A Rather Remarkable Homecoming (25 page)

We were moving along with a flow of other visitors and now we paused at a small park nearby, with flowering shrubbery and some wooden benches. As soon as I mentioned Paloma, Jeremy appeared startled and then nodded toward one of the benches.

“Look,” he said, pointing.

There was a gold plaque on the back of the bench, with these words engraved in Portuguese:

Na memória de meu Prescott amado
.–
Paloma Manera

“In memory of my beloved Prescott?” I guessed. Despite the warm sunlight, I felt an eerie shiver. It was as if she had spoken directly to us. “She loved him so much,” I mused. “I guess she never went back to Cornwall because she just couldn’t face the loss. I think we’ll learn a lot when we see her place tomorrow.”

We descended the church steps in silence. Finally, still dizzy from the view and the scent of the fragrant flowers, I said curiously, “How do you want to get back down to town? The cable car again, or should we take one of those taxicabs?”

“Hah!” Jeremy said with a mysterious look on his face. “Why go the ordinary way, when you can have a sleigh ride?”

I looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Darling,” I said. “We are in the tropics. I know these misty mountain peaks are high, but I am fairly certain there is no snow up here.”

“Who needs snow?” Jeremy scoffed. “Follow me, my girl.”

We were at the foot of the church’s stone staircase, and Jeremy walked over to where a group of moustachioed local men, all dressed in white pants and flat straw hats, had been sitting around smoking. But now, when they saw that a bunch of tourists had just been dropped off by the cable cars, they stood up smiling, stubbed out their cigarettes, and gestured at what, to me, looked like a row of big wicker baskets on long wooden runners, with Santa-Claus-shaped seats inside that had white padded cushions.

“Quick, let’s grab one of those toboggans,” Jeremy said. “You can’t leave Maderia without going for this ride.”

I glanced about doubtfully. Other people were doing it, including old folks and couples with kids. Jeremy and I climbed into one, and suddenly, two of the men with straw hats pushed our toboggan right onto a steep, narrow road. Then, with a quick shout, they ran madly alongside us, giving the sleigh a great big push down the hill. Once we’d gathered enough speed, the men hopped onto the runners so they could stay aboard and steer us all the way, giving an extra push with their feet if necessary.

And suddenly we were plunging headlong down the very narrow road, with high stone walls on both sides. The road curved so abruptly that at each turn I was sure we’d go crashing into a wall. But miraculously, we didn’t. We just kept picking up speed and careening around each stone corner as we flew downward like an arrow toward its mark—our target being the town of Funchal.

Once I settled back and relaxed, it was fun, whooshing past the pastel-colored houses and going down, down, down until we reached the very bottom of the hill, where some flower vendors were waiting there to laughingly toss flowers at us. When the sleigh stopped, my lap was full of roses, violets, the famed fennel, and other fragrant beauties, which Jeremy obligingly paid for.

“What say we head back to the hotel for dinner?” suggested Jeremy. So we walked hand-in-hand along the harbor, which was filled with fishing boats, yachts, and cruise ships.

Since it was still a bit early, we were able to bag a table on the balcony of the dining room, where we had a splendid view of the sheer cliffs, the sea and the mountains. A tall, curly-haired singer was strolling among the diners carrying a very rounded, mandolinstyle Portuguese guitar, and singing the dramatic, yearning music that the waiter told us was called
fado
.

When we got our menu, Jeremy insisted I try the grilled sardines (which are big and fresh and fat, not tiny and oily and crammed into little tins), accompanied by a young white wine called
vinho verde
. Then we tasted fresh beef cooked on an open grill and skewered with laurel sticks, which have the fragrance of bay leaf. Everything was soft, scented and dreamy. It might have gone down in my record books as a perfect evening . . . except for one thing.

The mosquitoes. Now, there are two kinds of people in the world. There are those who rarely get bitten, and even when they do, they seldom react to it.

And then there are people like me. Mosquitoes crave us. They mass in the shrubs, they hover overhead, and they speak to each other on their little mosquito walkie-talkies and proclaim, “There she is! Let’s go
get
her now!”

And the worst part is, I don’t always see and feel them right away. They sneak up on me, they make their snippy little pinches and I absently brush them away . . . until suddenly I realize I’m under attack. By then it’s too late.

“Good God,” Jeremy said, staring at my arms and legs when we returned to our hotel room, where the maid had heedlessly opened the windows to let in fresh air . . . and more night-biting mosquitoes who may have missed out on me downstairs. I was covered with big red bites that were growing alarmingly more swollen by the minute.

“Why me?” I wailed. “How come they never ever bite you?”

“Your blood is sweeter,” Jeremy suggested, unoffended by my question.

“Bosh,” I said.

“Well, the other theory is that they are attracted to the warmth and scent of human breath,” Jeremy told me. “And you, my dear, are a bit of a chatterbox sometimes. So they adore your conversation.”

I was too busy shuttering the windows to comment. Jeremy called down to the front desk and asked if we could have some mosquito netting put over the bed. Apparently I wasn’t the first to need it, because shortly afterwards a man came up and strung the ghostly white netting all around the bed.

And there we stayed all night, kissing in the moonlight, sleeping with the scent of pine and roses, and the far-off sound of the sea . . . until the morning light finally woke us.

T
he next day, something about the old-fashioned formality of Madeira prompted both Jeremy and me to get dressed up a little bit before going out. I rummaged around in my suitcase to find an outfit pretty and feminine enough to match the way the soft air made me feel. I’d packed a sleeveless silk dress, but, mindful of the mosquitoes, I chose instead a silk pantsuit with a white, pink and green floral pattern, and a pink halter top.

