Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (17 page)

Helen continued to dish out the food, waiting until the women were seated at a table away from her to ask, “What did she say?”

Theresa didn’t respond at first, devoting her attention to assembling a stack of plates on the counter before her.

Helen prodded, “You might as well tell me.”

Theresa shrugged. “Alma said that Matteo must be getting tired of you already. When she was in his bed he never had her doling out rations.”

Helen didn’t answer, her worst suspicions confirmed.

“She was Matteo’s woman before you,” Theresa added unnecessarily.

“What was the rest of it?” Helen said quietly.

“What?”

“She said something else, when that other woman smiled.”

Theresa hesitated again, and Helen waited patiently until she said, “Alma says she was always too busy keeping Matteo satisfied to find time for kitchen work.”

Helen coughed. “Do you think I could have a glass of water?” she asked.

“In the barrel, there,” Theresa said, indicating a large wooden storage tank that looked like a beer keg and was tapped the same way. Helen filled a dented metal cup and drank it dry, wondering why this information should hit her so hard.

She’d always known that Matteo must have had his share of women. Alma’s reaction to Helen’s arrival had certainly indicated that she’d been one of them. But it was the way these people accepted the orderly progression, Alma yesterday, Helen today, someone else tomorrow, that bothered her. Not to mention that in her case it wasn’t even true. To look at Alma and know that Matteo had given to her what he had denied to Helen was almost more than she could bear.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of heat and the cloying smell of food. By the time darkness fell and they were cleaning up, Helen’s feet were burning and she had a case of dishpan hands that would defy any lotion on the American market. She glanced over at Theresa, who was wiping down the counter, having put in what was for her an ordinary day.

“Theresa, how did you get involved with Matteo, with this group?”

The older woman looked at her, pushing back an errant strand of coarse, graying hair. Helen could tell that she was examining her to see if she really wanted a serious answer. Seemingly satisfied, Theresa said, “When I was a young woman my father was accused of stealing by his employer. He denied the charges but was pronounced guilty without a trial and shot.”

Helen was speechless, sorry she’d asked.

“It’s not the sort of thing you forget,” Theresa went on. “When I saw that Matteo and the other people here were working to do something about a government that permits that kind of injustice, I joined with them. I’m getting old and can’t do much, but I can cook. I’ve cooked all my life for my family, and I can cook now for my friends.”

Helen considered that and then said, “Theresa, what is going to happen tonight?”

Theresa’s face went carefully blank. “You’d better ask Matteo about that. It’s not for me to say.”

And he won’t tell me any more than you will, Helen thought.

They walked to the door of the hut and Theresa said flatly, “You worked hard today and you can tell Matteo I said so.”

Helen had to suppress a smile. She felt like asking Theresa for a note that she could present to Matteo, like a report card from the teacher.

“Thank you, Theresa,” she said warmly. “I know the others resent me, and it’s nice that you were willing to give me a chance.”

“It was Matteo’s idea,” Theresa responded, and then they both laughed.

“Good night,” Helen said, walking back to the camper.

“Good night,” Theresa answered, turning off for her tent.

When Helen pulled open the door of the motor home, Matteo turned at the sound. She stopped in her tracks, frozen at the sight of him.

He was dressed, like the other men, in camouflage fatigues, combat boots and a dark knit hat to cover his hair. His face was smeared with blacking and he had an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. A belt loaded with ammunition was draped across his chest, and a pistol and a knife were sheathed at his waist. He was a walking arsenal.

Helen recovered her powers of locomotion and walked to the couch, sitting carefully, as if she might break. She wanted to say something but no words made it to her lips.

“Don’t look like that, Helen,” Matteo said evenly. “You knew this was what I did.”

“Of course,” she whispered. “I just didn’t know it would be so real, so much like...”

“Like what?” he said.

“Like war. But it is war.” She closed her eyes. “Don’t listen to me, I don’t know what I mean.”

“This is what I wanted to spare you,” he said simply, and then looked up as there was a quick knock, followed by the opening of the door. Vicente Olmos entered, glancing at Helen and then saying something to Matteo. Matteo answered dismissively, and Olmos paused to smile at Helen before he left. She felt as if he had touched her.

“I have to go,” Matteo said, patting his breast pocket and looking away.

Helen stood and grabbed his arm. “Where are you going? What are you going to do?”

He withdrew his arm firmly. “Stay here. I’ll be back before morning.”

“And what if you don’t come back? What then?”

“That’s a risk I always have to take. But I’m lucky. You should know that. Luck brought me to you. I’ll be back.”

Helen watched helplessly as he yanked open the door and ran down the steps. She followed, halting as she saw him jump into a jeep that already held several other men, all armed like him and dressed for night concealment. They took off, the driver leading the way out of the camp as several other loaded jeeps fell in behind Matteo’s. Helen trailed them with her eyes until they were out of sight, and then she went back inside.

What had she expected? she thought, as she tried to accept what had just happened. That he would stay behind and hold her hand while his men went out to risk being killed? Of course not, yet she had never let herself consider in detail what his days were like, what he had been doing the night she met him, what he would continue to do in the future. She had wanted to think that the idyll at Esteban’s
taberna
would last indefinitely, that her presence in Matteo’s life would somehow change it, that he would make her more important than the goals that had sustained him before he arrived at her door. And now she realized what he had been trying to tell her all along, that he couldn’t take responsibility for her because he had room in his life only for his country.

Helen turned abruptly and went back outside where she walked past the groups of women who stood together, beginning the long vigil that would end only when the jeeps returned.

