Misplaced (9 page)

Nandor’s cryptic message still baffled her. There had been no time for him to explain.

Finally, she fished out her coronation bracelets, a gift from her father and only jewelry she had not left at the ledge. Together, the three delicate bracelets formed the ornamental band of Egypt’s first woman-pharaoh. She removed the cuff from her thigh, set it next to the bracelets, and contemplated the vision in the mirror before putting out the light. “Enjoy your victory, sister, for the next time we meet it will be you who is erased.”

She padded down the hall, passing the room filled with bound pages—books, Victoria had called them. She longed to examine them more thoroughly, but it would not be tonight. Comfortable for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, she returned to the sofa and quickly slipped into a death-like sleep.

Chapte
r
Six
Victoria

There
was a thunderstorm in the middle of the night. Victoria could not remember how she came to be standing on the patio. Silvery cottonwood leaves and feathery sand swirled around her bare feet as the sky rumbled and flashed bright in the distance. She had been sleepwalking again, dreaming of the lullaby her mother sang while braiding her pigtails.

“Not so tight, Mamá! It hurts!” she’d squealed.

Unlike her grip on the braid, her mother’s voice had been gentle. “Shall I tell your Papí how much you complain?”

“No,” she had answered intently. Do you think he’ll bring Dón Gustavo for dinner again? I like him; he always brings me caramelitos. His stories about the police, though,” she had searched her mother’s face for the truth. “Can they really be true?”

“Some of them must be.” Her mother’s singing had stopped. She looked far away, and then bent down so that they were nose to nose. “Dón Gustavo’s and your father’s friendship is not to be discussed outside of this house. ¿Entiendes??”

Victoria had ignored her. “Teresita is always bragging that her father will soon be the mayor and they’ll be rich—with the help of Dón Gustavo. But if he could, wouldn’t he make Papí the mayor instead?”

Her mother pulled the ribbon so tight that Victoria thought her braid had been guillotined. “Ay, nińa! I’ll be happy for the day your thoughts turn to boys!”

During the day, she could never remember how the tune went, or how her mother’s voice was as clear and light as spun sugar. Curling up inside the patio chair, she watched the storm until she fell asleep. It was not quite dawn when she realized the screams that had wakened her were not a dream and dashed inside. Slumped on her knees, Khara held wisps of her hair between clenched fists as she beat the floor. Victoria yelled, “Wake up!

It’s me, remember? Wake up! You’re safe now.”

Khara’s arms, eyes, and breath froze in a moment of terror.

Victoria wrestled her into her arms and rocked her back and forth. After a few moments, Khara’s composure returned and she pushed away. Bewildered, she wiped her face and looked around the room. Victoria reached for her again, and this time she did not resist. Khara sobbed softly while Victoria sang her mother’s lullaby.

Ay, mi palomita (Oh my little dove)
La que yo adore (Whom I adored)
Le crecieran alas (Who grew wings)
Y volo Y se fue! (And flew away)

Ella no comia (She did not eat)
Ni frijoles ni arroz (Either beans or rice)
Y se mantenía (And she lived only)
Con solo mi amor (On my love)

Me sente en un tronco (I sat upon a tree trunk)
A verla pasar. (To see her pass by)
Y como no pasaba (When she did not pass)
Me eche a llorar. (I burst into tears)

Afterwards, she whispered, “I don’t suppose you want to be here anymore than I did when I first came. Go to sleep now.”

A few hours later, Victoria tiptoed into the living room, expecting to find her guest fast asleep. To her surprise, the couch was empty, the patio door flung open. Khara stood at the railing, her black hair shining and dancing in the morning breeze. To Victoria’s sleepy eyes, it appeared that she had caught the rising sun, balancing the giant disk perfectly between her outstretched arms. She seemed to be praying or perhaps singing, given the rhythm of her words.

She had become a voyeur in her own home. Unable to turn away, Victoria watched Khara’s graceful hands coax the sun higher into the sky. Soon she finished and descended to her knees, allowing Victoria to slink into the kitchen and make coffee.

Next, she rummaged through her dresser. Victoria was five, maybe six inches taller than her guest, and it applied all the way around. Pulling out a black cashmere crewneck the dry cleaners had shrunk at least two sizes, she laid it on the bed.

