Читать книгу Fire on the Moon - V. J. Banis - Страница 5

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CHAPTER ONE

I suppose the moment I stepped from the plane in the Lisbon airport, I should have had a premonition that I wasn’t going to have the perfect vacation to which I had so long looked forward. Carlotta was not at the airport when I arrived, and the weather was unseasonably gloomy and dismal, the sky ominously dark and threatening rain—an unusual phenomenon, I learned later, for a Portuguese May.

But I had no such premonition. I was too excited to think about dreary weather, and my parents had warned me that Carlotta was prone to absent-mindedness. So the slight disappointments went by me almost unnoticed.

I doubt if anything could have succeeded in dampening my spirits then. I was far too happy. This was my first trip to Europe, my first trip anywhere for that matter, and minor disappointments could not overcome my excitement.

I’d spent most of the flight imagining myself lolling on Carlotta’s terrace, watching the Atlantic wash its beaches in preparation for the swarm of tourists due later in the month. I thought it was to be a dream vacation with Aunt Carlotta.

I joined the rest of the passengers from the plane in boarding the little buses that waited to take us to the customs shed. I kept peering out of the bus window to see if I could catch a glimpse of Carlotta’s face among those waiting on the other side of the fence.

She wasn’t there, but taking the dismal weather into consideration, I couldn’t blame her for not standing out in the cold. She was most likely inside the terminal waiting for me to get through the business of customs. Any sensible person would be, I thought. But of course, I already knew, Carlotta wasn’t always sensible.

I paused in the crush of passengers beside the customs barrier and strained to look over their heads to see if Carlotta was in the terminal beyond. I didn’t see her; but not seeing her still did not disturb me much. I knew my parents were right; Carlotta was a bit scatterbrained—if not downright irresponsible at times—so I guess subconsciously I was prepared for the possibility of her having forgotten my arrival time.

Oh, she would not forget about my arriving, but she just might get the times mixed up. Knowing her, she would—sooner or later—come rushing into the terminal all out of breath, make a simple apology, and that would be that.

She wouldn’t go on and on apologizing until her apology became artificial. There was nothing artificial about Carlotta. She was sometimes thoughtless, flighty, illogical, yet her common sense and sound advice had helped me overcome my despair after Andrew Fuller broke our engagement.

It had also been Carlotta who had cautioned me about the kind of young man who turned out to be more interested in my family’s money than in me. I loved Carlotta for her strengths as well as her weaknesses; I suppose it was because she reminded me a bit of myself.

Never mind her forgetting my arrival, though. Here I was at last in Portugal. I was surrounded by clusters of dark, foreign-looking people all chattering away in languages I couldn’t understand a word of.

I stood in the center of the main terminal for I don’t know how long, and carefully watched for Carlotta. For a while I was content just to stand and wait; then to sit and wait. But I don’t care how exciting a place is, waiting makes me restless, anxious. By the time a half hour had gone by, part of my excitement, I found, had gone with it.

Minute after minute passed by and I found it difficult to ignore the uneasy feeling that started nagging at me. I couldn’t continue just to sit here and do nothing, I told myself. Face facts, Jennifer. Carlotta forgot, or she got tied up. Don’t work yourself into a lather. Go telephone. Do something.

Of course. The telephone. I wondered briefly how and where to call Carlotta, but I quickly shrugged off the thought. After all I wasn’t in the middle of the Sahara Desert; I could easily find out how and where to telephone.

I stood and glanced around. There was a row of very American-looking telephone booths near the main entrance. Good, I said to myself, I could leave my bags where they were and keep an eye both on them and on the main entrance—in case Carlotta came bustling in—while I was at the telephone.

I had had enough foresight to exchange some of my dollars for escudos before leaving Kennedy Airport. I supposed the telephone systems in Europe operated on much the same principle as our own. I headed for the telephone booth.

