Cry in the Night (4 page)

I was walking toward the doorway, finally free, and then I stopped to turn and smile farewell to my official because I had, undoubtedly, put him to a lot of extra work. But the smile never reached my lips. The official was watching me go and his dyes were suspicious and cold.

Hurriedly, I swung around the moved to the doorway where the chauffeur was waiting. He at least was smiling as he took my suitcase. Once out in the bustle of the airport proper, things seemed more normal and my trip once again took on a holiday glow.

While the chauffeur went for the car, I exchanged some traveler’s checks, then went out to the sidewalk. I was watching travelers, listening to the soft murmur of Spanish, when there was a tug on my arm. I looked down in surprise.

A shoeshine boy, barefoot, raggedly dressed, held out an envelope to me.

I shook my head. Whatever it was, I didn’t want any.

“Por favor, señorita, para usted.”
He thrust the white envelope into my hand.

I looked down at the envelope, but it was empty of inscription. When I looked for him to hand it back, he was gone. Just then a horn sounded lightly and a cream-colored Mercedes pulled up to the curb and I recognized the chauffeur.

I looked again for the boy but nowhere did I see his sharp little face or ragged shorts. The chauffeur was holding the door for me now. I hesitated.

“Señorita,”
the chauffeur said.

The boy obviously had made a mistake, I thought, shrugging. It couldn’t be very important, an envelope without a name on it. I dropped the envelope into my purse and stepped into the car.

Even though it was night, I saw enough of Mexico City to fall in love with it as the heavy, quiet car sped down broad boulevards. There were the trappings of a metropolis—industry and tumbledown tenements and faceless apartment developments—but there were also glimpses of colonial churches and tiled roofs and iron-grilled gates and balconies. The car would swing around a gardened circle in the middle of a street, the headlights briefly caressing an iron horse in its eternal gallop, giving an illusion of movement and life.

But nothing in what I saw or what little I knew of Mexico prepared me for the Jardines del Pedregal where the Ortega family lived.

I was peering through the window to my left at a huge amphitheater when the Mercedes slowed and turned off the main road.

Suddenly we were swinging down a wide, quiet street. In the spaced light of the street lamps, I saw an architectural wonderland. Although Mexican homes stand secure behind walls or iron fences, I could see enough to be exhilarated by the artistry that had combined nature’s handiwork with man’s. Everywhere great jagged black clumps of volcanic stone thrust up in every imaginable shape. On these primeval humps spread graceful soaring houses that seemed to breathe a spirit of freedom. Take your old ideas, they seemed to say, we’ve none of them here. Whatever man can imagine can be built.

The street curved and turned. The Mercedes, a twentieth-century creation, moved as a rightful inhabitant of this utterly modern world. Yet, even as I thought it, I knew these beautiful homes were neither old nor new but timeless in a way I was to find typical of Mexico. There is always the past, yes, the vivid lingering blood-and-bone substance of Mexico, but there is also a freedom of spirit, a willingness to experiment that forbids the boring, the colorless, and the imitative.

But this first evening, I had much yet to see and absorb. I only knew I was in a magical country.

The Mercedes slowed at the end of the block and turned into a drive of sultry pink stone. A high stone wall, spike-topped and covered with vines, curved away from a highly ornamented bronze gate. The car paused as the gates pulled apart, slowly, silently. I knew it had to be triggered by some sort of electric apparatus but it all seemed a part of the exotic turn the night had taken, the sleek expensive car, the mansions so secure on their lava outcroppings. Then the gates were open and the Mercedes nosed through.

I leaned forward, eager now for my first glimpse of the Ortega home. The car purred up the pink stone drive.

I looked back over my shoulder as the driveway began to curve. I don’t know just why. The tall spiked gates were closing, smoothly, noiselessly. I saw the two halves meet and lock, and, just for a moment, I felt a sudden plunging breathlessness.

There was no turning back now.

Chapter 4

I felt ill at ease in the blue tiled entryway, clutching the cumbersome Styrofoam box, terribly aware of the travel wrinkles in my dress, overwhelmed by the elegance of this walled and gated home.

A cool and airy hall stretched ahead to a wide stone stairway. Opening off the hall to my left was a huge room with wicker furniture, a billiards table, and a square swimming pool whose underwater lights illuminated emerald green water.

Straight down the hall I looked up at the open second floor that seemed to float behind a balcony hung with exquisitely woven rugs, bright red patterned on white, vivid blue on gray.

To the right of the hall another great shadowy room opened. In its center was one of the longest dining tables I had ever seen and, even from this distance, I could recognize the massive grace of a refectory table. Gilt-framed paintings hung on the walls.

The only sound was the whishing murmur of water slashing softly in the fountain near the base of stone steps that led up to the balcony. The fountain and the gleaming green swimming pool and the wide shadowy expanse of the huge rooms created a feeling of enchantment as if I were in the heart of a great forest amid trees so tall and so thickly leaved that all beneath was dim and quiet.

I stood very still scarcely daring to breath, I felt so much an intruder. Quiet as I was, I did not hear the woman coming. Rather, I realized suddenly that I was not alone.

