Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (28 page)

“Soledad?” she asked, pointing into the distance.

“Si, Soledad,” he answered, and flew even lower, almost skirting the tops of the trees that rushed up at them. Helen looked down and saw what he was aiming for: a flat stretch of road wide enough for a landing. He would have to drop straight down onto it, but Paolo was apparently used to operating under such conditions in this mountainous region. He approached it calmly, making adjustments in the speed of the rotor as they fell. Helen closed her eyes until she felt the jolt of the landing, and when she opened them Paolo was smiling at her.

“Esta aqui, senorita,”
he said, gesturing to the surrounding scenery.

Helen reached over and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“Muchas gracias,”
she said, grabbing her duffel, aware that speed was of the essence.

“De nada,”
he replied as she pulled out the compass and stared at its face.

He took it from her and glanced at the sky, then at the instrument in his hand. “Soledad,” he said firmly, stabbing his finger emphatically in the direction of the ascending sun.

Helen nodded, took the compass back and then put her hand on his arm.

“¿Por que?”
she asked. “Why? Why did you help me?”

“Por mi hermana,”
he answered, and she smiled to think that in Puerta Linda, as in the rest of the world, brothers loved their sisters.

They both looked up as a car approached in the distance, and Helen jumped to the ground, waving Paolo away. She dashed into the trees and the helicopter rose. The car swept past, the people inside it craning their necks up at Paolo’s helicopter as he headed back home.

Helen waited a couple of minutes, making sure that the road was empty, then came out of hiding and strode off in the direction that Paolo had indicated. She made an effort to look casual until she realized that no one was paying any attention to her; the drivers of the vehicles that passed apparently dismissed her as a hiker, and she settled into a rhythm that ate up the distance she had to cover. After a while her energy flagged and she was tempted to hitch a ride but, fearful of the questions she might be asked, she continued on foot. She reached the height above the city an hour later and began the descent to Soledad.

Once inside the city limits, she saw taxis and flagged one down. She managed to make the cabbie understand that she wanted a hotel where the staff spoke English. She suspected that he took the global route to get her there, but she was satisfied when she saw it. The facade looked modern and the people streaming in and out of it were obviously tourists. She paid the cabbie with Matteo’s American money, which he was happy to get, and walked up the wide stone steps into the coolness of an air-conditioned lobby.

“I’d like a room with a bath for the night,” she said to the clerk, who looked down his nose at her.

“All our rooms have baths, madam,” he replied, surveying her wrinkled, dirty shorts and field blouse with disdain.

“Fine,” Helen said. “And I want to book a plane ticket. Can I do that here?”

“The concierge will take care of that for you, madam,” the clerk said. “Will that be cash or credit card?”

“Cash,” Helen said. “Do you have a room service menu?”

The clerk extended one to her, and when she saw the prices she knew the reason for his pseudo-British accent and exalted manner. The cabbie had brought her to the most expensive hotel in the city, possibly in the country, but she was too tired to care. She stuck the menu in her bag and took her key, stopping at an overpriced boutique on the mezzanine to buy some clothes. She felt too grimy to try anything on but guessed at the sizes. She took the package to her room and tossed it on a chair. She debated taking a shower, which she certainly needed, but decided it could wait. She hardly glanced at the accommodations before she flung herself on the bed and fell instantly asleep.

When Helen awoke it was late afternoon and her first thought was of Matteo. He must be well on his way back by now. She remembered his lovemaking of the previous night, so urgent, almost desperate, with the lingering sadness of their coming separation, and knew that she would never experience anything like that again. It was over, and the rest of her life would be a pale reflection of what she had had with him.

Helen got up and went into the bathroom, noting with amusement the supply of soap, shampoo, toothpaste and other toiletries, all packaged in the miniature sizes favored by American hotels. She took a long shower, washed her hair, and brushed her teeth with a tiny utensil that looked like a nailbrush.

Seeing herself in the mirror was a revelation. Her skin was a deep gold and her hair was bleached to the shade of a ripe lemon peel. She looked like a Malibu beach girl and smiled when she remembered Sophia’s many admonitions to stay out of the sun because it aged the skin. Too late, she thought. She might look eighty tomorrow, but for the moment she stared back at the thin, pale eyed, suntanned stranger, wondering where Helen had gone.

The clothes were all too big, including the shoes, which seemed impossible. She had lost more weight than she’d realized. She put the belt of the slacks on its innermost notch and tucked in the loose blouse, deciding to buy thick socks to fill out the shoes. It wasn’t worth exchanging the clothes; she would probably put the weight back on once she got home. She took the room service menu out of her bag and read it, observing the comforting presence of such items as hamburgers and grilled cheese sandwiches. The management was going all out to cater to its American guests, printing the menu in Spanish on one side and English on the other. She picked up the phone and ordered dinner. Given the hotel’s desire to please the
turistas,
it was probably easier to get served promptly here than in Los Angeles. She was glad she didn’t have to face the downstairs dining room, and while she waited for the food to arrive she called the concierge and arranged for her flight. It was departing the next morning for New York from the Ferdinand airport at the western end of the city, and she reflected that by tomorrow evening she would be back in Manhattan.

Helen turned on the television, which broadcast two Spanish-language stations carrying mostly American reruns. She was treated to the spectacle of a dubbed
Bonanza,
with Little Joe referring to his brother Hoss as “Jose.” Her dinner came and she ate most of it, forcing herself to consume more than she wanted. Then she reclined on the bed and watched
The Big Valley
and
I Dream of Jeannie,
wondering if Matteo had reached the stream where they’d made love. Finally she fell asleep again and was awakened by the morning sun shining through the hotel window.

