Bon Bon Voyage (16 page)

23

The plane from the meeting site to Ottawa held six people, and the pilot occasionally turned on the autopilot so that he could offer passengers sodas, kept in an ice chest behind his seat. I was too nervous to accept. I had discovered, after many frustrating Internet searches, that I could fly to Ottawa from the little town in the wheat belt, then from Ottawa to Gatwick, outside London, and directly from Gatwick to Tenerife. The last leg of the journey cost me only the modest sum of 269 pounds, which, given the terrible exchange rate between the dollar and almost any currency, was a lot of money, especially considering what the other last-minute, one-way flights had cost. When the stewardess on my Ottawa-to-London flight offered me a drink, I ordered two, even though they cost me seven dollars apiece.

I woke up far too early and singularly embarrassed with myself for making a scene last night at the dinner table. When I turned toward Luz's bed, I saw, to my dismay, that she was not there and had not been there all night. Either she too had disappeared, or I had driven her into the arms of the ship's doctor. After a few more tears shed into my pillow, I dragged myself out of bed and into the claustrophobic shower and then into the clothes I had chosen to wear for the tour of Las Palmas de Gran Canaria.

Actually, it promised to be very interesting. Whereas I had expected to find delightful islands full of singing canaries, one book I read said that Canaria referred to the wild dogs that had populated the islands, that or some place name from Africa. When the first Europeans arrived in the fourteenth century, they found Neolithic, fair-skinned natives with waist-length, blond hair, brandishing fire-hardened wooden spears, eating goat, and living in caves. Later research determined that these natives had come from northern Africa during Roman times and were of Berber extraction. Spain took over the Canaries during the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella and so forth— sugar economy, wine economy, reprovisioning and repair of ships going to and from the Americas, tourism, and a cuisine that blended Spain, South America, and Africa.

These interesting thoughts took me out to our sitting room, where I heard sounds coming from my mother-in-law's bedroom. Incontestably, she was in there with Commander Bernard Levinson. My first thought was that it served Jason right if she was having a fling; he'd be horrified. My second, that it wasn't very nice of her to bring her lover back to the suite we shared, and at her age! My third, as I escaped into the hall, was the remembrance of my own astonishment when a lady in Sorrento told me that her mother-in-law was given to discreet affairs, something I would never, at that time, have expected of my own mother-in-law. In fact, I was surprised at Luz. Of course, she'd been divorced for years, but I'd just never thought of her as having a lover.

It would seem that cruises had a very bad influence on people. Even I was overeating, and not things that I could necessarily write about, because I'd neglected to get the recipes. I promised myself that I would have something sensible for breakfast—fruit and cottage cheese, for instance, black coffee, and
no
pastries. Which reminded me that I needed to get some recipes from the pastry chef. Since I'd been stuffing myself with desserts, I should at least collect information on the dishes that were ruining my waistline.

Accordingly, I went to the kitchen instead of the dining room and found the head chef, the frightening Demetrios, prowling around. He spotted me instantly and asked why I hadn't been by to talk to him. I murmured excuses, among them my anxiety about the missing passenger. “Ha!” cried Demetrios. “The one who drinks the wrong wines with her foods? Who drinks more than she eats? She is an embarrassment to fine eating.”

“Well, she hasn't been eating in the last two days. She's been missing,” I retorted.

“Ha! She is probably drinking in her room. Such people have no true love of fine food.”

“I wondered if I might have your recipe for the seared duck breast in cherry sauce,” I interrupted. “It was exquisite.”

“Of course it was. The best choice of that evening. I shall provide the recipe to you, dear lady.”

“Wonderful. And in the meantime, might I speak to your pastry chef?” Demetrios's broad smile turned to a disapproving frown, and he commanded an underling to find and copy the duck-breast recipe for me. Then he left me without even summoning the pastry chef. I had to find the man myself, and he would not give me a recipe. An unpleasant little Frenchman, he had heard that I ordered seven varieties of gelato when I could have had his famous something or other. I couldn't even understand the name because it was in French and he didn't translate. What a shame. It was probably something I'd have loved, and if it came up again, I wouldn't be able to order it, even with the translation the menus provided for everything foreign. It does look so much more exotic when the dish is given its foreign name with the translation in smaller print beneath. Of course that small print is probably hard on the elderly.

Discouraged, I accepted the duck recipe and went away, afraid that I'd be unwelcome in the kitchen from now on. I pondered the problem and decided to send copies of my columns, all full of praise for the wonderful things I'd eaten, to Demetrios. How often had I mentioned desserts? I might have to do some editing.

Oh my goodness! There was Mr. Patek. What luck! I called out to him, but he continued down the corridor, oblivious, so I had to run after him. I caught him at the elevator and rushed, gasping, in behind him to introduce myself. “I do hope you can help me, Mr. Patek. I'm investigating the disappearance of Mrs. Gross, the lady who hasn't been seen since Tangier. Well, not then really. The last person to see her was Miss Sechrest, your ombudslady, the night before we reached Tangier. But I heard that Mrs. Gross was looking for you that night, and I wondered—”

“I do not know this lady,” said Mr. Patek politely enough, although his eyes made me nervous. He stared at me as if—I don't know—as if I wasn't there.

