Temple Of The Moon

‘In Villahermosa? Are you sure?’

Isabella gave her a look of baffled hostility. ‘I am sure of nothing, señorita, but it is certain that he was there—with Dr Lennox. Maybe he stays there.’

Gabrielle could have groaned aloud, but she had already given Isabella too much fuel for her curiosity, she realised.

She said, hating the inanity in her voice, ‘Oh—of course. They’ll all be so busy. I didn’t think … Is that juice for me? How lovely. I think I will sit down—in the courtyard, did you say?’

Isabella’s eyes were openly contemptuous now. ‘Carlos is waiting for you, señorita. He too has other work to attend to,’ she mentioned abruptly. She turned and waited ostentatiously for Gabrielle to precede her into the hall. Then she closed James’ door with rather more than necessary force before marching across the hall to her own office without a backward glance.

‘And hasta la vista to you too,’ Gabrielle thought wryly as she sipped her drink. She wandered out into the sunshine and stood listening to the splash of the fountain as she finished the contents of the glass. She left the empty glass on the bench as she turned to greet Carlos who came out of the Institute to meet her. He was small and round with a warm smile, and he looked oddly familiar, although she was hard put to it to discover where the familiarity lay. It wasn’t until they were in the jeep and driving away and she saw him in profile that she knew. It was the typically Mayan profile that she had seen in endless pictures and reproductions, even to the slightly sloping forehead. It made the jungle palaces seem suddenly far less remote.

The return drive to the hotel was an altogether different proposition. Carlos needed no urging to deviate from the direct route and show off his abilities as a guide.

‘But a jeep is not the best way to see Merida, señorita,’ he told her reproachfully. ‘Tomorrow you must walk to the Plaza de la Indepencia and see the Casa Montejo.’

‘Wasn’t it a Montejo who founded Merida?’ Gabrielle searched her memory for the facts she had assimilated during her background reading on the Yucatan.

‘Si. Don Francisco de Montejo. He conquered forty thousand Indians with only four hundred Spanish knights. Our beautiful cathedral is built on the spot where he won his victory.’

Gabrielle sighed a little. ‘Quite a victory,’ she said drily. ‘And all in the name of God, I suppose.’

‘Si, señorita. How could it be otherwise? And in the cathedral, there is a beautiful picture of the visit of the king Tutul XIV visiting Don Francisco only weeks before his conversion to our blessed faith.’

Whatever the physical evidence might be, Carlos had chosen his own ancestors, Gabrielle realised, hiding a smile.

‘I think your Mexico is very beautiful, Carlos,’ she said.

Carlos gave her a disgusted look. ‘Is not my Mexico, señorita. I was born a Yucateco. I do not concern myself with Mexico.’ He removed his hands from the wheel to snap his fingers as a sign of his sublime disregard for both Mexico and the mass of traffic around them.

Gabrielle was sorely tempted to laugh, but managed to retain her self-control. ‘I’m sorry, Carlos. I didn’t realise feeling was so strong here.’

He grinned cheerfully. ‘We belong to ourselves, señorita, that is all. For so long we were alone that we became—accustomed.’

It was probably true, Gabrielle thought, visualising the small Spanish outpost that the conquistadores had set up on the peninsula and held against all odds.

Carlos was continuing, pointing out places of interest as they passed and recommending restaurants. ‘And when you are too tired to walk any further, señorita, you can go to the Parque Cepada and take a calesa for the rest of your tour.’

Gabrielle nodded a smiling agreement. She had already promised herself a ride in one of the pony-drawn buggies which could be seen everywhere on the streets. But before she embarked on any of these pleasures, she silently reminded herself, she had to find somewhere to stay. She nearly asked Carlos if he could help her, but bit the words back at the last moment. She had led that Lennox man to believe that she could continue to stay at her hotel. She did not want him to find out the truth through some chance remark from Carlos.

She was half toying with the idea of hiring a car to take her to Villahermosa, but common sense intervened. At least in Merida she had a contact—however tenuous—with the Institute. Sooner or later, James would return there. If she went to Villahermosa she would be searching for a needle in a haystack, and there was every chance that she would miss him again.

She ate a solitary dinner in the hotel dining room, very conscious that she seemed to be the only person in the room on her own. She ordered enchilada, but asked for it to be accompanied by a tomato sauce instead of the usual red chilli accompaniment until her palate had adjusted to the new highly spiced dishes. The last thing she wanted was a touch of ‘Montezuma’s Revenge’, especially if she was homeless, she thought wryly.

