Cry in the Night

by Hart, Carolyn G.

  I said hello as gracefully as I could.

  She stood motionless for a long moment, then her cool, husky voice floated down. She spoke English with a German accent.

  “How courageous of you, Miss Ramsay, to brave the dark. I hope Tony has managed to set your mind at rest.”

  It wasn’t what she said that rankled; it was the way she said it. It did have the effect of bringing Tony Ortega quickly to my defense, but I still felt an inch and a half tall and wished I were anywhere else in the world at that moment. Even the warmth of his hand once again on my arm didn’t help.

  I was in the midst of yet another apology when she yawned, delicately, like a cat. “It’s quite all right, Miss Ramsay. As Tony so eloquently says, you surely meant well. But it is late, isn’t it? I’m sure we’ll have a good laugh about it at breakfast. Good night, you two.”

  Her parting words made it sound as if he and I planned an immediate tryst on the nearest couch. My face flamed again and I decided I would certainly move to a hotel tomorrow. Then my feelings of embarrassment and humiliation faded as I sensed Tony Ortega’s fury. He lowered his head and bunched his shoulders. I was afraid he was going to run up the stone steps after her. Instinctively, I reached out and caught his arm. I felt anger and outrage in its rigidity.

  “Mr. Ortega,” I said sharply.

  He took a deep breath and another. Slowly his arm relaxed. He looked down at my hand on the sleeve of his terrycloth robe.

  I quickly pulled my hand away.

  As quickly, he caught my hand but his touch was as gentle as a summer wind. “I beg your pardon,” he said simply.

  They were not casual words, not the unthinking use of social formula. He meant every syllable.

  I shook my head. “There’s no need.”

  “There is every need. You have been made uncomfortable in my family’s house.”

  “It’s all right now.” I meant every word.

  He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. He smiled. “Very well, Sheila Ramsay. If you are sure.”

  “Very sure.” I gathered up the skirt of my dressing gown to go up the stairs. “Good night, Mr. Ortega.”

  He reached out to stop me. “Tony.”

  “All right. Good night, Tony.”

  He was still standing at the foot of the stairs, watching me, his face somber again, as I turned and hurried down the hall toward my room. I hurried because I wanted to take no chance of meeting my hostess.

  In my room, I lay in bed and tried to sleep but sleep was long in coming. Like a litany, I kept saying over and over, Tomorrow I’ll see Jerry, Tomorrow I’ll see Jerry, but somehow, his sharp and bony face was indistinct, and clearer by far was another face, smooth and charming, then dark and angry. I fell into a troubled sleep where I searched and called for Jerry but at every turn saw Tony Ortega, and now his face was no longer charming or threatening but aloof, unreadable, and alien.

  Chapter 5

  Fear is spawned in the dark. Fear is a nocturnal creature, arrogant and assured in the folds of night. Fear dwindles, collapsing like a night-blooming flower, in the sharp, clear light of day.

  I awoke early, heard the cooing of pigeons not far from my window. I followed the pattern on my wall where the sun slanted through the drilled window; it seemed absurd that I had confused the call of a peacock with a scream or that I had stumbled and fallen trying to run up steps, too frightened to face the darkness in the downstairs hall.

  My fears seemed absurd on a beautiful, crisp morning. I stood for a long moment beside my window and knew that I had never seen a sky that particular soft shade of blue.

  I was looking forward to a happy day. I would see Jerry. Everything was going to work out. I felt sure of it, absolutely certain. I would present the Styrofoam case with the enclosed manuscript to the Ortegas, thank them for their hospitality, gracefully gather up my suitcase, and leave. If anyone protested, saying I had been expected to remain a guest throughout my stay in Mexico City, I could easily plead surprise. I would manage to shake free. Surely I could find someplace inexpensive to stay. Perhaps Jerry would help me.

  It all seemed easily arranged as I stood in the lovely room, making up the script in my mind, directing the players one way, then another.

