Men of Intrgue A Trilogy

by Doreen Owens Malek

  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.

  * * * *

  Gradually Helen began putting her life back together. She called the cleaning service in Florida and asked them to send along her thesis materials, so she could pick up her work again. And she resumed her research, finding that once again it comforted her, filling out her days and giving some meaning to her otherwise barren existence.

  She had been home for over a month when she began to feel ill—dizzy and nauseous. She ignored the malaise for a while, but when it persisted she became concerned and made an appointment with her doctor. It was a fine day in late May when she went to his office to receive the report on her examination, the results of the tests he had conducted.

  The nurse ushered her into his office, and she sat in the chair nearest his desk, nervously scanning the diploma covered walls. Dr. Corrigan entered promptly, carrying her file.

  “So,” Helen said to him, “what’s wrong with me?”

  “Not a thing,” he replied. “You’re pregnant.”

  She merely looked at him.

  “Haven’t you missed any periods?” he asked her.

  “Yes, but I’ve been upset and not feeling well. I’ve missed before for those reasons, and I’ve been losing weight, not gaining it.”

  “Weight loss is not uncommon in the beginning,” the doctor said, “and the nausea will pass.” He smiled. “The day will come when you’ll wish you could lose some weight, believe me.”

  Helen sat very still, trying to absorb the fact that she was pregnant with Matteo’s baby. Of course the possibility had occurred to her, but she had dismissed it as wishful thinking. Now she was being told that it was true. She began to laugh.

  “Is something wrong?” the doctor said, wondering if she were about to become hysterical.

  “No, no, everything is right. This is wonderful news; you’ve made me very happy.”

  “Miss Demarest, may I ask you a personal question?” Dr. Corrigan said.

  “Certainly.”

  “You’re not married, and I was wondering if you might need a referral to one of our local services. They can be very helpful to someone in your situation, to discuss alternatives, and...”

  Helen stood up. “No, thank you, that won’t be necessary. There are no alternatives for me.” The doctor was a local man who didn’t know her family and might have thought she was without resources. “I have money; I’ll be fine.”

  “But the father...” he persisted.

  “He’s out of the country,” Helen said, which was nothing less than the truth.

  “Well, make an appointment with the nurse for your next visit, and wait for your prescriptions. You have to start taking vitamins....”

  He was talking to Helen’s back. She didn’t mean to be rude, but she almost flew out of his office and into the street, hugging herself for sheer joy.

  It had not been for nothing after all. She would have Matteo’s child and no cause or calling could deprive her of that.

  She went straight home and stared at her profile in the mirror, trying to see some sign of the life growing inside her. Her stomach was still flat but soon it wouldn’t be and everyone would know her secret happiness. She remembered to call for her prescriptions and went to the pharmacy to get them filled, looking at everything she passed with new eyes. She was going to be a mother.

  The next three months flew past as spring became summer and Helen finished the first draft of her thesis. She had never felt so efficient, so organized. She was checking footnotes one afternoon, humming to herself and tugging at the stretching elastic on her new maternity pants, when her doorbell rang.

  She got up to answer it absently, glancing back at the pages on her desk. She pulled the door open and froze.

  Sophia stood on the threshold, looking her up and down with a practiced eye. She folded her arms and sighed.

  “My God, it’s true,” she said. “You are pregnant.”

  “Come in, Sophia,” Helen said resignedly and stepped aside.

  Her mother breezed past her on
a cloud of Eau de Joy, glancing around the apartment with evident distaste. She turned and faced Helen, wearing her “an explanation is in order, please” expression.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Helen asked, shutting the door. “You haven’t been to my place in what? Three years? Since Uncle Albert died in Brookline and you needed a drink after the reading of the will. He didn’t leave you his antique silver collection, remember?”

  “I can do without the sarcasm, Helen, thank you very much. Can you tell me why I had to find out about this from Daphne Ashmore, of all people?”

  “What does Daphne have to do with anything?”

  “She saw you at the Boston Public library, my dear, looking definitely enceinte, as the French say.”

  “What was Daphne doing at the library? I didn’t know she could read.”

  “She was looking up something for the DAR, and thank God she was. She called me in Gstaad, and I hopped the next plane right over here to see for myself. Helen, what is going on?”

  “I’m going to have a baby, Sophia. Do you want me to draw you a diagram?” Helen replied impatiently, thinking about all the work she had to do. Of course Sophia hadn’t called first. She knew Helen would have found a way to dodge her so she just showed up unannounced. She favored the same guerrilla tactics Matteo used: blindsiding and sneak attacks.

  Sophia examined her daughter speculatively, and Helen stared back, unruffled. She had been dealing with these confrontations for years, and there was a certain familiarity about them now, a ritual pattern that had to be observed.

  Sophia’s hair was frosted and neatly coiffed, her makeup perfect in the eighty-six-degree heat. She was wearing a beige watered silk summer dress of understated elegance, which must have set the bonbon king back a few francs, with matching Charles Jourdan pumps and Hermes bag. In her ears and around her bare throat she wore the Demarest pearls, a wedding gift from Helen’s father, worth ten thousand dollars at last estimate—Sophia had them appraised yearly. On her left hand the pigeon’s blood ruby that the chocolate baron had given her as an engagement ring flashed like an exit sign. She was wealth incarnate. The mugger fortunate enough to stumble across Sophia on any given day would have instantly acquired his retirement fund.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Sophia finally said, sitting on the edge of the paper strewn sofa and crossing her gleaming legs. “Well, Helen, I must say that pregnancy was the last condition I ever expected you to develop. Malnutrition, certainly. Cabin fever, possibly. But this...” She waved a manicured hand expressively. “It’s just too depressing.”

