The Blackbirder (11 page)

If the waiter did accost her before she could enter Jacques's car, the dubious protection of Blaike would again be her refuge There had been no recognition of the gray man in the burly waiter's eye. Nor of her. He might have been a dead man there in the back of the bus but for the thin stream of perspiration on either side of his jowls.

She hadn't realized how short the ride would be. They left Santa Fe, traveled slowly along the empty road, through a cut, down a hill, rolled to a stop in front of a diminutive filling-station. Nor had she realized how much less than a hamlet Tesuque would be. Two small filling-stations, a few small adobe buildings huddled, together in the snow. The storm had turned into darkening dusk during the ride. The shadow of several cars waited by this filling-station.

She sat tensed, ready to spring, while the driver pulled on his heavy brakes, muttered, “T'sukee,” and spent interminable time with old leather folders, papers, and a small jangling sack. In the mirror she could the passengers beginning to wedge into the aisle. The man was thrust behind them. She moved to block the way, to be certain she wouldn't be left in proximity with his bulk. She could feel how his thick fingers would clutch her arm. If the driver would stop his puttering, she and Blaike would be out of the bus and with Jacques in Popin's car before the man could make his way through the passengers.

She let her lips smile down at the gray man. His gray hat was tipped over one eye, his overcoat collar turned up against the menace of the storm outside.

He raised one eyebrow. “Why the rush? You can't get out of a closed door.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Fresh air.”

The driver eventually released them, clambered wirily out. She was on his heels. Blaike wasn't behind her. The commuter was. He went on to one of the parked cars. The lights went on and it began a turn. That left three cars, but no Jacques called a welcome. She almost started at Blaike's touch on her elbow.

He muttered, “Wonder where mine host is.”

The snow was falling more steadily now. They stood there together, peering into the gloom, seeing no face, hearing no voice at all. The other passengers were filing out, one by one, turning to right and to left, following the lane ahead. A group of women went to another parked car. She shielded herself as best she could near Blaike's shoulder, she saw from slanted eyes the waiter emerge. He stood indecisively for a moment, then made heavy tracks to the two remaining cars. One drove away as he approached. He seemed to be speaking to the driver of the other. But he didn't get in; he turned, entered the filling-station.

It was like a way station to hell. The snow, the cold, the darkness. Mountain horizon pushing blackly down into the small hollow of the valley. Within the one haven of light and warmth, solidified danger was waiting.

She put her arm through Blaike's, edged closer to him. “You don't think he forgot, do you?” She remembered. “Our fares!”

“I paid. Most likely Popin couldn't get through. We'll have to return to town.”

She wouldn't go into the filling-station, she would climb back into the bus. The starter sounded on the lone car, it maneuvered, its headlights seemed bearing down on them. She clung suddenly to the man by her side. Was this death, hired death? The car halted beside them. She could only just distinguish the square, dark Indian face above the wheel.

The driver opened the window a narrow wedge. “You the ones? Go to Popin?”

Her hand clutched more tightly Blaike's arm. In reprieve. “We are.” They spoke in unison.

The driver should have known without asking. They'd stood forsaken long enough. She and Blaike climbed quickly into the back seat. There was an Indian rug on the floor. He took it, covered her knees and his own. The weight was good.

The driver nosed the car back to the highway, pointed it beyond Tesuque.

Blaike passed her a cigarette, took one himself, lighted them. He spoke to the driver: “Shall I light one for you? Where's Popin?”

The Indian took one hand off the wheel, held it back for the cigarette. The car swerved in the snow and he righted it while he took the cigarette, put it between his lips. “He send me. He do not like snow.”

“Who does?” Julie echoed faintly. Evidently neither did Jacques.

“Good for ranges,” the driver stated. He puffed on the cigarette. The car rattled and clanked and crawled along the snow-wet road. They had covered about three miles before the headlights of another car flashed into the mirror. Stolidly the Indian tipped it. She could not resist looking out behind. Her gloved fingers rubbed a circle clear on the back window. The car must be at least a half mile back. It could overtake this turtle driver with effortless ease. She turned to the front again. The following car couldn't, if it obeyed wartime regulations. The speedometer here was holding 35. No hired driver would risk losing a ration card, not for any amount of money. Money wasn't today's most formidable means of exchange. It couldn't restore lost privilege and power.

