The Ghost of Hannah Mendes

by Naomi Ragen

  And though they’d only met ten hours before, and had been apart since then for only two, she had no reason to doubt him.

  She threw her bag into the trunk, and got in beside him.

  The car engine gave a burst of thrilling energy.

  And then the journey began.

  21

  Francesca looked down at the Pyrenees, mountain passes steeped in snow, with tiny houses clustered together at dizzying altitudes. Informative, this G-d’s-eye view of the earth and mankind, she thought. Everything so small, reduced not only in size but in significance. Whole mountain ranges becoming backyards; whole cities, little piles of pebbles by some tiny stream. And people, nonexistent specks of dust. She pursed her lips, thinking of Suzanne.

  Of all the low-down, self-centered, grubby, impulsive things to do! A “far, far better thing…Let Francesca carry on.” Leave it to Suzanne, she thought furiously, to make a virtue out of dumping the whole project to run off with some sexy stranger. And all that stuff about Marius being interested in her, the two of them making a perfect couple! The nerve! Was that any of her business? Besides, it wasn’t true. Marius hadn’t even called her to say good-bye….

  Gran herself had taken the letter much more stoically. For a few days, they’d carried on as if nothing had happened, visiting libraries, auction houses, and booksellers. But no promising leads turned up, and Gran’s strength seemed to ebb moment by moment, like a tide moving inexorably out to sea.

  And that morning, just hours before they were scheduled to leave for Spain together, Gran had announced she was going home. She’d looked drained, but not as defeated as Francesca would have expected. In fact, there’d been a strange sort of resignation, almost relief, in her manner.

  “You can rest a few weeks, then join me later,” Francesca had urged her, without much hope.

  “Thank you, child, but I think my traveling days are over,” she’d answered with a brave smile.

  “Abuela!”

  “Promise to write often, and to call.” Her eyes had been bright with tears.

  “I promise.”

  They’d embraced, Gran holding on to her with surprising strength as they’d kissed good-bye.

  And then she was gone.

  Francesca looked at her watch. She’d be over the Atlantic now, just approaching Halifax. Perhaps she’d be sitting next to someone pleasant, someone she could talk to.

  She felt her eyes misting. So many times she’d been on the verge of confronting Gran about Suzanne’s story; of insisting on knowing the contents of the little green pills and the blue capsules; the reason behind the sudden trembling and the terrible pallor. And each time, she’d pulled back.

  If it wasn’t true, then why rub Gran’s face in the natural ravages of age? And if it was…. She touched her suddenly dry lips. Who would it benefit to turn the harsh spotlight of truth on her grandmother’s delicate deception, mocking her brave performance?

  It must be unbearable to be old and ill. And there was no way to ensure it wouldn’t happen to you. Everything human was so fragile and vulnerable and out of control.

  She looked down at the beautiful puzzle in shades of brown and green that was Spain: clouds like mountain cliffs above fertile plains, plowed fields, barns, farmhouses. What magic power was down there? she wondered. What sorcery? How was it that five hundred years after the last Jew had been expelled from Spanish shores, their descendants still spoke its language, sang its songs, and decorated their homes in ways that did homage to its sense of beauty? How was it that she, Francesca Nasi da Costa Abraham, who had never set foot in Spain, called her British-born, Americanized grandmother Abuela?

  The seat belt sign flashed on, and her ears already felt the pressure of the descent. She took out her day planner, looking over her schedule: two days in Madrid at the library and a few rare-book dealers; then Seville and Barcelona. She checked off her list, highlighting the phone numbers and ordering the days ahead as efficiently as possible.

  It was a smooth landing. Madrid. I’m in Madrid, she tried to impress upon herself. It didn’t work. Every place looked the same inside an airport terminal. And if you arrived alone with no one waiting to welcome you with flowers and open arms, it was always the loneliest place in the world, she thought, looking for someone who could help her with her lugguage. But everywhere she turned, she heard only Spanish. She felt too embarrassed to try to make herself understood.

