Suddenly many things began to make sense—for instance, why Jacques Passant would never tell Emma about his past. She had always believed her grandfather was simply a private person. Apparently he had also had something to hide. Perhaps, like Señor Zuberan, he was ashamed, too.
“For several months Etienne kept the dragon hidden in a false compartment in the bow of the Kaito Spirit,” said Zuberan, resuming his story. “It was pleasant, dreaming of how we would be able to buy a bigger boat with all the money Etienne would get from selling his treasure one day—more pleasant than thinking how we would actually get it off the island without being cheated or killed in the process. With the dragon sailing with us in its hiding place, our lives on the Kaito Spirit had not really changed, but somehow we felt richer, more optimistic. The tensions that had grown between us after the arrest began to fade. Then Marie got sick.”
“What happened?” said Emma, her hand moving involuntarily to her throat.
“I do not know,” said Zuberan. “She left the island and went to stay with an aunt in New York. It was not supposed to be serious, but Etienne soon came to me, distraught. He said Marie had taken a turn for the worse. She was now very ill and needed an operation. Etienne had to find the cash to pay for her treatment. His only hope was to smuggle the dragon out of the country, but how? The answer was suddenly obvious—the model of the Kaito Spirit I had just completed.”
“The model? You built it?”
“It took me over a year to carve the pieces and assemble them,” said Zuberan. “I had learned the art of model-building from an old Portuguese seaman at the marina. I had built many models, but the Kaito Spirit was my masterpiece. I had planned to keep what little savings I had in its secret compartment.”
“Secret compartment?”
“Yes, if you put your finger through the window and turned the tiny steering wheel, the cabin would slide back, revealing a hollowed-out interior.”
“‘That she may take her place at the helm and turn the wheel on the legacy that I have kept hidden from her … .’”
“I beg your pardon?” said Zuberan.
“That’s what my grandfather said in his will about the model of the Kaito Spirit,” said Emma.
“Then it all fits,” said Zuberan with a deep sigh. “Inside the model of the Kaito Spirit, wrapped in rags so it would not knock around, we placed the golden dragon. Etienne planned to sell it in New York to pay for Marie’s operation. The authorities were alert to the possibility of Etienne smuggling in contraband, but they saw no danger in a sentimental sailor taking with him a model of his boat.
“When Etienne left, he asked me to take care of the real Kaito Spirit. He said he would return in a month or two, but that was the last time I ever saw him. As I promised, I took care of the Kaito Spirit. I eventually parlayed it into a whole marina full of boats, into everything I have today. Years later, after I had become a rich man, I hired the best investigators to find him, but Etienne had left no trace. There was no aunt in New York that we could find, no record of Marie’s operation, no word about the sale of a priceless gold dragon.”
Emma took a sip of her coffee. It was lukewarm now. And bitter.
“At least that part of the mystery is finally solved,” Zuberan said softly. “Etienne must have kept it. He must have still had it when he was killed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The dragon. Marie must have recovered without needing the operation, which is why there was no record of it. And since Marie never needed the operation, Etienne wouldn’t have had to sell the dragon.”
“You mean, all these years this thing was there on his dresser in the model of the Kaito Spirit?” gasped Emma.
“Until your antique dealer killed him for it,” answered Zuberan, staring out over the ocean.
“No,” said Emma. “That can’t be. Mr. Caraignac didn’t even know my grandfather. He was just a stranger I met on a ferry.”
“You are sure?”
Emma started to speak, then stopped. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Was it mere coincidence that Henri-Pierre had been on the Sausalito ferry that day? Or had he been following her? How could she be sure that Henri-Pierre hadn’t taken the model? It had been the model, not the real Kaito Spirit, that had been her legacy all along. And if Henri-Pierre had taken the model, perhaps he had also …
“If Henri-Pierre killed my grandfather,” Emma said, her voice cracking, “then who killed him? And why?”
