If Paulo Varga had wanted to hurt him, he would have done it already. He didn’t dare. Ashford and Cristina were American citizens with all the protections that came from that status. Technically, they were tourists. He knew where the embassy was if there was danger. He was safe out in the open, and Cristina was safe as long as she was with him. They knew who he was and where he was. There was nothing he could do about it. But there was nothing much they could do to him either.
How ironic that he relied on his American status for protection, when the only reason for being here was because those protections had been taken away from the woman he loved.
He had also put off the question of cheaper lodging. After mentioning to Elena that he was looking to move, she had talked to the owner and they offered him a cheaper rate because of his long-term stay. He couldn’t have done much better in this part of town. Short of renting an apartment, he was better off staying here.
Back in the room, Ashford set Cristina in the middle of the big bed. She was smart enough not to fall off, but if she got too close to the edge, Ashford had rapid instincts to protect her. When he first arrived, he had intended to buy a crib for her, but after one, then another night of her sleeping in the bed with him, he never did. After a while, it only seemed like something he was supposed to do. She always slept in the space between his arm and his body. He invariably awoke the moment she did, and even in sleep, he never let her roll away from him or over onto her stomach. Eventually, it would be hard for her to learn to sleep on her own, but that was a worry for another time. They had enough worries now, and both needed the comfort the other gave.
It was hard to believe that she was nearly ten months old.
Ashford had grown used to this little room, with its creamy yellow walls, the big colorful quilt, the wood desk that needed a new coat of stain, the simple wood chair that was surprisingly comfortable. On the walls hung a few black-and-white pictures of people; he had no idea if they were historical figures or family pictures of the hotel’s owners. There was a sink in the room, under the window. The toilets were right outside their room, shared by the rest of the floor. For what it was, it was as comfortable as could be.
With one eye on Cristina, Ashford opened the curtain and looked down at the street. Early evening traffic buzzed around. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. It was instinctual to look for people watching him, even though he had never seen anyone around here. If they were monitoring him, they knew how to keep out of sight. They were professionals, after all. He was in this way over his head.
What could be worse than finding Leila, only to lead these wicked men straight to her and not be man enough to protect her? Flying down here had felt brave and valiant. Nothing about this felt that way anymore.
Through it all, he tried to remember things Leila would have said to encourage him. She would have known something to say now.
How he longed for the music of her voice. How he longed for her touch, the smell of her hair, the taste of her lips, the smoothness of her skin against his.
Last night, he dreamed about her. They were together somewhere, but he couldn’t remember if it was their apartment in Santa Fe or an unknown place. It didn’t matter. What mattered was how real it felt to be together. Every detail about her was crystal clear. The dream was romantic and sensual. He woke up just as they were about to make love.
What if he never found her? It was a thought he’d never wanted to consider, but it had begun to force itself on him. How many weeks, months, or even years would it be until his memories of her were not so clear, first lost in waking, then not even clear in his dreams?
What about Cristina? How much had she already lost of her memories of her mother?
Ashford set some water to boil in the electric kettle he kept in the room, then took a clump of leaves out of his pocket. It was yerba santa, or “bear’s weed,” which he first spotted in a nearby park soon after arriving in Cartagena. It was a moment of rare pleasure to spot a plant he remembered from his studies on herbal medicine. Today, he had gone back there, knowing the plant could help break up mucus in the respiratory system. While the water boiled, he chopped up the leaves and put a little into a cup and the rest into a jar.
“Daddy’s going to make you feel better, okay?”
He made the tea, not too hot, then strained it into her sippy cup and mixed it with a bit of lemon and honey. He placed the jar with the rest of the chopped leaves on the windowsill. It was the third one, next to some aloe he had saved and a handful of palm berries.
Ashford shook his head. So, his collection was already starting here too. If only Leila could see this.
He took the cup of medicinal tea over to the bed and propped the baby’s head up on his arm, helping her swallow it. She enjoyed the warm, soothing drink and tried to drink it faster until some of it dribbled down her chin. Ashford laughed.
“Okay, that’s enough. I’ll make you more later.”
Soon, she breathed without sniffling.
“Daddy will always take care of you. I love you. Do you know that, niña?”
Here in Colombia, it may not have been a creative nickname for a baby, but it had become Ashford’s favorite for her.
“Your mama loves you too. More than you can imagine. Never forget that. She’s thinking about you right now. Cristina, never forget your mama.”
“Mama,” said the baby so clearly that Ashford jumped.
His heart was broken and filled with joy in the same moment. She had not forgotten . . . not yet. But oh, how much longer did the mother and the child have to live apart?
The next day, Ashford called Manny. At the start, their calls had happened daily. Now, they happened maybe once or twice a week. Ashford knew why. He was embarrassed to have nothing to report to Manny for his time here, no good news to encourage the heartbroken father.
He didn’t tell Manny about Cristina’s first word. That was a moment he needed to share with Leila or with no one. After admitting to Manny that he was out of ideas, he was surprised to hear something like resignation in Manny’s tone.