  With every ounce of strength, she hauled her suitcases off the carousel and dragged them to a luggage cart. Overloaded, the cart veered wildly down the corridor, dragging her behind it. Clammy beads of perspiration sprouted all over her body.

  Get a car, a map, find a hotel…. I can do it, no problem, she encouraged herself, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Didn’t backpackers travel the globe solo with twenty dollars in their pockets and manage just fine?

  Yes, she could do it. But she didn’t like doing it, she admitted, her straining arms beginning to ache. Being in a country where you didn’t know the language was like being two years old again: vulnerable and completely at the mercy of “adults” who could converse secretly behind your back.

  As much as she hated to admit it, she missed Suzanne.

  She parked the cart. There was one other person ahead of her at the Avis counter. Idly, she glanced over the rental agreement, translated into English, hanging on the counter: “There is a band of thieves operating in this area who puncture tires, then offer their assistance, meanwhile stealing your suitcases. If this should happen, or if your car should develop problems, DO NOT ROLL DOWN YOUR WINDOWS! Continue on until the nearest garage or police station….”

  Her heart began to pound.

  “Does anyone here speak English?” she asked the two dark, good-looking men behind the counter.

  “Yes, of course,” they answered.

  She felt immensely relieved. “I’ve got a car reservation. Francesca Abraham?”

  They began to argue with each other, gesticulating and pointing.

  “I don’t understand!” What was the problem? “No en tee yen doh!” She looked in her guidebook, starting to panic. “Por favor, señor!”

  “Señorita Abraham!” one of them said. “You are waiting for someone?”

  “No.” She shrugged, setting off another wave of excited debate.

  One of them made a gesture of the utmost exasperation and left, while the other continued to converse with her in Spanish in the friendliest possible manner, as if his knowledge of the language was adequate for them both.

  “Problems, señorita?”

  She looked up in shocked surprise, the blood rushing with a warm, tingling jolt through her body.

  It was Marius.

  He looked tan, fit, and ruggedly charming in a pair of jeans and a clean, striped shirt open at the chest.

  “How are you?” He smiled.

  A change quickly went over her face. The closeness of his body, his warm, dark eyes assumed some right, some knowledge of her that it almost hurt her to recognize. She was afraid. “What are you doing here?! I mean, is this a coincidence, or…”

  He shook his head, laughing. “I asked you first.”

  “I’m fine, I guess,” she said, all the while resisting his bright confidence, the protective mantle his presence threw around her. She was almost ashamed of her relief, almost pained at the depth of her need and the electric flow that charged the air between them. She took a step backward, flustered, excited, and happier than she could bear to admit to herself. “I don’t speak any Spanish, and I was trying to explain about my reservation.”

  “You can relax now. I’m here to rescue you,” he teased, his eyes caressing, tensely alive.

  “I don’t need rescuing, thank you,” she retorted, resisting his advance, the slow encroaching assumption of male power over her female will. She pushed her sweat-dampened curls off her forehead.

  “Aren’t you hot? I mean, with all those clothes?”

  She looked down at her t
ailored suit, feeling suddenly matronly and overdressed. “It’s a very lightweight material,” she said, defending herself.

  “You’ll have to change into something lighter or you’ll melt. This is the Mediterranean. Come. Let’s get you to an air-conditioned hotel room. I know just the place.” He reached for her wayward cart, moving it out the door. “Leave everything to me!”

  She squared her jaw. “Please take your hands off my suitcases,” she said with slow, deliberate calm. “I am not hot. I do not need to be rescued, and I’m not taking another step until you tell me what you’re doing here.”

  He clicked his heels together and bowed, sliding the cart back to her. “Just part of our complete service, m’lady. But maybe we can talk about this in our car on the way. It’s parked right out front. Come.”

  She stared at him. “Our car?”

  “I didn’t think we needed two.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “Whoa! One second. Are you telling me that this isn’t just a coincidence? That you’re here because of me? And that you think we are going to be doing something together?”