She was suddenly brutally conscious of the interchange between this driver and the waiter, back there at the intersection. There were no penalties for a staged breakdown, for losing the way. She bent toward the front seat. Her voice was careless; even Blaike leaning back against the worn upholstery, his hat pulled over his eyes, couldn't know her teeth were set.

She began, “We thought we'd been deserted. Particularly when that man went over to your car. What did he want?” She had to wait for answer. The driver was turning now off the highway to a right-hand side road. The wheels slipped, quivered, righted again. This road was leading directly into a mountain. There was no sign of habitation. Her voice shrilled slightly, “Is this the way to Popin's?”

“Maybe a mile now,” the Indian said.

She repeated, with careless curiosity, holding her fear in tight check, “What did that man want?”

“He ask am I a taxi.” There was a grunt of disgust. “I am not a taxi.”

She sat back, looked again out the rear window. No headlights showed. The road was winding upward toward the mountainous mass. Blaike hadn't said a word. She glanced at him. He seemed to be asleep. If unruffled breathing were indication, he was asleep. Her eyebrows drew together. Why? What had he found in that definitely nine o'clock town to so tire him that he could sleep peacefully now in the midst of storm, uncharted roads, a strange driver? For a moment she believed his story, invalided from the R.A.F. But he was too American. Yet— there had been, were Americans, in the Royal Air Force. He hadn't stated he was English. There were American dialects which were scarcely descernible from British. He did not stir under her scrutiny. She took another peer backward.

No car was following. Their own, piloted by the silent young Indian, moved on and on into the night and the storm. Again she felt that frightening isolation from all of remembered reality. Actually where was she? Where was she going? The relief was painful when she could see the dark blur at which the car was slowing, in the headlights, the outline of a low-lying adobe house. Her hand flew out to her companion. She must have touched the bad knee, for Blaike started and his hand went automatically to protect it before he pushed the hat back from his sleep-blinded eyes.

She said, “I think we're here.”

The car had stopped. No light showed from the small house. Unaccountably she edged back into the corner of the car. She was reluctant to step out into the cold darkness, to invade this unwelcoming place.

The Indian said, “This Popin's house.” From him it was impatience.

“I hope he's at home.” Her laughter was shaky.

Blaike put away the robe. “If he isn't, he's having visitors just the same. Even if I have to break a window. I'm hungry enough to eat a tin can.” He opened the door, helped her out.

The few paces to the dark walls were through deepening snow. She jerked back as the door opened before either she or Blaike could touch it. And then a second wave of relief in the short space of time overwhelmed her. For there was warmth and golden light to be seen beyond the door. Popin's gentle eyes and voice offered welcome to them.

Popin shut out the cold, the blackness. He shook his head. “I did not know you would come in this storm. It is a bad one. I should have called you but my telephone has been out since early.” He held out his hands for her coat and hat. “The snow came more soon here.” He hung her wraps in the hall closet, took Blaike's as well, then led down one step into the living-room. It was a good room, small enough for friendliness, comfortable with brown leather, warm with dark red and brown of Navajo weaving, with blue of Chimayo. A sweet pilion log fire burned bright in the Indian fireplace. On the mantel were two five-branched candelabra of black Indian pottery holding shimmering waxen candlelight.

“I did not know you would get through. The radio says the roads are being closed.” He passed a cup of warm spiced wine to Julie. “Do not be distressed. I can give you lodging this night if this is true. There is the guest room above. You, sir, I should be happy for you to use my humble room.”

“And you sleep in the barn?” Blaike took his goblet, tasted. “Good, this.”

Popin twinkled. “I sleep in the studio. On the couch, yes. A most comfortable couch. A studio couch.” He laughed once. “I have slept there before. We westerners are hospitable.” He tinkled and twinkled, sliding his hands into the pockets of his worn brown corduroy jacket.

Julie was relaxed. That easily it had been arranged.

