I placed his hand over my heart. “What do you feel?”
“I feel your heartbeat.”
“And what does it tell you?”
Our eyes locked, and then we were in each other’s arms, fondling and kissing with the same intensity as at the lily pond. My sketchpad fell to the floor, open on the page where Glyph Girl had her legs wrapped around her lover. I didn’t care. Didn’t care either that Alan’s towel was off and he was tugging at my nightgown. I reached for the nearest candle to blow it out.
“Don’t,” he said. “I want to see you.”
Chapter 26
A herd of pink elephants thundered across the sky. The bed creaked. The night stand rattled. I heard my own cries and the rhythmic slap of bodies. Alan muffled my cries with his hand, but I didn’t care if our sounds carried to the moon. I was the girl in the glyphs, so needy and hungry for love I wouldn’t have stopped if Volcán Masaya had erupted outside the window.
We did it a second time, and a third, right there in the room that had once been a prison cell, on the same spot where Father Antonio had bedded the pirate girl, and we were lying in each other’s arms, whispering like the lovers we were, when the phone jangled.
Stan? I sat straight up. It had to be him, calling to badger me again.
Each ring became more abrasive. Damn him. How dare he dump me for a woman I’d thought was a friend and then come back begging? Disturbing me at a moment like this.
“Aren’t you going to answer?” Alan said.
“If I did, I’d be tempted to tell him what I’m doing.”
The ringing stopped, but by then I was so fired up I wanted to call him back and yell at him, tell him to leave me alone. Alan pulled me to him. “It’s okay,” he said as if reading my thoughts. “We’re together now, just the two of us, and that’s all that matters.”
We talked. I cried. I told him about Stan and the doctor’s wife and how much it hurt. He told me about his ex, too, how he’d never go back to her, and by the time we finished our sob stories, the church bells were tolling midnight. We made love again while the night crier sang beneath our window, and again after the priest woke us with fireworks, and again to the tune of morning traffic and street vendors. More lovemaking than with Stan in the last six months. And when we finally collapsed in a heap, I felt as if I’d taken the first step on the road to recovery, that I’d conquered the hopelessness and despair of the last few weeks.
Yes, by God, I was going to get along fine without Stan.
The phone rang.
I scooped it up. “Damn you, Stan, I told you to stop calling.”
“Sorry to disturb you,” said Sabio in his country accent, “but you asked for a wake-up call.”
I thanked him and climbed out of bed.
“What are you doing?” Alan said. “It’s not even six.”
“I’m starving.”
Ten or twelve other people sat around the breakfast room, some of them reading newspapers. Rays of early morning sun came through the arched windows, lighting the tablecloth where we sat. I looked into Alan’s gray-blue eyes and couldn’t remember when I’d been happier. Our server smiled when she poured coffee. We ordered the American breakfast, and then a lady at the next table leaned over and rattled her newspaper.
“Excuse me,” she said in a British accent, “but isn’t this you?”
There I was in my beautiful gown—an entire page of photos—with Alan and the president beneath the bust of Unamuno, with ambassadors, ministers and the king.
The headline read, GLYPH LADY SHOWS KING HOW TO WRITE MAYAN.
I puffed up with pride and was thinking I should get a bundle of papers to take home when the lady turned the page. “Oh, my,” she said. “It must have been quite fun.”
I almost choked on my coffee. There I was again in the bullfighter’s tunic, in front of the woman with the exposed boobs, blurry-eyed and holding a red napkin like a torero.
OLÉ, read the headline.
Word passed from table to table. Newspapers rattled, I heard snickers, and pretty soon everyone in the place was staring. We hurried our breakfast and retreated to our room.
“Damn it,” I said. “Not only did I make a fool of myself. Now there’s no way I can go around the country without being recognized.”
“There’s another way.”
“Like what?”
“Like call your office and request vacation time. Then we check you out and say you’re going home. Instead, we head for a private island on the lake.”
