“You’re certain you know the way?”
“My cousin live in Españata,” said Timoteo, getting into the car. “Right near Las Calvos. I go see him all the time. Come on, let’s go. I take you.”
Emma opened her door and got in. The remaining children stepped back as she started the car, then ran behind them, shouting and laughing, as Emma steered up the sandy road and back onto the highway.
Two hours later they were still in the middle of nowhere and Emma was getting more than a little concerned.
Timoteo kept on saying over and over that they were almost there, but it was obvious now he had little real knowledge of the island’s geography. It had been nearly an hour ago that they had passed Españata, where the boy claimed he had cousins. Emma had been expecting a city, but you couldn’t even call Españata a village. It was just few rows of shacks at a crossroads in the bakedmud countryside. No more than hovels, really—gray, unpainted boards and corrugated sheet metal.
“Your cousin lives here?” Emma had asked, trying not to show her dismay at the crushing poverty all around them.
A woman dressed in rags walked slowly on the road, carrying an enormous bundle on her head. Against one of the huts sat an old man with no shirt, flies hovering around him. He apparently hadn’t the strength or the motivation to shoo them away. Or perhaps he was merely dead.
“My cousins don’t live here, like these pigs,” Timoteo had said breezily. “They live in the country, around here. They have a beautiful farm. I think they are away now. I think they have gone on a vacation.”
Since then the road that they were traveling had gotten narrower and more bumpy, if that was possible. The roadside was overgrown with vegetation—not the straight stately conifers she was used to from San Francisco, but little scrubby thick greenery, punctuated with palm trees, mangroves and ferns. There was no traffic, nor any evidence that there had ever been people here, save the road itself, and it clearly hadn’t been maintained in years.
Emma was terrified they would get a flat tire or break an axle in one of the enormous potholes that seemed to appear every few yards. Then what would she do? Emma hadn’t thought to check the spare—not that she’d ever changed a tire in her life. They hadn’t seen a gas station since just outside of the city. There weren’t even any electrical or phone lines on the side of the road.
At least she knew where she stood, Emma thought to herself. She was a foreign woman alone in the middle of a strange country with only a ten-year-old boy to help her, and he was a confirmed liar. The thick wad of pesos she had brought along in case of emergencies only made her feel more vulnerable. Celia had been right. This had been one supremely lousy idea.
“Do you have any idea where we are, Timoteo?” said Emma in exasperation.
“We’re almost there,” said Timoteo angrily—as if he were insulted that she could doubt his word, even though he had been wrong about everything up to now.
“That’s what you keep saying.”
“How come you not married?”
“Don’t change the subject. Where are we?”
“Men no like you?”
“Men like me fine. And how do you know I’m not married? I could have a dozen husbands back in the States for all you know.”
“If you had a husband, he would not let you drive around like this without him. The man must be the boss. The woman must do what he says.”
“Oh, really? And why is that?”
“Because the man, he brings home the money,” declared Timoteo. “The woman must make the house for him.”
“Well, I happen to bring home my own money.”
“A woman cannot bring home as much as a man,” snorted Timoteo, folding his arms in front of him. “What can you do?”
“I’m a magician.”
“A woman cannot be a magician.”
“A woman can be anything she wants. Including a magician.”
“I don’t believe you are a magician.”
“I’m a magician.”
“Ha, I laugh.”
“I’m a magician. I’m a magician. What am I doing? I don’t have to prove myself to you. You’re just a little boy. I’m a magician. I do a big show. I’ve played all over America.”
“If you are magician, why are you lost?”
“Because I’ve been listening to you!”
“Because you listen to Timoteo, you go where you want to be.”
“Yes, and where is that?”
“Look!”
Emma looked to where the boy was pointing. For the past fifty miles the only traffic they had seen had been comprised of ancient tractors and a few men herding cows. Now, far up ahead, a fire-engine red Dodge minivan was heading toward them.
