The Girl in the Glyphs Page 6

  “Get in the car,” I said. “Hurry. Anda listo!”

  I jumped into the passenger seat and slammed the door. Blanca climbed in on her side and started the engine. “But that’s Elizabeth Alvarado,” she said. “Don’t you want to talk to her?”

  Elizabeth tapped on my window. “Come on, Jennifer. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  “Secrets?” Blanca said. “What secrets?”

  “Damn it, Blanca, if you don’t get this trap moving I’ll get another guide.”

  She drove away, slowly, keeping her eyes on the rearview mirror.

  We spent the morning in Altagracia, the second largest village on the island. Now and then I caught a glimpse of Paco back in the shadows, and by noon I’d taken all the glyph photographs I needed—abstract symbols, dancing men, spirals, and celestial bodies. But it was a glyph here and a glyph there, nothing to link them together and no old couple to explain them.

  The story is not yet finished.

  The words of the old woman gnawed at me. It wouldn’t let go, and when we sped beneath Volcán Maderas on our way back to the landing, I looked up and imagined I could see her at the edge of the cloud forest, motioning me to come back up.

  “Thinking about your ghosts?” Blanca said.

  “They’re not ghosts.”

  “I’ll believe it when you show me the pictures.”

  We stopped for lunch near the landing with its sea of boat masts, fishy odors, and squawking birds. I climbed out and was about to rush into a nearby café when I noticed an ancient church that faced the water, so unkempt that ferns grew out of mortar joints.

  The name above the portal read, IGLESIA SAN PAOLO.

  “Why San Paolo?” I asked Blanca. “You’d think it would be San Pablo.” What I didn’t mention was that all of Father Antonio’s correspondence had been addressed to a Father Paolo.

  “Who knows? But you could ask Doña Eulalia. Her office is in the rear.”

  She flicked her cigarette into the street and headed for the café. “I’ll check it out,” I told her, then grabbed my camera, crossed the street where artists had set up shop, nodded at Paco, and followed a path alongside the church to the office in the rear.

  Doña Eulalia sat behind a wooden desk in a cluttered office that reeked of things old and musty, squinting through thick eyeglasses. Her hair was thin and white, and she looked almost as ancient at the church. After the introductions and small talk, she motioned me into a tattered wicker chair and asked in her old woman’s voice what had brought me here.

  “The church’s name. San Paolo.”

  She smiled, showing crooked teeth, then pointed to a painting of an old priest with white hair and sagging jowls. “That’s him right there, Bishop Paolo Prieto-Baro, our benefactor.”

  I put on my glasses. “When was this painting done?”

  “Oh, I imagine the 1780’s. He was an old man. You might also be interested in that other priest, the one over there. He’s the one with a story to tell.”

  The other painting was as faded and cracked as Father Paolo’s, but the subject was not dressed as a priest. Wasn’t old either. On the contrary, he was a handsome man in his twenties or thirties, with dark hair, bold features, well-trimmed beard, and large eyes that lit up his face.

  “El Cantante,” said Doña Eulalia. “The singing priest. Also a stage actor.”

  Father Antonio? My heart skipped a beat. “But he’s not dressed like a priest.”

  “That’s because they defrocked the poor man. Put him in jail for heresy…condemned him to the stake. But he got away. Came back as Don Antonio. But the people here—they were all Indians—they knew who he was. Father Antonio, the singing priest.”

  I almost came out of my chair. Father Antonio escaped? I tried to keep my voice calm. “I’d always heard they burned him at the stake.”

  “No, dear, if he was burned at the stake, how could he write a memoir?”

  “He wrote a memoir?”

  “In his own hand.” She struggled up with the groan of old age, stepped to a filing cabinet, and pulled out a thick folder. “Here it is. I’ve tried to read it but it’s not Spanish. I think it’s Catalán.”

  I took the folder. It was heavy, filled with what appeared to be hundreds of pages, all faded, worm-eaten and cracked. The title read, Diari d’un Viatge a través del Carib—Un Compte Personal de la meva Escapament de la Inquisició i Aventures amb Pirates.