“You’ve got a private island?”
“Belongs to a friend. Got a cabin, boat, everything we need. Not far from Zapateras either. We can hang out there a few days and see what happens with the squatters.”
I could have danced. This was exactly what I needed: a cabin, a boat, a man for protection.
I thrust out a hand. “Okay, big boy, you’ve got a deal.”
He pushed away my hand and reached for the top of my jeans.
“I know a better way to settle a deal.”
Chapter 27
Lake Nicaragua
At dawn, we drove to the landing in Alan’s Land Rover and found Nelson at the stern of the embassy’s boat, twin Volvo’s running. A ghostly fog hung over the lake, trapping in the familiar smells of fish and shoreline. Nelson helped us aboard, and within minutes were passing between islands so close together I could reach out and grab a mango.
Fish jumped. A volcano rose in the distance. Now and then we passed an old mom and pop in a dugout canoe, and I was wondering where Alan was taking me when a tiny tropical island loomed out of the water like an oasis in the desert.
“That’s it,” Alan said, “Ana Maria Island.”
As we came closer, I saw giant mango and palm trees, flowering bougainvillea, white sand, and a primitive wooden shack that seemed to lean in the wind.
“Does it have running water?” I asked.
“Everything except phone service.”
Nelson unloaded our gear, got the generator going, and sped away in the boat. Alan crunched through the sand to a mango tree and dug a coffee can from the ground. He took out a key, opened the door, and motioned me inside. It wasn’t exactly a five-star resort, not with its low ceilings, nude prints on the walls, cheap wicker furniture, and the odor of cigarettes, but I was so crazy about Alan it could have been the most elegant hotel in Paris.
“Don’t be shocked at what you find,” he said.
“Dirty dishes?”
“No, silly.” He led me into the bedroom and opened a nightstand drawer. Inside were condoms, dildos of various sizes and colors, tubes of scented lubricants, porno videos, and battery-powered toys for uses I could only imagine.
“It’s a fuck pad. My friend has an imagination.”
“Are the sheets clean?”
“They won’t be in about five minutes.”
A long time afterward, as we lay in each others’ arms with the sound of waves pounding the breakwater and a fresh breeze coming through the open window, Alan sat up in bed and shook cigarettes out of a pack. “What?” I said. “Don’t tell me you’re a smoker.”
“I’m not, but isn’t this what they do in the movies—prop up and light up?”
“We’re not in the movies.”
“Oh, come on, let’s pretend we’re Bogey and Bacall in an old black and white film.”
It seemed like a wonderfully sinful thing to do, so I lit up and took a puff.
“Why are you laughing?” he asked.
“Because I’ve never done this.”
He reached into the night stand drawer and pulled out a love toy.
“Bet you’ve never done this either.”
“Are you serious? Do you want me to—”
“Just shut up, McMullen. You’ll like it.”
Chapter 28
Ana Maria Island
I couldn’t get enough of Alan, didn’t want him out of my sight. It was if he’d slipped an erotic potion into my wine, turning me into an o
bedient little love slave, and I shamelessly did everything he asked. I was Glyph Girl, Glyph Slut, Glyph Nymphomaniac, and God, how I loved it. Yes, Master Alan. Anything you want. Yes, I’ll watch a porn video with you.
Yes, I’ll talk “dirty” while we make love.
Yes, yes, yes. Oh, God, yes.
We fished, we swam, we danced naked around a fire at night and visited neighboring islands, christening each with our lovemaking. Alan showed me how to do it in a hammock, against a tree, in a boat and in shallow water. On the fourth night—or maybe the fifth—as we lay in a hammock beneath the stars, sated with lovemaking, he said, “If I died now, in your arms, I’d die as the happiest man in the world.”
I thought of his words later that night, lying in bed beside him. If I died now, would I die as the happiest woman in the world? No, not until I found Father Antonio’s cave.