When she looked up, Khara stood silently in the doorway. Victoria beckoned her in and held the sweater up to her slim shoulders; it looked as though it would work. In the back of her closet she found a knee-length paisley skirt of soft grays with splashes of violet and magenta and an elastic waist. Khara examined the fabric’s soft drape and outlined the teardrop shapes of the paisley with the tips of her fingers.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Victoria said as she handed her the sweater, “but were you praying?”

Khara nodded. “It is my responsibility. Now more than ever.” The loveliness of her face was momentarily distorted with pain. “Surely you feel some obligation to pray.”

“My days of asking for things that can never be are over.”

“Perhaps you ask too much,” she answered matter-of-factly, or pledge too little in return. I admire your conviction, however. Perhaps if such a choice had been mine…”

“What do you mean?” Victoria demanded.” Everyone should be free to make their own religious choices,” she concluded, cheeks flushed at her perception of injustice.

“You cannot possibly understand. It falls on me to assure the comfort, strength, and majesty of all that is Egypt.”

“Is that all?” Victoria had to smile. “Well, at least your prayers have a fighting chance. Now go change; you can’t keep wearing that torn-up rag. Try those on while I scrounge up something for breakfast.”

With the exception of her sandaled feet, the young woman who returned bore little resemblance to the dazed refugee left at Victoria’s office the day before.

“Wow. I hardly recognize you.”

Khara smiled shyly. “Such beautifully made garments. They are as light as air, and yet warm.”

“I hope you’re feeling better this morning,” Victoria said in her most charming voice, the one she used to pry information from unwilling witnesses.

“I do, though nothing has changed.” Khara’s eyes swept the room. “The advances here are undeniable.” She pointed to the refrigerator and stove, at the television, even at the window.

“All these things make me afraid for Egypt.”

“But that’s silly. Your country is on very good terms with the United States.”

Khara’s eyes narrowed. “If what you say is true, that knowledge would rest with me.”

Victoria eyed her dubiously. “Still an Egyptian princess after a good night’s sleep?”

“And you are still unconvinced.”

“Call me a skeptic. Fortunately, the means to clear this matter up is only a short drive away.”

“Then let us not delay.”

“It would be better if we went tomorrow.”

“A pity, since you have as much as called me a liar. Nevertheless, it shall be as you wish.”

Victoria watched her take a moment to gather herself, removing all traces of emotion from her face.

“Look, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that nothing can be done about your situation until Monday.”

Just then the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“You’re still coming to dinner, aren’t you, mija?” Victoria’s aunt asked, her muffled voice giving away the fact that she’d covered the receiver as she frequently did when gossip was afoot. “Your uncle is very worried about you! What is this I hear—you’ve turned your home into the rescue mission? You know better than to take chances like that. Nice girls, they don’t go around getting lost, do they?”

“I was going to tell you myself.” Khara was following her every move, intentionally eavesdropping.

“Oyé, this is not one of your better decisions. I prayed a good five minutes extra this morning. That you’ll come to your senses and stop—”

“Tia,” she interrupted, “with you and the holy Catholic church on my side, what can go wrong?” Abandoning sarcasm, she closed the call with, “I can’t really talk right now. We’ll be there at six.”

Victoria hung up, accepting that no matter how many extra minutes a day Marta prayed for her, it couldn’t possibly be enough.

That evening, as Victoria’s silver Honda Civic crossed the railroad tracks, the temperature dropped noticeably. For miles, the pecan trees lining either side of Via Sin Nombre grew together to form a canopy through which sunlight dappled the ground here and there, and the chirping of crickets signaled the arrival of evening.

It was amazing to see how quickly Khara’s fear of cars was fading. Victoria even dared to put the windows down so she could watch the ground speed by.

They passed a man riding a palomino bareback along the dirt shoulder who tipped his hat. “Evening,” he said cordially, without removing the stalk of hay from between his teeth. From the way she hung out the window, it was obvious Khara wanted a better look. Victoria slowed to a stop.

“I never knew they could be ridden!” Khara exclaimed. “Does it hurt them?” she asked the cowboy.

