Once they were seated, the waiters immediately began to serve oysters on large half shells. Conversation bubbled like the white wine that the steward poured into the glasses.
Pepe, avoiding María José’s eyes, raised his glass and toasted the health of the group. Not to be outdone, Bud Bowman toasted Pepe. Cora looked so pleased that her husband toasted María José as well.
Directly across the table from Mary Helen the De-Angelos sat tight-lipped, the way people do when they’ve had words. Creases like small spokes formed around Bootsie’s set mouth.
Perhaps they’re tired. Mary Helen gave them the benefit of the doubt and speared an oyster. She might have believed it, too, if Bootsie, with a swish of her long dark hair, hadn’t deliberately turned her back on her husband and focused her frosty blue eyes on Cora, who sat to her left. “You look lovely in green,” Bootsie said loudly.
Startled by the unexpected attention, Cora sputtered but not for long. Within seconds the two women had lowered their voices and were carrying on an animated conversation. They were so absorbed, in fact, that they hardly seemed to notice that the waiter served a delicious plate of what looked to Mary Helen like potatoes and peppers mixed with giant sardines. Nor did they pay much attention to the wine steward refilling their glasses.
Sister Mary Helen wished that she could hear what they were saying. To be honest, she wished that she could hear what anyone was saying. As is sometimes the way with round tables, everyone was talking to someone, but no one was talking to her.
To her right, Sister Eileen and Dr. Fong were engrossed. Whatever the topic, Eileen carried most of the conversation. To the right of her husband, Rita Fong was giving María José and Bud Bowman a lesson in reducing muscle stress. Or at least it appeared that way from the places she was pointing out on her neck and shoulders. From the look on María José’s face she wasn’t profiting much from the lesson.
Heidi listened intently to whatever Pepe whispered to her, giggling softly, now and again, before taking a sip of wine. Directly across the table Roger DeAngleo was pontificating.
It is just as well his wife’s back was to him, Mary Helen thought, watching Lisa Springer, her full mouth set in a little pout, pretending to vacuum in every syllable. Wordlessly she stoked his male ego—and from the look of it, that wasn’t all she was stoking—into a roaring flame.
The professor, seemingly enamored by her flattering attention, hardly stopped for breath. Watching them, Mary Helen recalled a stanza from an old poem of Swift’s:
’Tis an old maxim in the schools,
That flattery’s the food of fools;
Yet now and then your men of wit
Will condescend to take a bit.
From where she sat, Roger DeAngleo seemed to be sucking in considerably more than a bit.
Sipping her wine, Sister Mary Helen settled back, resigned to observing her fellow pilgrims. Actually she rather enjoyed it. She was constantly amazed at how much one can learn about people by merely watching them.
For example, although the friction between María José and Pepe was overt, there was also something definitely amiss with the DeAngelos. And she suspected as much about the Fongs. They, however, were the hardest to read. On the other hand, the bickering Bowmans were having a wonderful time, and Lisa and Heidi seemed to have made up whatever differences they had had.
And differences do occur when you’re traveling with someone, married or no. It is not easy. Even Eileen and she had their moments. Glory be to God! she thought facetiously. We’ve been on this jaunt for only two days. We’ll be killing each other before the week is out!
Heidi giggled, and from across the table Lisa and Roger DeAngelo mouthed in simpatía, to put it “Spanishly.” Another fascinating phenomenon, Mary Helen mused, is how quickly relationships develop on tours. Perchance it was the being thrown together in a kind of time warp. The unfamiliar places, the strange customs, and the foreign language set a stage for instant intimacy.
Whatever the cause, one minute we’re perfect strangers; the next we’re regaling each other with the most personal details of our lives, much as Heidi had done this afternoon.
Heidi wriggled in her seat. Although her afternoon had gone poorly, her evening was more than making up for it. In fact, as the center of Señor Nunez’s attention, Heidi was positively glowing and paying no heed to Lisa Springer, who, with sparkling eyes, kept looking at Roger DeAngelo.
Watching them, Sister Mary Helen suspected that these two girls could go on indefinitely. She, on the other hand, hoped to call it a night soon. The combination of rich food and mellow wine made her eyelids heavy. She glanced hopefully toward her host.
