It's Just Lola

by Dixiane Hallaj

  She sat up straight, fully awake when he questioned the addition of two guides to their expedition. “Why did the EFE hire guides? We can’t get lost following the rails. They’re dark unsmiling men who speak a strange mixture of Spanish and their native tongue. They eat alone and cast furtive glances in my direction. Maybe it’s just my imagination. I must begin carrying my revolver.” That was the last entry in the journal.

  Lola tucked the book under her pillow and turned off the light, but sleep refused to come. The next morning she dressed carefully. Not having a black dress, she wore dark blue. Telling Inez she might be gone for several hours, she found a carriage for hire and directed the driver to take her to the busiest hotel in Santiago. When she arrived, she asked to see the manager.

  “Señor, thank you for seeing me. I know you’re a busy man, and I’ll get straight to the point. I need to get myself and my children to Lima. Since you deal with international travelers, I was hoping you’d be able to tell me how to find transportation.”

  “I’m sorry, Señora, but this is a hotel. We don’t involve ourselves in travel plans.”

  Lola’s eyes clouded with tears. This was her best idea, and it failed. She blinked and the tears rolled down her cheeks. She took a handkerchief out of her handbag. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m recently widowed and don’t have any experience in making travel arrangements. I have no relatives in Chile and...” She ran out of words.

  “I’ll make some inquiries. Wait here.” Within five minutes someone brought her coffee. It was another fifteen before the manager returned and handed her a piece of paper. “This is the address of a travel agency. They arrange tours for groups, but they might have a tour you could join, or know about ships.”

  Lola thanked him profusely and left the hotel feeling almost cheerful. Who would’ve guessed there was such a thing as a travel agency?

  When she reached the address the bottom dropped out of her good spirits. A sign on the door said the office was closed. Her logic deserted her. She looked up and down the street—maybe she’d see someone running to open up. She knocked and tried the door in the foolish hope that someone was inside.

  “The sign says they’re closed,” called the shopkeeper from across the street.

  “When will he be back?”

  “After the war, maybe. Nobody goes touring with U-boats out there. That’s what he does, you know. Gets a bunch of rich folk with nothing better to do with their money, and takes them off to Australia or some such.”

  She wanted to sit on the step and cry, but the shopkeeper already thought she was illiterate; she didn’t want him to think she was insane as well. She lifted her chin and walked back the way she had come. She walked for a long time with no particular destination in mind. When her feet began to hurt and her stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten for hours, she looked around and recognized the street. It was near the hotel where they had stayed when they first arrived. She’d walked these streets every day for weeks. At least she could rest her feet in the lobby.

  “Señora Atkins, what’re you doing here?” The lifted eyebrow added, “without your husband.”

  “Unfortunately, my husband’s been...in an accident.” Lola was unwilling to tell the clerk in this obviously rundown hotel that James was dead. “We have to get back to Peru as soon as possible. I thought perhaps, because he knew to come here, that you might have some knowledge of international travel.”

  “I’m sorry about your husband, but I can’t help you.”

  Lola’s eye fell on the frayed cuff of his not-so-white shirt. She took some money from her handbag and put it on the counter. “Perhaps you know someone who could give me the information I need.” The money disappeared as though by magic.

  “No passenger liners are running because of the blockade, but ask about coast crawlers.”

  “Coast crawlers?”

  “Small ships that haul freight and a few passengers. They’re small and stay very near the coast where the water isn’t too deep. They don’t have a schedule, and only stay in port long enough to load or unload cargo. You’d have to be in Valparaiso ready to go and check the docks every day.”

  If that was what she had to do, she’d find a way to do it. She went home and told Inez to pack what they would need for the trip home. Anything non-essential they would give to Cook to sell or keep. The next morning she set out once more, this time for the British Embassy.

  “My name is Lola Atkins,” she said in careful English, “and I would like to see the Ambassador.” Half an hour and four employees later, she was introduced to Secretary Smythe, who spoke to her in perfect Spanish.

  “Señora Atkins, we don’t have an Ambassador in Chile, but Sir Francis William Stronge is our Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary. He represents the Crown in Santiago.” Lola wondered if she could remember all that. “We’ve been informed by EFE of the unfortunate accident. Our deepest sympathy for your loss.” He bowed his head slightly. “Minister Stronge will see you now.”

  The Minister did not look up from his writing when they entered. After a few seconds, he blotted the paper and rose, extending his hand to Lola. Thankfully, Secretary Smythe remained in the room. Despite her efforts to memorize what she had to say, she was not confident that her English was good enough to communicate her thoughts.

  Once they were seated, the Minister folded the paper he had been writing and gave it to Lola. “This is a letter requesting safe passage for you. I understand you’re from Peru and I assume you wish to return to your family.” The Minister was speaking to her in English while the Secretary murmured a running translation. He then echoed the same phrases of condolence that the Secretary had used. He expressed his dismay about the accident that had befallen her husband.

  “That’s why I came today, to tell you that my husband’s death was not an accident. I know that you are here to protect your citizens, and it’s my duty to my late husband to make you aware of the circumstances surrounding his death.” Taking her cue from the Minister, Lola spoke in Spanish directly to Sir Francis, and she heard the Secretary repeating her sentences in English.

