Montega's Mistress (11 page)

“They’ll be able to trace us here when they find the car,” Helen said, looking around for policemen, unused to the role of fugitive. “One of the passing citizens is sure to notice the bullet holes in the glass.”

“We’ll be long gone by then, Dick Tracy,” Matteo replied, grinning at her.

“Oh, really?” Helen replied, amazed at his nonchalance. “How are we getting out of here?”

“You’ll see.”

They continued to walk, and Helen realized that he was scrutinizing the racks of motorbikes parked along the street. Suddenly he halted and said, “Wait for me at the corner.”

Helen went ahead, turning when she reached her destination. She watched as he walked one of the bikes out to the road and jumped on, kicking the motor into life. He idled for a moment and then glided up to her, saying, “Hop on.”

“Matt!” Helen said, shocked. “You aren’t going to steal this!”

He met her gaze, deadpan. “No, Helen, I’m going to find the owner and tell him I’m taking it, so he can call the police.”

She looked around furtively. “What if the owner comes back?” she said.

“Well, maybe if we stand here debating about it long enough, he will,” Matteo said impatiently, pointing to the space behind him. “Get on. The idiot left the keys in the ignition—he deserves to walk.”

Helen hesitated, looking unhappy.

“Look, Miss Abe Lincoln, you just defrauded the Puerta Lindan government by entering the country under false pretenses and you’re aiding and abetting a wanted man. I wouldn’t let a little thing like a stolen motorbike stand in my way.”

Helen climbed on behind him, winding her arms around his lean waist. A cool breeze lifted her hair from her neck, relieving the wet heat for a moment, and she wished that she were doing this with Matteo under other circumstances, when she might have been able to enjoy the ride.

“Okay?” he said, turning his head.

“Okay,” she confirmed, and he took off with a surge of power, negotiating the streets with controlled efficiency, making his way out of town. When they stopped at a light Helen said into his ear, “Where are we going?”

“A friend of mine has a
taberna
in the hills. We can rest there and try to think what to do.”

“About what?” Helen said.

“About you,” he answered, and then roared off as the light changed.

Helen hung on as he rode steadily toward the outskirts of San Jacinta, climbing all the way. Spanish street signs and shops with names like
Bodega Escorial
and
Mendeja—Zapatos Para Toda La Familia
passed in a blur as the rain, which had stopped, began to fall again. It was a soaking mist that penetrated Helen’s thin clothing and returned Matteo’s hair to the ringlets that the stylist had managed to eliminate. They were driving into the setting sun and darkness was falling with the swiftness of equatorial night.

Helen pressed her cheek to the curve of Matteo’s damp spine and imagined that they were traveling together through the tropical paradise Puerta Linda might have been, without the ominous presence of the soldiers and the constant threat of civil strife. The palms and jacaranda trees lining the streets of the capital bent slightly under the weight of the prevailing wind as they skirted the thinning traffic and left the city, following a winding trail that moved upward through overhanging cliffs. After a while Helen could see the gleam of the ocean below, and Matteo turned on the bike’s single headlight. The air grew cooler with the height, and the road they were traveling was no longer paved. The bike kicked up a spray of loose dust, which covered them both and adhered to their wet skin and clothing. Helen knew she had never been filthier in her life, or in greater danger, but she couldn’t seem to muster much concern about either condition. She was exhausted, and the hibiscus and oleander growing in profusion along the high stone walls they passed intoxicated her with their heavy perfume. She lingered in a dream state in which the feel of Matteo’s strong body under her hands, the heady fragrance of the wild blooms and the enclosing darkness merged to convince her that everything would be all right. Matteo could perform miracles; hadn’t she seen him do it? He would get both of them out of this and she was not going to be afraid.

Helen’s eyes were closed, her head slumped against Matteo’s back, when the bike ground to a halt and he dropped the kickstand. She sat up groggily, and he took one look at her and lifted her bodily off the motorcycle. He shushed her feeble protest that she could walk. She caught only the barest glimpse of whitewashed walls and a handmade wooden sign over the door that Matteo carried her through before she put her head against his shoulder and shut her eyes again. It was so much easier just to let him handle everything, and after all, this was his country and he was used to such adventures.

She was aware of the low murmur of Spanish, and then felt the sweet comfort of a soft bed receive her weight. She meant to protest the loss of Matteo’s arms, but found she was too tired. When he let her go she fell fully asleep immediately, and she didn’t feel him cover her with a light blanket or hear him leave the room.

* * *

When Helen awoke she didn’t know where she was. It took her a moment to remember the trip into the hills from San Jacinta and her arrival at their destination. She sat up and looked around her, taking in the rustic room with oak beams overhead and the darkness outside the single window. It must have been the middle of the night. The furniture was spare and mismatched: the bed on which she lay, covered with a faded patchwork quilt; a washstand with a pitcher and bowl, both cracked; and a cane chair by the window, some of the latticework missing from its seat. The window itself was bare, and the only covering on the floor was a rag rug made from bits of yarn, a washed out riot of dulled colors like the quilt.

Helen listened carefully and could hear the faint thrum of music from the floor below. She remembered Matteo saying something about a
taberna.
Was that a restaurant or hotel? It seemed as though it was both. If so, some of the patrons downstairs must be keeping late hours. And she was in one of the rooms to let on the second floor.

The first order of business was to find Matteo. She got up, putting aside the sheet draping her legs, and went to the door, opening it a crack. The music got louder, but the hallway was almost dark, illuminated by a single electric bulb. Helen felt her way along it to the stairwell and was about to descend when a door on her left opened abruptly. A large woman in a sunny yellow peasant blouse and a lipstick red skirt confronted her, clapping her hands together with obvious delight.