Checking his watch, Pepe pulled himself away from Heidi’s adoring gaze long enough to signal the maître. Within moments, the bevy of waiters appeared to remove the entrée and to replace it with small dishes of carmelized custard.
“Our dessert, leche frita,” Pepe announced. “Fried milk.”
Thanks be to God, Mary Helen thought, placing her hand over her wineglass. She didn’t know how much longer she could remain upright at the table.
“How are you doing, Sister?” Heidi, momentarily alone while their host again conferred with the headwaiter, turned toward her.
“Fine, dear. But more to the point, how are you feeling?” Mary Helen asked as if she didn’t know.
Heidi beamed. “Fine, now.” She giggled. “I guess I was just being silly this afternoon. I hope I wasn’t a pain.”
“Never,” Mary Helen said, and, with her final spoon, attacked the thick dessert, a first cousin to flan.
“You’ll never guess who Lisa was with . . .” Heidi began. Much to Mary Helen’s chagrin, Pepe tapped his goblet for attention.
“My dear pilgrims.” He rose, waiting for everyone to abandon all conversation before he continued.
“Who was she with?” Mary Helen whispered, but butterscotch Heidi was once again enthralled.
“Did you enjoy your first banquet in España?” Pepe asked.
The group clapped appreciatively. Bud Bowman put his baby fingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle.
“Hear! Hear!” Lisa Springer raised her glass and winked at Bud.
Cora scowled at her husband, who whistled a second time. Mary Helen wasn’t sure if the glare was for the whistle or the wink.
With a bow Pepe went on to outline their schedule for the following morning: breakfast at eight; a tour of the cathedral at ten; dinner at two-fifteen. Mary Helen hoped that Eileen was jotting it all down.
“Tonight,” he said, “you are free. Some of you may be tired and wish to retire early. But for those of you who wish to prolong the evening”—he glanced meaningfully across the table at María José—“the hotel has several public rooms that are open with music for dancing. . . .”
Pepe’s words continued on, but Sister Mary Helen’s mind was already climbing the stairs to her room.
“What do you say, old dear?” Eileen, her gray eyes twinkling, leaned toward her. “Is it to bed or to boogie?”
Mary Helen moaned. “I am exhausted. How about you?”
Eileen nodded in agreement.
“I can’t quite figure out why.” Mary Helen squirmed out of her chair. “Is it jet lag or the heavy food?” She gathered up her pocketbook. “Maybe it’s the wine.”
“Perhaps, just perhaps, mind you”—Eileen followed her as she threaded her way through the crowd—“it’s our age.”
Mary Helen stopped short. Pushing her bifocals up the bridge of her nose, she glared at her friend. “I prefer to think it is the wine,” she said, “don’t you?”
Five minutes after they turned out the lights, Mary Helen was wide-awake. Maddening, she thought, struggling to find a comfortable position. Not a half hour ago I thought I’d fall asleep in my dessert. Now I’m in bed, and I can’t even doze.
“Are you awake?” she whispered, hoping Eileen had the same trouble. Her only answer was a soft, rhythmic snore.
Irked, Ma
ry Helen rolled onto her side, punched up her pillows, and tried to think sleepy thoughts. The sound of laughter floated up through the floorboards, and a familiar tune, although for the life of her she couldn’t remember the words.
Footsteps came down the corridor, one set, two sets; then a loud burst of conversation. Mary Helen strained to hear. Although the words were muffled, the tone was abundantly clear—red-hot anger!
A door slammed, and Mary Helen pulled the covers up over her ears. The band switched to a raucous number, and the floor seemed to vibrate with the beat.
“Eileen,” she whispered, hoping for company. No response. How can anyone sleep through that? Mary Helen wondered, pushing back the covers. She lay in the darkness with her eyes shut. Was it jet lag? If she had it, why didn’t Eileen?
Suddenly the room seemed very stuffy with the musty odor of old furniture and the heavy red velvet drapes taking over. Air! That was what she needed: some cool night air to help her sleep.
She tiptoed across the room, fighting down the urge to jiggle Eileen’s bed. Although from the sound of things I could jiggle to my heart’s content and she’d never notice, Mary Helen thought with a twinge of envy.
