The Spanish ambassador, his tux adorned with medals and crimson sash, bent low to kiss my gloved hand. “Que señorita mas bella,” he said in sharp Castilian. “Please to enjoy the music, the food and entertainment. And señorita, I insist you save a dance for me.”
Many of the men were bearded and intense, the women elegant. There were men in uniform too, with enough color and medals to populate a Brontë sisters’ novel. I caught a glimpse of the comandante, who looked like Pavarotti in tux and beard. Strangers planted kisses on both my cheeks, and I thought I’d never seen so much cleavage and enhanced breasts in one place.
The US ambassador, a handsome, white-haired man of medium stature, also kissed my hand.
“I trust our young Mr. Page is treating you well.”
“Young Mr. Page is a perfect scoundrel, thank you.”
We laughed. I wondered if I should nudge him into telling me more about Alan, but we were interrupted by a trio of Spaniards fingering a bust of Unamuno, loudly debating his merits.
“A genius, I tell you, one of the greatest minds of Europe, the intellectual of Salamanca.”
“Rubbish. Unamuno was nothing but a subversive radical.”
They gestured at me. “And you, señorita, what is your impression of Unamuno?”
“Genius and radical,” I shot back. “Why else would we be talking about him?”
They laughed. The American ambassador took my arm and was introducing me to the head of the Sandinista Army when we were interrupted by a stir in the crowd. I thought it was the king, but the ambassador said, “It’s the president.” And sure enough, Doña Violeta herself swept into the hall with an entourage of sycophants and bodyguards.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea for Moses. The band struck up the Nicaraguan equivalent of “Hail to the Chief.” Ambassadors and ministers hurried over to kiss her hand.
I’d never seen her before, but I knew that face, that chalky-white hair and dignified bearing. I’d seen it a hundred times on television and in the pages of the Washington Post during the days of the Iran-Contra hearings. And here I was in the same room with her.
She went from group to group, shaking hands and chatting, looking as beautiful in a light blue gown as her pictures. She seemed to know everyone, even Alan, but when she turned to me, a blank stare crossed her face. “Señorita?”
The Spanish ambassador rushed over.
“I have the great honor to present to you the lovely señorita…”
“McMullen,” I said, wondering if I should curtsy. “Jennifer McMullen-Cruz.”
Doña Violeta squeezed my hand, kissed my cheek, and glanced back and forth between Alan and me. “What a nice couple you two make.”
There was so much grinning going on, people pressing in on all sides, that I couldn’t help grinning myself. “Let’s get an official photo,” said a man in a dark tuxedo. So I leaned into Alan, and the two of us puffed up with the president beneath Unamuno’s bust.
The band struck up Que Viva España, and almost everyone in the room sang this jaunty song. I sang along with the others, loudly proclaiming “Que Viva España!” as if I were the lead singer in a Seville tavern, then I sidled up to the tapas bar and found myself next to a skinny Spaniard who’d been introduced as one of Spain’s greatest bullfighters.
In his short black jacket with the fancy embroidery, he could have just stepped out of the Plaza de Toros. He touched his goblet to mine. “Are you a princesa?” he asked in a thick Galician accent that sounded more Portuguese than Spanish.
“I am only a guest.”
“No, señorita, you are more than a guest. How else could you occupy the president’s attention when she ignores me—el torero?” He stepped so close I could feel his breath on my neck. “I adore the way you fix your hair. You are absolutely the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. The kind of woman you find only in dreams—a woman with duende.”
“What is duende?”
“It defines you, señorita. A woman of mysterious charm, exquisite taste, high class, and stunning beauty. It is in the tilt of your head, in the way you walk, in your smile.”
I gazed into the face of this handsome bullfighter with his suntan and long dark hair in a pony-tail. What a laugh he’d have if he knew the real me—the daughter of a fire-breathing, Bible-thumping, evangelical minister and a Mayan-Mexican mother who prayed to the moon and threw corn to the wind.