  Which I translated as Journal of a Voyage through the Spanish Main—A Personal Account of my Escape from the Inquisition and Adventures with Pirates.

  Pirates? The Spanish Main? Maybe that rumor about gold was more than rumor. I flipped through the pages. Here and there I recognized a name—like Father Paolo—but there were unfamiliar names like Molly the pirate girl, Billy Chupacabra, and someone named Green Eyes. Who were these people? And did it contain information about the cave?

  I glanced up at Doña Eulalia. “Has anyone else read this, borrowed it?”

  “Not to my knowledge…and I’ve been here more than forty years.”

  I looked through more pages and found an account of one of Father Antonio’s encounters with Molly. Although it was penned in the language of the day, with many archaic words and flowery expressions, I translated it in my head as if it had been written yesterday.

  Every breath sent another stir to my loins. Her smile raised the warmth in the cabin. I latched the door behind me and turned back as she was taking off an earring. Oh, the loveliness of those eyes that were locked onto mine. The moist lips. The way her darkened hair fell to her shoulders, shimmering in the candlelight…

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Doña Eulalia said. “Are you okay?”

  “May I make a copy of this? I’ll translate it into Spanish for you.”

  She reached for her walking cane. “There’s a print shop up the street.”

  Chapter 17

  Moyogalpa

  I tucked the folder under my arm and helped her out the door, glancing around like a fugitive. Every passing car became suspect. Every person on the street became an agent of Gonzales. Even the circling sea gulls seemed like the enemy agents, trying to bring attention to me with their abrasive caws. It didn’t help that the document was bulky and heavy, and the sidewalk broken and uneven. Or that Doña Eulalia tottered along like the old woman she was. Worse, she kept stopping to say hello to acquaintances, even to pet a dog, and by the time we reached the shop, I was so paranoid and frustrated that my head was pounding.

  One final glance around and I hurried inside.

  “I’d like to print this,” I said to a young woman behind the counter.

  “Sorry, señorita, but Hectór is out on errand. He should be back in, oh, half an hour.”

  “You can’t do it?”

  “No, señorita. Hectór is the only one.”

  I could have screamed. Instead I reminded myself that I was in Nicaragua and not at Kinko’s. The young woman brought coffee. Doña Eulalia fell asleep in a chair. I found another chair next to a stack of boxes and began flipping through the pages, searching for references to the cave.

  The light was poor. The dizzying odor of printer’s ink made it worse. I wasn’t that fluent in Catalán. Add to that the faded pages, the archaic wording, and Father Antonio’s habit of writing without paragraph breaks, and it was a bit like reading The Canterbury Tales in Anglo-Saxon. Still, I found descriptions of sea battles, hangings and burnings and even a pirate named Vampire Jack. Then I came to another romantic encounter with Molly, this time in a tub of warm water.

  The robe fell to the floor…and she eased into the tub facing me. We came closer. Her lips found mine. Hungry lips. Soft lips that tasted of honey. And for the first time in more than a year I discovered love. In a warm tub of water in a bath house in Santo Domingo.

  This was racier than Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones from the same period—and this guy was a priest. Or former priest. I looked through more pages and was reading an account of a Za
mbo attack with flaming arrows when Hectór arrived. No, he said, he couldn’t do it now because it was time for mid-day break and there were more jobs ahead of mine.

  I waved a hundred-dollar bill in his face. “This is in addition to the printing costs.”

  “Two hours,” he said. “It’s the best I can do.”

  Doña Eulalia offered to wait. I wanted to wait too, but if I delayed much longer, Blanca would come looking for me. I told Hectór I’d be back in two hours, then peeked out the door.

  Nothing but a breeze off the lake, the cawing seabirds, and a street lined with palm trees.

  I hurried down the street toward the wharf, passing around street artists, and found Blanca at the sidewalk café, smoking a cigarette and reading a romance novel. She slapped her book shut.

  “We need to talk.”

  Before she could explain, a server poured coffee and took my order for a ham and cheese sandwich. The only other customer in the place was a woman in bright colors, boots, and wide-brimmed hat, busy at work on a sketchpad.