“Why is very clear,” said Zuberan soberly. “With its long chain, the dragon weighed nearly a pound. A pound of solid gold would be motivation for many men to kill, but its value as an historical artifact was incalculably greater—a fortune, for all I know. Perhaps the antique dealer shopped it around for the best price. Perhaps someone to whom he tried to sell it wanted the dragon without having to pay for it. Perhaps he had a greedy partner.”
“I don’t believe it,” Emma said softly. “None of this makes any sense. If what you say is true, then why couldn’t my grandfather ever return to San Marcos? He hadn’t stolen anything. The dragon belonged to him.”
“Yes,” said Zuberan. “This thought has occurred to me as well. It may be that your grandfather was afraid Peguero’s agents had gotten wind of his secret. They were very greedy men. They still are.
“What do you mean? Wasn’t Peguero assassinated years ago?”
“Yes, but he had been in power for many years. The men who worked for him and their sons live in wealthy exile all over the world. They still scheme how they can return to power here and squeeze the country dry again.”
“Are you saying that one of them might be involved in this?”
“Anything is possible, but one thing is unmistakable: if you find the dragon, you will find the killer.”
“It’s hopeless then,” said Emma. “It could be anywhere in the world by now.”
“Perhaps not,” said Zuberan. “One cannot sell something so unique just anywhere. If the murderer has any degree of sophistication, he will know that the dragon can realize its full value only in a very esoteric and rarefied marketplace.”
“Like where?” asked Emma. “Where would you sell such a thing?”
“I would go where Jacques went. Where your antique dealer had come from and no doubt expected to return. Where the world’s elite congregate to spend their money, and where the world’s most unusual treasures change hands at the world’s great auction houses. I would go to New York City.”
“I ate ice cream. I watched VCR and played Nintendo!” declared Timoteo, his eyes bright, his white teeth flashing in a carefree smile. Another of the blue-suited men, looking distinctly worn out, had just brought him from the house.
“I’m glad you had a good time,” said Emma, leaning over from her seat behind the steering wheel and opening the car door.
“Are you sure you won’t stay for dinner?” asked Zuberan from the curb. “I have very nice rooms. I can put you both up for the night. For as long as you wish. I would like very much to get to know you better, Emma.”
“Thank you, Senor Zuberan, but we really have to be getting back. There are things I must do.”
“Please call me Bernal. We are friends, yes?”
“Yes … Bernal.”
“You are going on to New York then?”
Emma nodded.
“I am having grave reservations about this now, my dear,” said Zuberan, looking uncomfortable. “I regret now suggesting it to you. The idea of your pursuing a trail that might lead to a killer makes me very uncomfortable.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Emma, smiling and tousling Timoteo’s hair. “If things get tough, I can always send for my bodyguard here.”
When Timoteo made a face and pulled away, she playfully grabbed his nose and gave it a yank. A little gold coin the size of a dime seemed to materialize out of it and dropped into her hand.
“How you do that?” exclaimed Timoteo. “Teach me, teach me.”
“May
I see that?” said Zuberan. Emma handed him the coin. He stared at it, his face unreadable.
“Where did you get this?”
“Pépé said he won it in a poker game. Why?”
“Just before he left, I persuaded Etienne to return to the spot where we had come upon the dragon, though how he found it again I do not know. He was the sailor, I was just his helper. I thought maybe we might discover something else—a whole wreck, perhaps. I made one dive and came up with a single coin. A gold two-escudo piece. Like this one. Etienne said we didn’t have time to make a proper search, but he made a map and said we would come back when he returned with Marie to San Marcos. He told me to keep the gold coin we had found. Before he left I gave it back to him to help pay for Marie’s operation. He tried to refuse, of course, but I insisted he take it. I never saw him again. He never returned.”
Zuberan tried to hand the coin back to Emma, but she shook her head.
“You keep it, Bernal,” she said. “I think Pépé would want you to have it back.”
Zuberan did not speak for a moment.
“Please stay in touch and let me know how you are doing,” he said finally. “I have powerful friends in New York. I may be able to help you again.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“I am not being simply polite, Emma. I have a personal interest in this matter. In Etienne. In you, now.”
Emma bit her lip and nodded, then turned to Timoteo.