Mary Helen pulled back the heavy drapes and flung open the window. To her surprise the Plaza del Obradoiro was filled with people, all kinds of people. It was as if darkness had brought the city roaring to life. She remembered reading in one of the books in the Hanna Memorial Library that at night Santiago de Compostela changes into a colorful, fascinating maelstrom. It was colorful and fascinating, all right, but from where she stood hardly dangerous. If anything, at least this part of Santiago seemed bright and cheerful and contented.
Large groups of students laughed and cavorted with one another. Children ran and played tag while their mothers gossiped. Older couples peacefully circled the plaza, passing bustling tourists laden with shopping bags. A policeman, his nightstick protruding from his yellow rain slicker, stopped to chat with a couple of men in berets. Amid them all a lone flutist stood beside his open case. A few sprightly notes floated up on the night air. Listening, Mary Helen felt a pang of sympathy for the boy’s mother, who had probably hoped for a Spanish James Galway.
She leaned farther out the window. The ledge was wide enough to sit on, and she was tempted to try it, maybe even dangle her feet. Only the thought of slipping and landing in the plaza in her nightdress stopped her. Not that she would have any particular worry if that did happen. It was Eileen who would be left with some fancy explaining to do to Sister Cecilia and the other nuns, especially Therese. Mary Helen amused herself thinking about what decorous Therese would say about such a fall from propriety. She chuckled at her own pun and wished Eileen were awake.
Outside, marbled clouds gathered around the apricot moon, and Mary Helen smelled rain in the air. Poor Therese! Although she could drive you to drink without a cent in your pocket, she did try to be kind. Much as Mary Helen hated to admit it, they probably would need her umbrellas.
A sudden volley of sharp, angry Spanish took her by surprise. Whoever it was had just stepped out the front door of the hostal and was directly below.
She leaned out as far as she dared and caught a glimpse of a head and an ornate comb. As the figure stalked across the plaza, Mary Helen recognized María José. She squinted. Was that Pepe trailing her?
As impervious to those around her as they were to her, María José gesticulated furiously, stopping now and again to turn on Pepe and stab at him with her finger. Pepe, gesturing every bit as wildly, continued to dog her until the two of them disappeared behind one corner of the cathedral.
“What’s the matter?” Eileen’s groggy voice startled her.
“Nothing. I just can’t sleep.”
“Get into your bed, old dear. That might help.”
“I was in bed,” Mary Helen began, exasperated, but it was too late. Eileen had drifted off again.
Mary Helen sighed. Maybe that was good advice. Besides, if she stayed there in front of the open window, her feet were bound to get cold. Once that happened, she would never get to sleep.
Back in the soft, roomy bed she pulled the covers up over her shoulders and tucked her toes into the end of her nightdress. Dance music seeped up through the floor. The band was playing a medley of “oldies but goodies.” Maybe the guests were winding down. From the sound the band certainly was.
Resolutely she closed her eyes. But her mind refused to shut off and wandered downstairs. Were the other tour members still there or had some gone off to bed? By dessert Cora had looked exhausted. Were the Fongs enjoying themselves? Odd little man, Dr. Fong. Did he dance? She’d bet Rita did.
And the DeAngelos. Was Bootsie still sitting, tight-lipped, ignoring her husband, or had they made up? She hoped so. Obviously María José and Pepe had not. Too bad!
With Pepe gone from the hostal, who was with poor Heidi? I hope she’s still having fun. In fact, I hope they’re all having fun. Mary Helen shifted into a more comfortable position, her thoughts growing fuzzy.
Oddly the only one she wasn’t concerned about was lovely Lisa Springer. Do or die, Lisa would have a good time. Mary Helen would bet money on it. More power to her, she thought dreamily, more power to her.
An angry small girl, whose face was vaguely familiar, but whose name Mary Helen could not quite remember, grabbed both her ankles. Shocked, Mary Helen struggled with this strange girl who carried a load of wet wash in the wicker basket on top of her head.
“Stop it this instant!” she shouted.
The girl simply smiled as if she hadn’t heard and, holding tight, forced Mary Helen’s toes into a large shell-shaped basin filled with ice cubes.
