with cafés, restaurants and art shops. With a pang I think of my travel folder, still barely opened on the bedside table in the apartment, and the scribbled wish list I had made, including the traditional café I had wanted to visit so much… what had it even been called?
I’m suddenly filled with irritation at Harry for his reluctance to go out and try new things. Filled with a sudden determination, I turn to Sebastian.
‘That would be lovely, thank you. In fact… I’ve read about a restaurant in La Ronda. With its own recipe for those corn cakes… what are they called… humitas?’ Suddenly the name of the place comes back to me. ‘I think it was called Café Pichincha.’
Ten minutes later we’re sitting round a wooden table in the restaurant’s outdoor courtyard, perusing an elaborate seven-page menu of traditional Quiteño dishes. As we strolled down La Ronda’s main street, peering in the wi
ndows at brightly coloured woollen shawls and glinting copper and turquoise jewellery, I felt myself starting to enjoy it. Just then, for a moment, walking through Quito’s old town in the sunshine beside my father, my discovery of Harry’s secret phone calls this morning had seemed to lose importance. And so what if I’d just had my bag ripped from my shoulder in the middle of the day? It could be replaced. At least I’m out, seeing the city, doing what I came here to do and experiencing Ecuador.
Gentle classical guitar music floats to our ears from the live band playing in the street outside, and I recline comfortably in my chair waiting for Dorice to finalise her decision from the menu. Dad and Sebastian are deep in conversation again, but I’m watching with interest as Dorice struggles heroically to maintain the neutral expression on her face as she scans the menu listing grilled guinea pig, baked plantains, fried pork and corn empanadas.
‘I’ll just have a caesar salad, please,’ she says at last, with martyred sigh. ‘With no dressing. Or croutons.’
I’ve ordered ‘Llanpingachos’ – which, after three attempts, Sebastian had to pronounce for me – cheesy potato cakes topped with fried egg, served with fresh avocado and spicy sausage. And, of course, a side order of the cheesy corn cakes the restaurant is famous for. Dad, to my surprise, requested the ‘Ecuadorian King’ sharing platter, with a mini sample of every traditional dish available on the menu, all to himself.
‘This whole part of town comes alive at night.’ Sebastian gestures around him to the other open-air cafés and restaurants around us, now populated with only a few other families enjoying late lunches. ‘If you like, we can come back here one evening.’ He turns to me. ‘Of course, bring your partner – sorry, what was his…?’
‘Harry,’ I mutter, thinking I should probably try to call him again to let him know what happened. But as the incredible platters of colourful food are laid out before us, I realise I don’t really want to. Not yet. And, judging by earlier, he probably wouldn’t answer anyway.