Captive Heart

by Patti Beckman

  "Angelita, are you the only villager who speaks Spanish?" JoNell asked.

  "Goodness, no. We have many who speak Spanish. They must in order to trade in the marketplaces in the large cities."

  JoNell thought that would give her the opportunity to hear from others their view of the enigmatic Jorge Del Toro.

  They arrived at the cottage. Angelita showed JoNell the spices in the colorful handcrafted urns she had seen on the shelves earlier. The most important spice was garlic, which was used in the preparation of rice, an obligatory dish at every Peruvian meal. The large, thick-skinned bananas—platanos—were grown for cooking. JoNell tasted one raw and made a face at its stinging flavor.

  Angelita got a blaze going in the fireplace and showed JoNell how to sear the stringy meat to prepare for slow cooking in water. The earthenware pots cooked amazingly well, distributing the heat evenly throughout the food.

  The two women were chatting over the cooking supper when Del Toro arrived. "You ladies seem to be having a good time," he grinned. "What have you cooked up for a hungry husband back from laboring in the mines?"

  JoNell turned to look at Del Toro. She had an odd sensation that she was looking at a stranger. A subtle change had come over him since they had arrived in the village. The hard lines around his mouth were softer. His frown had relaxed. Instead of looking peculiar in the native garb of the Indian village, he seemed quite comfortably a part of the village. His voice was lighter, more cheerful.

  "Oh, Jorge," Angelita bubbled. "You have really done yourself proud. JoNell is delightful. I'm so glad you brought her with you so we could all meet her. She will make you a fine wife."

  JoNell's cheeks grew hot. She averted her eyes and pretended to stir the meat. The phony marriage was a bad enough trick to play on Del Toro's shallow society friends, but JoNell felt utterly miserable at deceiving a sweet person like Angelita.

  "Will you join us for supper, Angelita?" Del Toro invited.

  "Thank you, no. I have invited a widower from across the village to join me tonight. I think you know him, Jorge. His name is Carlos Izquierda."

  "Ah, romance," Del Toro teased.

  "Could be," Angelita agreed lightly.

  "Thank you for looking after JoNell."

  "It was my pleasure. And now, good evening."

  JoNell's stomach felt as if she had swallowed a Mexican jumping bean after Angelita left. Del Toro was uncomfortably close to her in this small hut. His powerful presence filled the structure and unnerved her. In Lima, in his mansion, the spacious rooms left breathing air. Even the airplane had not felt so unbearably intimate as this room. JoNell kept her eyes on the pots and pretended to be absorbed in her cooking.

  "That smells very good," Del Toro said. He took a chair near her.

  She braved a glance at Del Toro, dressed in the colorful village attire. It was the first time she had seen him in anything less casual than an imported suit costing hundreds of dollars. In the sparkle of his green eyes, she saw the reflection of the fire dancing merrily. He sat there with one arm draped over the back of his chair, looking at her with a soft smile on his lips. Something in this scene disturbed her and made her edgy. It was as if he were an ordinary work-a-day husband, home from his day's labors, waiting for his dutiful wife to serve him supper. But he was anything but an ordinary man in more ways than JoNell cared to enumerate. And she was certainly not his dutiful wife, at least not in the accepted sense of the word. What disturbed her the most and made her uneasy, she realized, was that she was not at all repelled by the domestic picture they made.

  It must be her longing for her own home, she told herself. Nothing in Del Toro's sophisticated world in Lima had any connection whatsoever with the kind of life she had lived back home in the States. But here in this mountain village, where the people labored for their existence, JoNell felt more comfortable. Naturally, a domestic evening around the hearth would stir up nostalgic feelings for her home.

  She tried to dismiss any thoughts that Del Toro might also feel at home here. He was too much of the sophisticate to feel at ease in these humble surroundings. Yet, the man was a baffling paradox. He was sitting there as relaxed as if he had no thought of time. Gone was the usual bustling urgency that characterized him. In its place was a serene contentment, a maňana attitude that puzzled her.

