The Girl Who Remembered the Snow (18 page)
Read The Girl Who Remembered the Snow Online
Authors: Charles Mathes
“Yeah. You pretty crazy.”
“Thanks a lot!”
The stone barrier had curved inward. Emma turned into the drive and brought the car to a halt in front of a pair of enormous iron gates. Next to the gates was a stone gatehouse from which three men in khaki uniforms stared coldly out at her.
Emma waited, uncertain what to do. For nearly a minute nothing happened. Then the door of the gatehouse swung open. One of the men came out and slowly approached the car. He was tall and thin, with the catlike bearing of a professional soldier. His eyes were concealed behind dark sunglasses. In one hand he held a clipboard. In a black leather holster on his belt was the biggest gun Emma had ever seen in her life.
The guard came directly to her window, bent down and scrutinized Emma and the boy. Then he spoke in crisp, authoritative Spanish.
“He wants to know who we are and what we want,” said Timoteo, staring back defiantly at the man.
“Interpret for me,” said Emma, her mouth suddenly dry. “My name is Emma Passant. I've come from the United States. I'm looking for information about a boat that I believe may have been at the marina in Migelina that Mr. Zuberan used to own. I'd like to talk to him about it.”
Timoteo had been translating as Emma had gone along. The guard listened silently, his face opaque, his eyes invisible behind his sunglasses. Now he checked his clipboard and spoke again.
“He say your name is not on his list,” said Timoteo when the man stopped talking. “He say we have no business with Senor Zuberan and must go away.”
“I only want to ask a few questions,” stammered Emma.
Timoteo translated. The guard shook his head.
“It will only take a few minutes of Señor Zuberan's time. Say please.”
The man shook his head again.
Emma fought down a moment of panic. She smiled her sweetest smile and did her best to bat her eyes from behind her glasses. Emma knew she wasn't great with men, but figured it was worth a shot. The guard's reaction did nothing to improve her self-esteem. He unsnapped the leather thong of his holster and put his hand on the butt of his revolver.
“He is a pig,” sneered Timoteo. “He will not really shoot you. Only a coward would shoot a woman.”
“How much money does he want just to call Señor Zuberan and ask?” said Emma in desperation. “Tell him I'll give him a hundred pesos. Two hundred.”
Timoteo shot her a smug, I-told-you-so smile and began to speak, but the guard cut him short with a few curt words in Spanish.
“What did he say?” asked Emma, feeling her best chance to learn about the
Kaito Spirit
slipping away.
Kaito Spirit
slipping away.
“He say the guards of Señor Zuberan are not for sale.”
“Apologize to him.”
“Why should we apologize?” said Timoteo. “We did nothing.”
“Don't argue. Tell him I'm very sorry if I've offended him. Tell him I must talk with Señor Zuberan. It's extremely important.”
Timoteo made a face, then began to translate. The guard spoke angrily before the boy could finish.
“He say we are on private property,” said Timoteo. “He say we must go away right now.”
“It's not private property across the road, is it?” Emma said, suddenly angry herself.
She started the car and backed out of the drive, parking beneath a group of palm trees across from the gates of the Zuberan estate. The guard stood for a few moments watching her, then returned to the gatehouse.
“We go swimming now?” asked Timoteo hopefully.
“No,” said Emma, glancing at her watch; it was a little before noon. “You hungry yet?”
“I guess,” said the boy, shrugging his shoulders as if he could take food or leave it.
“Come on. We'll have a picnic.”
“Picnic?”
“You'll see.”
Emma reached into the back seat for the two white boxes the hotel kitchen had made up at her request. After yesterday's lunch experience, Emma had decided to come prepared. She and Timoteo got out of the car and sat down between the flowers at the foot of the largest palm.
Emma had had fruit and cereal for breakfast a few hours before and wasn't very hungry, but for the next fifteen minutes she ate her chicken sandwich, drank her lemonade, and pretended to be having a great time.