When I paired this with white leather sandals and a wide-brimmed white straw hat I’d bought yesterday, Jeremy glanced up at me and said, “You look beautiful—the way I always imagined Aunt Pen did in the 1930s on all her exotic travels.”

I beamed with delight. “Hey,” I said, frankly appreciative of his white linen suit and beautiful blue shirt that brought out the deep blue in his eyes, “you look pretty spiffy yourself. Like you stepped out of that movie
Casablanca
.”

“Well, Casablanca is just about a hop, skip and a jump from here,” Jeremy noted. “Let’s get out and about before the sun gets too hot.”

I was very excited when we pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of Paloma Manera’s villa, or
quinta,
and found them open. There was a small stone hut for a guard, but nobody was inside it, so we drove past and continued up the steep, curving driveway that was made of irregularly shaped and various-colored flat stones.

When we reached the top of the driveway in front of the
quinta
, there was a dramatic turnaround, in the center of which was a large, round inlaid stone mosaic depicting a compass with its needle pointing toward Madeira on a map of the world. We circled it and went off to the side, where we found a parking area.

In front of the house was a stone lily pond, and as I watched, a small frog hopped off the sunbaked stone and disappeared into the water with a tiny
plop!
The
quinta
was a soft, cotton-candy pink stucco with a russet-colored tile roof and dark green shutters. The first-floor windows were protected with fancy iron grillwork, and the second and third floor each had wrought-iron balconies outside bigger windows.

The front walkway was flanked on both sides with neatly planted palm trees, white orchids and pink-blossomed shrubbery; and the front door had two large stone urns on each side, from which an abundance of red and pink roses spilled out. Standing there in the driveway, we saw that the
quinta
was built on a high hill overlooking terraced farmland, evergreen woods and, beyond all this, the town of Funchal and the sea. The front door was wide open, so we stepped inside the cool, dark interior.

“Look at these beautiful floors!” I said. “The concierge at the hotel told me that there’s nothing better than mahogany from Madeira forests.”

“Probably accounts for the fine wood that the masthead was made of,” Jeremy observed.

We had paused at the front desk, an admissions center with various color brochures advertising the annual classical music festival, and guided tours of the
quinta
.

I perused a flyer, then exclaimed, “Hey, it says that in Paloma’s study, there’s a framed magazine interview she gave. The last one before her death.
That
we’ve gotta see!”

At that moment, we heard a loud, rude blast coming from somewhere upstairs. This was followed by what, to me, sounded like a humongous dentist’s drill. It was surely just a construction noise, but its shrill whine sent a shudder down my spine.

“That sounds none too promising,” Jeremy said, and, as if to punctuate his comment, we heard a sudden loud bang, as if someone had dropped a two-ton brick on the floor above us.

While we stood there uncertainly, waiting for someone to get off their coffee break and come and sell us our tickets for a tour, three workmen came clattering down the staircase. Two were in white but paint-spattered overalls. The third was carrying a tangle of electric wires which were so entwined that they looked like inky black squid-spaghetti.

The painters clattered past us, but the electrician caught my eye, and, I guess because I smiled at him, he spoke, but in Portuguese, saying, “
O museu esta encerrado
.”

“Holy cow,” I said in panic. “Does that mean what it sounds like?”

“I think he’s trying to tell us the museum is closed,” Jeremy said, frowning.

“It can’t be!” I exclaimed. “They’re supposed to be open all day today.”

The man was standing at the front door, still trying to untangle his wires, but he looked as if he expected us to turn tail and leave. When we didn’t, he pointed at the back of one of the open doors, then shrugged and walked out.

Jeremy went to the door and closed it a bit, so that we could read a new sign that was now posted there, just above the old one listing the regular schedule. Since the signs were for tourists, they were written in several languages. The new sign said in English:

“No!” I wailed. “It can’t be! That damned sign just went up. They’ve gotta give one last swan-song tour before they shut these gates.”

As if in response, the drill upstairs resumed its ear-piercing whine in earnest.

Then I heard the distinct clattering of a woman’s shoes, tap-tapping across the back of the first floor.

“Quick,” I said to Jeremy. “Let’s make a dash upstairs before she spots us.”

“Too late,” Jeremy warned as a woman appeared suddenly around the curved, carved staircase and marched toward us. Jeremy straightened his shoulders and put on his most charming smile.

“
Hola
,” he said to her.

“That’s Spanish,” I hissed.

“Close as I can get,” Jeremy retorted from the corner of his mouth.

“
Olá!
” the woman answered. “It’s Portuguese, too,” she said in English. “But in any language, the museum is closed.” Even in this heat, she was dressed in a severe black suit, which made me think that she was an administrator, not a tour guide.

“Oh, but we’ve come such a long way!” I said. “Couldn’t we at least speak to a guide?”

The woman, who was a tall, thin creature wearing wire-rimmed spectacles which the light danced in, said, not unkindly but firmly, “I am so sorry, but you cannot possibly stay here. It is too dangerous with the workman all about. The guides do not come here today.”

“But you see, we
must
have some information about Paloma Manera,” I pleaded, and when she shook her head and I felt that I was losing her, I added recklessly, “We are working at the behest of Prince Charles.”

Jeremy nudged me sharply, but I continued, heedless. “We need to learn all we can about Paloma. We have been researching her connection to Prescott Doyle, and we know about the shipwreck tragedy,” I said, plunging onward with no idea of where I could go with this. “But we know nothing of her later life here in Madeira, and we want to find out why she never came back to Cornwall.”

“Miss, I wish I could help you. Come back next year, yes?” the woman said, edging us toward the door determinedly.