As Emma watched in amazement and relief, it turned onto a side road to their right. There were two signs when Emma came to the same spot. The first read, FOR TENNIS VILLAS A—H, TAKE ACCESS B. The other sign read ALTAR DEL SOL, with an arrow pointing in the direction the minivan had come from.
“What’s Altar del Sol?” asked Emma.
“It is another resort,” said Timoteo, though from his expression, Emma couldn’t tell whether he knew or was making it up.
“Is this Las Calvos?”
“I come here all the time,” said Timoteo, glassy-eyed. Clearly he had no idea.
“I’m glad you knew the way,” said Emma, not wanting to embarrass him further. She turned onto the side road, which was paved with a smooth asphalt. The smoothness of the ride after hours of driving on potholes was jolting.
Within a few yards trees and flowers began appearing—not the shaggy palms and scrubgrass they had been seeing, but Japanese maples and dogwoods, exotic camellias and frangipani. Soon the roadside was ablaze with every color of the rainbow and the air was fragrant with floral perfume.
Emma drove on for a mile or so and other signs of civilization began appearing: a crew of gardeners trimming trees at the side of the road; another fire-engine red minivan with several couples dressed in tennis whites and carrying racquets; a pair of signs, one for the heliport, another for limousine parking; guard stations with sharp-eyed uniformed men wearing holstered automatics who looked at her car, smiled and waved them through.
Timoteo’s eyes almost popped out of his head when they rounded a curve and found the rocky ocean coast stretching out before them, bounded by a seemingly endless golf course. Coral cliffs, huge white sandy spaces, stands of sugarcane, cashew, almond, orange and teak trees—all contributed to make the landscape breathtakingly beautiful and exotic. It was more than like being in a different country from the poor, ugly one through which they had been driving for the past two hours; it was like being on a different planet.
“I hope we can get something to eat here if we aren’t registered as guests,” said Emma. “I’m starving. How about you?”
For a change Timoteo didn’t have anything to say. He just sat on his knees, gaping out the window, as two beautiful young women galloped past on horseback, their long blond hair dancing behind them in the breeze.
After a few minutes the road forked. Emma followed the set of signs for the reception area, rather than the ones pointing to the tennis village and beach. Soon they found themselves in an area of thicker foliage and taller trees in which several small buildings were set.
Emma pulled up the car into a small parking area in front of the largest building, which had been invisible until they were practically on top of it, camouflaged perfectly by the trees. On the shaded walks between the buildings several couples, tanned and prosperous-looking, strolled by, looking as if they had just stepped out of advertisements for expensive summer fashions. The flashes of crimson in the trees were tropical birds. There were no clouds in the perfectly blue sky.
Emma opened her door, got out and stretched her legs. Timoteo had been running the car’s air conditioner and she was surprised by how hot the day had become.
“Come on,” she said to the boy, who hadn’t moved. “Let’s check it out.”
T
imoteo opened his door and followed Emma up the path toward the large building with slumped shoulders and his hands in the pockets of his jeans, which were rolled up almost to the knees.
A boy not much older than Timoteo was walking down the path toward them. He was wearing starched khaki shorts and a matching shirt and was carrying a tray.
“Excuse me,” said Emma as he approached.
“Yes, ma’am?”
The boy stopped and stood straight-backed, looking Timoteo over with a smug expression. According to his Las Calvos nameplate, his name was Hernando and he was a “China Steward.” It took Emma a moment to figure out that a china steward must be someone who took care of plates. Hernando was a busboy.
“We’ve come up from San Marcos City for the day,” she said. “Is there a place where we can get something to eat?”
“La Reserve, our largest dining room, is behind me in the main building, but it is not open for lunch,” said the boy in a practiced tone. “There are seven other restaurants in Las Calvos. What type of cuisine are you interested in?”
“Nothing fancy.”