She was drinking the last of a reflective cup of coffee when she heard someone speak to her, and glancing up, she saw a couple, not many years older than herself, who had been sitting at the next table. They introduced themselves as Jon and Cathy Benson and needed no urging to accept Gabrielle’s rather tentative invitation to join her for more coffee. They seemed a friendly, outgoing pair and she soon learned that they were from California and were enjoying a delayed ‘honeymoon’ after five years of marriage. They obviously believed she was yet another eager tourist like themselves, and they were wide-eyed with interest as Gabrielle explained the work she hoped to do.

‘Gee, you’re lucky,’ Cathy sighed. ‘We have to start for home next week. Have you visited many of the sites yet? We stopped over to see Bonampak and Palenque on the way here. Oh boy, the Temple of the Inscriptions—it’s just so—tremendous. I felt like some kind of ant.’

Her husband laughed. ‘Cath’s exaggerating as usual,’ he teased. ‘Not even a Mayan temple could put her down.’

‘Oh no?’ Cathy laid her hand over her heart with an extravagant gesture. ‘Reading about all those human sacrifices gave me some genuinely bad moments, I can tell you.’

Gabrielle smiled. ‘I expect they had roughly the same effect on the victims,’ she said drily.

Jon shuddered. ‘This is a great after-dinner conversation! What we really came across to say was that a group of us are going to La Ermita tonight and as you seem to be alone, we wondered if you would care to come along too.’

‘La Ermita?’ Gabrielle looked at them questioningly. ‘What—or where—is that?’

‘It’s an old hermitage on the outskirts. It’s been restored and they’ve made a garden out of the old cemetery next door. At night, it’s all lit up and there’s even a waterfall. They have music and there are usually dancers that you can watch.’ Cathy laid an eager hand on her arm. ‘Come with us and see for yourself. We love it there.’

Gabrielle was sorely tempted. Things had gone so badly for her, it seemed, ever since she had first set foot in the Yucatan that the idea of an evening of gaiety appealed to her strongly. But at the same time, she was reluctant to leave the hotel in case James tried to contact her, although that was beginning to seem an increasingly remote possibility. And she also had the prospect of a strenuous day ahead of her, searching for fresh accommodation, she remembered.

She was genuinely regretful as she refused the invitation, and was warmed by the Bensons’ disappointment at her refusal, as well as their cheerful assurances that they wouldn’t take no for an answer next time. It was the first friendly reaction she’d had from anyone since she arrived in Mexico, she thought as she left the dining room, and instantly choked down the lump that rose in her throat at the thought. Self-pity was one of the last emotions she could afford to waste her energies on, she told herself resolutely as she went up to her room. She showered and climbed into bed, reaching for the book that stood on her bedside table. It was a modern account of the re-discovery of the Maya by Stephens and Catherwood during the 1840s, and reminding herself of the trials and sufferings they had endured in the rain forest would, she hoped, help her to get her own problems in perspective. But when, eventually, she fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming confusedly of jungle courts and creeper-hung palaces, it was not the pale bearded face of any Victorian explorer which stared at her from the shadowed doorways and arches but the dark, arrogant face of Shaun Lennox.

Gabrielle shifted her suitcase from one hand to another yet again, pausing to flex the muscles in her aching arm. She had stayed around the Hotel Belen as long as possible, hoping for the reprieve of a last-minute cancellation, but none had been forthcoming and she had realised eventually that she would have to vacate her room.

She had been on the point of departure when she had encountered the Bensons and she had felt foolishly embarrassed, as if she was leaving the hotel under some kind of cloud. They were naturally surprised to see her carrying her suitcase, but they accepted her rather halting explanation that she was transferring to the Institute without too much demur. She knew that if she had given one hint of her predicament, they would probably have offered to drive her round Merida until she found somewhere to stay, but at the same time she felt it would be unfair to involve them in her troubles when their own holiday was drawing to an end and they would want to make the most of the time they had left in the Yucatan.

Now she wished she had not been quite so altruistic. She might have found explanations slightly humiliating, but not as bad as this utterly fruitless trek from hotel to lodging house that had occupied most of the day. She had used a local guide book to draw up a list of the more likely places to try, but this was almost exhausted now and it was nearing sunset. She had to find somewhere quickly, she thought with alarm. It would be unthinkable to be out on the streets with her case after dark.

The Bensons had promised cheerfully to ‘Keep in touch’ as they said goodbye, and Gabrielle found herself longing for them to appear by magic in their big blue car and take charge. But that was negative thinking, she chided herself mentally. It was tantamount to admitting that Shaun Lennox could be right, and that she was out of her depth here.

She stifled a quick sigh and took a firm grip of her suitcase. She had one more place in her list—the Café Tula, which offered a few rooms to rent above its ground floor premises. She crossed her fingers superstitiously, hoping rather desperately that they might still have a vacant corner somewhere they could offer her.

