The Girl in the Glyphs Read online

  Only one person could help me, and that was Diane, my co-worker and best friend. She’d know what to do. She changed boyfriends as often as I tanked up my old Volvo.

  She answered on the second ring and I imagined her sitting at her desk, all dark eyes and raven-colored hair with a headband. “How do you feel about him?” she asked in her North Carolina Cherokee accent.

  “I don’t know. There’s this indescribable little glow.”

  “I know exactly how you feel. Met this guy named Sam the other night. He—”

  “Listen, Diane. I’m in a hurry here. Can we talk about my problems?”

  “Sorry, have you done it with him yet?”

  “I’ve only known him a day or two.”

  “Not a problem for me. Just don’t bring back any cooties. Don’t get knocked up either.”

  Chapter 19

  The clock at the cathedral was tolling seven when I inspected myself one last time in the mirror. Designer jeans, white blouse, black leather jacket and onyx earrings. Perfect. I put on another dash of Poeme, stuffed Father Antonio’s memoir into my tote bag, and took the stairway to the lobby, expecting to find Alan in the wicker chair.

  He wasn’t there. Wasn’t anywhere in the lobby. An older man pointed me out to his wife as if to say, “There’s the woman who got into it with the soldiers.” I checked my watch and was about to ask Sabio when I saw Alan coming through the front entrance—with Luz Maria.

  They were arguing. Luz Maria in heels and low riding jeans, belly exposed, gazing up at him with fire in her eyes. She saw me, threw out a hand as if in disgust, and stalked right by me, leaving a trail of perfume. Alan, looking a bit sheepish, rushed over and kissed me on both cheeks. “Sorry I’m late, but I had a—”

  “What’s wrong with Luz Maria?”

  “Same old crap. Says I’m covering for the comandante.”

  “Why don’t you just come clean and tell her?”

  “Leonardo would kill me.”

  He put a hand on my back and guided me out the door, along the veranda where we’d sat the night before. I was still troubled by Luz Maria and was wondering if I should press the matter when a black Toyota Land Rover screeched to a stop beside us, all dome lights and bumper protectors. In the driver’s seat sat Paco, looking as thuggish as ever.

  I climbed into the back seat with Alan and breathed in the smell of cigarettes. Paco found a salsa station on the radio and then we were bouncing along the cobbled streets, putting Luz Maria and the sagging red-tiled roofs of Granada behind us.

  “Paco tells me you had a rough time today,” Alan said, taking my hand. “What happened?”

  I lowered my voice. “Does Paco understand English?”

  “Not a word. You can tell me all your secrets.”

  I told him about Elizabeth on the ferry, progressed to Father Antonio’s memoirs, and was telling him about the artist’s sketch when his cell rang.

  “Christ,” he said. “I’ve got to take this.”

  While he was talking, I glanced into the fading light and saw the real Nicaragua—little adobe houses with wash on the line; the roads clogged with people on foot, bicycle or horseback; banana trees and coffee groves on both sides; bromeliads clinging to power lines.

  “No,” Alan said into his cell, “get somebody else.” He flipped it shut and turned to me. “Damn country can’t get a minute of peace. Somebody took a shot at the mayor of Managua.”

  “Who?”

  “They’re saying it’s the squatters from Zapateras. Killed a couple of bystanders.” He sank back into his seat and lowered his voice. “That could mess up our plans.”

  Oh, great, I thought. The night had already been soured by Luz Maria. And now this. Worse, Paco drove like a homicidal maniac, passing slow-moving trucks and blowing his horn at dogs and pedestrians. Then he slammed on the brakes. “Roadblock,” he said as we skidded to a stop.

  An army truck loomed up before us, lights flashing, soldiers standing on both sides of the road with lanterns and assault rifles. A large sign on the left read, ENTRANCE TO VOLCÁN MASAYA. “To hell with this,” Alan said to Paco. “Let’s go back to Granada.”

  Paco drove onto the shoulder and was trying to make a U-turn when soldiers rushed up beside us, waving their rifles and pounding on the doors. “Stop! Everybody out!”