“There are snack bars at the beach and the tennis village, but for these it is a fifteen-minute drive. Perhaps La Cocina Verde is for you. There you can get sandwiches and light entrées or the buffet. It is up ahead, past the pool.”
Hernando indicated another path that led through a wall of flowers. Timoteo, who slouched and fidgeted but had not taken his eyes off the other boy, leaned over his shoulder and let loose a long, slow stream of spit.
“Timoteo, don’t do that,” said Emma. “Please.”
She turned back to Hernando and thanked him, then put her hand on Timoteo’s shoulder and steered him onto the path the china steward had indicated. The boy marched off, looking proud of himself.
“I’m not hungry, you go,” said Timoteo as they rounded the corner of the pool, a huge arc of blue in a grassy glade.
A few tanned men and women frolicked in the water. Others sat sunning in deck chairs. Most of them seemed to be in their thirties and forties, though there were a few young couples and some older people. Everyone had the same prosperous air and bearing.
“Come on,” said Emma. “You’re a growing boy.”
In another minute they came to a small building with open sides that blended perfectly into a surrounding greenery. Dark wood furniture, the tables set with white tablecloths and silver, filled the shady room inside. Appetizing aromas filled the air, but all Emma could see was the buffet, which was set along one wall the length of the room. On it were incredible piles of tropical fruits, chafing dishes with hot entrées, bowls of shrimp two feet in diameter. A chef stood by, ready to carve, in front of an array of ham, turkey, and roast beef.
A mustached man with a broad chest, wearing a colorful shirt and tan pants, greeted them at the door.
“May I help you, señorita?” he said in a deep baritone, smiling broadly.
“Yes,” said Emma, stunned by the beauty of Las Calvos after the past few hours of driving through the barren poverty of the island. Probably less than a mile away from this groaning board, people were starving. “I’m not a guest, but I’ve driven up from the city and wonder if I might get something to eat.”
“Of course,” said the man. “Please follow me.”
Then in a low voice he rattled off a string of Spanish at Timoteo, his smile not wavering.
“I go wait in the car,” said Timoteo and started to leave.
Emma grabbed his arm.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“No,” mumbled Timoteo, breaking away from her grasp.
“The boy is not hungry, señorita,” said the man with the mustache. “Please follow me to your table. You will have our buffet today, yes?”
Emma stood uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then she looked at Timoteo’s frayed, buttonless shirt, his jeans and dirty sneakers, his defiant black face. She understood.
“Come on,” said Emma, taking his hand in hers. “Let’s go. I’m not hungry either.”
Timoteo, a puzzled expression on his face, let her lead him back to the car.
“How come you didn’t eat?” he said finally as they got back into the car.
“I decided to start a diet. I can stand to lose a few pounds.”
“Americans are all crazy,” snorted the boy.
“Let’s see if we can find the marina,” said Emma, still furious at the way the man at the buffet had treated Timoteo.
They drove back along the way they came, turning this time onto the road marked BEACH, VILLAS R—s. Fifteen minutes later they had passed the pristine, thinly populated beach, a dozen clay tennis courts, and a modern building that housed a restaurant and a discotheque. Nowhere was there a sign of any boats.
“You said there were boats here,” said Emma. “Where are they?”
“I can’t remember.”
“What about that other resort? Altar del Sol? What’s there?”
Timoteo shrugged.
“Okay, let’s go see,” said Emma.
They drove back the way they had come, back through the lovely landscaped vistas of Las Calvos, which now seemed strangely cold. When they reached the road on which they had been traveling before, they turned and followed the arrow on the sign that read ALTAR DEL SOL.
Ten minutes later the road began to rise. Emma didn’t ask Timoteo any more questions, just followed the road, hoping that Altar del Sol would have a gas station. Their tank was half empty. Unless they found fuel somewhere, they’d never get back to San Marcos City.
Long before the canopy of trees thinned out, Emma had realized that they were on a mountain. Were they going the right way? Timoteo obviously didn’t know. He was sitting on his knees, staring out the window, wide-eyed.