  “I’ve come to join you,” he said simply, shrugging.

  He had come looking for her.

  Her whole body took on a new alertness, as if tensed for an invasion. The robber climbing over her high, hard walls. Or the prince, scaling the tower? Could Suzanne be right, then, after all? “But how did you know where I’d be?”

  “Your grandmother. My uncle. They agreed it would be best.”

  Her face grew hot. Not his own idea at all, then. It had to do with the manuscript. It had to do with business. She felt like a complete fool. “Grandmother and Uncle decided, did they? Why didn’t anyone bother to tell me to expect you, then?”

  “It wasn’t definite. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it. You were scheduled to be in England another week or so, weren’t you? Your leaving took me by surprise. I was actually scheduled to go to Bucharest…. So I changed a few…Anyway, I’m here at your disposal now.”

  She looked at him, hurt that her charms had been made to compete with those of Bucharest, and had only narrowly won. Or was it the call of duty that had won? “I understand—you changed your plans to please your uncle. How kind of you! But since no one has asked me, I’m afraid that you might be wasting your time. You see, I’m not sure that I’ll be able to change my plans to go along with this,” she said firmly.

  A strange pallor came over his face, the brash confidence disappearing, his eyes going dark and still. He looked wounded. “You mean…you want me to leave?”

  She felt an immediate pang of remorse. No, she did not want that. Not yet, anyway. “I didn’t say that. I mean…this is Gran’s show, after all, and so if she’s decided that I’d be more effective with your help…”

  A gleam, almost offensively knowing, came back into his eyes. She noticed it immediately. “Look, if I agree to let you join me, I’d like to make something perfectly clear right from the beginning. I didn’t ask for help. I’m perfectly capable of doing this job on my own. And I won’t agree to have anyone order me around or tell me what to do.”

  He took a step toward her, his face calm and serious. “I didn’t doubt that for a minute. But I also want to make something perfectly clear. This wasn’t your grandmother’s idea, or my uncle’s. It was mine.” His large hands reached out, taking the cart from her.

  She made no further objection, walking along silently beside him.

  The car was a tiny red Peugeot 206, upholstered in the color of whitewashed jeans. Just looking at it made her feel like a college student off to drink beer and wear a bikini for a week. She waited as he loaded her suitcases, embarrassed by their weight and number and untraveled newness; wishing she were wearing jeans and carrying a duffel bag. Wishing she were not Francesca Abraham; that she could shed that staid, plodding person in some dressing room along with her stodgy outfits.

  He asked her short, pleasant questions about her flight and the state of her stomach, and she murmured polite replies to set his mind at rest. She tried to seem offhand, but all the while she was vitally, almost uncomfortably, aware of the solid reality of his thighs inches from her own, the smooth tan skin of his neck disappearing beneath his shirt, and his thick dark hair.

  There was a low fog in which the road disappeared, and a faintly lit mist, like some kind of stratosphere, took its place. Francesca had the feeling of being lost, or of having entered a mystery—a little dangerous and wickedly exciting.

  “Do you have a hotel booked in Madrid?”

  “Do you want to go to Madrid?” He looked at her in surprise.

  She pulled out her day planner. “That’s where I’m supposed to be going. I’ve got a list of book dealers to call, libraries and museums…”

  “My dear Francesca. Please trust me. It’s a waste of time. We’ve got a small window of opportunity here to find the person who’s been selling off the manuscript. If we don’t catch him soon, the manuscript might disappear again for another four hundred years.”

  She was shocked. “We’re looking for a person? A ‘him’? I mean, someone has the manuscript!? How do you know that?”

  “The pages I sold your grandmother were sold to me in Barcelona by a rare-book dealer who is a close friend of mine. He told me he thinks there is a lot more where that came from, but that the source has suddenly disappeared. Apparently, he’s run away.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but it makes sense to think that if one runs, one runs from something, no? The danger may or may not be connected to the manuscript. But as I always say, ‘Cherchez l’argent.’”

  “Isn’t that ‘cherchez la femme’?”