“Maybe it’s time to take a step back and think this all through. I wonder if we’re going about this the wrong way?”
“What other way is there?” Ashford asked.
“Maybe it’s time to let her come looking for us . . . when she’s ready.”
After hanging up, Ashford thought long and hard about Manny’s choice of words. He had been thinking the same thing but couldn’t admit it, even to himself. But after all this time, wasn’t he just being stubborn? His chance to find Leila was that night at Hotel Caribe, and he hadn’t been quick enough. That sort of chance wouldn’t come again. Now, what was he even hoping for: To outsmart Paulo Varga and his men? To uncover whatever hiding place Leila had found, only to put her back in danger?
Manny understood all of this. Ashford was beginning to. The facts were hard to face but couldn’t be ignored forever.
He and Cristina had only left the room briefly this morning, to buy a little food. Now, she slept while he sat next to her on the bed. After another cup of yerba santa tea, her congestion was pretty well gone.
If only he could let Leila know he was here. If only she knew how hard he was trying to find her. Perhaps it could give her the hope she needed. How could he give up, when she might be mere blocks away? But on the other hand, she might not even be in Cartagena anymore. It would have been smart for her to leave.
It wouldn’t be giving up. It would be waiting until the right time. At least in Arizona, Leila would know how to contact him if she chose.
He looked down and stroked his baby’s sleeping head. She would be better off there. After all, his duty was to his child. Even Leila would agree. He couldn’t live this way forever. It had already gone on too long.
“What do you think, niña? Do you want to go home?”
43
MANNY WAS ALONE when the letter arrived. It was only the second letter since Leila’s deportation, and the first since Ashfo
rd went down to Cartagena. Since the incident at Hotel Caribe, Ashford had had no new leads and Manny had run out of things to suggest to him or ways to encourage him. In the last few days, they had started to plan for Ashford’s return. Neither of them liked it, but there hardly seemed to be a choice.
Manny tore into the envelope, wondering if this would change things.
Dear Ashford, Manny, and Carmen,
I had hoped to write you again much sooner, but my ordeal in Colombia has made it impossible. It has been all I can do to survive and avoid the people who are looking for me. Yet it feels worthless to stay alive without you, the people I love.
I nearly emailed you several times, but while in the city, I always stopped myself out of fear. I left Cartagena for a while and while it was safer for me out of the city, it was difficult to find work. There were only a few odd jobs. I plan to return to Cartagena in a few days. I am almost out of money and need consistent work again, despite the danger I feel there. I try to stay optimistic. At the bus station, I saw an advertisement for talent acquisition on the cruise lines. I am going to attend the event next Saturday. Perhaps if I can get work on a cruise ship I can find my way back to America.
There is still no address that I can give you to write back to me, but I think a call would be safe. I would love nothing more than to hear your voices and say some words to Cristina. There is a church, Santa Cruz de Marga, where I went to Mass once before leaving the city. I will go back next Sunday. That should give enough time for you to receive this. If you call after the morning Mass and ask for Sylvia Nuñez, I will be waiting for the call.
I love you all so much and cannot describe how much my heart yearns to be with you. Perhaps hearing your voices will bring back a portion of my hope.
With all my love,
Leila
Manny checked the postmark date. It was already Saturday. He could call her at the church tomorrow. Better yet, Ashford could go there in person and find her at last. But he hesitated to call Ashford right away. Sending him there might be the most foolish thing in the world. If Paulo was watching him, it would lead him right to Leila, and their desire to see each other could lead both of them into a trap.
A trap.
Something didn’t feel right. Manny read the letter again.
Talent acquisition. The phrase jumped out at him. His mind raced back over fifteen years as he repeated the words.
It came to him—why the words were so familiar and haunting. He remembered Paulo sitting on his couch, with that toothy smirk on his face, leaning forward, handing Manny a business card. What was it that it said? Manny racked his brain until his memory brought it back. Estrella de Indias: Ascenso de Talento. A horrified thought began to play in his mind. The trap was not set for Sunday at the church, it was at the talent event. Could it be that she was walking into Paulo’s trap a day earlier, Saturday . . . today?
Manny got online and did a Google search, but Paulo’s business had no website or online advertising. That was to be expected. He changed it to an image search, and then he found something. Someone had posted a photograph of a poster hanging in Cartagena last week. It was an advertisement for a talent event. On it he saw the dreaded words again: Estrella de Indias. There were pictures of smiling girls in uniforms, with a drawing of a palm-lined beach and a cruise ship in the background. “Find the job of your dreams,” read the photographed flyer. It looked just like that old business card—Paulo’s trap to lure poor young girls in search of a legitimate job, only to find it was something very different. Leila was about to become his next victim.
He zoomed in on the picture to read the date of the event. Yes, it was happening today.
“No, no, no,” he said out loud. He lurched for his phone and dialed Ashford. There was no answer.
He dialed again. “Pick up, boy, pick up!”
44
SHE HAD TO come back, despite the danger here. The city of her childhood comforted her. Cartagena was all she had left.