“Now, the soles.” The girl bared her teeth. The left incisor was crooked. The ice clinked as Mary Helen pushed hard against the bottom of the basin and wiggled wildly to wrench herself free from the girl’s icy grip.
“Stop it!” she shouted even louder, and this last shout was probably what woke her. She lay there, heart pounding, relieved that it was a dream. A least part of it was. Her toes were icy cold. The window! She had left the window open.
Shivering, she crossed the room. To her surprise the Plaza del Obradoiro was completely deserted. Except for the patter of soft rain upon stone, all was stillness. The plaza, delineated as it was by four large and beautiful buildings, picked up the sound. And the low, steady trickle of water filled the quiet night.
Leaning out to pull shut the window, Mary Helen thought she saw someone standing on the steps of the cathedral. She squinted into the shadowy darkness. Probably just a reflection of some sort. In the dim light it looked like a person. But nobody stands that still, especially in the pouring rain.
A cough floated up from the floor below. Someone else must be standing by an open window, she thought, creeping back to her bed. Somebody else can’t sleep. She fluffed up her pillow and closed her eyes, feeling suddenly very tired. Exhausted, actually, and old, like St. Simeon, whose feast had been today. Poor old fellow had wished to live long enough to see Jesus, and as soon as he saw the Child, his first words were “Nunc dimittis. . . . Now you can dismiss your servant in peace. . . .”
She wondered, sleepily, if, when his bones began to ache and his eyes began to fail, Simeon regretted his wish. There was a Chinese proverb about being careful what you wish for because you may get it. Odd—isn’t it?—that you must be careful what you wish for, even if it’s seeing the Christ Child or wishing that everyone downstairs has fun.
Carpeted footsteps padded past the bedroom door. Two sets? Three sets? It was difficult to tell. Someone stifled a giggle. The party’s over, Mary Helen thought, wondering what time it was. By now, however, she was too sleepy to care. “Nunc dimittis. . . .”
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 9
Feast of St. John Leonardi,
Priest
Sister Mary Helen awoke with a fierce craving for a cup of good, strong, hot coffee. Blinking, she rescued her glasses and wristwatch from the nightstand. No wonde
r! It was already seven-thirty.
Except for a gentle sough from Eileen in the next bed, the room was deadly quiet. No footsteps in the hall. No rumble of a chambermaid’s cart. The soft gurgle that water makes after a rain and the bark of a faraway dog were the only sounds she heard. It was as if the whole of Santiago were still in bed.
Orange spears of sun shot through the open drapes, and particles of dust twirled and climbed up the beam. “As thikke as motes in the sonne-beem.” The line from The Canterbury Tales popped into her mind, and with it her fellow pilgrims. How were they doing this morning? Surely some must be up by now.
Kicking her feet out of the covers, Mary Helen rustled around, hoping to rouse Eileen. Eileen didn’t budge. “Hopeless,” she muttered, dressing quickly.
With a click the bedroom door closed behind her, and Mary Helen stood in the ornate but empty hallway, wishing she had paid more attention to Pepe’s instructions about time and places for things.
A well-dressed man, looking all business, emerged from several doors down. On a hunch she followed him and with no trouble at all reached the hostal’s dining room at about the same time as Cora Bowman.
“Good morning, Sister.” Cora, her cheeks still creased with sleep, seemed genuinely glad to see a familiar face. “I’m dying for a cup of java. How about you?”
Before Mary Helen could answer, an ancient waiter in a stiff white jacket bustled them to a vacant table. Actually most of the tables in the spacious room were vacant. In the center of each a haystack of French rolls, buns, and croissants waited with butter curls and small jelly packets for the hungry to arrive.
“Café con leche, señoras?” the waiter asked, a silver pot poised in each hand.
Mary Helen hesitated, but not Cora. “Without milk this stuff will put hair on your chest,” she snapped, pushing forward both their cups.
“Buffet.” The waiter nodded toward a long table down one side of the room. It was laden with platters of meat and cheeses, pitchers of juice—orange, pineapple, tomato, grapefruit—mounds of fresh fruit, and boiled eggs in large cockleshell bowls.
Murder Makes a Pilgrimage Page 6