  “Street artist,” Blanca hissed as if the woman were a prostitute. “They sketch your likeness, then try to make you feel guilty if you don’t buy their masterpiece.”

  “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

  “No, señorita.” She ground out her cigarette, lit another, and glanced around as if about to confess a secret. Then she leaned across the table. “You’re searching for that cave, aren’t you?”

  I felt like beating my head against the table.

  “What cave, Blanca?”

  “Oh, please, señorita, that story about you photographing glyphs is as phony as the Rolexes they sell in the fish market. Why else would an important woman like Elizabeth be after you?”

  She held up a hand to shut off my protest. “I can think of only one other reason. That woman who disappeared. What was her name? Catherine?”

  “What about Catherine?”

  “You tell me. Are you a detective, searching for her?”

  “For God’s sake, Blanca. Do I look like a detective? I’m a photographer, nothing more.”

  “Of course you are, señorita, how foolish of me to think otherwise, but just in case you’re interested, let me tell you my theory.” She glanced at the artist, then turned back and lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “The Church got her. They wanted to silence her.”

  “The Church?”

  “Sí, señorita, la Iglesia.” She took a long drag on her cigarette. “Look, here’s what happened. You’ve got this cave that supposedly tells the story of a female Moses. Verdad? If the story turns out to be true, they’d have to start allowing women in the priesthood. What a disaster for the Vatican. Imagine that, female priests. But do you think those creepy old pedophiles want women priests? Hell, no. They couldn’t get away with molesting boys, could they? Then you’ve got the commandments in the cave. What if they’re different from the other ten?”

  “Different how?”

  “How about this: ‘Thou shalt love the maricones of the world.’ Ha. Imagine that: God saying we should love fags.” She laughed so hard she started coughing. “Or this. ‘Thou shalt practice safe sex.’ Por Dios, no wonder the pope had a stroke. I’m telling you, girl, the Church doesn’t want you to find that cave. They’ll kill to keep it hidden. That’s why they killed your friend. That’s why you need to be careful. They’re probably watching right now.”

  I glanced around as if the Vatican had filled the place with spies, but there was only the artist at work on her sketchpad. Blanca’s eyes widened. “Joda! It’s him.”

  I twisted around in time to see Dreadlocks hurrying away like a spy with his cover blown. My body stiffened. Blanca pulled the pistol from her holster and spun the cylinder like a cowboy in an old Western. “Not to worry, señorita. I’ve got this cousin with a boat. It’s fast. Powerful. We can take you around the islands for a reasonable fee. Help you find the cave.”

  “Listen, Blanca, I—”

  “No, it’s okay. You don’t have to answer. Just think about it. We can start early as tomorrow morning.” She holstered the pistol and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.

  Other customers came in. I looked around for Paco and realized I hadn’t seen him since I’d gone into the church. The server brought my sandwich. I nibbled at it, decided I wasn’t hungry, and glanced over at the artist. “May I see the sketch, por favor?”

  She smiled and came over with her sketchpad.

  Not a bad likeness, I thought: Blanca in dungarees, T-shirt and green army cap, looking like a jungle fighter. Me in jeans, vest and cap, hair pulled back in a ponytail. There, too, was the landing with its boats and tall masts, a wrought-iron fence, the volcano in the background.

  And the old Indian couple.

  My throat went dry. I jabbed a finger at the painting. “What is this?”

  “It’s not often you see them in native garb,” she said in a girlish voice.

  “Where were they?”

  “Didn’t you see them? They were right over there.”

  I followed her gaze to the railing that stood between us and the street. No one stood there now and no one had stood there before.

  “I can white them out if you like.”

  “No, I like it.”

  I paid her asking price of three hundred córdobas—about twenty-five dollars. She thanked me and hurried away with the pad under her arm, her bracelets jangling, leaving me alone at the table. How could this be? The only thing that made sense was a prank.

  Of course. Blanca had put her up to it.