  I picked out my prettiest dress and slipped it on. I stood for a moment in front of the mirror, admiring its pale lemon shade and the way the skirt swirled when I turned. I was almost ready to go when there was a soft knock on my door and in came the little maid who had brought me hot chocolate the night before. With a good many giggles and much gesturing, she managed to make it clear that Don Tony awaited me at breakfast.

  That was luck, I decided. I could return the manuscript to Tony and perhaps have the good fortune not to have to face my hostess again. Yes, everything was working out. Soon I would see Jerry.

  I grabbed up the Styrofoam box and followed the maid downstairs. The patio had been beautiful last night beneath pale pastel lights. This morning it was breathtaking. Bougainvillea blossomed pale pink and soft white and bright red. Carnations swept in a circle around the central pool. The sweet scent of honeysuckle mingled with the musky smell of roses. A waterfall trickled languorously over a hump of lava near the round wicker table that was set for breakfast.

  Tony rose from the table and came to greet me. I held out the Styrofoam box and Tony, a little surprised, took it.

  I smiled at him. “This is my reason for coming to Mexico, to return this manuscript that your family very graciously loaned to the museum.”

  “Which manuscript is it?”

  It was my turn to be surprised. “The Sanchez manuscript.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” he replied. “Well, it is certainly good of the museum to send it by hand, very thoughtful.” As he spoke, he was turning away from me.

  I frowned, puzzled. Hadn’t the family insisted that the manuscript be hand delivered? I almost asked, but Tony was speaking to the housekeeper and handing her the boxed manuscript to be put away. There was a clatter and scuffle and two little girls skidded from behind a willow tree to fetch up, panting and laughing, at the table. Tony introduced me to his ten-year-old twin sisters, Rita and Francesca.

  Breakfast was a buffet. I tried papaya and mango, fruits I’d only read about before. There were sweet rolls and eggs fried and placed on tortillas, hot chocolate, and a sweet dark coffee.

  The twins, after an initial shyness, were friendly and charming and told me about their school and the club where they played tennis and their piano lessons. They spoke fluent English. Tony watched them indulgently.

  We were halfway through breakfast, and I was wondering just how to most gracefully ask for someone to call me a taxi, when Tony pushed back his chair and rose.

  “Good morning, Father.” There was great respect and affection in his voice.

  I pushed back my chair and started to rise, too, but Señor Ortega hurried to my side. “Don’t get up, my dear. I understand we owe you great thanks for burdening yourself with an old book of ours.”

  I liked Tony’s father immediately, liked the firm clasp of his hand and the way he made an unimportant guest feel welcome. I was surprised, though, at how little resemblance there was between father and son. Where Tony was tall and broad, his father was not much taller than I and slightly built. They both did have the beautiful olive skin and crisp curling black hair, but Tony’s face was blunt, his father’s narrow.

  It was a cheerful, happy half hour, that breakfast, and I was regretting my decision to leave the Ortega house and go to a hotel because they were all so friendly and kind, and then, as suddenly as a cloud passing over the sun and chilling the land below, the atmosphere changed on that beautiful terrace.

  The twins, like two little dark barometers, gave the first warning. Their loud chatter fell away abruptly and their faces took on that look of stupidity that children assume when they want to escape notice.

  Tony looked up. His change in demeanor was, of course, far more subtle but in i
ts way equally revealing. Even adults can’t truly hide dislike, no matter how hard they try. Tony rose and smiled and pulled out another chair, but his eyes were cold.

  The only person happy to see her was Señor Ortega. He called out, “Gerda, my dear, what a delight to have you come down so early. Have you met our lovely guest, who most thoughtfully delivered El Viejito’s book?”

  In the clear, sharp light of morning, Gerda Ortega was not as young as I had thought the night before. She was still breathtakingly beautiful, her thick golden hair again in coronet braids this morning, her delicate pale face perfectly made up. She smiled at her husband, a cool lovely smile, and his face reflected pride and delight in her. She nodded offhandedly to the rest of us but paused beside her husband to touch him lightly on the shoulder. “Yes, Luis”—and she, too, spoke in English—“I met Miss Ramsay last night.”