There was a little sign over the instrument which I took to be instructions on operating the telephone; unfortunately it was not printed in English.

I took out my small assortment of unfamiliar coins and deposited the only one that fit the slot—assuming that it had to be the right one. I waited. I dialed “O” and waited some more. Nothing happened. I jiggled the hook a few times. Nothing. Reluctantly I replaced the receiver and waited for the funny little coin to be returned. It wasn’t.

I picked up the Lisbon directory, but I knew before I looked up Carlotta’s name that she would not be listed. She had told me that her villa was some distance from Lisbon—or Lisboa as she had called it.

I’d need some help, I decided.

I glanced over at my pile of suitcases. They were still there, untouched.

I studied the people moving through the terminal. Having sat alone on the flight over I had spoken to none of the passengers. I didn’t see a familiar face anywhere.

My gaze fell on a man walking slowly back and forth near the exit. He was wearing a uniform with a badge which assured me that he would more than likely know how to operate a Portuguese telephone.

I stepped directly into his path. “Do you speak English?” I asked brightly.

He smiled and touched his fingers to the brim of his cap. “Si, Senhorita. A little.”

“Good,” I said, trying not to sound anxious. “I wonder if you would help me?”

“If I can.” His accent was charming.

“My aunt was supposed to meet me but she hasn’t shown up. I thought I would telephone her but I can’t seem to operate the telephone.”

His smile broadened. “Ah, sim. Permit me.”

He stepped up to the telephone and took out what appeared to be a New York subway token. He dropped it into the same little slot that had swallowed up my coin. He pushed a little plunger, which I hadn’t seen before, then muttered something into the mouthpiece. He turned and asked me for my aunt’s name and address.

Quickly I rummaged in my handbag and pulled out her last letter. I pointed to the neatly written return address. The man repeated the name and address into the telephone. I waited. Another jumble of unfamiliar words followed.

He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said, “The operator will look up the number and put your call through.”

“Thank you,” I said with relief and gratitude.

He spoke into the mouthpiece again. The language sounded so soft and gentle. All the words sounded more like music than spoken dialogue.

“It is—ah—how you say—ringing,” he said finally.

He held the receiver pressed lightly against his ear and waited for a long time.

Again he spoke into the mouthpiece then replaced the receiver. “The operator says that there is no answer,” he said, looking very apologetic. “I am sorry.”

I shrugged and tried not to look disappointed. “She is most likely on her way here,” I said.

He handed me the “subway token” that had dropped into the return slot when he replaced the receiver. “If you need to call again, Senhorita, use this. Tell the operator who you wish to speak to and she will get the number for you,” he assured me. “Sometimes they do not speak good English like me, but if you talk slowly they will understand.” His smile was infectious. “Now,” he said, giving me a polite bow. “Can I help you further?”

“Oh, thank you, no.” I said. “You have been very kind.” I wondered if I was supposed to tip him. I decided a tip might insult his gallantry. I put out my hand. He took it, and to my surprise turned it palm down and touched it to his lips. I felt my face turn scarlet.

He smiled again, turned, and went back to his post by the doors.

Now what? I asked myself as I walked slowly back to my luggage. I decided on a taxi. I looked up at the wall clock. My episode with the telephone had taken up another ten minutes. My feet hurt and I didn’t want to think about my empty stomach. I had been too excited to eat on the flight over and now I regretted having only picked at my food. There was, I supposed, some sort of eating place tucked away in the terminal, but I just did not feel up to trying to decipher a Portuguese menu, especially after my failure with the telephone.

I looked down at my pile of suitcases. I just couldn’t bring myself to struggle with them again. I’d need a porter.

“Senhorita!”

The man so startled me I jumped. He had come up behind me and had said “Senhorita” more in the tone of a command than a greeting.