  "Why do you come here?" JoNell blurted out.

  "Where?" Her question drew Del Toro from some deep, private reverie.

  "This village."

  He rubbed one finger thoughtfully over his mustache. "Are you making conversation, or do you really want to know?"

  "I really want to know."

  "It's because I have everything—and I have nothing."

  "I don't understand."

  "I was born into a rich family. I attended the best schools. I wore the best clothes. I thought I was happy. Then my parents were killed. After they died, all my money and power meant nothing to me. What good was money without the people I loved?"

  Del Toro paused, then shrugged. "But I didn't know how to live any other way. And I had many responsibilities to the people who depend on me for their livelihood. In Lima, I am weighed down with the burden of my business empire. I have many social obligations which I can't escape. But here, in this village, I have a family, people who love me and care about me. When I go down to the mines, I am one of them. I can be myself."

  JoNell was silent, trying to adjust to the mixture of feelings that his words had brought. He had given her a glimpse of a different and unexpected side of his life. The more she knew him, the more baffling he became, and the more difficulty she had defining what her true feelings were. At the moment, she was aware of a compassion toward him that conflicted with her anger and resentment.

  "After supper, we shall go to the paseo in the town square," Del Toro told her.

  They ate in silence. When the dishes had been cleared away, they stepped from the cottage into the darkness. As Del Toro had warned, the mountain nights were chilly, and she was grateful for the warmth of the poncho. Torches lighted their pathway down the dusty road toward the market square. The cool night air kissed her cheeks and ran its fingers gently through the long blond tresses that bounced softly around her shoulders. Birds squawked in the jungle that fringed the village. One side of the square was bounded by a large adobe church with a wooden cross growing from its roof. Circling the other three sides of the little town's plaza were small shops and stores. An old-fashioned watering trough for burros reminded JoNell of a set for a Western movie. A crowd of people of all ages had gathered to sit on wooden benches in the center of the plaza. Chaperoned seňoritas strolled around the square, smiling coquettishly and giggling at the young men who flirted with them. Small children played in and out of the crowd.

  JoNell was acquainted with the Latin custom of the paseo, the evening stroll around the town square, where the young people, under adult supervision, had an open opportunity to meet, talk and begin courtship. Parents admired each other's children and chatted about the week's activities.

  This was JoNell's first opportunity to actually participate in a real village paseo, and she was enjoying the experience. There was a warmth and community spirit in the custom that other cultures lacked.

  A little boy about five years old, wearing ragged knee-length breeches, walked up to JoNell and presented her with an orchid. "Why, thank you," she exclaimed, but the blank look in the boy's large, black eyes, told her he didn't understand her Spanish. "Translate, will you?" she asked Del Toro.

  Del Toro and the boy exchanged comments in the native language. The child stood looking up at JoNell.

  "He wants to know if he can touch your hair," Del Toro said. "He's never seen anyone with 'yellow' hair before."

  JoNell smiled at the choice of words. "Sure you can," she said, bending down so the little boy could stroke her hair.

  The little face beamed with a gleeful smile and he shot off into the dark.

  "What scared him off like that?" JoNell
asked.

  "Oh, he'll be back."

  "You think so?"

  "You can count on it."

  "How do you know?"

  "I know what he has in mind," Del Toro said with a mysterious chuckle. "And when he comes back, he won't be alone."

  "Does he want to get me another flower as a reward for my letting him stroke my hair?"

  Del Toro only smiled indulgently.

  "No? Then I simply can't imagine."

  JoNell followed the direction Del Toro's green eyes were looking, and she saw a tight little knot of boys jabbering in high-pitched tones.

  Then, one by one, they solemnly approached. As each one handed her an orchid, he indicated he wanted to touch her hair. JoNell was struck by their gentle awe as they reached for her hair. She also accumulated a large lapful of purple orchids.

  JoNell was touched by the ceremony. "How sweet that first little boy was to be so considerate of his friends," JoNell commented.

  "How so?" Del Toro asked.

