When Ines appeared at the door, we went in to dinner. And what a meal it was. First there was a spicy corn and sweet potato sopa, which Ines served from a large tureen on the sideboard, followed by large platters of corvina, a type of sea bass, I was told, in a walnut sauce, avocado slices smooth as silk, marinated vegetables, and sliced potatoes covered in a sauce I didn’t recognize but instantly fell in love with. All of us tucked into the food with real gusto, except for Hilda Schwengen, who pushed her food around her plate between gulps of scotch. Several times I saw her look down the table in the general direction of Tracey, who was talking in an animated fashion to Pablo and Steve. There was something in that glance that gave me pause. I couldn’t interpret it, but I knew it wasn’t friendly. Perhaps it was simple jealousy. Tracey was certainly someone who could arouse envy in almost anyone, were it not for the fact that she seemed to me to be genuinely friendly. But I’d just got here; maybe Hilda knew something I didn’t. Ralph too, I noticed, watched Tracey a great deal more than was necessary, confirming my earlier impression that he was more than a little besotted.
In any event, a few minutes into the meal, Hilda arose from her seat at the head of the table, almost all her food left on her plate, and excused herself. Hefting the half filled bottle of scotch off the side table, she left the dining room. I could hear her slow steps on the stairs and on the upper hall as she made her way to her room.
For a moment, no one said anything until Tracey broke the silence. “Ines,” she said, “please take a tray up to Dr. Schwengen, will you?”
“She doesn’t eat,” Ines replied.
“I know,” Tracey said quietly, “but take it up anyway.”
If Hilda didn’t eat, she was missing a good thing, I decided, as Ines’s food continued to flow from the kitchen. Then Tracey left the room, and I began to wonder what was really going on here, but she returned minutes later with her hands behind her back.
“I’ve been saving these for a special occasion,” she said, “and I think Rebecca’s arrival and her narrow escape from death at the hands of the ferocious freedom fighter Lucho must qualify. Ta dah!” she exclaimed, and produced from behind her back three very fine bottles of wine. Now, how could you dislike someone like that? I thought to myself, and judging by the chorus of cheers that greeted the gesture, we agreed on that. From then on the conversation and the noise level rose considerably. Everyone had an archaeological adventure to tell, each more exciting and more unbelievable than the last. Steve and Tracey told stories of helping the police with their investigations of crimes long hidden; Pablo told tales of townspeople angered by the archaeological digs taking place in their region, robbing them of their livelihood, the illegal traffic in artifacts. The students had funny stories about the primitive conditions under which they’d lived from time to time.
But the best story was reserved for last: the time Hilda Schwengen held off four banditos. Hilda and Steve were heading back to town in an open Jeep on a narrow country road lined by high embankments, not far from one of their dig sites, when four men leapt from the bushes into the path of their car, brandishing metal pipes and, in one case apparently, a sword. Steve and Hilda were ordered to get out of the vehicle. Hilda calmly reached over, pulled a gun out of the glove compartment, and started shooting over their heads. “I believe they thought she was a poor shot,” Steve said amid much laughter. “Even I thought so. I was cowering on the floor of the Jeep… if you can imagine someone my size cramming himself into that small a space. Which I did. But Hilda kept firing, and eventually it occurred to them she might get lucky and hit something, so they turned tail and ran.”
It was a story, I could tell, that had been told time and time again until it had reached almost mythic proportions. It was also apparent to me as the story was being recited that there was a great deal of affection as well as reverence for Hilda, no matter how she appeared to me.
It was a really enjoyable evening, the first I’d had in a while, and I began to relax just a little, enough so that I’d kicked off my shoes and sat curled up in the chair. As we all sat around the table enjoying the camaraderie, the power went out. This was, apparently, a reasonably regular occurrence, because candles and matches were right at hand. The evening was getting cool, however, and I decided to get my sweater from my room to cover my shoulders. I padded up the stairs in my bare feet, enjoying the feel of the cool marble on my toes, and careful not to make any noise to disturb Hilda. As I got to my room, I noticed the door was partly open, not as I had left it, and I thought I could see a flicker of candlelight within. Carefully, I eased my way very quietly around the door.
Ines was there, her back to me, a candle flickering on the night table. She was touching each article of clothing I had left on the bed, and I thought I heard her whispering. When each piece had been touched in turn, she straightened, and without turning around, she said, “So you’ve come at last, as it is spoken.” Then turning to look at me, rigid in the doorway, she whispered, “Cuidado al arbolado!”‘ Beware of the woods. “If you are to succeed, you must survive the woods.”
Suddenly there was a gust of wind, the candle went out, a door banged sharply. I turned, distracted by the noise. When I turned back, she was gone, although I was blocking the door. I looked to see if she had gone through the little bathroom to Tracey’s room, but could not see her there. It was perplexing and unsettling.
I went back downstairs a few minutes later, and Ines was there, cleaning up in the kitchen. She didn’t say anything to me; in fact, she didn’t acknowledge my presence in any way. Shortly thereafter, her brother, Tomas, came to take her home and Steve, Tracey, and I walked her to the door. Tomas had a little motorcycle taxi, a bike with a seat in the back. Ines climbed on and sat primly, her hat pulled down firmly, her bag clutched in front of her. As her brother, whom I’d not met, wheeled the bike around to head back into town, I saw a figure caught for a moment in the beam of the headlight, standing under one of the ghostly arches of the little folly outside. He was a workman, a campesino or farmer, perhaps, judging from his clothes, and he was holding something in a sack—burlap, I thought, or plastic—a rice sack most likely. He quickly melted back into the shadow of the arches as the beam passed by.
Strange place, I thought.
Later that night, I lay in bed unable to sleep, although perhaps I dozed. The episode with Ines preyed on my mind, as did the vision of the man under the arches, and so I started at every little noise. At some point, I began to realize that the breeze had begun to whisper, and I got up quietly and went to the door, opening it just a crack. There were indeed voices, whispers, down below. I sensed, rather than saw, the big front door open a little and someone slip in. A match flared for a second or two just as I moved to the railing to see who was down there. Steve, I thought, a stranger and someone else I couldn’t see. The conversation was short and it seemed, an angry one, and then the second person, whoever he was— the man of the arches perhaps?—slipped out again. I was back in my bed, door closed tight, before Steve reached the second floor.
A moment or two later, I thought I heard Tracey’s door, next to mine, click shut. I got up once again and looked out. The night sky was fairly bright, despite the haze, and I caught a glimpse of Tracey gliding along the balcony on the opposite side of the courtyard. She went right down to the end, and although I waited for a few minutes more, didn’t return. Steve and Tracey. I wasn’t surprised, but it was a little disappointing just the same.