  “It’ll be okay,” Alan said, patting me on the knee. “Just stay calm.”

  In that moment of madness, with my heart in my throat, I was certain they’d stopped us for Father Antonio’s memoir. I shoved the tote bag under the seat and stepped out, hands in the air.

  Soldiers shoved Alan and Paco against the Land Rover and patted them down. Another nudged me with his rifle. “Who are you?” he said in a gruff voice.

  Alan produced his diplomatic passport and said we were going to a restaurant in Masatepe. The officer in charge walked around the Land Rover with his flashlight and looked us over.

  “What is this about?” Alan asked. “Why are you stopping us?”

  “Rebels,” said the officer. “Maybe contras. You’ll have to wait here.”

  Other cars and trucks jammed up behind us. Off to our left, Volcán Masaya glowed red and white and back to red, throwing eerie colors over the scene. Then came the road people—entire families with children, bicycles, wheelbarrows, carts and an assortment of animals. They gathered into small clumps around us, horses and all, each with its own gray-haired, poorly shaven authority, holding forth on the reason for the road block.

  “It’s the contras,” said an old man holding a horse by its tether, his straw hat glowing red in the changing light. “They’re hiding up there, on the volcano.”

  “I say burn the bastards. Toss them in the crater like they did in the old days.”

  Everyone nodded agreement. The volcano roared. Dogs barked. Soldiers moved about in the darkness, shining flashlights into cars and checking identifications. Then they shoved Paco against a tree. “I know this one,” said a soldier with stripes on his sleeve. “He’s a contra.”

  “He’s my driver,” Alan said. “Not a soldier.”

  “He’s also a war criminal. He should be in jail.”

  Paco jerked loose and climbed back into the Land Rover. A shirtless man with a blaring boom box leaned against the fender. Out of his radio came a song about a poor country girl named Maria who goes to the city to search for a better life, only to end up washing clothes by day and selling her body at night—Pobre la María, y su fantasía…

  That could be me, I thought—poor little Jennifer and her fantasía of love with a stranger. Now stuck in the shadow of an active volcano, breathing in dust and exhaust fumes.

  A couple of kids began dancing to the music. Alan put an arm around me and I was thinking how good it felt when a blast of automatic gunfire erupted on the road that led up to the volcano.

  Tracers blazed into the night. Alan pushed me to the ground. Glass shattered. The civilians panicked and rushed in all directions. A squad of soldiers returned fire. Spent cartridges fell into my hair and on my back, a shower of hot metal, flashing lights, and sharp acrid smells.

  “It could be worse,” Alan shouted in my ear.

  “How could it possibly be worse?”

  “Elizabeth Alvarado could be here with her camera.”

  Why this was funny, I do not know, but both of us burst into hysterical laughter, right there on the ground with madness around us and tracers filling the air with their fiery paths.

  The shooting stopped. An officer came into the fray, waving his arms.

  “What is wrong with you idiots? It could be the assassins. Get after them.”

  Trucks roared away, leaving clouds of choking fumes. We hopped into the Land Rover and managed to turn around, but the road was so clogged with backed-up traffic we could barely move. Alan’s cell kept ringing. The wind shifted, bringing down eye-burning smoke and whiffs of sulfur from Volcán Masaya. And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, news came over the radio that gunboats h
ad cut off all access to Isla Zapateras.

  I could have screamed, cursed, kicked the seat, but somehow I managed to control myself.

  “Nicaragua,” Alan muttered, which seemed to explain it all.

  It was after midnight when we finally reached the hotel and crawled up the stairs in the lamp light. At the doorway to my room, I brushed volcanic dust from my sleeve. Alan looked at me through bloodshot eyes. “I’m so sorry about—”

  “Don’t,” I said, and put a finger to his lips. “It’s just not our time yet.”

  “Are you going to be here tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow I’m going to Managua. To the embassy party.”

