“Where will I find this person?” I asked.
“Just follow the instructions,” he said. “You will find what you need to know, when you need to know it. We will get you to the land of the Moche. After that you are on your own. Can you do this?”‘
“I think so,” I said “Can you find some way of telling Moira where I am? Without anyone else knowing, I mean?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I will.”
“Be careful,” I said.
“I think I’m the one who’s supposed to say that,” he said, then he hugged me, pulled the robe back on, and disappeared into the darkness of the stairwell. I had a feeling I might never see him again.
The next morning the old woman handed me a packed suitcase, battered and covered in travel stickers, and then I was driven to the airport. I was told to go to a specific wicket at a specific airline and ask for Antonieta. She handed me a package. In it was a ticket for the next flight to Lima.
Just before I left, I called Clive’s store, collect. I reasoned it was the last place anyone would expect me to call, and even if they traced it, I’d be long gone before they could do anything about it. I told Clive I’d be calling back in ten minutes and he was to get a move on, go down the street to Moira’s salon and bring her to the phone. For once he did what I asked.
Moira wasted no time. “Heard from Lucas,” she said. “I figured you’d find some way to call. This is what I’ve been able to worm out of Rob so far. The dead man in your storage room’s name is, or was, Ramon Cervantes. Senor Cervantes worked for the government. A customs agent, as it turns out, just as you thought. He lived with his family, a wife and three children, in Callao,” she continued.
“Where’s that?” I interrupted.
“Suburb of Lima, I think. That’s as much as I know.”
“That’s good,” I said. “How’s Alex?”
“Better. He’s out of intensive care, but he still can’t remember what happened that night. They’re keeping him in the hospital, doing some tests, but I think the doctors are confident he’ll recover.”
“And the police? Are they still investigating Alex?”
“Alex, and you now too,” she replied. “I’m trying to get that awful man Lewis off the case,” she added.
“I knew he’d rue the day he got on the wrong side of you, Moira,” I said, “but how are you going about this?”
“I’ve put Rob on it,” she replied. “Told him what he needs to do.”
“And how did you manage that?”
“I just told him that I considered him to be personally responsible for your disappearance, and that if anything happened to either you or Alex it would be on his head, that’s all,” she said. “Subtlety is, of course, my middle name.”
I laughed, then the enormity of what I was about to do caught up with me.
“You may not hear from me for a while, Moira,” I said. “I’m not sure where this will take me.”
“I know. Just make sure I hear from you sometime,” she said briskly. I guess you don’t get to own the most successful salon in the city by being subtle, or sentimental.
Then I, no not I, Rebecca MacCrimmon cleared immigration and customs, and boarded the plane.
7
Carla Montoya Cervantes sits in the darkened room at the top of the stairs, shutters pulled against the light, her face puffy with tears. She is pretty in a soft way, a slight plumpness hinting at sensuality, eyes and hair dark against skin she shields from the sun in the belief that paleness appeals, rosebud lips held in an almost perpetual pout, except, that is, when she’s angry, when her eyes narrow, and the pout flattens out into a thin, hard line.
And she is angry now. Such an ineffective man, that Ramon, no ambition, no drive to better himself or her. Way too old for her too. She needs someone with more energy. Papa told her not to marry Ramon. He warned her Ramon would never amount to anything, that she deserved better. But Ramon adored her, would do whatever she asked, and, when it came right down to it, what was she to do, with the first of three squalling babies on the way? There would have been more than three too, if she hadn’t put her foot down, banishing him to the living room. Thank God her sister has taken the children for a few days. They are so noisy, needy. She must have silence, time to think.
What is she to do? He was ineffective to the end, Ramon, left her with the children and no prospects. There is Jorge, his brother, of course. She could marry him. What would that accomplish? More drive, more ambition perhaps, but still, not exactly the match of the century, is he? It’s unfortunate Ramon saw her and his brother together, truly unfortunate, though why he should run off like that, to such a far-off place… For what? It was harmless enough.
Papa was right. She is meant for better things than this, this hovel, the smell of cooking from below, the smoke of rancid oil permeating everything, the furniture, her hair, her clothes; the children always crying, and the noise of the street, like the bad air, working its way through the cracks in the shutters. She should be living in Miraflores, or San Isidro, perhaps, just off embassy row. A little house with roses in the front yard. Pink, she thinks. Pink roses, the house clean and white and cool, the windows fronted by white wrought iron grillwork, delicate metal tendrils climbing a fence, just like the beautiful homes of Trujillo where she grew up. A nanny for the children.
So if not Jorge, what or whom? She will have to think of something, and soon. Senor Vargas, the landlord, despite his infatuation with her, is too much the businessman to let her stay for long without payment. She had better not open the door. She would kill Ramon, really she would, if he wasn’t dead already. Taking all their money—her money, really, he would never have made the arrangements on his own—when they were just beginning to get ahead, with the promise of more to come. And flying off to Canada! How exactly is she to pay to have his body shipped back home? Maybe she’ll leave him there. She won’t wear black for him, either. It doesn’t suit her. She’s meant for prettier things. Papa told her.
She sighs. There is only one answer. She’ll have to go and talk to the Man. She doesn’t like him: There is something about him that frightens her. But what choice does she have? After all, he owes her, doesn’t he? Without her pleading, Ramon would never have helped the Man with that little problem he had. Yes, that is the answer. She will go and see the Man.
The sun apparently does shine in Lima from time to time. I didn’t see it. For about nine months of the year, the city is blanketed in a grey pall that consists of mist from the sea, the garua, and pollution from millions of cars and factories. It is a damp, gritty greyness that burns your throat and lungs and eyes, and oozes its way into your soul.
Lima also, to my eyes at least, has the air of a city besieged. Every building, every parking lot, is watched by at least one guard, some of them armed. Restaurants have guards to watch over patrons’ cars while they dine; a home with even the slightest hint, a mere whiff of wealth, has a twenty-four-hour civilian guard. Children are escorted to and from school.
And there is something to fear, make no mistake about it. Terrorists, for example; internationally prominent, like Sendero Luminoso, the Shining Path, and another, named for an Inca leader, Tupac Amaru, responsible for the occasional bombings, hostage takings, and other acts of terrorism. But perhaps even more frightening than terrorists are the desperate, the millions of poor and unemployed who left their homes in the countryside to come to the city in search of a better life, only to find themselves worse off, by far, living in wretched shantytowns on the outskirts of the city, without water, sewage treatment, or electricity.