Elena looked down at Carlos and then once again up to the balcony. The boy was gone. Elena looked down at Carlos and then once again up to the balcony. The boy was gone.
It was clear that Carlos hadn’t seen him, since he was staring intently into a stand of trees at the side of the house. “Elena,” he whispered, “there! A squirrel!”
She looked where he pointed and caught a quick glimpse of a furry tail vanishing into leaf-filled branches.
Carlos looked up at her. “I should like a squirrel for a pet,” he said. “They can be tamed, Elena. Is that not so?”
“I don’t know. We’ll ask Papá…later.” She frowned and shook off a heavy sense of dejection. She didn’t want to wonder what “later” might mean.
Carlos and she went up the steps to the oak door, but before they had knocked, one side of the double doors opened.
“Hi,” said the boy from the balcony. “Are you looking for me?”
He was dark-haired like her brother, about the same size, and wore blue and white striped pajamas.
Carlos stared at the him. “Who is he?” he asked.
The boy took a step toward Carlos and said, “What’re you doing here? What d’ya want?”
Carlos shook his head. “No comprendo. Listen you, can’t you talk Spanish?”
Now Elena heard another voice.
“Mario, you’re not dressed. Come back here!” The call was a woman’s, and it came from the shadows of the entry hall.
Through the open door Elena saw that the floor of the hall was a checkerboard of russet and gray marble from which a curved staircase rose. A slim woman stood on the stairs by the balustrade, silhouetted by brilliant spears of sunlight that plunged through a window at the level of the second floor.
“Mario,” the woman said, “what are you doing at the door?” Instead of answering, the boy turned and ran up the stairs past her. She gave him a backward glance and then slowly descended the stairs, the hem of her full white robe flowing gracefully from step to step. She paused at the bottom and peered toward the door. “Who’s there?” she asked.
“María Elena Vargas. I have a letter for Señor and Señora Montalvo.”
“Ah, yes,” the woman said, moving closer to the open door. “You’re one of the applicants.” She frowned into the light, an oval-faced woman with velvety golden skin and black hair pulled tightly away from her forehead. Her eyes, the same startling green as the boy’s, were puckered against the light and had a confused, opaque look about them.
The lady of the castle, Elena thought. All she needs is a pointed cap with a lovely sheer veil floating from its tip. The woman was only a step or two away from her now and Elena said, “Applicant? I think I should explain. I came because…”
“You’re very early,” the woman in white interrupted, apparently distressed. “My husband is not ready to see you. But come in, come in.” She stepped aside as they entered and motioned to a tapestry-lined bench against the wall opposite the staircase. “You can sit there.”
Elena said, “If you are Señora Montalvo, the letter I have is for you, too.”
The woman nodded. “Of course it is. But that’s all right. My husband will take care of you.” She took a few steps toward the back of the hall and then paused and called over her shoulder, “I will talk to you later, of course.” She turned to her left and disappeared into an archway under the staircase.
Elena closed the outside door softly. She directed Carlos to the bench.
“Listen, Elena,” he said as they sat down, “how is it that they live here? This is a museum or a palace of government, no?”
“No, it’s a house,” she said. “I guess the Montalvos have a lot of money. Now you’d better be quiet.”
Long minutes dragged by, but for a while Elena was content to rest, knowing there was nothing to do but wait. In any case, this was a lovely place to wait. The rear wall of the hall had a sliding glass door through which she could see a fenced stone terrace and, below it, a swimming pool. Beyond a high hedge of pink and white oleanders that edged the pool and the thick woods behind it was the gleaming blue of the Pacific Ocean.
Then her mood changed. Yes, she thought, this is a pretty place, a magnificent place, but I do not want to be here. I am tired, tired of traveling on bumpy buses, tired of not getting enough sleep, of worrying about Carlos, but, most of all, I’m tired of hopping from place to place like a fidgety bird. If only her father had been where he belonged…if only he had written… She straightened up on the bench. ¡Basta! Enough, enough. She had no time for regrets. She had to think of where she was this minute and what she was going to do about it.
She had been taken for some kind of an applicant. Well, that wasn’t her fault. The woman had acted strangely and quickly, not giving her time to think sensibly or to make sensible explanations. “One of the applicants,” that is what the woman had said. How could she have made that mistake? Hadn’t she seen Carlos? Who would show up to apply for a job with a seven-year-old along?
She looked up to the landing at the head of the stairs and the gallery that ran the width of the entry hall at the second-floor level. The arched doorways at either end, she guessed, probably led to stairways and the third floor. This house was not only elegant, it was very large, which meant that there would be many servants, not merely a cook. Everyone in Playa Blanca had a cook, no matter how little money there was. This house would have more than a cook; there would be maids, too. Maybe the Montalvos were looking for a maid.
Elena moved closer to Carlos and patted his knee. His head tilted in surprise, and she laughed. Through her laughter she heard a man’s voice.
“Young lady, what are you doing here so early?” The man speaking was at the rear of the hall. He walked toward them, a frown growing on his face. “Well?”