  "Well, he told his friends about me, and had each one bring me a flower so I would let them touch my hair. That was a fine example of sharing."

  "You think so?" Del Toro said with a laugh.

  Then Del Toro said, "Hey, muchacho, come here." He repeated the command in the boy's native language. The first boy slowly approached. Del Toro rattled off another command.

  The boy hung his head. Slowly, he extended one grimy fist. He opened his hand, snowing them a palm full of centavos. Then he clamped his fist around the pennies and sped off into the night.

  "Why that little con artist!" JoNell gasped. "You mean he was charging his friends to touch my hair?"

  Del Toro was laughing heartily. "Exactly! I heard them talking among themselves. Your little admirer told all his friends that they would have a lifetime of good luck if they touched your yellow hair. Furthermore, he claimed to have the 'hair-touching' concession, and only if they each gave him a centavo would he arrange with you to let them touch your hair."

  JoNell joined Del Toro in laughing.

  "He'll go far," Del Toro said, wiping tears of laughter from his green eyes. "I'll have to put him to work in one of my companies when he grows up."

  "He'll probably organize the workers and take over," JoNell warned.

  "He'd wind up chairman of the board at least."

  They laughed together, looking into each other's eyes. JoNell felt a sudden warmth suffuse her, felt a catch in her throat. Her heart was beating in a strange, irregular way. She couldn't seem to pull her gaze away from her husband's eyes.

  My husband—never before had she used those words in her own mind. But now she thought them, and repeated them. "My God," she thought, "what is happening to me." And even as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer. She was in love with Jorge Del Toro.

  When had it happened? Tonight, when for the first time she saw him as a human being? Just this moment, when they shared laughter that broke down the wall of defenses? Or had it really happened the first time he strode into her life at the airport, a huge, masterful, totally masculine man?

  There was no denying the overwhelming attraction she had felt for him from the first moment. She had hated him violently—but wasn't hatred a powerful emotion linked to powerful passions?

  Yes, she had felt passion for him from the first. His kiss that day they landed on the deserted beach had fired raging passion in her that had never before been awakened. The same passion had racked her body on their wedding night. She had tried to keep that hunger of the flesh isolated from her heart and her soul. But tonight the isolation had ended and the warmth and love she felt for this baffling man suffused her entire being. Now he was no longer an enigma, no longer a cold, aloof, ruthless stranger. He was what her heart told her … my husband…

  "It's time for the married couples to join in the paseo," Del Toro said. He offered her his arm. She lay her hand across it, and they arose. She suddenly felt shy with him. She kept her eyes averted. A tingle raced through her. It was the first time she touched him knowing that she loved him.

  As if in time to inaudible strains of music, married couples and courting sweethearts drifted around the square, holding hands and renewing their love for each other. JoNell's heart was breaking. She was being escorted around the square by a man she had just realized she loved—a hopeless love that would never be returned. Bittersweet agony threatened to squeeze the life from her heart. She hadn't known she could experience such emotional pain.

  Del Toro was silent as they walked, off in a world with his own thoughts. No doubt he was thinking of his childhood sweetheart, Consuelo, wishing that she were by his side.

  She began shivering.

  "Is something the matter?" he asked.

  "Yes. I'm cold. Could we go home, please?"

  "You aren't enjoying the paseo?"

  "No," she said, drawing away from him. "It makes me feel like a hypocrite. These married couples around us are in love. I feel like a trespasser."

  His green eyes became angry. The relaxed feeling of good humor between them dissolved. They walked back to the cottage in stony silence.

  The next morning, Del Toro was gone when JoNell awoke. She dressed slowly and sat staring out the window, depressed and forlorn. Then Angelita appeared outside.

  "Good morning," called the dark woman. "Altitude still getting you down?"

  "Yeah, a little, I guess," JoNell lied.

  "It takes a few days to adjust," Angelita said. "I'm going to the market. Want to come along? We'll take it slow and easy."

  "Angelita, you're a jewel. That's just the medicine for what ails me."