  The Minister frowned. “I’m sure you’re mistaken Mrs. Atkins. The Minister of Foreign Affairs himself told me your husband was buried in an avalanche under tons of rock and ice.”

  “With all due respect, the Minister of Foreign Affairs was sitting at his desk in Santiago when my husband died. Yesterday I spoke with a man who witnessed the events surrounding the death of my husband. He is certain my husband was shot dead before the avalanche started.”

  The Minister gave Lola an indulgent smile. “Even if that unlikely story were true, men are often hit by stray bullets from hunters. Either way, it was an unfortunate accident.” There was a sound of finality to the Minister’s words.

  Lola took the slim volume from her handbag. “I have proof, written in his own hand, that he feared for his life.” She opened the book and began to read slowly in heavily accented English.

  “May I?” asked Secretary Smythe, extending his hand. Lola handed him the journal, pointing to the paragraph she had been reading. He read the passage aloud, and Lola looked expectantly at the Minister.

  “Don’t you agree that those words are grounds for investigation?”

  The Minister’s frown deepened and his face reddened. His tongue flicked out beneath his moustache and moistened his lips, reminding Lola of a snake.

  “Madam,” he said, “I’m sure you know Great Britain is at war.” Lola gave a short nod. “Chile has declared neutrality. The British Embassy, representing one of the combatants, is in a precarious position. I’m sure you can appreciate what a delicate matter it would be to broach such an unpleasant subject with the Chilean government, or any of its departments, such as the National Railway. It would only disturb an already strained relationship.”

  Lola couldn’t believe her ears. “So you intend to do nothing?”

  The Minister raised his eyebrows. “What you’ve shown me only pro
ves that your husband harbored suspicions. What good could come of pursuing this? Forgive me, but it won’t bring your husband back, and it might anger our host country.”

  Lola made no attempt to contain her anger. “Sending a warship into a neutral harbor to sink a disabled vessel flying a white flag wasn’t thought to anger the host country, but seeking justice for the possible murder of one of your subjects just might arouse their anger? The sinking of this ship caused my family to become prisoners in our own home—warned that it was no longer safe for us to appear in public because we carry a British passport.”

  The Minister’s red face betrayed his anger. “That’s a perfect example of the harm done by rumors. The Dresden was refueling in that harbor. Refueling a vessel of war is a clear violation of the rules of neutrality. The white flag was a ruse to allow the crew time to escape and plant explosives. It was not the British, Madame, who sank the ship. The Germans scuttled their own vessel rather than surrender it to us.” The Minister rose. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I have much to do.”

  Lola had no choice but to leave the office, trailed by Secretary Smythe.

  “At least you have a letter of safe passage,” he said quietly.

  “And I’m sure it’ll protect us from the blockade,” said Lola. “I’m sure British captains always ask if anyone onboard has a letter before sinking ships.” Lola hid her face in her hands and began sobbing. The Secretary steered her into his own office and handed her a handkerchief.

  Lola felt overwhelmed. She had to choose between two frightening and dangerous possibilities: staying in Chile as a virtual prisoner in her home, or placing herself and her children in mortal danger on the sea from both British and German vessels of war. She’d thought that the words of the journal would give the British officials a reason to look into the death, and more important to her, she had hoped they would understand the danger she was in and protect her by helping her return to Peru. Lola struggled to regain her composure. When Secretary Smythe returned carrying a tea tray, she was sufficiently composed to accept a steaming cup gracefully.

  “Your concerns about your husband’s death put Minister Stronge in a difficult position. Part of his anger is frustration at not being able to act in the matter. I’m freer in my movements than the minister. Would you entrust your husband’s journal to me? I may be able to use it.”

  “Use it? How?”

  “As you suggested, to make discreet inquiries.”

  “Couldn’t you just take the last page or two? Alongside the engineering scribbles there are personal observations I’d like to keep.”

  “No. Those scribbles, as you call them, are very valuable. Without those, the pages don’t look genuine. I need the entire journal.”

  Lola hesitated. “You can hear the relevant details if you talk to Raul. It should be easy to find a man named Raul that went on the mission. He made sure I understood what he was saying about the death of my husband, in spite of the anger of Señor Jimenez. I’m sure he’ll help you.”

  Smythe shook his head. “Something written in your husband’s own words would corroborate his account. Without it, Raul’s story would be just that—a story.”

  “But, as the Minister said, the journal merely describes suspicions.”

  “If you value your husband’s memory, please.”

  Why did Smythe say that? Lola was suddenly reluctant to hand over the journal. The EFE might want the journal for information about the rail lines, but what about the British embassy? Lola covered her expression as she dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

  “Señor Smythe, I treasure my husband’s memory, and this is the only thing I have that he valued.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “I don’t know how I’ll manage now. I must find a way to get back to my family in Peru.” Smythe looked unsure of what to say. Lola decided to be more explicit. “As long as I’m in this friendless country, this journal is the only consolation I have—the only evidence that I was once happy here.”