Alma detached herself from one of them and flung something verbal at Helen. Helen kept walking, up to Theresa, startling the woman, who stared at her in concern.

“Would you do me a favor?” Helen asked her softly.

“What is it?”

“Would you tell Alma that I am not sleeping with Matteo, and that I’ll be going back to the States as soon as he can arrange it. I’m no threat to her and I want her to know that.”

Theresa looked back at her in silence, dumbfounded.

“Please tell her for me,” Helen insisted.

Theresa’s brow knit, and she said, “Even if this is true, why tell her? Let her steam about it; she’s been unkind enough to you.”

Helen shook her head wearily. “It’s not fair to let her believe a lie. Can I count on you to do it?”

Theresa shrugged. “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

Helen nodded and strode purposefully back to the camper. Once inside, she dropped onto the daybed and stared at the ceiling, feeling numb and drained. The physical labor of the day caught up with her and eventually she slept.

Dawn light was filtering into the cabin when she heard the jeeps returning. She jumped up and ran to the window.

At first she didn’t see Matteo, and her heart was hammering so hard she thought it would burst through her ribs. Then she saw him detach himself from the group and walk toward her. His step was tired and she noticed that most of the ammunition was gone from his belt.

Helen went back to the couch and sat down, determined to be as self contained as the other women she had seen greeting the returning men, who acted as if they put their lives on the line every day. But of course they did. That was one small thing, among many, that she had to learn.

Matteo entered and stopped on the threshold when he saw that she was awake.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly, slipping his rifle off his shoulder and setting it on the floor.

“Yes. Are you?”

“Fine. No casualties this time; we all got away clean.”

“Good.”

Their voices were restrained, polite, covering a wellspring of feeling that neither would express.

“Your mission was a success, then,” Helen added, and his face lit up.

“You bet. We not only got inside the compound, we were able to...”

Helen held up her hand. “Don’t. Don’t tell me about it, please. I’d really rather not hear it.”

He halted in mid-sentence and his expression became closed, unreadable. Helen couldn’t meet his eyes, and the hot, heavy silence lengthened between them until he finally said, “I knew it. I knew that if I brought you here, and you saw what I actually do, you’d become disillusioned with me.”

“What do you mean?” she replied in a low, troubled voice.

“I mean that there is nothing glamorous and wonderful about fighting. The ideals and the concepts sound good, but when you get right down to it, it’s guns and knives, and dirt and sweat, and killing the people on the other side. And that’s what has gotten to you, Helen. You like the thought of battling for freedom but you can’t face the reality of what’s involved in the battle.”

“I know you’re doing what you have to do, what you think is right,” she answered in a subdued tone.

“But?”

She made a helpless gesture. “Maybe everyone here is right about me.”

“How are they right?”

“They all think I’m not up to it, and maybe I’m not.”

He studied her without speaking for a long moment, and then said briskly, “We have to move the camp this morning. The government troops will be alerted to our presence in the area after the raid, and we have to relocate. You can help Theresa load the kitchen wagon. I’m afraid it will be tents from now on; we can’t take anything but the jeeps where we’ll be going. Be ready to move out in about half an hour.”

“All right.”

He shouldered his rifle again and said, “I’m working on a way to get you out of here, but it will take time. Just try to be patient and you’ll be home before you know it.”

Helen dug her nails into her palms, but kept her voice even as she said, “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

He nodded and left. She shut her eyes tightly, but a tear escaped on each side and trailed down her face.

How cold he had sounded, not like her Matteo at all. It was hard to believe that he was the same man who had caressed her so tenderly in Esteban’s room and led her through the jungle with such gentle persuasion. But she had challenged the thing he lived for, and she had lost.

Helen went out to find Theresa and help her pack.

* * * *

For the rest of that day they moved, carrying everything on their backs or in wagons that could negotiate the steep mountain trails. In late afternoon they reached the new site, a clearing by a stream that afforded little more than seclusion, and by nightfall the tents and prefab buildings were all up and ready to be used. The group moved so often that they had the procedure down to a science, and Helen was amazed at the efficiency they displayed in organizing their tasks and making the site their own.

Helen saw little of Matteo that day or the ones following, as he spent most of his time in conference with his men and she worked with Theresa. When they did speak their conversation was strained, and she longed for a return of the old closeness, when she could almost tell what he was thinking by the expression on his face. Once he took her aside to show her the tent she was to use, across the way from his, and she watched his clean profile as he taught her to drape the mosquito netting around her cot to keep away the bugs. She wanted to reach out and touch his mouth, the lips that had kissed hers so passionately, but somehow it seemed an intrusion now, a familiarity he would not want from a woman he longed to be rid of, so she held back. At night she would remember the feel and scent of his skin, the strength of his hard body next to hers in the
taberna
loft, and it would seem like a dream, something that had never happened but existed only in her imagination.

With the rest of the people in the camp she was circumspect, going about her business with Theresa and following the older woman’s orders with meticulous precision. The only labor Helen had ever performed was mental, and it was almost a relief to engage in work that required no thought, only the physical exertion that exhausted her so that she could sleep at night. Such a routine was not intolerable, and Helen followed her natural inclination, which was to keep to herself and keep her mouth shut. She made no attempt to capitalize on her relationship with Matteo, as Alma had done, because it was not in her nature to do so. And as Matteo’s comrades saw her working hard and demanding no privileges, they developed a grudging respect for her that she didn’t expect and, in fact, didn’t see. She still felt very much the outsider, especially since her contact with Matteo was so limited, but she lived with the feeling, going her own way, as she had always done.