I looked toward the stairway, but it lay empty. I watched where the hall turned, just past the fountain. At the very edge of my vision, something moved. I whirled around to stare into the dimness of the shadowy dining room.

I watched her cross that great space and I was surprised. She was not what I would have expected in this house. I felt for a moment that I was a child again and I could almost smell the disinfectant they had used to swab the school halls, and I remembered so clearly the mother superior, her face pale beneath her cowl, and the way her black habit swayed as she walked and the sharp click of her black shoes on the marbled floor. Then, as the woman moved out of the darker shadows and the light from the hall touched her, the illusion vanished. I saw a middle-aged woman, dressed, it is true, all in black but not the flowing lines of a habit—though the shirt was full and did reach almost to the floor. She wore her hair in thick coronet braids and walked with her hands folded together.

But I felt my instincts weren’t wrong. This woman did not belong to this house. It could not be Señora Ortega.

She walked up to me with a great dignity, her lined face unsmiling.

“Señorita Ramsay?”

I nodded, then began uncertainly, “Señora . . .”

“I am Maria, the housekeeper. Señora Ortega asked me to welcome you and to explain that she and the señor were very sorry to miss you. They waited a long time, but then they had to leave for a dinner.”

I glanced down at my watch. It was almost eleven.

“I’m sorry to be late,” I apologized. “I had some difficulty coming through customs.”

Maria nodded gravely.

“The señora feared you would be very tired. Have you had dinner?”

“Yes. On the plane.”

“Then, if you like, I will take you to your room. The señora said they would look forward to meeting you in the morning.”

I followed Maria, still lugging the manuscript box. Maria didn’t ask for it and I felt it was my responsibility to deliver the book personally, although it appeared that the Ortegas were clearly in no great hurry to receive it.

I scolded myself for feeling irritated. Why should they alter their evening plans to greet a stranger, even one bearing a valued family possession? Besides, I was just as happy not to have to face meeting the owners of this rather overwhelming house tonight.

I followed Maria down the hall, past the fountain and up the wide stone steps. The balcony held a magnificent family living room with two wide fireplaces, soft thick carpets, a wall of reddish wood, books, Steuben glass, and a painting that I did not recognize but that had the power to catch and hold my eye for a long moment.

Maria moved at an even pace along the balcony railing to turn into a long hall. We passed a series of closed doors. I assumed they were bedrooms. She turned right into a narrower corridor. The plan of the house certainly wasn’t clear in my mind, but I guessed that we had come around and were now above the room with the pool and the wicker furniture.

My guest room was lovely, even if impersonal. Maria showed me the adjoining bath and I learned how to use the electric heater. She did everything efficiently and quickly.

“Would you like for me to unpack for you, señorita?”

I was putting the box down on a window seat and turned in surprise at her words, but yes, there was my suitcase, duly delivered, I suppose, by the chauffeur.

“No, thank you.”

Then she was gone and I was, blessedly, alone. I sank down into a wicker chair near the window and just sat. I was too tired to do one single thing more, though the bed looked terribly inviting. Still, I sat.

The knock at my door was so soft I thought I’d imagined it. When it came again, I called out, “Yes.”

The door opened and a dark girl about seventeen slipped in, smiled shyly at me, and set down a tray on a nearby table.

She said something in Spanish and I spread my hands to show I didn’t understand.

She pantomimed pouring, and I shook my head. “No, but thank you.
Gracias.”

She nodded and turned to leave but at the door she paused, pointed at a button near the light switch, and once again spoke.

Again I shook my head.

She frowned, pointed at herself, then at the button. I nodded to show I understood, and she left.

I lifted up the lid of the pot she had left and sniffed. Hot chocolate. The plate held two sweet rolls. I suddenly felt a lot more welcome and cheerful. How thoughtful of Maria. I started to pour a cup and then decided I would really feel marvelous if I had a bath first. The chocolate would still be hot if I hurried.

Five minutes later, my skin warm and rosy from the bath, I curled up in the chair, comfortable in my gown and robe, and had a delightful midnight feast.

I was content as a cat, warm, full, clean. I flicked off the overhead light, leaving on the bedside lamp, and turned down the covers. I was sitting on the big bed, ready to snuggle beneath the cold sheets, when I remembered I had neglected to jot down the day’s expenses in a small spiral notebook that I carried in my purse especially for that purpose.

I would do it tomorrow.

I rolled between the cold silk sheets, then reached out and pulled down the chain to switch off the bedside lamp.

What a marvelous, magnificent, comfortable bed. I closed my eyes and prepared to tumble into sleep.

I had, of course, vowed that I would keep each day’s expense without fail because it is impossible to remember small items after several days pass. Stubbornly, I burrowed my face deeper into the pillow. Not surprisingly, my mind as stubbornly began to recite the day’s expenditures: coffee at Kennedy, fifty cents; Gothic pocketbook, Kennedy, a dollar twenty-five; coffee, Dallas–Fort Worth, twenty-five cents . . .