  “Oh, yes, the embassy.” He turned and lumbered away. No kiss. And no mention of getting together again. Was this the end? Was I the girl they were singing about on the radio?

  Pobre la Maria and her fantasía.

  I bolted the door and tried not to cry.

  Chapter 20

  The next morning, after that crazy old priest woke me with fireworks, and the blaring horns and street vendors outside my window gave me a headache, I decided I’d had enough. Forget Alan. Forget the embassy party. I’d come to Nicaragua to find Father Antonio’s cave, maybe get information on Catherine’s disappearance, not have a fling with a stranger who’d done nothing to encourage me to stay. Not to mingle with royalty.

  I picked up the phone and called the number for American Airlines.

  “Sorry,” said the voice on the other end. “Our flight to Miami is full.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “Not tomorrow either. Your next availability is Monday.”

  I hung up and kicked my suitcase. Damn it. Why hadn’t I called them last night? Or two days ago? The answer was simple. I’d been seduced by fantasies of romance.

  Stupid me, what was I thinking?

  I ordered down for coffee, then packed my suitcase and called a taxi.

  The taxi ride to Managua took an hour. The driver talked endlessly about the assassination attempt. We barely avoided a collision with a cow. The volcanic stench of sulfur hung in the air, and I sat in the back trying to absorb all that had gone wrong. My cover blown. No cave discovery. No romance with a handsome stranger. Nothing but dashed dreams.

  Pobre la Maria y su fantasía.

  At last we drove around a traffic circle and stopped in front of a hotel that resembled a Mayan pyramid, massive at the bottom and truncated upward.

  “The InterContinental,” said the driver. “Howard Hughes used to live here.”

  There were no soldiers that I could see, only well-dressed patrons, a luxurious lobby that doubled as an indoor shopping center, and a fax from Victoria. I read it at a glance:

  An embassy driver will pick you up at nine p.m. Wish I could be there. Enjoy.

  Enjoy? How could I enjoy anything with so much failure hanging over me? I took the key and rode the elevator to a spacious room on the tenth floor. It had a spectacular view of Lake Managua, a king-sized bed—and the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking from the next room.

  On it went, the thump of a headboard followed by a woman’s moans.

  Thump-moan, thump-moan, thump-moan.

  That could be me, I thought, lying beneath Alan, and it might have come to that except for last night. Which might have saved me from making a fool of myself.

  I flopped back on the bed. The commotion in the next room grew louder.

  “Sí, mi amor. Sí, mi amor. Sííííí,” and all was quiet.

  Damn them. How could they enjoy themselves when I was so miserable?

  The day passed in slow motion. I called my mom’s number. No answer, but I left a message that I was okay. I read portions of Father Antonio’s manuscript and found yet another account of a tryst with pirate girl Molly. On a table. Even a Jesuit had a better love life than I did. I locked the memoir in the room safe, and then I called Diane.

  No, I told her, I had not done it with the hunk and didn’t plan to.

  “What happened?”

  “Long story. I’ll tell you when I get home.”

  I visited the hotel beauty salon to get my hair and nails done, then came back and took my gown out of the closet. It was rich chiffon, thin as fine silk. You couldn’t call it charcoal exactly, or black either, but the color, cut and size were perfect. It had lace lining, spaghetti straps, and just the right clings and plunge to show my figure to full advantage.

  And now I was going to wear it for the King of Spain.

  The thought sent a shudder through me. I’d never been to a diplomatic soiree, not in Washington, DC or anywhere else. Didn’t have title or high position. So why had they invited me, a 25-year-old desk archaeologist from the Smithsonian? Obviously they didn’t know I used to milk the family goat, run barefoot along the muddy streets of Bacalar, and turn brown as a coconut in the tropical sun.

  The King of Spain.

  I curtseyed the way I’d seen it done in movies.

  “Enchanted, your royal highness. What a pleasure to meet you. What a great honor.”

  No, I’d have to address him in Spanish. Not just Spanish, but the highbrow Castilian Spanish with all those lispy, spitting sounds.