I turned sharply and found myself facing a surly-looking individual dressed in a shabby waistcoat and formless trousers, the bottoms of which were stuffed into battered, mud-caked boots. By the look of him, he had apparently dressed in a hurry and had given little concern as to what he had put on. He was in his mid-thirties, I guessed, and far from unattractive—tall, with an olive complexion and black, curly hair, grown a little longer than I normally like, but very becoming. I noticed that he held his head at a peculiar angle—tilted slightly down and away from me. I thought he must have a kink in his neck.

The expression on his face was as unattractive as his clothes. He appeared to be very angry at something or someone, and by the way he scowled at me I got the distinct impression that it was I with whom he was angry. Looking at him slightly unnerved me.

Yet despite his strangely sullen and unfriendly manner, I smiled brightly and said, “Yes.” My voice rang with affability.

“Are you Jennifer Carter?” He didn’t smile. On the contrary, his mouth pulled down at the corners and he looked more fierce than before. His eyes narrowed and he gave me a look that said I had better be Jennifer Carter if I knew what was good for me. There was something overbearing in his attitude.

I never lacked nerve when it came to facing a difficult situation and would maintain an external calm in direct opposition to what I was feeling inside. Furthermore, I had always had a particular dislike for people who tried to dominate, especially men who considered themselves superior to women. Here was one such man, I decided, and I didn’t like him.

I tilted back my head and purposely let my smile fade. “Yes, I’m Jennifer Carter,” I said meeting his coldness with a coldness of my own. “Why?”

His scowl deepened. His gaze did not falter. “Your aunt sent me for you. She had to go to Paris.” His English was as clipped and as uncordial as his eyes. He made it very clear that he hadn’t been pleased about having to come for me. “Are those yours?” He glanced down at my pile of luggage. The glance and the inflection of voice made my suitcases shabbier than they were.

He seemed silently to curse himself for having asked a needless question. He didn’t wait for me to answer yes or no but reached down and gathered up the suitcases. They were far from light, yet he picked them up as though they weighed nothing at all.

“Hey, wait a mi—”

“This way.” He turned his back and started away.

My first impulse was to refuse to follow. He had all the friendliness of a cobra. Even from the back he had a sinister, look about him. He walked like a man who knew precisely where he was going and would get there, regardless of cost.

He never glanced back to see if I were behind him.

I didn’t want to follow, but my stubbornness gave way to common sense. I shrugged. After all, Carlotta had obviously sent him.

I caught up with him just as he reached the door leading out of the terminal. I thought for a moment that he was going to wait and hold the door open for me. He didn’t.

Neither did he offer any assistance in crossing the busy street. I had to keep one eye out for careening cars and the other on him.

We crossed—with some difficulty on my part—to a large, old, black limousine. It was a relic—but although it had seen better days it still had an aura of elegance.

He wasn’t a chauffeur; that was made plain by the way he threw my luggage just inside the back seat, making it necessary for me to go around to the other side of the car to get in.

I had hardly closed the door before he started up the car and pulled straight out into the heavy stream of traffic. There was an instant blast of horns as we lurched recklessly away from the curb; he hadn’t looked in either direction to see if the way were clear. We suffered no consequences, but I kept a firm grip on my handbag and secretly hoped the trip would be a short one. I found it necessary to keep reminding myself that Aunt Carlotta had, after all, sent this man for me. He must be someone she knew, or trusted or perhaps employed.

Carlotta hadn’t really forgotten about my arriving today. The thought comforted me somewhat and made the surly driver a little less objectionable.

I forced myself to be unconcerned and tried to relax against the soft, worn upholstery. I sighed and contented myself with the thought that I was on my way to Carlotta’s villa and that was all that really mattered at the moment

He drove fast, but expertly. I tried to concentrate on the passing scenery. My first glimpse of Europe. Strange, but it mostly went by unnoticed. The excitement I had felt about coming here had been wiped out by this one dour, unfriendly man. He hadn’t succeeded in completely taking the joy out of my arrival, but he hadn’t made it pleasant.