Her trip back to New York was uneventful, even at American immigration where she had anticipated trouble. She was prepared to call her father and have him raise hell with his politician friends to get her back into the country, but the necessity never arose. The uniformed officer merely glanced at her papers and passed her along, turning to the person behind her without change of expression. Once in the Kennedy terminal Helen felt as if she had never left home; the whole experience seemed surreal, like the memory of a fragmented dream. Impossible to believe that two days before she had been in a Puerta Lindan jungle; impossible to accept that she would never see Matteo again. She walked along, glancing at the concession stands and restaurants, telling herself that this was going to be her life from now on.

She stayed overnight in New York and sent the cable to Matteo’s friend from there. She flew to Boston the next morning, rented a car at the airport, and drove to Cambridge, unhappy to see that New England was experiencing a wet spring. Her apartment was stuffy from the lack of ventilation, and she opened all the windows despite the rain, thinking how much her life had changed since she had closed them. Then she went to bed. Her exhaustion was complete and inexplicable; since she had left Matteo she’d done almost nothing but sleep. She nodded off constantly, unconsciously seeking the oblivion that allowed her to forget that she had lost him.

* * * *

Gradually Helen began putting her life back together. She called the cleaning service in Florida and asked them to send along her thesis materials, so she could pick up her work again. And she resumed her research, finding that once again it comforted her, filling out her days and giving some meaning to her otherwise barren existence.
      

She had been home for over a month when she began to feel ill—dizzy and nauseous. She ignored the malaise for a while, but when it persisted she became concerned and made an appointment with her doctor. It was a fine day in late May when she went to his office to receive the report on her examination, the results of the tests he had conducted.

The nurse ushered her into his office, and she sat in the chair nearest his desk, nervously scanning the diploma covered walls. Dr. Corrigan entered promptly, carrying her file.

“So,” Helen said to him, “what’s wrong with me?”

“Not a thing,” he replied. “You’re pregnant.”

She merely looked at him.

“Haven’t you missed any periods?” he asked her.

“Yes, but I’ve been upset and not feeling well. I’ve missed before for those reasons, and I’ve been losing weight, not gaining it.”

“Weight loss is not uncommon in the beginning,” the doctor said, “and the nausea will pass.” He smiled. “The day will come when you’ll wish you could lose some weight, believe me.”

Helen sat very still, trying to absorb the fact that she was pregnant with Matteo’s baby. Of course the possibility had occurred to her, but she had dismissed it as wishful thinking. Now she was being told that it was true. She began to laugh.

“Is something wrong?” the doctor said, wondering if she were about to become hysterical.

“No, no, everything is right. This is wonderful news; you’ve made me very happy.”

“Miss Demarest, may I ask you a personal question?” Dr. Corrigan said.

“Certainly.”

“You’re not married, and I was wondering if you might need a referral to one of our local services. They can be very helpful to someone in your situation, to discuss alternatives, and...”

Helen stood up. “No, thank you, that won’t be necessary. There are no alternatives for me.” The doctor was a local man who didn’t know her family and might have thought she was without resources. “I have money; I’ll be fine.”

“But the father...” he persisted.

“He’s out of the country,” Helen said, which was nothing less than the truth.

“Well, make an appointment with the nurse for your next visit, and wait for your prescriptions. You have to start taking vitamins....”

He was talking to Helen’s back. She didn’t mean to be rude, but she almost flew out of his office and into the street, hugging herself for sheer joy.

It had not been for nothing after all. She would have Matteo’s child and no cause or calling could deprive her of that.

She went straight home and stared at her profile in the mirror, trying to see some sign of the life growing inside her. Her stomach was still flat but soon it wouldn’t be and everyone would know her secret happiness. She remembered to call for her prescriptions and went to the pharmacy to get them filled, looking at everything she passed with new eyes. She was going to be a mother.

The next three months flew past as spring became summer and Helen finished the first draft of her thesis. She had never felt so efficient, so organized. She was checking footnotes one afternoon, humming to herself and tugging at the stretching elastic on her new maternity pants, when her doorbell rang.

She got up to answer it absently, glancing back at the pages on her desk. She pulled the door open and froze.

Sophia stood on the threshold, looking her up and down with a practiced eye. She folded her arms and sighed.

“My God, it’s true,” she said. “You are pregnant.”

“Come in, Sophia,” Helen said resignedly and stepped aside.

Her mother breezed past her on a cloud of Eau de Joy, glancing around the apartment with evident distaste. She turned and faced Helen, wearing her “an explanation is in order, please” expression.

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Helen asked, shutting the door. “You haven’t been to my place in what? Three years? Since Uncle Albert died in Brookline and you needed a drink after the reading of the will. He didn’t leave you his antique silver collection, remember?”

“I can do without the sarcasm, Helen, thank you very much. Can you tell me why I had to find out about this from Daphne Ashmore, of all people?”

“What does Daphne have to do with anything?”

“She saw you at the Boston Public library, my dear, looking definitely
enceinte
, as the French say.”

“What was Daphne doing at the library? I didn’t know she could read.”

“She was looking up something for the DAR, and thank God she was. She called me in Gstaad, and I hopped the next plane right over here to see for myself. Helen, what is going on?”

“I’m going to have a baby, Sophia. Do you want me to draw you a diagram?” Helen replied impatiently, thinking about all the work she had to do. Of course Sophia hadn’t called first. She knew Helen would have found a way to dodge her so she just showed up unannounced. She favored the same guerrilla tactics Matteo used: blindsiding and sneak attacks.