Before he sat down, I asked for a second blanket so I could sit on it.
After wrapping up, the last thing I remember before I dozed off was Will talking to the cute flight attendant and following him down the aisle with a glass of red wine.
10
I drifted into a peaceful sleep. An image of rows and rows of leafy green grapevines on trellises with clumps of plump purple grapes swirled in my drowsy head.…
I walked in the warmth of the afternoon sun among the endless sloping hills of vineyards, not really sure where I was. In the far distance atop a hill was a whitewashed house with a red tiled roof.
I picked a cluster of sun-kissed grapes, savoring their sweetness as I bit into the ripe fruit.
The sun felt good as I walked down toward a winery I saw in the distance. The annual harvesting celebration had already begun. I heard people singing, music, laughter. In the heart of the celebration was a large vat, with sides several feet high, looking much like an oversized wooden barrel. Three women were in it, laughing and singing as they stomped grapes, their clothes and faces splashed with the juice.
I suddenly wanted to submerge myself in the deep purple and ruby red juices and soak in their intense aroma and flavor. I wanted to squish the grapes with my feet.
I eagerly joined the three women in the oversized barrel as they crushed the succulent grapes with their washed feet. Suddenly instead of having stained clothes, they were naked, their bodies covered with the juices and skins of the grapes. I unashamedly tore off my own clothing.
People around us were singing and clapping as we danced in the grapes, mashing them down with our feet.
I stomped and stomped, trying to keep myself balanced in the dense volume of grapes. A splash of crushed grapes hit my back. I swirled around. One of the women had a handful of smashed grapes in her hand. She had a playful look in her eyes, ready to throw another round. Her body was supple and shapely, full round breasts jutting forward, her hands resting on her hips now, which swayed suggestively back and forth.
I picked up a good handful of the mushy grapes and threw them on her breasts, almost knocking her off balance. She boldly hit me back harder, knocking me off my feet, and I fell backward up to my chest in the mushy fruit.
All at once she lunged at me and we wrestled with each other, our whole bodies now covered from head to foot in grape juice.
We finally broke apart, exhausted, leaning against the back of the barrel, choking out a mouthful of grapes. Both of us broke out laughing.
It was only when we stopped that I noticed we were all alone. Everyone else had disappeared.
We were sitting next to each other, still trying to catch our breath. The laughter was now replaced with desire as her eyes lingered on my nipples, taut with excitement. Her fingers circled around each of them, down my abdomen, and moved around my inner thighs and paused. I was beginning to feel a tingling sensation creep into my lower abdomen. I didn’t want her to stop … I wanted her to continue … I wanted her to probe me deeper with her finger.…
I felt the hand on my shoulder. “Don’t stop,” I said.
“Don’t stop what? Hey, wake up.”
“No.…” I opened my eyes.
It was Will. “Sorry to wake you.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“We’re going to land in a few minutes.”
“What? You mean I slept all this time?”
“Yeah. I thought I’d better wake you before the final announcement comes on. To get dressed. You can’t get off the plane without clothes on.”
“Thanks. I guess I really conked out.”
It was only then that I realized he had all his clothes on and so did most of the other passengers. A few stragglers were waiting until the last minute. I suddenly felt very naked even though I had a blanket covering me.
“You must have had one hell of a dream.”
A wave of embarrassment suddenly hit me. I noticed my hand was between my legs. And I felt flushed. Had I just had an orgasm? I wondered how long Will had been sitting there. Had he been watching me?
“I did? Why do you say that?”
“You’re sweating. And you kept saying, ‘Don’t stop; don’t stop.’ Maybe I shouldn’t have awakened you.”
“Yeah … I mean no, nothing happened,” I lied. “Well, I’d better get dressed. Thanks for waking me.”
“Sure. I’m going to the galley to get some water. Do you want any?”
“No, thanks.” I kept the blanket wrapped around me as I headed toward the toilets in the back of the plane. I went into one and locked the door. I gave myself a quick bath under the arms with paper towels and got dressed. A hot bath would have been better, but this would have to do.
Will hadn’t returned yet when I got back to my seat. No doubt he wasn’t just getting water from the galley, but whatever else the cute flight attendant was dishing out.
11
The next flight in the general direction of Colombia out of Cancun was to Panama City, Panama. I took it.
As soon as I arrived at the airport in Panama City, I boarded a plane that was going to Bogotá, the capital of Colombia. A direct flight to Medellín left Panama City three hours later, but I decided not to hang around. Panama was the site of the all-important canal and there was a heavy American influence in the little country. About three years ago American troops invaded the country, arrested the dictator, Manuel Noriega, and took him to Miami for a trial on drug-trafficking charges.
I didn’t think my Seattle problem would be worth an invasion, but the whole scenario showed more U.S. influence in the country than I liked at the moment.
Besides, with Medellín’s evil reputation as a center for drugs and violence, a stopover in Bogotá to orientate myself and learn the ropes for Colombia sounded like a good idea.
Since I only had one carry-on bag, I didn’t have to hassle with any check-in luggage. I bought my ticket and got boarded almost immediately, sure I could have made the Guinness Book of Records for least time in airports on an international flight.