  “I’m not depressed,” Helen said, going to the kitchenette and taking a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. “I’m very happy. Happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”

  Sophia nodded sourly. “Just like you not to say a word to a soul until it’s too late to do anything about it.”

  “I would not have done anything about it,” Helen said firmly, holding her mother’s gaze. “I want this baby.”

  She poured tea for both of them, and when she gave one glass to Sophia she realized that the older woman was looking at her in a way she never had before. She guessed that, purely by accident, she had finally done something to impress her mother. And she knew why. Pregnancy in most cases required the active participation of a man, and the subject of men was one of consuming interest to Sophia.

  Sophia’s next question confirmed Helen’s suspicions. “So who’s the father?” she asked.

  “No one you know,” Helen answered, sipping her tea.

  “That’s not an answer. Is he one of those scruffy students you’re always hanging around with, some graduate assistant in obscure literati?”

  “No.”

  “Not, God forbid, a professor?”

  “It’s not a professor and it’s none of your business.”

  “I beg your pardon. I’m your mother and it is my business.”

  “All right, fine. The father is a Central American revolutionary, and when I took that vacation last spring I really spent the time in his guerrilla camp, as his lover.”

  Sophia tapped her dainty foot.

  “Helen, you are getting on my last remaining nerve with this. Now is not the time for jokes.”

  Helen shrugged. “Okay.”

  Sophia waited a beat. “So you’re not going to tell me?”

  “I just did.”

  Sophia held her glass up to the light and examined it before she took a drink. “It’s so hot for September, don’t you think?” she asked conversationally.

  “Boston is always like this in September,” Helen answered, recognizing the old sidestep maneuver. Sophia would make chitchat for a while, then circle back to the salient topic.

  “Your father and his wife just bought a chalet in Aspen,” Sophia said, fingering her necklace.

  “That’s nice.”

  “It’s ludicrous. Neither one of them can ski.”

  “Daddy can ski,” Helen pointed out. “He never has time for it.”

  “His wife can’t. She just wants to give apres ski parties and ogle the blond European instructors.”

  “She can do that if she wants. I don’t think you have to pass a skiing test to buy property in Aspen.”

  Sophia tired of the repartee and glared at her daughter.

  “Helen what are you going to do?” she said in a strong voice.

  “Well, I’m finishing my thesis, and then I thought I’d get my teaching certificate.”

  “Teaching?” Sophia said, as if Helen had suggested prostitution.

  “Yes. And after that I’ll look for a job.”

  “A job?” Sophia gasped.

  “Sure, why not? I’m not going to live on the trust fund forever. I was just using it until I got out of school.”

  “And what about the... baby? ”

  “Sophia, people with children work all the time. I’ll figure something out; don’t worry about it.”

  Sophia took a bigger drink of her tea, then set the glass down. She folded her hands on her knees and Helen knew that the main volley was coming.

  “Look,” Sophia said, “I have a solution for all of this. Claudia and Roberto will be in New York next week.”

  “And?” Helen said warily.

  “And you know how gallant Roberto is. He would never be able to see you in such dire straits without wanting to help.”

  “Help,” Helen said, beginning to get the picture.

  “Yes. I’m sure we could work something out. You have to legitimize the child. After the baby is born, well, we could arrange...”

  “A payoff?” Helen said thoughtfully.

  Sophia glared at her.

  Helen couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

  “I fail to see anything funny in your situation,” Sophia observed uncomfortably.

  “You can’t honestly be suggesting that I marry Roberto Fierremonte?”

  “Why not? It would only be for a few months.”

  “I am not going to fight Roberto for space in front of the mirror, not even for a few days,” Helen said, still grinning.

  “You are an ungrateful brat!” Sophia burst out, and Helen stopped cold, staring at her mother.

  “Sophia, have you already contacted him about this?” Helen said, certain of the answer before she asked.

  Sophia picked up her glass again, jingling the ice cubes. “Well, I just happened to be speaking to Claudia on the phone, and I mentioned your possible predicament—”

  “I am not in a predicament!” Helen yelled, losing patience. “Now you get back on the phone and tell Claudia, or Roberto, or whoever you arranged this little deal with, that the bribe will not be handed over after all. What’s wrong with those two anyway, don’t they have enough money?”

  Sophia didn’t reply, and Helen sighed. “Silly of me,” she said. “No such thing as enough money, is there?”

  “I don’t understand why you have to see it in such crass, materialistic terms. There’s nothing
wrong with Roberto wanting to help out a friend.”

  “He’s your friend; let him marry you!”

  “I,” Sophia said imperiously, “am not about to become an unwed mother.”

  Helen counted to ten. She took a deep breath and said, “You know that Roberto has been trying to get his hands on some of Daddy’s money for years now. He’s running himself into debt with all the gambling and the high living. Do you really want to give him an excuse to stick his mitt into the till?”

  Sophia’s fingers knotted and unknotted in her lap. “But Helen, what is going to happen to you?” she said miserably, and for the first time Helen saw that her mother was genuinely worried about her. Of course she wanted to avoid a scandal among her uptight, hypocritical friends, but she also thought her only child was in terrible trouble. The fact that Helen didn’t see it that way only exacerbated Sophia’s concern. It confirmed her lifelong suspicion that Helen was a flake who couldn’t take care of herself.

  Helen sat next to her mother and put her hand on Sophia’s shoulder. “Mother,” she said, deliberately using the title, “I have been with a man. A real man, who believes in something and who has dedicated his life to it. A man who loved me. I can’t go from that to Roberto, not even for the sake of your precious reputation.”

  “And where is this wonderful man when you need him?” Sophia sniffed. “I don’t see him, do you?”

  “He doesn’t know about the baby.”

  “When do you propose to tell him?” Sophia demanded, outraged.

  “I’m not going to tell him. There are reasons why it isn’t a good idea.”