As they neared the peak, stone walls began to appear everywhere, then stone buildings—or what was left of them. Finally the narrow road ended at a plateau at the mountain’s top in the ruins of an ancient city. Emma parked in a small parking area where there were several other cars. Far ahead on the side of one of the stone buildings she could see some Japanese people taking pictures of one another with fancy cameras.
Timoteo had gone off to the side, where there were several wooden signs with lengthy Spanish inscriptions, the kind Emma had seen before in national parks.
“People used to live here,” Timoteo exclaimed as she caught up with him, looking up from the words he had been reading. “These are their houses. It was many hundreds of years ago and they are all dead now.”
“Does it say if they left any gas stations behind?”
“This mountain is called Altar del Sol after their city,” said Timoteo. “I have come here before many times.”
“Sure you have.” Emma sighed.
“Come on,” yelled Timoteo, running ahead. “Let’s go see!”
Timoteo dashed down the stone path along an ancient wall and was quickly out of sight. Emma followed, hands in her pockets, depressed and hungry.
When she caught up with the boy he was standing on top of the thick curving wall wearing an enormous grin. What could he possibly be so happy about? Emma wondered.
“Look,” said Timoteo as if he had read her thoughts.
Emma looked down over the wall in the direction he was pointing. There, far below, as far as the eye could see, the ocean stretched out blue and beautiful, and at the base of the mountain the water was filled with hundreds of boats, white boats, like a forgotten yet familiar field of snow.
12
It took nearly forty minutes on the twisty ill-maintained road—including a stop for directions in Spanish from a man herding a flock of goats—for Emma and Timoteo to wend their way back down the mountain and find the small natural harbor where the boats were moored.
A chain-link fence eight feet tall surrounded the marina, but the gates were open and unattended. Emma drove in and parked in the small sandy area alongside the few other vehicles. A few men—boat owners by the look of their tans—were chatting in t
he parking lot and doing maintenance on the decks of their vessels. None of them seemed to pay her and Timoteo any mind.
Emma had now lost all the weight she wanted to and was ready for lunch. She was also seriously in the market for a bathroom, a problem Timoteo didn’t have. Half an hour back he had told her to stop the car, then nonchalantly gotten out and done his business at the side of the road.
Timoteo didn’t have to be coaxed out of the car this time, as he had had to be at Las Calvos. Before Emma could extricate herself from her seat belt, the boy had run out onto the nearest dock and was studying the snow-white boats moored all around. There were all kinds—everything from tiny single-masted sailboats to enormous cabin cruisers with teak decks and radar detectors half the size of Emma’s rented car.
“See?” said Timoteo, his chin high with pride. “I told you I would take you to find boats.”
“Like you ever heard of this place?” exclaimed Emma.
“Timoteo comes here often,” declared the boy. “He has many friends with big pleasure boats. All the time they take him for rides in the ocean.”
Emma shook her head. Her little companion was incorrigible. Before she could stop him he had run off into the maze of docks. Emma was too tired to follow at comparable speed. In a moment Timoteo was out of sight behind the forest of bobbing white vessels.
It was nearly ten minutes before she caught up with him again. When she did, the boy was sitting in a canvas-back chair on the deck of one of the smaller boats. He was wearing somebody’s blue-and-red Cleveland Indians baseball cap and looked uncharacteristically nervous. The source of his concern was instantly evident.
The man was seated beside Timoteo—a stocky brute about five feet ten with a totally shaved head and graying eyebrows bushy enough for a community of small creatures to make their home in. He wore green Bermuda shorts and a grubby white T-shirt that did nothing to conceal his enormous belly. In one hand he held a baseball bat at its center, which he slowly thumped against the palm of his other hand. It was clear from the expression in the bald man’s tiny brown eyes, presently fixed on Timoteo, that he was even more annoyed than Emma was.
The Girl Who Remembered the Snow Page 14