Timoteo didn't have to pretend. He happily wolfed down his
food, chattering with his mouth full about how he had picnics all the time. He was still hungry after he had finished his sandwich and all the fruit in the boxes, so Emma let him eat her piece of cake as well as his own.
food, chattering with his mouth full about how he had picnics all the time. He was still hungry after he had finished his sandwich and all the fruit in the boxes, so Emma let him eat her piece of cake as well as his own.
In the gatehouse across the road the unreadable faces of guards filled the windows. Fighting down the impulse to hurl a rock at them, Emma picked some flowers and made a garland, which she set like a crown on Timoteo's head. She thought the boy might brush it away as not macho enough, but instead he seemed delighted. The guards, however, turned to one another in evident dismay. At last she was getting somewhere! Emma took Timoteo's hands in hers and began dancing around the palm tree, determined not to lose the initiative. Veins began to bulge visibly out of the guards' necks.
Within a minute one of them emerged from the gatehouse and crossed the road. This man was older and smaller than the guard who had spoken to them before. He had the sleek build of an athlete and wore the same enormous revolver on his hip as the man who had tried to send them away. Timoteo seemed disappointed that Emma stopped their dance to talk to him.
“I am Capitán Ortiz,” said the guard in English, removing his sunglasses. His voice was curt and professional. His small brown eyes were cold, his face stern. “You cannot stay here, señorita.”
“Are we standing on Señor Zuberan's property now, Capitan Ortiz?” said Emma cheerfully, demonstrating her sweetest smile again.
“No, but you still cannot stay here.”
“We're just having a picnic. Are we breaking some law?”
“You cannot dance across from our gate.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is not allowed.”
“But why?”
“Because it is not ⦠appropriate.”
“Come on, Capitan Ortiz.” Emma laughed. “It's innocence
itself. Are you afraid that people won't take your guns seriously if you allow women and children to have picnics within your field of vision?”
itself. Are you afraid that people won't take your guns seriously if you allow women and children to have picnics within your field of vision?”
“We are not afraid,” said Capitan Ortiz, squaring his shoulders. “It is just not allowed, that is all. You must go away.”
“You seem like a reasonable man, señor,” said Emma. “I've come a very long way. Won't you just call Señor Zuberan and ask if he'll see me? If he says no, then we'll leave. That's fair, isn't it?”
The capitán glanced over his shoulder. Across the road in the gatehouse the two other guards were staring back, their expressions unreadable behind their sunglasses.
“It is pointless,” said Capitan Ortiz, shaking his head. “Señor Zuberan sees no one without an appointment.”
“Then you'll lose nothing by calling, will you? He'll just say no.
Ortiz stared at the garland of flowers in Timoteo's hair and frowned.
“When he says no, you will go away?”
“We'll go away,” said Emma, figuring to use tears only as a last resort.
The guard captain stared at her another moment, then took a walkie-talkie from his back pocket.
“Tell him I'm looking for information about a boat that may have been in the marina here thirty years ago,” said Emma. “Tell him it's extremely important.”
Capitán Ortiz frowned, then nodded.
“Your name?”
“Emma Passant.”
He took out a walkie-talkie and spoke into it in Spanish. A curt voice answered through a fog of electronic static. A brief conversation ensued. After a pause, another voice came on. Ortiz spoke into the walkie-talkie again. After the response, he looked up and spoke to Emma.
“What boat is it that you wish to know about?”
“It was called the
Kaito Spirit,”
said Emma.
Kaito Spirit,”
said Emma.
Ortiz repeated the name into his walkie-talkie. After a long, silent moment, the voice on the other end spoke again. The guard captain stared at the walkie-talkie, then at Emma. Then he spoke a few more words in Spanish and clicked off the device.
“Señor Zuberan has graciously agreed to receive you,” he announced stiffly. “Wait here.”
Ortiz walked back across the road and conferred briefly with his colleagues, who turned to stare at Emma periodically. As he returned to Emma's side of the road, the other guards began opening the huge iron gates.