Resignedly, I pushed back the covers, turned on the light, and sat up. My purse was across the room, atop the chest of drawers. I swung out of bed. The tile floor was cold to my bare feet. Hurrying, I ran across the room, scooped up the purse, and ran back to bed.

I fumbled inside my purse for the little spiral notebook. My fingers brushed against an envelope. For a moment, I was puzzled. I pulled it out and then I remembered the ragged shoeshine boy. I turned the envelope over. It was sealed. I studied the blank face again.

I felt that quick surge of discomfort that comes when you know you’ve done the wrong thing. This wasn’t meant for me. I should have gone after the boy, found him, somehow made it clear that he had made a mistake.

What if this letter was important, really important to someone? I slipped my finger beneath the sealed flap, worked it loose. Perhaps, if it really mattered, I could find out for whom the message was meant. The addressee’s name might well be in the salutation.

I looked at a cream-colored sheet of paper and at the words neatly printed in the center of the page.

GO
BACK
TO
NEW
YORK

OR
DIE

After the first startled instant, I almost laughed. Almost, but not quite. There is nothing laughable about threats, even those made, I had to assume, in fun. I must have stumbled into the middle of someone’s idea of a joke. People who wished others ill did not pass them notes in a schoolboy fashion. It could be nothing more than a rather unfunny joke.

But the joke was on the writer since I had interrupted a message that couldn’t be meant for me. I crumpled up the sheet and envelope and tossed them into the wastebasket. Then I fished the little account book out of my purse and dutifully made my entries.

Now, conscience at rest, I could sleep. I turned off the light, stretched happily in the luxuriously comfortable bed, and slipped swiftly into sleep, down, down, down, deep into thick, swirling, enveloping folds of sleep.

The cry cut sharply through my sleep.

I woke, heart pounding, eyes wide, straining to see through the unfamiliar dark. My hands gripped the thin silk sheet, pulling it tight against me as if to ward off danger.

For a terrifying instant, I did not know where I was. My sleep-dulled mind tried frantically to recognize the different shapes of darkness in the wide, shadowy room. Nothing was familiar, nothing, not the great heavy mass of darkness that loomed beside the bed, not the bed itself, not the strange slickness of silk sheets. A faint oblong luminescence to the left was surely a window but my bedroom window was to the right of the bed. Then I was fully awake and fumbling to turn on the bedside lamp and remembering that I was a guest in the Ortega home.

The elegant home in which someone screamed in the night.

I sat up in bed, the covers drawn close to me, and knew I was waiting for that cry to sound again, that thin desolate wail, full of loss and heartbreak, lonelier than a child’s desperate call, hopeless as silent tears beside a grave.

It didn’t come. There is a pattern, a timing, in all things. I felt suddenly that I would not hear that cry again. Whatever it was, whoever it was, there would not be another call for help.

For help? Was it that kind of cry? I tried again to hear the sound in my mind. A shiver rippled through me. The cry had been such a despairing lament. I shivered again, then quickly lifted my head to listen.

I heard something outside.

I pushed back the covers and swung out of bed. The tile floor was cold to my feet. I hurried to the window. With my eyes adjusted to the lamplight, I could see absolutely nothing. Whirling around, I ran to the lamp, turned it off, and then felt my way back across the room. I pulled up the wide window and shivered against the rush of cold night air.

I stared down into the patio. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I was almost sure I had heard something from this direction. Nothing moved. Iron benches gleamed palely in the moonlight. Darker masses of bushes curved with the paths. The dominant volcanic stone rose jaggedly at the far back of the lot.

A door opened briefly beneath the colonnade on a ground-floor wing across the way. The house was apparently L-shaped. My room was on the second floor of the base of the L.

I leaned as far out my window as I could, pressing hard against the iron grillwork. Faintly I heard a muted sobbing, a soft murmur of Spanish. The door closed and, once again, the night was quiet.

I watched where the light had shown so briefly until I was cold to the bone. Finally, I pulled down the window and hurried back to the big bed. The slick silk sheets were icy against my thin cotton gown. I wished fervently for flannel. Pulling up a wool blanket, I huddled beneath the covers.

What should I have done about that single piercing cry that had startled me from sleep?

Nothing, obviously.

Oh sure, Sheila, walk right by, close your eyes, go back to sleep and pretend you didn’t hear.

You can’t carry the world on your shoulders, another voice countered. Do your best, but don’t be a fool.

Wearily, I pushed back the covers and sat up. My life would be simpler by far if I didn’t have such a pushy, officious conscience. But I was already out of bed and padding back toward the window, my feet once again cringing at the bitter chill of the tiled floor. I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered out into the night. The patio lay as empty and quiet as before. There was not even a faint glimmer of light beneath the colonnade.

What if someone lay injured, unconscious, in the garden?

What an absurd fancy, I told myself firmly.

But was it? The cry had been loud enough, sharp enough, to wake me from an exhausted sleep. I knew I’d heard a cry of need.

Why hadn’t anyone else heard it?

I shrugged that off. Who knew why only I had heard? A trick of the wind, perhaps. The point was that apparently I was the only person who had heard it and who, therefore, could do something about it.