“Do you confer duende on all your women?”
“Please, señorita, what I am saying comes from the heart. I would die for you a thousand times if only you would do me the magnificent honor of leaving this party on my arm and being my companion for the rest of the evening that I might remember this tragic city as having one brilliant shining light. It would be the greatest honor to have you as—”
“And who is this lovely lady?” asked another Castilian voice behind me.
I could have fainted. There, amid a group of followers, with ambassadors from many nations at his side, stood his Royal Highness, the King of Spain.
Chapter 23
I curtsied. I stammered. I became painfully aware of my Mayan-Mexican-Southern accent. The US ambassador hurried up beside me, speaking my name and saying I was an archaeologist at the famous Smithsonian. “This young señorita,” he said, “is one of the few people in the world who can both read and write Mayan hieroglyphics.”
“Ah, such talent,” said the king. “Where are you from?”
“Florida, but I was born in Mexico, the state of Quintana Roo.”
“Of course, the land of Malinche. Have you read The Chronicles of Bernal Diaz?”
I said I had, and we fell into a rapid-fire discussion about Malinche, the mistress of Cortés. The king touched my shoulder. “Have you noticed all those beautiful Poinciana trees in this country? Here they are called the Malinche tree. Why is that? No one seems to know.”
I didn’t know either, and supposed it represented either the bloodshed caused by the Spaniards or the scarlet fever that followed. I wasn’t about to offend the king with negative theories, so I pointed to my crimson carnation.
“Spanish soldiers wore red. Red was the color for the monarchy. Malinche cast her lot with the Spaniards. Hence, the Malinche tree.”
Flashbulbs went off in my face. The crowd around us swelled, and before long I was educating the king on hieroglyphs. Someone produced a notepad. On it, I sketched the phonetic symbols for his name. He asked questions as if he envisioned me in a childhood of adventures and endless excursions through Mayan ruins with camera and notebook. Then he turned to Alan and made so many comments about my beauty and talents that my face must have taken on the color of a Malinche flower. Afterward, he kissed me on both cheeks, shook Alan’s hand and left me standing so high in the clouds that if the Flamenco dancers had asked me to join them, I’d have hopped on a table and made a fool of myself.
Over the next few minutes, the ambassador introduced me to ministers and politicians, diplomats and their elegant wives, mistresses and an assortment of other beautiful women. The languages of Europe all around. The British chargé’s wife laughing at someone’s comment about the squatters.
“Dystopian nightmare,” she said.
People actually talked like that? Words like “dystopian?” Debates about Unamuno?
By the time I got back to Alan, I’d been propositioned, pinched on the behind and asked if I was one of the Gypsy singers. “Regular den of iniquity,” he said. “Never been a soiree at the Spanish embassy that some fine lady didn’t get laid right here on the premises.”
He drained his goblet and led me to another room. “See that attractive Russian woman over there, the blonde with the boobs? That’s Nathalie, the comandante’s wife.”
Nathalie caught us looking and blew a kiss.
Alan scooped goblets off a passing tray and handed one to me. “Now here’s the juicy part. Nathalie’s pissed because the comandante is fooling around with Luz Maria. Right? But the comandante is pissed because Luz Maria s
hows up with this funny little Italian guy. That’s him over there…bleached hair and earrings?”
He took a sip and went on. “It gets better. The Italian’s pissed because his date, Luz Maria, is spending her time with the comandante. And Luz Maria’s pissed because the comandante won’t leave Nathalie for her, which is why she’s trying to make him jealous with the Italian. There could be bloodshed before the evening’s over.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Not at all. Let me show you something.” He danced me to a back patio to the tune of Bizet’s Carmen. Then he took my hand and led me past bubbling fountains and statues and onto a winding path that took us to a lily pond.
Frogs croaked. The Milky Way streaked the night sky. The sweetness of jasmine perfumed the air. “Happened right there,” Alan said, pointing to a bench beneath a trellis.