Even if today proved fruitless, she would be able to find work again. She would have to; her money was just about gone.
She had spent almost two weeks between three small towns on the Caribbean Coast. They weren’t much more than fishing villages. The people she met were kind, but there was little they could do to help her. There was no work and little contact with the outside world, certainly no internet cafés. In one of the villages, the only phone was at the courthouse. When someone received a call, the entire town knew about it. She couldn’t stay anonymous in a place like that. Paulo would hear about her eventually. It was better to be back in Cartagena.
The trip back had taken longer than Leila expected—repairs on the main road into the city had sent the bus on a reroute through the hill country, delaying it two hours. She walked from the bus stop toward the inner-harbor docks. According to the address on the flyer, she needed to go to Isla de Manzanillo, across the transversal bridge. She could have taken another bus, but she hesitated to pay a second fare. Every coin was precious now. She could walk the rest of the way and still get there before the end of the event. The afternoon sky was dark; it smelled like rain would come on fast. She wore the same jeans and heeled sandals that had come to Colombia with her and a new black blouse that was already showing signs of wear. Her few spare clothes and possessions were light in the bag on her shoulder.
After more than a month in Colombia, she was beginning to feel like a native again. She remembered old phrases and mannerisms from her childhood and picked up more current ones from the people around her. Nobody would have guessed she had been away for so long.
As she neared the inlet, she saw an American cruise ship docked to the north. It would probably be sailing back to Galveston or Fort Lauderdale. Maybe . . . if only . . .
That was what she was coming here today to find out.
A glimmer of hope stirred in Leila’s heart. Today could be the start of something. And tomorrow, if Manny and Ashford called her at the church, perhaps she could give them some good news. If her father had received her latest letter, he would surely call. She hoped Ashford was there in Phoenix too. She would love to hear his voice. She needed the assurance of his love. She knew he loved her, but it was lonely not to hear him say it. What was the name she had told them to ask for again—Sylvia? It all felt so ridiculous. She should have arranged a phone call sooner. It couldn’t be that dangerous. Her paranoia had clouded her senses.
On the bridge, she saw a group of girls coming toward her.
“Have you come from the talent fair?” she asked them. “Is it still going on?”
“Don’t waste your time, muchacha. Those idiots don’t know what they’re looking for.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Not worth waiting for the rain that’s coming. That’s not the type of place where you find legitimate work.”
She was surprised to hear a man’s voice close behind her.
“Go on,” he said. She turned around. The man was tall and lean, with curly hair and a short beard. He had appeared on the bridge out of nowhere. “You’re just the kind of girl they’re looking for.”
“What does that mean?”
“Go if you want, but you’ll see,” said the other girl, and the group moved on down the bridge.
Leila walked a few steps farther, then looked back. The man waved at her, motioning her to continue. Then he lit a cigarette and leaned against the railing.
Memories of her childhood stirred as she walked onto the urban island. She and her friends used to come here to swim at the beach on hot days. This was where the locals came, to a beach lined with trees instead of the gleaming white hotels on the peninsula. No one would be here swimming today. A sharp wind off the water reminded her that it would be pouring rain any minute. She reached into her bag and put on her leather jacket, then hurried toward her destination. The girl on the bridge was right. It was a surprising place for a talent search or a job fair—unless it was for that kind of job.
She rea
ched the destination, feeling suddenly wary. It was a simple single-story, aluminum-front building with a jungle park creeping right up to the back of it. Two barred windows framed the front door. There was no signage except for a crudely hung poster reading Estrella de Indias and the same picture she had seen on the flyer at the bus station. A few girls milled around in front, but not as many as she had expected to see. Was she too late? Had the talent event already happened? Or did the impending storm scare everyone away?
She crossed the street as the first raindrops began to fall. This really didn’t feel right. The front door opened just as Leila reached the group at the side of the house. A girl walked out.
“What’s going on in there?” Leila asked her.
“It’s very disorganized. I don’t know if those guys are legítimo or just a couple of pimps, but it seems safe enough. They took my number and said they might have a modeling job for me. That’s not what I came here for.” The girl looked up at the sky. “It’s only an art studio in there. Give it a try and see if they like you—if you don’t mind the rain.” She walked away.
An art studio.
She walked up to the window and looked through the iron bars. She didn’t see anyone at first, only some pictures on the walls. Portraits of women.
Terror seized her and froze her where she stood. She knew those portraits. Every face looked lifeless, awful, like the one she had seen of herself in her nightmares. She couldn’t tear her eyes away. Her feet were rooted to the ground as if it was a nightmare.
A man walked into the room. It was San Juan el Bautista Velasquez. For a moment, their eyes held. He looked afraid too. He turned.
“She’s here!”
In her panic, Leila didn’t know which way to run.
The front door opened again.
“The rest of the auditions are canceled. Go home before the rain starts.”
Girls began to disperse around her. No, girls, don’t go. Her paralysis broke, and she hurried away from the front door, around the side of the building. She turned straight into Paulo Varga.
The Exile Page 25