She rose quickly. Even then it was a few moments before she spoke. The man commanded her attention. He was of medium height, stocky, with a large head and face that seemed carved of stone, so sharp was the bone structure. His gaze was fixed on her face, waiting. “Are you…are you Señor Montalvo?” she asked.
“I am Doctor Montalvo.”
“Well, then, I have a letter for you,” she said, and bent to her purse.
“That can wait,” he said. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, señor, I do not, but I am not one of…”
“No appointment,” he said, his eyebrows rising. “You are an impulsive young woman.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, you are here. I will give you five minutes, but five minutes only.” He motioned her to follow him. “Leave the boy there,” he said. With a lingering look at Carlos, he walked toward the rear and opened a door in the right wall.
Embarrassment, curiosity, relief…whatever feelings fought within her as she walked into the room were resolved into one: surprise. The room in which she stood was as Mexican as Playa Blanca. Its walls were adobe and the floor, brick, inlaid with tiles. There were books in heavy oak cases and a table with massive legs. A fire was burning in a raised, corner fireplace.
Doctor Montalvo held out a ladder-back chair by the table. “Sit here,” he said.
She sat quickly on the rush seat, placing her purse at her feet.
He walked to the opposite side of the table, where he sat facing her. Although he had spoken in English in the hall, he now addressed her in Spanish. “Since you are here in response to our advertisement, I assume you are aware of our requirements.”
“Señor,” she began, but he held up his hand for silence and she saw an impatient flash in his eyes.
“To continue. You should know, then, that it is necessary for you to speak Spanish and English, both fluently, and for you to have a valid driver’s license. Also, that we expect you to be moderately well-read. Some familiarity with the classics will, of course, be an additional…”
“Please!” She jumped up. “I didn’t come here because of an advertisement, although I can certainly work. And I’ve done a lot of reading.” The thought of Sylvia’s bookshelves flashed through her mind. “As for a driver’s license, I don’t know whether mine is valid or not. But none of this matters, because I’m not here for that…even though…even though I’ll soon have to find a job.”
His expression didn’t change as he rose from his chair. “In any case, you are obviously not qualified.” Then a quizzical look came upon his face. “Tell me, young woman, why are you here?”
“I tried to tell you. I have a letter.” She spun toward her purse and the toe of her shoe knocked it over, its contents shooting out across the floor.
With a look of complete disapproval, Doctor Montalvo bent over to pick up the papers that had landed by his feet.
Quickly, she dropped to her knees, scooping up her diary and comb and thinking, clumsy, how could you be so clumsy? She knew that her face was red and she hesitated to look up at Doctor Montalvo, but when she did, she found that he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring intently at one of the envelopes in his hand.
As she rose, he said, “Your name. You didn’t tell me your name.”
“I’m María Elena Vargas.”
He handed the papers back to her. To her surprise, he smiled, and the smile lit up his chiseled face. He was remarkably handsome. She had not noticed that before. “Well, sit down, sit down,” he said.
She was glad for the support of the chair. There was no good reason for it, but she was nervous. Not merely embarrassed. No, it was something more than that…
He walked to a carved oak chest near the fireplace and poured amber liquid from a glass decanter into two stemmed glasses. “Have a drop of sherry,” he said, placing the wineglass before her. “You seem to be upset.”
She was. More than upset. Turned upside down, like Alice in Wonderland—and it was his fault. He had been so cold, so disapproving, and now he was smiling and pleasant and busy serving her sherry. Wine? For her? And at this hour?
“The letter,” she said. “I will get it for you.” She was still nervous as she fumbled through the papers on her lap: the picture of her mother; the envelope with the one word, “Tamaulipas,” in her father’s handwriting; the birth certificates. Finally, she found the note from Sylvia Lewis.
“There,” she said, and slid it across the table.
He removed the sheet from its envelope, unfolded it, and his eyebrow lifted. She watched as his eyes went down the page, and then as they went to the top and down again. He raised his head. “A friend of Mrs. Lewis,” he said, looking at—no, not merely looking at—studying her closely. Now he studied his hands, which were flattened on the tabletop. “Well, señorita, what can we do for you?”
She wanted to shout, find my father! But she said nothing. Before she could think of an answer, there was a soft knock on the door. It opened to admit the woman in the white robe.
“Salvador,” she said hesitantly, “there’s a young woman in the hall waiting to—oh, is there someone with you?”
Doctor Montalvo arose and walked to her. “Yes, my dear Ana, there is.” He put his arm around her. “Let me introduce María Elena Vargas. She came here with a letter of introduction from your friend, Sylvia Lewis, in Playa Blanca.”
Elena rose. This was better. At least now they knew who she was and why she was here.
Doctor Montalvo went on. “Her arriving today is so well-timed that I’m led to believe it is nothing short of providential. Because, you see, my dear, I am about to suggest to this young lady that she take on the job as your companion. Come, add your persuasion to mine.”
Elena felt her eyes widen as she stared at Doctor Montalvo. What was this? Only a moment ago he had said that she was not qualified and now he thought her being here was “providential.” In the name of all the saints, what was going on?