“Don’t you have something to say to Señor Zuberan?” she asked.
The boy’s face lit up.
“Will you hire me to be one of your guards and carry a big gun?”
“Maybe when you grow up.” Zuberan laughed. “Come and see me in a few years.”
“I can do it now,” said Timoteo eagerly. “I am very strong and very smart.”
“That I can see.”
“If you were really smart, you would know enough to thank the man,” muttered Emma.
“Thank you, señor!” shouted Timoteo with a big smile. “I will be back soon.”
“You come back soon, too, Emma,” said Zuberan quietly, leaning down toward the window. “You are always welcome here.”
“Thanks. For everything.”
“I believe there are no accidents, Emma. I believe that fate brings people together, brings them what they need. That is why it brought you here to me. It is what brought me to you. Promise me you will be careful. And don’t put too much trust in the police. They are all bunglers and fools.”
“I promise,” Emma said softly. “Good-bye, Bernal.”
“Adiós, Emma Passant.”
He placed his hands behind his back as she drove away. Emma watched him in the rearview mirror as she headed down the road toward the gate. He never moved. The concerned expression on his face never changed.
“So tell me what else you did in there,” Emma said to Timoteo as they rounded a corner and the house fell out of sight.
“They’ve got all kinds of electric stuff. You can watch TV and play with computer things and everything. It’s real fun.”
“Did you eat anything besides ice cream?”
“Cookies. They had cookies, too. I ate some cookies. And cake. I made friends with all the mens. They showed me their guns and everything.”
“Marvelous.”
“I will go to work for Señor Zuberan very soon, I think. He is very important man. Very rich. Many people want to steal from him because he has so much money. How did he get so rich?”
“He’s in financial services.”
“What is financial services?”
Emma realized that she had no idea.
“Do me a favor, Timoteo,” she said. “Don’t be a guard when you grow up. Be a doctor.”
“Maybe I will be a magician. Like you.”
“That’s very flattering,” said Emma, glancing over at him and returning his big grin. “But study medicine, too. Have something to fall back on. Just in case.”
The guards at the gate were waiting for them and waved them through. Emma didn’t talk much on the drive back to San Marcos City, though Timoteo chattered on about Nintendo and ice cream and money. She felt as if she had lost her innocence.
Only now did all she had learned begin to sink in. Her dear sweet grandfather running guns, smuggling gold artifacts, pursued by assassins. It was all so unbelievable.
But it made a strange kind of sense, too. If Marie—Emma’s mother—was ill and had needed an operation, then Pépé would have done anything, Emma knew. He would have had no choice.
And what of Henri-Pierre? Could he actually have been involved in this? Just thinking about such a possibility made her want to cry.
Back in San Marcos City, Emma returned the car to the agency and paid the exorbitant two-day rental fee in cash. Timoteo followed silently at her side as she walked back to the Casimente.
They stopped at the gate to the hotel parking lot. It was a little after three o’clock. The other “tour guides” were in heated discussion down at the end of the block and didn’t seem to notice them. The battered cars and trucks that constituted afternoon traffic whizzed by.
“Well, I guess this is it,” said Emma, looking at Timoteo, suddenly realizing that she would never see him again.
“You go back to States now?” said Timoteo, shuffling from one foot to the other, trying to smile.
“I’m not sure what I’m going to do. So. How much do I owe you for our two days together?”
Timoteo shrugged.
“You pay what you want.”
Emma reached into her pocket and counted out bills, remembering what Celia had told her, that twenty pesos would be enough for the boy.
“Here’s three hundred pesos. How’s that?”
The boy stared at the money in her hand, but didn’t move. Emma took his hand and pressed the bills into it.
“Thank you, Timoteo,” said Emma when the boy didn’t speak. “I couldn’t have done it without you. You were a wonderful guide. And a good friend. I like you very much.”
Timoteo grinned.
“You give me tennis shoes now?”
“You really know how to wreck a tender moment, don’t you?”
“Please?” he said. “You can buy more in States. You rich.”
“Forget it!” exclaimed Emma.