  Smythe’s expression showed a glimmer of understanding. “I understand your concerns, Mrs. Atkins; you don’t feel safe in Chile. If there is any way we can help you, it would be our duty and our pleasure to do so.”

  Before Lola left the Embassy, Secretary Smythe had promised to accompany her and her family to a hotel in Valparaiso where they would wait until he booked passage on a suitable vessel. Lola reached into her bag and handed over the journal. Smythe locked the journal in his desk and pocketed the key.

  “Thank you, we’ll be ready by noon tomorrow.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Lola surveyed the small cabin she would share with Carlota. Inez, Estela, and Joseph were in the larger cabin. The small freighter had only one passenger cabin, but Secretary Smythe had persuaded one of the officers to bunk with the crew so she could have his small cabin. Lola suspected that the persuasion involved money, but she wasn’t complaining. She wrinkled her nose. There was a smell in the cabin she couldn’t quite place. Oh, well, she was lucky to have a cabin at all.

  Arrangements were made for the passengers to take their meals in the officers’ mess at times that would not conflict with the officers. The room smelled of cigars and wine, but the food was simple and quite edible. Estela and Joseph were wide-eyed as they sat in the large heavy chairs, surrounded by mementos of previous voyages.

  When Lola returned to her cabin, she found a young officer waiting at the door. He removed his hat, revealing a shock of reddish blond hair. He began to speak in English. She apologized that her English was very poor and he immediately switched to Spanish with a sprinkling of English.

  “It’s inexcusable to bother you like this, but there’s something in my cabin that I’ll need this evening. I am so sorry, but do you mind?”

  “No, I’m grateful that you’re letting me use your cabin.” Lola opened the door and the officer entered after her. There was barely enough room for him to walk past her toward the bunk. She felt his presence as a tangible essence of male—and she recognized the smell in the cabin. She had smelled it before—sitting next to Juan on the seat of the wagon, walking back into the house with her father after riding the fields, taking two small girls off Mehmet’s shoulders after a romp through the apartment. It wasn’t the offensive smell of unwashed body; it was just the smell of man.

  She watched the young officer bend over her bed. There was something too familiar about having his hands on her clean linens. Then, like a street magician pulling a coin out of someone’s ear, he pulled a pair of trousers from the bed. Lola laughed and the young man grinned.

  “I was ironing my pants under the mattress and forgot them,” he explained, which made Lola laugh even harder.

  “Forgive me for laughing, but I never heard of ironing with a bed before, Mr…uh…Sir.”

  “Wulf. Everyone calls me Wulf, unless they call me something worse,” he said with an infectious grin.” His clear blue eyes met Lola’s and his face lost the silly grin. “You can call me Herman, if you like,” his voice was soft and something about it made Lola’s heart beat faster.

  “I think you’d better leave now,” she said quietly. “I’m not feeling well.”

  “Shall I call your friend?” he asked with concern.

  “No, thank you. I merely need to rest.” He made a slight bow and moved to the door. The room was so small that he brushed against Lola as he left. When the door closed behind him, it felt as though the air of the small cabin had left with him. She felt a bit dizzy.

  The next day Lola was pleasantly surprised to find that she wasn’t a bit nauseous. She joined Inez and the children at the rail, enjoying the sunshine and admiring the view of the shore.

  “Hello.”

  Lola turned toward the voice. “Hello, Mr. Wulf.”

  “The captain asked me to inform you that we’ll anchor offshore for the night. The town’s harbor is barely deep enough for its fishing boats, but if you like, I can arrange for a boat to take you to town.” Lola looked at Inez.

  “What do y
ou suggest, Mr. Wulf?” asked Inez. “Are you familiar with the town?”

  Herman Wulf gave an easy laugh. “My recollection is that this town smells strongly of fish and has nothing to recommend it. Even the bar is uninteresting.” Seeing the expressions on the ladies’ faces he hastened to add, “Not that either of you would ever…I mean, begging your pardon…I didn’t mean to imply…”

  “What’s a bar?” asked Estela.

  “A place where sailors go to get away from the sea,” answered Herman.

  “Can we go there to get away from the sea?”

  “Are you a sailor?”

  “No, that’s silly. You can see I’m a girl.”

  “I want to be a sailor,” said Joseph. “Can I go?”

  “When you grow up I’ll take you myself. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Lola and Inez declined the invitation. Herman promised they’d stop at more interesting towns farther along the route since the captain travelled very slowly, just in case they crossed paths with a warship. Lola shuddered.

  “Don’t worry, Señora, the captain’s very protective of his vessel,” laughed Herman. “Their father wouldn’t have allowed you to sail with us if he didn’t feel confident you’d be safe.” He smiled at the children.

  “We don’t have a father,” said Estela.

  “I’m recently widowed,” said Lola.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Several nights later, Lola responded to a knock on her door.

  “Mr. Wulf, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten more of your ironing.”

  “No, but I could bring something to iron if you like.” Herman laughed and stepped into the small cabin, closing the door behind him. His eyes lost the laughter first, and then the rest of his face became serious. He took a step into the room and Lola instinctively took a step backward. She felt the bulkhead behind her. Her heart beat faster as Herman took another step forward.