The thought nagged at me. It wouldn’t let go. It haunted my dreams. Only thirty miles of water separated me from the cave. Thirty miles, but thanks to those damn squatters, it might as well be on the moon. “So what?” asked my dad, who often invaded my dreams. “Are you going to wait for opportunity to come knocking, or are you going to create your own opportunity?”
He was right. What kind of archaeologist was I to be defeated by a mere thirty miles?
I climbed out of bed, went to the boathouse, fired up our little outboard and was racing across the lake when a rattling at the door woke me.
I sat up and looked around. What had previously been water was now bedroom. The moon was full. Shadows of palm trees danced across the room. The door rattled again. It opened, and in came the old woman with her basket of mushrooms, bringing with her the smell of wood smoke. “The story is not yet finished,” she said in Yucatec Maya.
“How does it end?”
“It ended on the volcano for your ix-dzul friend.”
“Catherine? Are you talking about Catherine?”
She faded away. I bounded up. “Wait. Don’t go.”
Alan shook me awake. “Jen, are you okay? You’re mumbling.”
He rolled over and went back to sleep. I sat up and looked at the shadows on the walls, at the closed door the old woman had come through. The smell of wood smoke lingered in the air. Had her spirit really been there? And how about my dad? My mom would have said yes, that I’d been dancing with dream sprits and I should heed their message.
I flopped back on the bed, now as awake as if I’d drank a pot of coffee, and let my mind buzz with all the things I’d been neglecting, all the unfinished business.
Catherine.
The old couple.
Father Antonio’s cave.
What was wrong with me? Only a few days of vacation left and I’d done nothing to find the cave. Nothing to solve Catherine’s disappearance. Alan had promised to help, but that was before he’d gotten into my pants—about a hundred times. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. I should be doing something productive, not lying here as contented as a fat alley cat.
When daylight arrived, I looked in the mirror and saw a woman who’d thrown away her ambition for a tropical fuck cabin and the love of a man. Damn it. This wasn’t why I’d come to Nicaragua. I marched back into the bedroom and shook Alan awake.
“Zapateras isn’t that far way. Why don’t we go over for a look?”
“Are you crazy? All those squatters. He held out his arms. “Come here.”
“No, Alan, I didn’t come out here to spend all our time in bed. Either we go for a look or I’m packing my bags…going home.”
“That’s bribery.”
“Call it what you want, but you promised.”
“I didn’t promise to get us killed.”
“It’s not going to kill us to have a look.”
He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Do you even know how to shoot a gun?”
“My dad taught me. Get out your guns and I’ll show you.”
The voyage in our little outboard took about forty minutes. Alan brought an AK-47 and extra clips. I was armed with a .32 caliber, semi-automatic Beretta, perfect for a woman’s hands.
“This is crazy,” Alan said. “Those gunboats use fifty-caliber ammunition. They could blow us to splinters.” He throttled down to stop and handed me the binoculars.
“Can’t you get us any closer?”
“No, Jen, this is as close as we’re getting.”
Zapateras was just as reported. Green trees and hills. Angry clouds of smoke. A small flotilla of gunboats. The rattle of gunfire. I pointed to the north side where I was pretty sure the cave was located. “There,” I said. “No fighting. No boats. Nothing but jungle. We could go tonight.”
“Would you listen to yourself? Just because you don’t see gunboats doesn’t mean they’re not there. It’s in the papers. Do not approach the island.”
No sooner had he said it than a gunboat rounded the north corner, engine roaring, and headed straight toward us. “See,” Alan said, and turned the boat about.
He opened the throttle. The gunboat broke off the chase. The trip back to Ana Maria was in silence, and I was still brooding when I saw the embassy boat at the landing, Nelson beside it, all muscles, torn T-shirt, and dreadlocks.
“Christ,” Alan said. “This can’t be good.”
Nelson opened the boathouse doors for us. “Message from the embassy,” he said to Alan. “They say you come back now. Important.”