“She's elderly, wrinkled, and was wearing a glittery brown dress and emerald jewelry. I'm sure you'd remember her.”

“I don't.”

“She was—well, she'd had too much to drink. She might even have been carrying a bottle of wine.”

“Very colorful description, madam. If I had see her, I would have remember.” And he got off the elevator. Discouraged, I went on to the dining room, where I was joined by Mr. Owen Griffith. Although I was rather peeved with him, at least he was interested in my activities and declared that the facts I'd amassed, however few, added up to “a fascinating conundrum,” which we both pondered over breakfast, his a huge plate containing a wonderfully tempting omelet, a pile of crispy bacon, and a heap of French toast with various jams and syrups. I, on the other hand, was faced with low-fat cottage cheese and pineapple. I had to bite my tongue to keep from ordering something else.

Then Mr. Griffith accompanied me down to the gangway to catch the nine o'clock tour of Las Palmas. Neither Vera nor Luz had even come to breakfast, and they were not among the passengers waiting in line to sign off the ship. Were they deliberately avoiding me, thinking I might burst into tears again?

“Sorry, Mrs. Blue, but you're not signed up for the tour of Las Palmas,” said the man at the desk.

“I am, too,” I insisted. He turned the computer screen toward me and invited me to scroll through the nine o'clock lists. I wasn't on any of them. “Maybe a later tour,” I said, appalled at the idea of missing what promised to be a delightful experience. He shook his head and showed me other lists, none of which had my name on it.

“Bloody bad luck, Carolyn, but don't look so miserable. We'll just take a cab,” said Mr. Griffith cheerfully.

“You're on the nine o'clock list, sir,” said the security officer.

Mr. Griffith shrugged and told the man to delete his name. Of course I protested that he'd paid for the tour and certainly shouldn't miss it. He laughed and assured me that he could afford to forfeit the money and would much prefer to accompany me on an impromptu tour by taxi.

“But they're dangerous,” I objected. “Mrs. Gross—”

“The lady evidently never got into a taxi, and Las Palmas, in fact the whole Canary chain, is much safer and more civilized that Morocco. I'd wager they haven't had a riot here in years. Right, officer?”

“A very quiet place,” the security man agreed. “And beautiful. Weird food, though.”

Weird food? Of course, the mixture of several cultures! I could write about fusion cuisine with a whole new meaning. So I agreed to accompany Owen Griffith. What did the Canarians have in the way of desserts? I wondered. My breakfast had left me quite unsatisfied.

24

The port was huge with arms reaching out into the sea, ships and boats everywhere, and white, many-storied buildings—condos for tourists, I suppose—climbing the shallow rise from the water. Owen was very amusing about the choice of the taxi in which we would explore Las Palmas. He insisted that we peer at every available driver and select the least sinister. As it turned out, they all looked quite friendly and non-threatening, and I felt a bit foolish about my fears— until our driver headed out of town.

His English was so poor that we couldn't find out where he was going. To rob us, I thought unhappily. However, when the car stopped, after a bumpy ride up a side road, he pointed and said, “Nice garden.” And it was. We walked around looking at plants and flowers, although I kept an eye on the car to make sure he didn't drive off.

Then we ventured farther into the countryside and began to wind up a large hill. “The caldera,” said Owen. “It's an ancient volcano.” I suppose that I had looked confused, having read nothing about volcanoes on Gran Canaria.

I hoped it was so ancient that it wouldn't erupt while we were here, but I couldn't help remembering my reading about Mount Vesuvius, whose destruction of Pompeii had been a complete surprise to people. They thought they were living near a large, green mountain. As we inspected the caldera, I kept my eyes and ears open for trembling underfoot, whiffs of smoke or steam, anything that would indicate that we should flee. Nothing like that occurred, and we returned uneventfully to the town. Evidently, our driver wanted to show us everything, but since his English was so terrible, Owen sent him away with a big tip and led me off to explore the town on foot in a casual sort of way.

The cathedral, dedicated to Saint Anne, I think, was very pretty, with some nice windows and paintings, and a lovely ceiling with carved beams. While we strolled inside, Owen entertained me with the story of the competing Virgins. Gran Canaria claimed the Virgin of the Pine Tree, while Tenerife said their Virgin of Candelaria ruled over the whole island chain. Both islands were jealous and wanted the right to cense their Virgins more often. “Cense means wave incense in her face more often,” said Owen wryly. “Wait until you see Candelaria tomorrow. Huge and grand with lots of gold.” I looked forward to it.

We explored the old town, walked up shallow stone steps and narrow streets lined with whitewashed houses bedecked with long windows and ornate balconies. Then we visited Casa de Colon, where Columbus had stayed. It had an ornate portal, lavishly carved, and rounded wooden doors at street level with a window on the floor above. Inside, the house was built around a courtyard with balcony bedrooms upstairs. We got to examine, under glass, copies of important historical documents; for instance, Columbus's journal and the agreement that divided the New World between Spain and Portugal, leaving the Canaries to Spain. However, Spain had to take it away from the reluctant and aggressive natives, who were only defeated when they made the mistake of coming out of their defensive positions to fight a battle.