“Why not?”
“Come on, Timoteo. Can’t you see they wouldn’t fit you?”
“Yes, they would. They fit perfect. I will wear them all the time. I will always think of you.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Emma in exasperation. “You can have either the tennis shoes or the money. You choose.”
The boy’s mischievous smile vanished. He stared at the bills in his hands, then looked up.
“I don’t want to charge you at all,” he said sheepishly. “I’d work for you for free.”
Emma swallowed hard and nodded, staring at his brave, cunning face, wondering what chance Timoteo really had in life. How many boys from these streets escaped the poverty, beat the odds like Bernal Zuberan had? Could he even grow up to be a security guard, let alone a doctor? The worst thing of all, Emma knew, was that there was nothing that she could do to help him. His fate would depend upon himself.
“I guess I have to take the money,” said Timoteo. “I guess I need it more, okay?”
The next moment her arms were around him somehow, and he was hugging her back. They held the embrace for several seconds, then Emma turned and walked into the hotel parking lot. When she glanced over her shoulder, Timoteo was standing there, biting his lip, watching her.
Emma stopped. She walked back to him and pulled off one of the “shoes that cost as much as feet,” then the other.
“No …” began Timoteo.
Emma put her finger on his lips, handed him the shoes, then hobbled quickly across the hot pavement of the parking lot to the hotel in her bare feet without looking back.
15
Emma was waiting for the elevator in the Casim
ente’s lobby, her mind so filled with images of boats and dragons and Timoteo that she didn’t recognize her name at first.
“Emma Passant!” repeated the deep, familiar voice. “Well, saddle me with a standard-transmission Pontiac!”
Emma looked up and found herself staring at a refrigeratorsized figure in tooled-leather boots and a cowboy hat.
“Big Ed Garalachek!” he said, reaching out and pumping her hand. “Remember me, little lady? Big Ed? The Chevy King?”
“How can I forget?” said Emma, finally breaking free from his sweaty grip. He looked just as ridiculous as she remembered him —and even bigger, probably because she was in her bare feet this time.
“Well, ain’t this the damnedest coincidence,” boomed Ed, “our running into each other like this, way the hell down here in the middle of nowhere! Ain’t this some cockamamie place? Usually people try to buy my hat. Here they been trying to buy my money! So what brings you to these parts anyhow? You doing your magic show for some banana baron or something?”
“Just a vacation,” stammered Emma. “What about you?”
“Business, of course. I got me a fellow here wants to sell a classic ’vette convertible.
“’Vette?”
“Corvette to you. That’s your Chevy sports car, the way they used to make them. Two hundred eighty-three horsepower, V-eight engine, Ramjet fuel injection … oh, heavenly goodness, what an automobile! You know I also sell your one-of-a-kind and your hard-to-get collector’s vehicles, don’t you? If this fella here’s tellin’ me the truth, he could very well have the sweetest memory of 1957 left in the whole Western Hemisphere.”
His eyes sparkled. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. Emma tried to smile, though her stomach was suddenly doing somersaults.
“Pretty far to travel to buy a car, isn’t it, Ed?”
“Hell, honey,” laughed Ed, “I’ve bought cars in Saudi Arabia, Moscow, the Philippines … Your really rich foreigners, see, your big-shot businessmen, your kings and dictators and the like, they’ve done a lot of shopping in the good ole U.S. of A. over the years, and what better for a well-off foreigner to buy than automobiles? They go to Detroit and get theirselves some fancy car, bring it back to their palace or their dacha or whatever, drive it around a few times to impress the peons, and then it’s on to the next toy. The car gets stashed away somewhere and forgotten about until somebody finally finds it and decides to turn it back into cash money. That’s where I come in. I advertise for old Chevys all over the world. You got a classic Chevy, you call Big Ed. ‘Call Big Ed, the Chevy King. He’ll go to outer space for the right vehicle’—that’s what my ads say. You see any UFOs, Emma honey, you let me know. I’d love to get my hands on what them E.T. boys picked up over the years.”
The Girl Who Remembered the Snow Page 19