  “I’ve always found money a much more passionate motive than sex for most people,” he said, grinning.

  “But if they know someone wants the manuscript and is willing to pay almost any price, why should they run?”

  “I can think of a few reasons.”

  “Give me one.”

  “If you’re selling something that doesn’t belong to you and certain authorities have found out about it…”

  “We don’t want to get mixed up in anything like that!”

  “Don’t we?”

  “Well…” She stared at him. He looked very strong and confident behind the wheel, but a little reckless in the way he took turns and pressed down on the gas pedal, going barely within the speed limit.

  “I have no intention of getting arrested, Marius.”

  It was the first time she’d said his name. It had a strange flavor in her mouth, like some tropical fruit full of seeds, delicious, yet complicated.

  “Then where are we going?”

  “Toledo.”

  She looked through her day planner. “It’s not on my schedule at all. It’s a very old city, isn’t it?”

  “Over two thousand years.”

  “Wow! That’s amazing.”

  “You Americans find it so hard to comprehend anything that old, don’t you? I mean, you think anything a hundred years old is ancient. Your whole country is only a little over two hundred. Don’t misunderstand me. I love America. It’s a fresh, lively, new country, like a young virgin. Rootless, in a way.”

  “It’s not rootless,” she said, wondering what kind of firsthand knowledge he had concerning young virgins. “It’s just full of people who’ve been uprooted. They’ve brought their roots with them.”

  “And is the American soil a fertile place to plant them?”

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I’ve never thought about it before.”

  The fog began to lift. She looked out, disappointed, at tall brick apartment houses that reminded her of a neighborhood in Flushing, Queens, and road signs offering “Sprite” and “Muebles de decoración,” and “Sofa-Expo.”

  And then, just as suddenly, the landscape changed again: There was a field of grazing sheep and whitewashed houses with flower-filled porches, thriving beneath a generous and benevolent sun.
There were rolling green hills and old farmhouses. Flanking both sides of the road as far as the eye could see, there were olive trees whose gnarled branches and hunched appearance reminded Francesca of grandparents on park benches. There were fields of poplars and evergreens, and glimpses of the red-tiled roofs of exquisite Mediterranean villas. And there in the distance (could it be a mirage?), a giant black bull rose from the low plain.

  Her heart began to sing.

  It was a hum at first—low and simple—like a whistle in the dark. But then she felt her heart grow warmer, shooting up a flame of joyous abandon to her throat and lips.

  The song grew more sonorous, less self-conscious—a singing in the strange summer showers of unknown gardens—louder and sweeter, the fear overtaken by a sense of pure, vital pleasure.

  Being alive was an adventure, wasn’t it?

  How easy it was, she thought, astounded, to leap off the precipice of the nice, safe, familiar life! Lifting up one’s feet—that was hard, almost impossible—and getting them up and over the guardrails. But the jump itself—lovely, like a bird sailing through cloudless skies, all the earth, the whole of it, stretched beneath you like of platter of delights waiting to be plucked and savored.

  And what had this to do with briefcases, or duty-free carts, or the sound of adding machines totaling up the purchases of unnecessary watches, perfumes, and scarves?

  “Olé!” she called out of the car window, snapping her fingers, wondering if she were going mad, and, if so, why she hadn’t done it long ago, being that it felt so wonderful.

  Marius stared at her, then threw his head back and bellowed with laughter.

  But she didn’t care. She wasn’t Francesca Abraham, unemployed computer programmer with a pigeon coop on the Upper West Side. She was the descendant of Spanish royalty in a little red Peugeot with an overbearing but enticing stranger who was going to do her every bidding, she swore silently, boldly examining Marius’s thick, dark brows and the sensuous way his hands slid over the steering wheel.

  The road led straight into Toledo, which seemed at first a modern city of brick apartment buildings, whitewashed town houses, and busy shopping centers plastered with sale signs proclaiming locas rebajas. The people were attractive, well-dressed Europeans, and the kids wore jeans and T-shirts.