I had just enough time to pick up a South American tour book in the airport bookstore before I boarded the plane. Once I settled in my seat, I began reading the guidebook, putting it aside to lean back and close my eyes as the plane began its takeoff. The sensation of the plane accelerating and surging upward into the air always thrilled me. That and when the plane came in for its landing were the best two times of flying—I’d read that they were also the only times people were likely to survive a plane crash.
I thought about the countless times my mother and I took off to a new place, how excited we were at the prospect of seeing new territory. My mother always made it sound like a fun adventure. Now I was going on another adventure, running off to a whole different country. Only this time I was a little apprehensive of what to expect when I arrived. I always remind myself that the “adventure” part only comes later when the tale is told—adventures are usually pure misery when they’re happening.
I suddenly wished my mother was here with me. She’d figure some way to make running from the police and a murder charge fun. There were times when I really missed her, and this was one of them. She’d always been there when I needed a shoulder to cry on, giving me good advice, but hiding her wisdom behind a little humor to make it sound less like a lecture.
I stared out the window, her image in my mind, trying to imagine what she would tell me if she were here, but I couldn’t concentrate.
I went back to the guidebook and starting reading about Colombia. I hadn’t gotten very far when a perfectly handsome man came up and gestured at the empty aisle seat next to me.
“Buenos dias,” he said with a big smile. He was a Latin type, the kind of South American in a 1930s movie who wore white linen suits when he wasn’t in his gaucho cowboy outfit. His gleaming teeth were amazingly white. “Is this seat available?”
Several other empty seats were readily available—why had he chosen the one next to mine? I didn’t
consider myself a knockout beauty—not even pretty. I’ve been told my most prominent asset was my generous smile, that it was infectious. My mother always said I had a personality that made people gravitate toward me, but I knew I wasn’t a showstopper when it came to men—more like someone to talk to during intermission.
“Yes, it is.” For sure it was for him. It isn’t every day that a good-looking man sits down next to you.
“Then, with your permission…”
“Of course.” I moved my handbag off the empty seat.
His English had just a hint of foreign intrigue to it. He was tall and slender, with light brown hair, his Coppertone complexion a shade darker than mine. With long eyelashes and emerald green eyes, he was sexy and stank of being filthy rich, definitely old money, the kind who knew how to spend it but never got his hands dirty earning any of it. He had an air of confidence about him that was much more appealing to a woman than what the beer and macho types displayed.
What is it an anonymous—but very perceptive—woman said? Coffee, chocolate, and men are better when they’re rich?
After he settled in, he said, “I hope you don’t mind the companionship. The person I was sitting next to in first class has a cold.”
“No, I understand perfectly. All they do on planes is circulate dirty air from the cabin back into the plane. Sometimes I think we should all wear surgery masks on a plane.”
“An excellent idea. I’ve seen people in Japan wear such face masks, both as a courtesy not to spread a cold and not to get one. Ramon Alavar,” he said, offering me his hand.
“Nash Novak.” His hand was cool, not as firm as I was expecting, but smooth and polished. For sure, the only things the man had handled were money and women. I felt a little shiver of excitement as I let go of his hand. He was a man who radiated sex. If he’d been on the nudist flight, I’d have ripped off my clothes eagerly.
“Are you certain I’m not intruding? I have to confess, I chose you because you are the most attractive woman on the plane.”
Oh my God. “And there was an empty seat,” I stammered, unable to take the compliment.
He smiled. “That helped, too.”
My cheeks suddenly felt warm. Was I blushing or did it suddenly get warmer in the plane?
His vibrant green eyes appraised me. “You have a very pretty smile.”
I mumbled a thank-you and started thumbing through the pages of my guidebook. Wow, this guy oozed sex appeal at a higher octane than I was used to. I usually don’t get flustered and start mumbling like a dork when a man tries to put the make on me.
My guidebook stated that about 60 percent of the people of Colombia were “mestizo,” a mixture created by intermarriages of Europeans, mostly Spanish, with Native Americans. The rest were either pure European or pure indigenous. Ramon’s handsome looks struck me as the best of everything Colombia had to offer.
The flight attendant came by and smiled at my companion. “Senor, you were just on my flight from Bogotá. Returning so soon? You could hardly have left the airport.”
“A business emergency,” he said.
After the flight attendant moved on, Ramon turned to me. “I see you’ve been reading about my country. No doubt the book tells you many negative things about my beautiful country. Let me offer a word of advice: Do not believe everything you read. Norteamericanos don’t understand the culture of Latin America. You expect everything to be orderly, time and statements to have precise meaning, but so much precision takes much of the mystery and magic out of life, doesn’t it?”
I cleared my throat and read from a summary in the travel book. The book didn’t pull any punches about traveling in the country. It repeated facts and information it claimed came from U.S. State Department statistics.
“‘The number one cause of death in Colombia is not from heart attacks or cancer, but homicide. There is open warfare between the government, the cocaine cartels, and politically extreme rebel groups. In the past few years, four presidential candidates, several dozen judges, the minister of justice, and hundreds of police officers, along with a couple dozen journalists, have been murdered. In one incident, a passenger plane with over a hundred people aboard was blown up because it was thought a presidential candidate was on board.’”
He shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “Plata o plomo.”
I knew what the words meant—silver or lead—but I didn’t comprehend the reference to them. “I don’t follow you.”
“Don Pablo Escobar and his Medellín cartel compañeros made the government an offer: Don’t attempt to extradite them to the United States, give them amnesty for their crimes, and they will pour billions into the Colombian economy, money that is badly needed. Their offer was refused. Now Escobar offers judges, police officials, and politicians silver or lead—take his bribe or hot lead from his sicarios.”
“Sicarios?”
“Gunmen. A biblical expression. The political assassins of the Holy Land during Roman times were called sicarii. It’s the surname that history gave Judas. There is a rumor that Escobar has a school for his sicarii gunmen, that he has the assassins learn how to kill and not be caught and what to do if they are caught. Like the Old Man of the Mountain.”
“Old Man of the Mountain?”
“The word ‘assassin’ comes from an Arabic name for hashish. The Old Man of the Mountain was the name given to the leader of an Islamic sect of terrorists that existed hundreds of years ago. They would get high on the drug before they went out and committed murder. They also got a promise of having a harem in heaven with twenty beautiful women if they were killed.”
He leaned closer and spoke in a lower voice. “A presidential candidate Don Pablo didn’t like was scheduled to be a passenger on the plane that was blown up. Don Pablo told one of his underlings to board the plane and carry a suitcase with a listening device on it. Do you know what was in the suitcase?”
“Let me guess … a bomb?”
“Exactly, much to the surprise of the don’s man. And, of course, the candidate had canceled the trip, so a planeload of innocents died for nothing.”
I gave him a bright smile. “It’s nice that modern Colombia fits in so well with ancient and modern violence. Sounds like a wonderful country. I can’t wait to get off the plane and be murdered.”
His laugh was genuine. “You have to understand, of course, that the people who are being murdered are the ones who are either involved in drug trafficking or who oppose it. Ordinary people aren’t killed unless they are in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“That’s comforting to know—unless I happen to get caught in the cross fire.”
“Don’t worry; cocaine cowboys and revolutionaries are no different than the other men of Colombia—we don’t shoot beautiful women; we worship them and smother them with jewels.”
Does he think I am beautiful? Or was it just a line?
Who cared? It sounded good.
He had the good manners to pat my arm and not my knee as so many men would do. “Don’t worry; criminals will not spoil your visit. Are you going to Colombia on business?”
I started to say yes but then caught myself. I knew zero about business in Colombia. I decided to tell him a version of the truth.
“I’m visiting my uncle. He owns a coffee plantation.”
“Excellent. Coffee is the heart of my country. Where is your uncle’s plantation?”
I didn’t want to give him the location. Anyway, I wasn’t sure myself if I really knew where it was. I knew the lawyer was in Medellín. And I didn’t want to mention that city because it was my ultimate destination.
“Bogotá.” The capital was the only name that popped into my head.
His beautiful groomed eyebrows lifted upward. “How interesting. The capital is not a major growing region. It’s at a rather high altitude for growing coffee.”
Shit. Now he knows I’m lying.
“What’s your uncle’s name?”
“Juan Valdez,” escaped past my l
ips. It was the first name that came to mind.
“A very common name.” He smiled. “Something like your John Smith, I imagine. I thought perhaps I might know him, the name is familiar, but I don’t recall a Juan Valdez growing coffee in the capital.”
I gave him a feeble smile. “Wouldn’t that be pretty unlikely? I mean, your country isn’t that small. Aren’t there over thirty million people?”
“True, but in a way, I’m in the same business as your uncle.”
“You have a coffee plantation?”
Was I digging a deeper hole for myself? I had no idea of how many coffee plantations were in the country. Maybe there were only a few and everyone in the business knew everyone else.
“No, but I am intimately connected to the business. I’m with the department of agriculture. I’m honored to be their deputy director. My division deals directly with the coffee-growing industry.”
Damn damn damn. I smiled bravely. “How interesting.”
“Of course, you have to understand that most of the coffee farms are very small and number in the hundreds of thousands. If your uncle has one of the larger plantations, I would probably know him.”
“No, he has a small farm. A part-time thing, I believe.”
“Ah, yes, there are many of those. Some cafeteros run coffee operations similar to the winemakers of the Napa Valley in your country and Europe. They can spend years developing their own premium strains of coffee plants. Are you familiar with the production of coffee?”
“I’m afraid my experience with coffee has been limited to drinking it.”
I didn’t dare volunteer that I’d owned a coffee store and once worked with a wine producer in the Napa Valley. Everything I said seemed to come back to bite me.
“Then you have a treat coming. There is much more to coffee than scooping coffee into a pot. You know, of course, that Colombia produces the finest coffee in the world. Brazil produces more coffee in general, but we are the largest producers of mild Arabica, the only coffee worth brewing, which I’m sure you will learn from your uncle.”
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