“Not at all, miss.” The horse pushed his nose through the passenger window. “This one here, he’s happy to have a saddle thrown over his back. Easy ride, he is.”

Khara leaned her cheek against the horse’s, combed his creamy mane with her fingers, and whispered in his ear as though sharing a secret. It was with some reluctance that the palomino pulled away and threw back his head.

The cowboy surveyed the surrounding fields of green chilies. “Evenin’ ladies,” he said with a slight drawl before turning onto the dusty path near the irrigation canal where the foamy green water swirled faster and higher than usual.

After two more turns down successively narrower roads, they had arrived.

Khara’s smile flashed. “It’s true. It doesn’t hurt them at all.”

“I suppose Mr. Ed told you that?”

“I am only beginning to understand the power of Nandor’s cuff.”

“Great. Well, here we are.”

Victoria was about to knock when the mission-style doors swung open and Marta appeared. “Of all days to be late! Rosario is here with Robert. And who do we have here?” Her pleasant voice belied the fact that she was looking Khara over from head to toe.

Victoria used the introduction she knew her aunt would expect. “Tia, I would like to present my houseguest, Khara. You’ll see that all your worrying is for nothing,” she said before kissing the powdered velvet of her aunt’s cheek.

Marta took Khara’s hands. “You must forgive her,” she apologized, shaking her head. “Victoria spends all her time championing hopeless causes and fighting bureaucrats. Despite her social shortcomings, we love her. Bienvenidos.” Marta stepped between them and, linking her arms with theirs, escorted them inside.

“Your uncle is in the courtyard. I’ll give Khara—what an unusual name!—a tour.” Marta guided her down the hallway, rattling on about her collection of Talavera pottery.

Victoria took a moment to savor the scent of roasting chilies and the lively chatter that always welcomed her home. The picture window in the living room looked out on an ancient willow that kept one side of the house in perpetual shade. On an end table sat a frame decorated with chips of black glass and yellow feathers; an elementary school project—one she was not particularly proud of—and held a faded black-and-white photo of a young couple holding hands outside a church. She picked it up and thought about how people were thrust into each other’s lives, so often by accident. Had her aunt and uncle really been so young?

Not long before the photo was taken, Elias Barrón de Zarco had set out on a pilgrimage to see the world’s finest museums. He never got farther than the arms of a chili farmer’s daughter who left him breathless with her fiery kisses. Marta was only eighteen when she saw him at Mass one Sunday. He confessed to her that he was only there for the free luncheon afterwards. After a week of sleepless, lovesick nights, Marta enlisted the bewitching powers of the most powerful curandera in the valley to win his love.

Young and old women alike swooned at the sight of the handsome aristocrat who’d tapped his foot and straightened his tie at the altar. “You were as white as one of your marble statues,” Marta would say as she kissed his forehead. “Forty years can’t have passed.”

Elias’s answer was always the same. “What did I know about love? I was worried that my mother would chase you off.”

Victoria had never believed she would have that kind of love. Hearts like hers were better left alone.

Hurrying to her place at the table, she waited while Elias held the chairs for Marta and Khara. Her chair, as well as that of Rosario Dodge, was attended to by Robert. Her aunt invited him to dinner several times a year, usually during the holidays—a ploy to find Victoria a husband. As the wine glasses were filled, Victoria ignored Robert and her thoughts drifted back to the photo.

Elias never returned to the graceful old city of Cuernavaca. He made a life with Marta, who understood that his love of art would provide him countless mistresses, most of them hundreds, perhaps thousands of years older than she. Despite her simple upbringing, with Elias’s flawless taste and her incomparable heart, Marta grew into a woman whose closest friends included significant widows like Rosario Dodge.

“Your center hasn’t been in the news for at least a month. What gives?” Robert Chilton interrupted Victoria’s thoughts with a mischievous smile.

She had known him since college; they’d even had a couple of classes together. In those days, he always had a different girl on his arm and seemed to major in having fun. She’d watched him from across the room, wondering what it might be like to live such a charmed life—one completely devoid of scandal. It irritated her that he seemed bent on making up for it. No doubt he still spent much of his time partying, though he looked no worse for the wear. In fact, there was a rather respectable air to his good looks.