“Ah, la senorita de Matteo”
she exclaimed, beaming at Helen. Her shining black hair was scraped back into a severe bun, which did nothing to detract from the bright good humor of her expression. Gleaming gold hoops dangled from her ears and a hand-embroidered apron was tied about her ample waist.

“¿
Tiene usted hambre?”
she asked Helen, and when Helen indicated that she didn’t understand, the woman mimed the use of a knife and fork.

Helen nodded. She was, in fact, famished, but locating Matteo was of even greater interest than food at the moment. She tried desperately to remember the phrase for “where is” that the Costa Rican maid had taught her and finally came up with it.

“¿Donde estd Matteo?”
she said triumphantly, and was gratified when the woman’s smile became even wider. She answered with an incomprehensible flood of Spanish, however, and Helen wished she hadn’t tried to get cute.

“Matteo,” she said again, desperately, hoping that the woman would take the hint.
“¿Donde esta Matteo, por favor?”

The woman responded by taking her hand and leading her back to the room she had just left.

“Sientese,”
she said to Helen, pointing to the cane chair. Helen understood that she was to sit and did so.
 

Satisfied, her companion nodded vigorously and then launched into a short speech in which Matteo’s name figured prominently. She was either going to get him or telling Helen that he had left for parts unknown, never to return. Helen decided that it had to be the former and settled in to wait.

The woman departed, closing the door behind her. Downstairs, someone started to sing, accompanied by a number of guitars. Helen was listening to the music, feeling like a third grader waiting for the principal to arrive, when the door opened and Matteo walked through it.

Helen jumped up and flung herself into his arms.

“Hey,” he said, laughing and nuzzling her, “I’m going to leave you alone more often if this is the kind of greeting I get.”

Helen’s erstwhile companion followed him in, carrying a tray. When she saw the two of them embracing she made a remark to Matteo and cackled loudly, winking at Helen.

“What did she say?” Helen asked, her face beginning to flame.

“I think I’ll leave that one untranslated,” Matteo said dryly, shooting the woman an exasperated look. “Elena brought you something to eat; she said you told her you were hungry.”

The woman put the tray on the bed and stood grinning at Helen, obviously waiting for an introduction.

Matteo sighed, shaking his head.

“Helen, this is Elena, the innkeeper’s wife. The man who owns this place is an old friend of my mother’s family.” He turned to Elena and said something in Spanish.

Elena curtsied with remarkable grace and said prettily,
“Con mucho gusto, la senorita bonita de Matteo. Mi casa es a su servicio.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you too, Elena,” Helen answered.

The ritual observed, they all looked at one another.

Matteo then stared at Elena and nodded toward the door.

Elena made another crack, and he took her arm and escorted her into the hall, slamming the door with a resounding thud.

“Matteo, what was she saying about me?” Helen demanded when he returned.

“Never mind her, she has an overactive libido. Did you sleep well? You’d better eat something; we have to get an early start in the morning.”

“Where are we going?” Helen asked, sitting on the bed and picking up the piece of buttered bread Elena had left.

Matteo sat next to her and looked into her eyes. His own were direct, sober, and very dark.

“To my camp,” he answered her. “You can’t get out of the country now, Helen. You were seen with me at the airport. They’ll have your description posted everywhere by now and they’ll know the name you were using, as well.”

Helen dropped the bread back onto the plate and swallowed hard, her throat suddenly closing.

Matteo tipped her chin up with his forefinger and said huskily, “You have to stay with me.”

Chapter 5

“Stay,” Helen repeated, unsure whether she should burst into tears of joy or have hysterics. She wanted nothing more than to be with Matteo, but here, where they were both still fugitives...

“For a while,” he added. “Until I can find a way to get you back home safely.”

Helen didn’t know what else to say. Matteo picked up the bread she had dropped, added a slab of cheese and put it in Helen’s hand again. Helen took a bite and chewed obligingly, washing the sandwich down with a healthy drink of the dark brew Elena had provided. She swallowed it, then coughed and began to blink rapidly, inhaling deeply.

“What is that stuff?” she asked Matteo, when she could talk.

“Agua de fuego,”
he answered. “Firewater.”

“I’ll say. You could have warned me.”

“I thought you might like to go native,” he teased her, enjoying her discomfiture.

“Haven’t they heard of iced tea around here?” she said, and he laughed.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he offered, standing up. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“How about a bathtub?” she asked.

“I think you’ll have to make do with that basin in the corner,” he said, “but I’m sure Elena can heat the water for you.”

“And a change of clothes?” she went on, raising her eyebrows questioningly. “I’m wearing half the road we traveled to get here.”

“I don’t think you and Elena are the same size, but she has a daughter who might fit the bill. Finish that food and I’ll be right back.”

Helen polished off the meal while she was waiting and was inspecting the sorry state of her shoes when he returned.

“Tea,” he said, handing her a glass. “Sorry, no ice.”

Helen drank it anyway; it was wet, and at least tasted familiar.

“And,” Matteo said, holding out his other arm, “for my lady’s toilette.”

Helen took the bar of crude yellow soap, the pair of rough, ribbed gray towels and the square of fleecy material to be used for a washcloth.

“I seem to remember getting these things for you,” she said to him, piling the items on the bed.

“The supplies you provided were a little more refined,” he replied ruefully.

Helen lifted one shoulder negligently. “Soap is soap.”

She was pinning up her hair with barrettes from her purse when he stilled her hands with his and said gently, “You’re something else, lady. This must have been the worst day of your life and I haven’t heard one word of complaint.”