“I will accompany you to the house,” said Ortiz, holding the car door for Emma. “You will stay on the road as I direct.”
“Thank you,” said Emma, getting in, wondering herself why Zuberan had suddenly agreed to see her. What was she getting herselfâand Timoteoâinto?
Unconcerned, the boy ran around the car and let himself in on the passenger side. Their escort took his place in the back seat, staring pointedly at the offending floral crown on Timoteo's head and clearing his throat until Emma removed it and deposited it on the dashboard. In another moment they were through the open gates and into the estate.
Emma drove as the guard directed, along a winding road flanked with an astonishing array of vegetation. The trees here seemed to have found their places naturally. The flowers, which bloomed on every side, might have evolved in their bedsâso perfectly did their colors and shapes complement one another.
Twice the road crossed streams that ran through the property, and several times Timoteo pointed in openmouthed astonishment at the peacocks in full finery strolling at the sides of the road. Emma also caught sight of several more guards patrolling the property. Each was dressed in the same uniform as the men at the gate, though these guards carried submachine guns in addition to the gigantic revolvers on their hips.
It took a full ten minutes for them to reach the house. For all Emma knew, Fimo's cousin might have been right about it being as large as a stadium. The Spanish-style hacienda was nestled in a sea of trees and vines and flowers, and there was no way to tell how far its adobe walls extended or how many courtyards they enclosed.
“Quite a spread you've got here,” she said, pulling the car up as instructed in front of a massive wooden-and-iron entryway framed with palm trees and tropical flowers.
“Wait here,” said Capitan Ortiz. He got out of the back seat, walked to the door and pulled a chain by its side.
Emma flashed Timoteo a grin, but the boy did not respond. He looked distinctly unhappy, out of his element, intimidated, frightened. Again she regretted bringing him here, but it was too late to turn back now.
After a moment the door of the house was opened by a small white-haired man in black pants, a white waiter's jacket and a thin bow tie. The man spoke a few words in Spanish to the guard captain, who nodded and then returned to the car.
“Abraham will bring you to Señor Zuberan,” said Ortiz, opening Emma's door.
“Thank you for your help, Capitan Ortiz,” said Emma, getting out.
Ortiz touched his hat with the tip of his fingers, then stood by the car at parade rest as Emma and Timoteo made their way to the door. They stepped inside into a large cool room with a high ceiling.
It took Emma's eyes a moment to adjust to the dimmer light. The first thing she noticed was the shields and suits of armor lining the walls. The second was the two hulking, apelike characters in dark-blue suits standing in the center of the room. They had no weapons in open view, but their armpits bulged unnaturally. One growled several sentences in sibilant Spanish.
“He say they are Señor Zuberan's bodyguards,” said Timoteo,
obviously impressed. “He say they will give their lives for him.”
obviously impressed. “He say they will give their lives for him.”
“I'm pleased to meet them, too,” murmured Emma. “Señor Zuberan certainly has a lot of guards. I wonder why?”
“All rich people on San Marcos have mens to guard them,” snorted Timoteo, but Emma could easily see the frightened little boy behind the bravura.
The white-haired man whom Capitan Ortiz had called Abraham gestured with his hand for Emma and Timoteo to follow him. They did so, through an archway into a series of cool rooms and corridors. The men in the blue suits brought up the rear, looking ready to die at any necessary moment.
The floors here were terra-cotta tile or slate, though most were covered with beautiful Oriental carpets: room-sized medallion serapes; hunting and garden rugs; elegant Persian runners with fantastic floral arabesques and muted, perfectly matched colors. Furniture of dark, rich wood gave an austere but solid warmth to long corridors hung with tapestries and oil paintings. Every bit of space seemed to harbor some antique or work of art. Huge silver candlesticks and Hispano-Moresque plates sat on wooden tables braced with iron. Marble statues stood in quiet corners on stone bases. Emma counted five grandfather clocks, most of them with heavy ormolu mountings and intricate dials.
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