  I examined the sketch again. A perfect likeness: the old woman with her shawl and basket, the old man with his straw hat and machete. This was too spooky. No way could it have been drawn from Blanca’s description. Either the artist had seen them or she’d drawn the sketch from a photo. I gazed up at the mountain and imagined I could see the old man and woman at the edge of the mist forest, a couple of luminous, vaporous figures, waiting for me.

  The story is not yet finished.

  A chill ran through me; the air seemed to turn icy cold. A shadow fell over me.

  And there stood Dreadlocks.

  Chapter 18

  I bounded up in voiceless terror. Blanca rushed out with drawn pistol. Dreadlocks put up his hands as if surrendering. Around us, other customers were also on their feet, backing away.

  Then Elizabeth and her cameraman came in.

  As if that wasn’t confusing enough, Paco appeared at Dreadlock’s side. “Put that damn thing away!” he yelled at Blanca. Blanca backed away as if unsure what to do. Paco pointed at Dreadlocks. “This is Nelson. He’s with me. Don’t fuck with him.”

  Nelson lowered his hands, slowly, and spoke to me in a melodious Caribbean English. “I work for Mr. Alan. He say you need ride back to Granada. His boat over there.”

  “How do I know you work for Alan?”

  Nelson grinned, showing gold teeth. “Mr. Alan say you smart girl, need proof.” He pulled a note from his back pocket and handed it to me—Jen, you can trust Nelson. I’d have come but I had something sufficiently dignified to detain me. I can hardly wait for tonight.

  Blood flowed back into my face. Damn that Alan. Why hadn’t he told me about Nelson? He was going to hear about this. The cameraman moved in for a closer view. Elizabeth also stepped closer with her microphone. “What’s in the note, Jennifer?”

  I stuffed it into my pocket. “It’s personal.”

  By then, servers and staff had gathered around. Locals were coming off the street to see what the fuss was about. So were beggars and artists. I paid for lunch, asked Blanca to retrieve my pack from her Datsun, and hurried outside.

  Elizabeth followed with her camera. I handed my pack to Nelson and told him I’d meet him at the boat in ten or fifteen minutes. Then, while Elizabeth interviewed Blanca, who seemed happy for the attention, I jumped into a taxi and asked the driver to take me to the print shop.

  It was going on four when I arrived back
at the Alhambra with my copy of Father Antonio’s memoir, hoping to find Alan in the lobby. Tourists sat around in their guayabera shirts, some of them fogging the place with cigars, but the wicker chair was empty.

  Sabio glanced up from his newspaper. “You’ve got two messages,” he said, and picked up a pad. “Your mom and your husband. Both of them want you to call back.”

  I rolled my eyes. My crazy mom could talk for hours. As for Stan, forget it. He was history.

  “What about the gringo?” I asked.

  “Haven’t seen him. No messages either.”

  A stab of disappointment shot through me. Maybe I’d been fooling myself. Maybe he wasn’t as interested in me as I thought. I crossed the lobby and was at the stairway when I saw a plain piece of paper stuck to the wall with thumbtacks. And on it, in bold lettering:

  ON THIS SPOT

  JENNIFER & ALAN MET

  I grabbed the paper and raced up to my room. On the pillow lay a dozen red roses, and with them another note—My dearest Jennifer. There was a moment last night when we were listening to the guitar players that I looked into your eyes and understood what I’ve been searching for all my life! Lobby at seven. I know this wonderful little restaurant in Masatepe.

  I read the note again. There was life in his missive, his words on paper, written in his own hand. If I hadn’t been so insecure, or so inexperienced with men, I might have interpreted it as just another come-on from a horny guy. But for me, at that moment, it was a love dance, a song, a poem, a cry for the same kind of companionship I craved. Yes, he was smitten.

  His words played in the flow of water from the showerhead, and later in the blow dryer as I was doing my hair, and in the wind that blew from the open balcony doors.

  Now what? I asked myself. He’d be expecting more than a goodnight kiss. I wanted more too, but I hadn’t had a date for so long I didn’t know how to act. Didn’t want to come off like that girl in the glyphs either. God, I needed advice. Maybe I should call my therapist. No, she’d already warned me about first relationships after a breakup, saying they rarely worked.