  “Encantada de conocerle, su majestad. Es un honor, un gran honor.”

  And the king would ask how long I’d been working there as a servant.

  At eight, I put on my sexiest underwear and pulled on my gown. My stomach was doing that butterfly thing. Who was going to pick me up? And what would they do—drop me at the gate? Alone. I wouldn’t know a soul, wasn’t sure how to act. I could imagine all those diplomats staring and pointing. Poor thing, they’d say. Why does she look so sad?

  I turned on the television and watched a newscast about the squatter uprising. And there was Elizabeth, talking about Zapateras, saying all access to the island had been shut off by gunboats.

  “No one goes in, no one comes out,” she said as if speaking to me.

  As nine approached, I went through a final inspection in the mirror. No wayward hair strands. Lipstick the right shade. Dangling pearl earrings against an olive complexion. Gown perfect.

  At nine sharp came the knock at the door.

  “Driver from the embassy,” said a voice on the other side.

  I opened the door and stared into Alan’s grinning face.

  Chapter 21

  Managua

  He was dressed in a black tuxedo and cummerbund, looking like the prince of any woman’s dreams. In his hand was a single rose. “Oh, my God,” he said, “look at you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “And spoil this moment—that shock on your face? Hell no, princess, no way.” He kissed me on the cheek and stepped into the room. “Are you okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Last night was such a disaster I was worried you’d never want to see me again.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Maybe not, but I had a miserable night thinking about it…how I’d let you down.”

  “You can make up for it tonight.”

  “Then let’s do it.” He placed the rose into a cup and took my hand. “You, my dear, are going to be the most beautiful woman at the ball. They’ll think you’re a Hungarian princess.”

  Not until we were in the elevator, humming downward and the shock wearing off, did I notice he was wearing boots. I giggled. “I’ve never seen that before, boots with a tuxedo.”

  “You got a problem with boots, ma’am?”

  “Hey, I’m from Florida. I could be wearing Bermudas and flip-flops.”

  People in the lobby stared. A clerk behind the desk said we made a great-looking couple. Servants sprang to the door and held it open. A uniformed chauffeur was waiting outside, next to a black Cadillac. “Ambassador’s wheels,” Alan said. “We’re like Superman—bulletproof.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “Ask him. He’ll be at the reception.”

  In the back seat, he again apologiz
ed about the night before. I told him all was forgiven, and ten or fifteen minutes later, we stood before the wrought-iron gates of the Embajada de España. Policeman, soldiers, paparazzi, and security officers lined the street. The red and yellow of Spain billowed and snapped atop a flagpole. From inside came the sounds of music and merriment, the tinkle of crystal, laughter and conversation.

  A uniformed guard checked our invitations and waved us in. A tuxedoed servant led us down a wide corridor as if we were royalty ourselves, guiding us past marble busts between which hung oils by the masters of Europe. “Oh, my God,” I said, “isn’t that a—?”

  “A Goya,” sniffed the servant. He stopped us at a table overflowing with red carnations, and pinned one on each of us. “Symbol of the monarchy,” he said. “Have you met royalty before?”

  Alan said, yes, I said, no, and we burst into laughter.

  The servant lifted an eyebrow. “Enjoy it, but protocol dictates you do not approach them. Let them approach you. Answer their questions, but ask none.”

  We followed him past more busts of famous Spaniards, past antique chairs that belonged in a museum, and past more oil paintings. At the end of the corridor, the doors swung open as if by magic and we entered the crowded ballroom of the Embassy of Spain.

  Chapter 22

  The Spanish Embassy

  A flamenco dance was going on, with flying skirts and twirling señoritas, lipstick as red as their dresses. A small orchestra, its members dressed as gypsies in puffy sleeves, played with robust Spanish flair, heavy on the snare drums, violins and castanets. Tuxedoed servants scurried around with wine and delicacies on silver trays. The flag of Spain draped from a balcony.

  My blood stirred. How marvelous to burst into a ballroom in one glorious moment in a beautiful gown, hanging on the arm of the man of my dreams.