My gaze wandered from the window to the back of his head. Despite my disapproval of his manners, I nevertheless found my interest drawn to him and not to the outskirts of Lisbon through which we were passing.

“Did you say my aunt was in Paris?” I ventured.

He nodded.

“When will she be returning?”

He shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

The strong, silent type, I thought. I realized too late that he hadn’t seen my smile when I said, “Are you always this quiet or are you just being so for my benefit?” I had meant to sound friendly and flippant, but the moment I heard my words I realized they could be construed as sarcasm.

I was about to apologize when suddenly a taxi swerved and cut directly in front of us. My driver slammed on the brakes and the limousine lurched to one side, toppling me and my luggage down onto the floor of the back seat. I was positive we were going to turn over, but my sullen friend proved a more than capable driver. He righted the car, leaned out the window, and let out what I took to be a solid stream of Portuguese profanity.

As I lay in an uncomfortable huddle on the floor I felt the car slow down. I thought he was going to stop to help me right myself and my bags. I was wrong. He merely slowed for a left-hand turn, and continued on in unconcerned silence.

Now with me it is never the big things that annoy me the most, it’s the little things. I was suddenly annoyed; not because of the near serious accident, but because the man didn’t once glance back to see if I were all right. I frowned at his back as I reseated myself, intending to give him a piece of my mind.

The words never came. I saw the left side of his face for the first time and I had to stifle a gasp. A hideous scar ran the length of his cheek—from cheekbone almost to the line of his chin. Quickly I looked away. When I looked back I found myself being stared at in the rear view mirror. His eyes were thin slivers of ice. I forced my eyes away and felt the car go a little faster.

I couldn’t say anything. I looked out the window, but all my eyes could see was that horrible scar.

I could feel him watching me in the rear view mirror. My eyes were drawn to it like a magnet. Our gazes met and held for a moment. He lowered his eyes and fixed them on the road ahead. The tilt was gone from his head. He held it straight and proud.

Minutes before I had disliked this man; now I pitied him, although I sensed that that was the one thing he would despise most

I wanted to apologize for my earlier remark. I wanted to say something, anything, just to show that his unfortunate disfigurement didn’t matter. I wanted him to feel that I understood. Unfortunately, whatever I said would only bring attention to the one thing he wanted to forget. The reason for his rude, unfriendly behavior seemed plain enough now, but it was too late to tell him so. He had seen the look of horror on my face; he had heard my stifled gasp; he knew I had been repulsed when I had seen the left side of his face. Strangely enough, however, now that the initial shock was over, I didn’t feel repulsion.

By now we had left Lisbon far behind and were heading southwest toward the ocean. I could smell it in the air. I rolled down the window and let the wind, thick with the smell of salt, clear my thoughts. We rounded a sweeping curve in the road and there before me lay the most beautiful sight I had ever seen and one I will never forget.

The bleached sand, dotted with patches of rock and moss, hugged the Atlantic like a jealous mistress. Here and there pastel cottages sat in the midst of little fenced gardens. The sun was high and the sky—now solidly blue and unclouded—blended so perfectly with the lovely blue water that the line of horizon was indistinguishable. High mountains towered on one side of the road, their tops crowned with trees and lush, velvety shrubs.

I stared in wonder at the exquisite contrast between quiet isolation and teeming vitality. Summer waters broke winter white against the beach; flat, creamy sands swept high into towering cliffs of green; square, low houses stretched up to touch the sky with their tapered, filigreed chimneys. The smell of oranges, lemons, grapes, and almonds mingled deliciously with the fresh sea air.

It was the paradise I had always sought. I hadn’t the faintest idea what this place was called, or how far we had to travel. And I didn’t care. It was too beautiful.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” I asked, hypnotized by the beauty of the landscape, completely forgetting what had gone before.

His silence suddenly brought memory back. Our eyes met again in the mirror. This time it was I who lowered my gaze.

Fire on the Moon

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