“What happened”
“The Bulgarian ambassador caught by his wife. Pants down, and this young beauty giving him a…well. The wife screams at them. The other woman takes off so fast she trips over her gown and breaks an arm. She’s screaming in pain. People come running to see what’s going on. Then the wife pulls out a pistol.”
“She shot them?”
“Shot at them. Didn’t hit a thing except that statue over there. It was in the papers next day, photos of his Excellency tripping across the lawn with his pants down.”
I laughed so hard that Alan had to sit me down on the infamous bench beneath the trellis. He put an arm around me. From the embassy came the wail of a Gypsy singer.
Maybe it was the wine. Or the clap of castanets. Whatever the case, when he leaned in closer, his breath warm on my neck, I wrapped my arms around him and we began kissing and fondling like lovers who’d been separated too long. A fire ignited inside me, and I might have straddled him right there on the bench, or done that Bulgarian thing, except for a giggle from the darkness.
“The hell?” Alan said.
We straightened up. The giggles came closer. I heard voices. The crunch of feet. I couldn’t see their faces, but I knew that Gallego accent, that cocky bullfighter stride, and he was conferring duende on someone else’s wife or sweetheart.
They saw us and kept going. Alan pulled me to him again, but by then the magic of the lily pond was gone. “No,” I said, and pushed him away. “This isn’t right. Not here.”
I made a side trip to the ladies’ room to repair my lipstick, and when we finally returned to the ballroom, Luz Maria and the comandante were in a shouting match, shaking fingers at each other to the tune of Malagueña. “Pendejo,” she said, and splashed wine on him.
Nathalie grabbed a goblet off a passing tray and splashed him again.
I tugged at Alan’s arm. “We should leave.”
“Are you kidding? The king and president are gone. Now the real party begins.”
The band played only the fiery Spanish kind that stirred the blood and helped me understand why I’d almost succumbed to temptation beside the lily pond. Luz Maria and the comandante sauntered down a corridor together. Nathalie took the Italian’s hand and pulled him out the back. Other couples were also disappearing into the shadows. I even caught a glimpse of Elizabeth Alvarado making out with her cameraman, and by the time the clock struck two, I was vaguely aware that the only people left were the young, the drunk, and the stupid.
Cigarette smoke filled the air. Someone lit a joint and passed it around. A redhead bared her breasts to cheers of “Ole.” And I, daughter of a fundamentalist minister, was soon prancing around in the bullfighter’s tunic, waving a red napkin and daring people to charge me.
Not long afterward, Alan mercifully led me out the front and into the fresh air.
Chapter 24
The roar of a low flying jet woke me. The clock on the nightstand told me it was almost noon. I was nude. My head pounded, and all around was evidence of the moral cesspool into which I’d fallen: clothing scattered about the room, a naked man next to me.
A packet of opened condoms.
Condoms? Oh, God, I’d been so drunk I could barely remember.
Alan sat up and rubbed his head. “I need an Alka-Seltzer.”
“I need a confessional.”
I pulled a sheet around me and stumbled to the shower. With water playing over me, I tried to reconstruct the events of the evening before. Kissing and fondling in the back seat of the Cadillac. An elevator ride to our room. Yanking off my gown like a woman desperate for sex.
Helping Alan pull off his boots.
Unbelievable. A soiree at the Spanish Embassy, a few glasses of wine, and I, Jennifer, who’d slept with only one man in my life before Alan, had turned into a slut.
When I came out in my robe, Alan was finishing a conversation on his cell. He flipped it shut and flung it onto the bed. “Damn it to hell. Embassy wants me over there right away.”
“For what?”
“They never say on the phone.” He pulled on his pants, and for the first time I noticed a charm on his wrist, a fat effigy female.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Guardian witch. She keeps me safe.”
“From me?”
He smiled and wrapped his arms around me. “I never want to be safe from you.”