She would not find it necessary to ask refuge here. It had been offered. Even Blaike's statement didn't disturb her: “Good of you, Mr. Popin, if we can't make it back to the bus.” He had slept; he didn't know how bad the roads were, the progress of the storm. She had faith in worsening snow. Her eyes lifted as the young Indian driver, in overalls and moccasins, entered through the far door.

He said without expression, “I put the car in, Popin. Too much snow. Reyes says come to dinner.”

“Thank you, Quincy.” The Indian went out. Popin said, “Finish the cups before we dine. I trust Quincy— it is actually Qi'in Tse— I say it better like Quincy in Massachusetts— I trust he brought you in comparative safety. I sent for you against his judgment. He said no one would come in this storm. No one wise.” He took Julie's goblet. Blaike set his on the table. Popin led the way to the arch at the far end of the right wall. Two steps up into the dining-room. Another Indian fireplace, another candle-lit room. “Nonetheless, I plan the dinner. If you do not come, tomorrow there is hash.” He sat at the head of the table. “But happily you come.” He raised his voice. “Reyes, bring the feast.”

The woman's face was an Aztec carven mask, not young, not old, not unpleasant, but unsmiling. She wore a print housedress, dull black oxfords. Only her face was Indian— and the quietness of her hands.

“Chicken from my own chicken yard,” Popin boasted. “Carrots, garlic, onions, herbs, squash— all from my own small garden plot. I do not art all of the time. When war makes want, it is well to eat one's own soil, yes?”

He too was a refugee. He had known want, hunger, fear. That was why he helped the helpless. If Blaike were not present she could speak now of Fran. But she didn't know Blaike's true purpose yet.

Popin brushed the shadow aside. “After dinner I take you to my studio, through that door behind Julie. You will see my paintings for which you inquire.”

Incredible, but only then she remembered Jacques. “Where is Jacques? He was to meet us you said.”

Popin raised soft eyebrows. “Where is Jacques? Absorbed in his work, doubtless. An earnest young man. Often he forgets the dinner bell.” He smiled at her. “He does not starve. Reyes remembers him.”

“He does live with you.”

“He does and he does not. There is a guest house there. Always on the rancheritos there are small guest houses, here, there, everywhere.” His gesture over his shoulder was in a vague direction toward the kitchen. “Jacques occupies my guest house:”

“What is his work?” Blaike was too carefully casual.

Popin shook his head. “I do not understand much. He is mechanical. I artistic. Here the minds do not meet. I cannot be mechanical.” Popin had been deliberately indefinite. Mistrust, of Blaike.

Julie forestalled further questioning. “Jacques was always that way. Fran— my cousin, Fran Guille"— she explained carefully to Popin—"often said that Jacques was better than half a dozen trained mechanics. He always serviced Fran's plane before the war.”

Blaike asked lazily, “Didn't he ever want to fly himself?”

“He could. Fran taught him.” She wasn't certain after she had spoken. The Blackbirder could be Jacques. He held a pilot's license. She filibustered into Fran's air accomplishments. She held the conversation as long as it was possible.

Blaike had waited for her pause. “Why wasn't Fran in the French Air Corps?”

She said slowly, “France wanted peace. There was no Air Corps to speak of before the war.”

“Or even then,” Popin said softly.

She agreed. “Fran was in the United States on business when war broke. It was impossible for him to return. Events moved too quickly to the fall.”

“Perhaps he is now fighting with the Free French,” Blaike suggested.

“Perhaps,” she said. It was where he would be if he were not imprisoned. Grounded. “I do not know where he is.”

Popin changed the subject eagerly. “This is Mexican chocolate. Perhaps it will please you as it does me. You will notice a strong cinnamon flavor. It makes a good pudding as well, I find. Tonight, however, I give you baba au rhum. In honor of a new friendship.” Again his face shaded. “Although the new is out of one broken forever. I have thought much of that poor young man, Maxl. It is true. He is dead. I have heard this from friends in New York. A lively young man. So pleased to be in these United States, so eager to begin a new and useful life.” He concluded, “Too bad.”

Blaike asked, again with that studied casualness, “Your friends didn't send you any information as to why he was killed?”

Popin's eyes looked beyond the candles. “The police do not know this. Only they know it was violence which killed him.”