I felt like shooting the boat to pieces. Shoot Nelson too.
Chapter 29
Granada
Paco was waiting at the Asese Landing, looking as sullen as I felt. I climbed into the back seat for the drive back to Granada. “Listen,” I said to Alan, “I’ve only got three days of vacation left. I’d like to at least go back to Ometepe. See what that old couple wanted to show me.”
“Alone?”
“You could go with me…first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll be busy at the embassy tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll go by myself.”
“No, damn it. No way. It’s too dangerous.”
We were still arguing when we arrived back at the hotel where my venture had started—back in front of the same bullet-pocked walls, the railing that hung down at an angle, the missing chunks in the columns. Had it been two weeks? What if I’d given in to my fears and gone home? What if I’d never spent this time with Alan?
The answer was simple: I’d be back with Stan.
Alan registered us in his name and a few minutes later we were back in Father Antonio’s old cell with its good and bad memories. Alan showered, changed into a tie and jacket, said he’d be gone for only a few hours, then kissed me goodbye and left, leaving me alone for the first time in a week. Alone. I didn’t like it. Not here, not in a “haunted” room.
I checked the door locks, put the loaded Beretta on the night stand, and called my mom.
Yes, I promised, I’d visit her as soon as I returned to the States.
Then I called Diane.
“I want every juicy detail,” she said.
“Not on the phone. I’ll tell you when—”
The connection went dead. The lights faded and went out. I lit candles and tried to call her back, but couldn’t get a line. Damn it. Too bad I didn’t have Father Antonio’s memoir to keep me occupied. I went to my suitcase and was pulling out my gown when I noticed the artist’s sketch. There they were again—the old man and woman in their Indian clothing—looking even spookier in the flickering light of the candle. This made no sense. There had to be a logical answer.
Unless…
A flash of lightning startled me. The balcony doors rattled. Thunder crashed. And then the rain came, blowing against the doors. Was it rainy season already?
Or was the old couple about to come through the door?
I put away the sketch and cowered under the covers, trying not to think about it for fear I’d conjure up things I didn’t want to see. Or know.
It was going on midnight and still rain
ing when Alan returned, dripping water. The look on his face told me all was not well. “Bad news,” he said, and grabbed a towel. “They’re going to keep me busy at least two days, but at least we’ll have our evenings together.”
“I’m still going to Ometepe.”
“Are you serious? In this weather?”
“Rain comes and goes. Tomorrow it could be sunny.”
“Damn it, Jen. Only way you’re going to Ometepe is if Paco goes with you.”
“Fine, call Paco, but tell him to keep his distance. He’ll scare that old couple to death.”
“They’re already dead.”
“That’s not funny.”
Early the next morning, after the priest woke us with his rockets, which was beginning to feel normal, Alan drove me to the landing, still protesting. The morning was cool, with a slight mist falling. “I wish you wouldn’t do this,” he said.
“I’ve got the Beretta. I can take care of myself.”
The whistle blew. Passengers started to board. I glanced up and saw Paco leaning over the railing in his rain gear. Alan slipped off his little guardian witch and fastened it to my wrist.
“She has magical power,” he said. “She’ll keep you safe.”
I came into his arms and we sought out each other’s lips, and I didn’t pull away until the last passenger and cardboard box was on the ferry and an attendant motioning me aboard.
I climbed the ramp, hurried to the fantail with my little witch, and blew kisses. Last night I’d thought I could handle a trip on the lake by myself. But last night Alan was breathing softly in my arms and I’d been thinking my body needed a break from the lovemaking. Now, as his figure grew smaller in the mist, the old demons came back.
I’d rather have left a leg on that dock than Alan.
Chapter 30
Isla Ometepe
It was still cloudy and misting when I climbed off the ferry and found Blanca waiting for clients beneath a tin-roof shed. “You,” she said. “They told me you’d gone home.”
The Girl in the Glyphs Page 9