“How long are you going to be at the embassy?”
“Who knows? Why don’t you wait for me here?”
I sank onto the edge of the bed. I had a hundred things to do—like another trip to Ometepe to see the old couple. Get back to my office and catch up on my work, but if I left, I might never see Alan again, never know if what we had was real or just a fling.
“I hope you’re not having second thoughts,” he said.
“No, it’s Father Antonio’s memoir. It’s heavy. I can’t keep lugging it around.”
“What if I take it to my office? I can scan it and put it on a computer disc.”
“I’d rather send it to the Smithsonian. Also my film.”
“Not a problem. Diplomatic pouch goes out tomorrow.”
“One more thing. I need to go back to Granada. Can you meet me there?”
Chapter 25
Granada—the Hotel Alhambra
Sabio checked me back into my old room, and by five, I’d recovered enough to shower again and change. Afterward, when the full realization of what I’d done hit me, I called Diane.
“Stop punishing yourself,” she said. “Did you enjoy it?”
“I don’t remember.”
“For God’s sake, girl, get some condoms and get laid.”
Seven o’clock rolled around, and still no word from Alan. At eight, I sat on the bed and conjured up excuses for him, but they dissolved in the swish, swish of the fan blades. I waited another fifteen minutes, then went downstairs and picked at my food.
The power went out. Lamps and candles came on as usual. The room softened, and somewhere in the night a battery-powered radio was playing Pobre la Maria.
The loneliness came back, the self-doubts, the insecurities. Alan had lost interest because he’d seen me naked and didn’t like what he saw. My breasts were too small. I was too easy.
He didn’t enjoy sex with a drunk.
I retreated to my room, lit candles and got into my gown. Down the hall, a group of patrons was having a party. How could they party when I was so miserable?
The balcony doors rattled. I jumped up. Was someone on the balcony, trying to get in?
Father Antonio’s ghost? The old Indian couple?
I waited, my heart in my throat. Then I heard it—nothing but a gust of wind.
Damn this place. This room.
The phone rang.
Alan, please let it be Alan. I scooped up the receiver.
“Can we talk about it?” Stan said, letting out a little whimper.
“For God’s sake, Stan, it’s over. Can’t you get that through your head?”
There was a satellite transmission delay, and my voice echoed back.
For God’s sake, Stan. It’s over.
&
nbsp; “Please don’t say it’s over, Jen.”
“I’m hanging up,. We’re different people now.”
…different people now.
I hung up, and had just crawled into bed when a knock sounded on the door. A soft knock.
“Jen, it’s me.”
My heart jumped. I opened the door and found him in jeans, sneakers and sweatshirt, a flickering candle in his hand and a small suitcase beside him.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “You cannot imagine what happened.”
“You could have called.”
“Couldn’t, the lines are out.”
“I just used the phone. It’s working fine.”
“Not to Managua. Cell phones aren’t working either. Squatters blew up something, cut the lines. I had to pass a dozen roadblocks. It was awful, worse than the other night.”
He stepped into the darkness with his candle and suitcase.
“I’m all dusty and sweaty,” he said. “Does this place have water?”
“Plenty. They gave me an extra five-gallon container.”
He disappeared into the bathroom with his candle, washed up and came out with a towel around his waist, bringing with him a fresh soapy smell. Even in the poor light, he looked as trim and muscular as a football quarterback. He sank into a chair next to the bed where I was sitting.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, adjusting the little witch on his wrist, “but I’m not sure how to put it.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Just say it.”
“Well, it’s just that…I’ve never felt this way before. We’ve known each other for, what, three-four days, and I’m falling, and I don’t want it to happen unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless there’s a chance you feel the same.” He took my hand. “I know you’re still hurting and it’ll take months to recover. All I’m asking is honesty. If you feel nothing, just tell me and I’ll go, turn around and leave like that man in the song, do la media vuelta.”
The Girl in the Glyphs Page 8