  I stiffened, expecting her to continue in that husky, compelling voice with some slighting reference.

  She took her place at the breakfast table and was, most obviously, the lady of the house, when she continued, “We are very grateful to you, Miss Ramsay, for your trouble. We want to do everything we can to make your visit to Mexico a happy one.”

  The twins watched her carefully from under lowered lashes. Tony’s expression was an interesting combination of surprise and puzzlement. Señor Ortega was nodding warmly. “Yes, we want to do that.”

  “I have already instructed Manuel, our chauffeur, that he is at your service, Miss Ramsay,” she said with a charming smile.

  Señor Ortega beamed at her. “How thoughtful of you, Gerda.”

  “Oh, thank you very much, señora,” I said quickly, “but I couldn’t impose on you in that fashion. I appreciate staying with you last night but I will move to my hotel today. I want to thank all of—”

  Everyone interrupted at once. I wasn’t moving to a hotel; they wouldn’t hear of it. No one who had performed such a service for the Ortega family could possibly spend any time in a hotel. I tried to move against the tide, but they overwhelmed me. Gerda Ortega protested as strongly, as firmly, as any of them. Finally, I gave in.

  By the end of breakfast, I had almost decided that I had misjudged Gerda Ortega (perhaps it made her surly to be awakened at night) when there was an odd exchange. I was finishing the hot, sweet coffee when I said, “I plan to spend the day at the National Museum of Anthropology, Señor Ortega, so I won’t need for the car to stay with me. I will, though, certainly appreciate a ride to the museum.”

  “The National Museum of Anthropology?” he repeated.

  I nodded happily. “Yes, I have a friend who works there.”

  “Are you interested in Mexican artifacts?” asked Señor Ortega.

  I smiled. “I’m interested, yes, sir, but it isn’t my field. I’m an Egyptologist.”

  Tony glanced down at his watch. “I can give you a lift.”

  Gerda Ortega smiled. “That won’t be necessary, Tony. Manuel can take Miss Ramsay. You needn’t be late to the office.”

  Tony laughed. “One of the advantages of ownership, Gerda, is the privilege of coming when you wish and if you wish.”

  I knew her opposition only made him more determined to take me. I wondered, as I pushed back my chair and made my good mornings, how such a perceptive woman could fall so far short in accomplishing her objectives.

  But my last glimpse of her surprised me yet again. She looked utterly satisfied.

  Tony said he would meet me in the drive. I hurried up to my room for my purse and guidebook. Once there, I paused long enough to brush my hair and redo my lipstick. I glanced toward my suitcase but decided against unpacking now since Tony was waiting. I had been too tired the evening before to do more than fish out my nightclothes.

  I was almost to the door when I stopped and turned. Frowning, I crossed to the suitcase and stood looking down at it. It was closed, but at one side a tiny tip of lingerie poked out. Slowly, I reached down and opened the case. It was packed as I had left it.

  Wasn’t it?

  I touched the little bulge of silk that had shown through the crack. It was a new slip. I had worn the slip only once before and had carefully laundered it. When I had folded and packed it, I had tucked it down at the side so that it would be in no danger of being caught by the lid and perhaps snagged.

  I looked through the suitcase but everything was there. Did I really think a house of this sort could harbor a sneak thief?

  Thief? I whirled around and snatched up my purse. If anyone wanted to steal something . . . Everything was there—my tourist card, my letter of authorization from Dr. Freidheim as courier for borrowed property, my billfold bulging with the pesos I’d purchased at the airport.

  No thief had walked in my room.

  Could the pretty little maid have been curious about the American lady’s pretties? Perhaps. But, living in a house such as this, she had often seen much finer.

  I took one last look about the room. I could be wrong, of course. Perhaps the clothes had shifted and the slip popped up as I was closing the lid.

  I didn’t think so.

  I shook my head impatiently. Tony was waiting. I would think about it later. What difference did it make, after all? Nothing had been taken.

  I hurried downstairs and found Tony outside on the drive, standing beside a black classic MG. I was glad, when we had started, that I had tucked a scarf into my purse.