  The two women took the same route they had followed yesterday, but this time JoNell felt no joy in seeing the pottery maker, the glass blower, and the painter. Angelita did most of the talking.

  When they returned, Angelita helped JoNell with the food preparation.

  "You are troubled," Angelita observed. "It's Jorge, no?"

  JoNell gave Angelita a startled look. Was it that obvious?

  "Do not worry," Angelita said as she peeled a banana. "It will blow over. I know you have not been married long. There will be fights at first, but they will grow fewer and less intense. You cannot live with a man like Jorge Del Toro without great depths of feeling that sometimes erupt in anger."

  "You seem to know Jorge very well," JoNell said, careful not to reveal the true nature of her dismay.

  "Yes, I know him well. I was married to a man just like him," Angelita said with a smile.

  "Were you happy with him, Angelita?"

  "Oh, yes," she said softly. "Immensely happy. But the marriage was stormy at times. Men like Del Toro have deep emotions. They have fire in their veins. They have much passion. They are quick to anger, but they also love deeply."

  JoNell couldn't stop the swell of tears that trickled down her cheeks. She wished she could unburden her heart to this kind woman, but that was not possible. She had to keep her heartache a secret.

  "There, there," Angelita soothed, taking JoNell in her arms. "Believe me, this fight has not ruined your marriage. Tomorrow all will be sunshine again."

  No, thought JoNell. Tomorrow and all the tomorrows after that will change nothing. I'll be in love with Jorge, while he impatiently waits out the year so his business will be secure in the States and he can divorce me and go back to his childhood sweetheart, Consuelo. She will win out in the end, just as she warned me. What a fool I am. I fell into the trap I promised myself I would avoid. Chalk up another victim for the great Jorge Del Toro, breaker of women's hearts!

  JoNell cried until there were no more tears left in her, and then she dried her eyes stiffly. She felt drained now. Her heart would hold room for nothing but a single-minded purpose. She would avoid Del Toro as much as possible and steel her heart against her love for him until her year as a wife had served his business purposes and the divorce ended this mock marriage.

  That evening, JoNell said as little as possible to Del Toro
when he returned from the mine. For the most part, they ate in silence. JoNell replied to his comments with short, curt answers.

  After supper, he said, "There's a special tribal ceremony tonight being given in our honor. I can tell you are not in a festive mood. But it would be an insult to the village not to attend."

  "Why in our honor?" she asked.

  "Because we are newly married."

  "You mean this phony marriage of convenience?" she said bitterly. "I think it would be a greater insult if we did attend."

  "These people do not know the circumstances of our marriage," he said, his jade green eyes sparking anger. "You may never desire to come to this village again, but I intend to come back. I will not be rude to these people."

  "Very well. I have no wish to be rude to them, either. I'll go for Angelita's sake," JoNell said, thinking that her friend would believe she and Del Toro had patched up their 'lover's quarrel'. She couldn't bear to disappoint someone who had been so kind to her.

  They walked by torchlight to the town square. A crowd was gathering. A small man smiled broadly and directed them to the seat of honor, two large wooden chairs.

  As soon as they had taken their places. JoNell heard the low pitched rumble of drums. From out of the darkness walked a small group of men playing gourds, drums of various sizes and shapes, and rattles. They began to wail in a high-pitched tone, bowed in unison, and then backed away from the spectators and sat in a semicircle in the shadow of the torchlight. Next came about a half dozen men in bright red trousers and multi-colored shirts with geometric designs emblazoned on the front and back. They wore weird headdresses of devils, birds, serpents and other animals. These were the dancers. In time to the compelling rhythms, they jogged, three jumps forward and two jumps back. They circled and changed places.

  "What does that dance symbolize?" JoNell asked.

  "It's a special feast dance. It is rarely performed for outsiders. They are paying you a great honor."

  "It's certainly delightful. So colorful and rhythmic. Makes me want to clap my hands." JoNell began to enjoy herself and forgot for a while the bitterness she felt for the man sitting next to her.