  He told me the area where they lived was called the Pedregal and that many of the homes had been designed and built by Mexico’s most famous architects.

  “Architecture is as much an art as painting in Mexico,” he explained.

  One spectacular house succeeded another. I thought nothing else could possibly impress me as much, but we had scarcely left the Pedregal when I call out excitedly, “Tony, what is that? Over there.”

  So we made our first stop and I began to be caught up on the magic that is Mexico.

  It was the campus of the University of Mexico. The building that had caught my eye was the university’s Central Library, which, incredibly to me, was one gigantic mosaic, each wall of the building entirely utilized to tell some part of the story of Mexico in bright and glittering patterns of colored stone.

  Tony delighted in my response.

  “Haven’t you ever even seen a picture of it?”

  I shook my head. “Never. I’ve never seen anything like it.” As much as the Egyptians liked wall decorations, they had done nothing like this.

  The fire and the color, the passion of the intricate design overwhelmed. Tony led me the whole way round the library, explaining the beautiful mosaic as we walked.

  “This is the north wall. There, do you see the sun? That represented the most ancient symbol of matter. The eagle symbolizes the building of Tenochtitlán. There is Quetzalcoatl and Tlaloc.”

  I followed his pointing finger, sometimes understanding, often not, but the power of the great mosaic thrilled me.

  “The south wall represents the Spanish Colonial occupation.”

  Yes, there were the quaintly dressed figures of sixteenth-century Spaniards and there the hands of the Church.

  When we came full circle and stopped and once again I looked up, I knew that I would never again see things as simply as I had before. There was a more profound, subtler spirit at work here than any I had encountered before. I knew, of course—what archeologist doesn’t?—that the world of man can be many things, all different, all as individually conceived as the infinitely variable mind of man can devise. My background and training were in classical archeology. I had once taken a survey course on Middle America, but knowing intellectually that Mexico was the product of a fusion of cultures and actually seeing the results of that fusion in living, glowing color was quite another thing.

  I turned and impulsively touched Tony’s arm. “Thank you, Tony.”

  He took my hand and smiled, and then he, too, looked back at the lovely building. “So much of Mexico is there, on those walls, Sheila.” T
here was pride and love and more than a little awe in his voice.

  As we walked back to the car, he told me of other murals. “You must see Sueño de una tarde dominical en la Alameda Central, Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park, by Diego Rivera in the Del Prado lobby. In that mural, you can see all that is Mexico.”

  I hurried to keep up with him. He was so absorbed in his subject that he had lost formality and reserve. It was now, his gestures as eager as a schoolboy’s, that I realized he was an older man than I had thought in the dim lights of last night and on the shaded patio at breakfast. Lines fanned out from his dark, deep-set eyes. There was even a touch, the merest hint, of gray at the edge of his thick black hair.

  He was so informed, so authoritative, that I made a mistake. I should, of course, have remembered Gerda Ortega’s reference to an office, but I didn’t think. Instead I said, “Tony, you must be an artist to know so much.”

  Eagerness seeped out of his face. We were at the car now. He opened my door for me.

  “No,” he said shortly. “No, I am not an artist.”

  We were well under way, swinging up onto a freeway, before he spoke again. “No, Sheila, I am no artist. I am a member of the Ortega trading company. Ortegas are always traders.” His voice was dry and hard.

  The MG roared like a wild thing along the concrete expressway. I watched him and wondered at this man with his many moods. I wished I hadn’t driven the happiness from his face.

  “I didn’t mean to say the wrong thing,” I offered hesitantly.

  The car slowed immediately. “Don’t be sorry. I am the one who must apologize. It is only that sometimes a man must regret the choice he didn’t make. You have a poet who speaks of the fork in the road and that the way he chose made all the difference.” Then he laughed, a good-humored, relaxed laugh. “I should probably have been a very poor architect.”

  “But if that’s what you wanted to be. . .” I broke off. It wasn’t any business of mine.

  He frowned and for a moment I was afraid that again I had said the wrong thing. But no, he was only thinking how to make it clear to me.