Her spirits rose a little as she went in and glanced round at the neat booths with their solid-looking tables and benches and the spotlessly clean tablecloths. Several of the booths were already occupied by diners and an invitingly spicy smell of cooking drifted in from the kitchen. There was a well-stocked bar at one end of the room and a man was standing behind it arranging bottles on a shelf. He turned as Gabrielle approached rather diffidently.

‘Quisiera una habitation, por favor,’ she asked politely. the Spanish phrase requesting a room rising almost fluently to her lips after a day of practice.

The man studied her for a moment without reply. He had a round placid face with a slightly anxious expression. Then with a slight shrug, he called ‘Pilar!’ and turned back to his task.

Almost at once, the swing doors to the kitchen bounced open and a small, dark woman swathed in a white apron swept into the room. She paused, her hands resting aggressively on her hips. The swift flood of Spanish, directed primarily at the man behind the counter, was too fast for Gabrielle to follow, but from the tone and the accompanying gestures she gathered that Pilar was far from pleased at being brought from her stove to deal with a passing turista.

‘Que quiere usted, señorita?’ Her voice was brusque and impatient and Gabrielle flushed a little, and repeated her request for a room.

‘No hay ningunas?’ The woman spoke dismissively and turned as if to go back to the kitchen.

‘Oh, wait—please.’ Gabrielle spoke in English in her alarm. ‘Señora, estoy cansada. I’m tired—I need a room. Es urgente,’ she added on a note of appeal.

But the only response from Pilar was a sniff, followed by another tirade in Spanish, none of which was comprehensible to Gabrielle. The man behind the bar tried to intervene but was silenced with a look. Gabrielle turned towards him impulsively.

‘Señor, I don’t understand what your wife is saying. Can you explain to her that I’m not a tourist? I am—working here in Merida for a while. I do need a room very badly and I’m willing to pay whatever she asks.’

As she spoke, Gabrielle fumbled in her bag for her wallet, but the man shook his head.

‘Is not—money, señorita. Is—no room,’ he said haltingly, but he looked uncomfortable and his eyes did not meet Gabrielle’s as he spoke.

Pilar muttered something to him, then swung away and returned to her kitchen. The man sighed.

‘My wife says Hernandez may have room. The señorita should try there.’

‘Hernandez?’ Gabrielle was puzzled. It was not one of the names on her list nor one she had encountered in any of the guides, but it seemed she had little choice other than to go along with the suggestion. She produced a scrap of paper and a pen from her bag and laid it on the bar counter. ‘Como puedo ir a Hernandez, Señor, por favor?’

With another sigh, he drew her a brief sketch map, then turned away with an air of relief to serve some customers who had just arrived.

So much for the famed hospitality of the Yucatan, Gabrielle thought with an inward grimace as she hoisted her case and prepared to set off on her travels again.

Her uncertainty increased when she finally arrived at the place indicated on the map. It was not the small restaurant or posada she had envisaged but a small bar in a side street, its sign picked out in gaudy electric bulbs, many of which were either broken or missing. A beaded curtain gave access to the bar from the street and after a momentary hesitation, she pushed this aside and entered. Her nose wrinkled involuntarily as she glanced around. It had none of the clean, comfortable atmosphere of the Café Tula. The interior lighting was poor and a few noisy fans fixed to the walls were the nearest approach to air conditioning. The customers appeared to be all men and Gabrielle paused, fighting an instinctive urge to turn and go back to the dark street outside. Anywhere—even a bench in one of the plazas—would be better than this, she thought despairingly, before common sense came to rescue her, reminding her not to judge by appearances alone and that she had, anyway, very little choice in the matter.

‘Si, señorita? Can I help you?’ A large man who had been sitting alone at a corner table reading a newspaper heaved himself to his feet and came forward, his eyes roaming over her. He was an unprepossessing individual, his dirty shirt straining the buttons over his belly, while his smile revealed broken and discoloured teeth. But his voice was polite enough and Gabrielle forced herself to return his smile.

With the feeling she was living through some kind of bad dream, she explained her predicament in her halting Spanish and saw his smile broaden.

‘No norteamericana?’ he asked.

Gabrielle shook her head. ‘Inglesa,’ she returned.

‘And who tells an Inglesa to come to Hernandez?’

‘They sent me from the Café Tula. A woman called Pilar told me to try here.’ Gabrielle was relieved that his command of English seemed so good.

‘Pilar told you, eh?’ He was overcome by a spasm of silent laughter, his shoulders heaving up and down appreciatively. ‘It—figures. Pilar does not like gringas.’ He reached down and picked up Gabrielle’s case. ‘I show you the room, señorita.’

Gabrielle followed him across the room, embarrassedly aware of the frankly assessing glances fixed on her from all sides. She found herself uneasily checking that all the buttons on her navy shirt were fastened and that the cream flare of her skirt hadn’t been caught up in any way. She was almost glad to find herself out of the bar and going up a narrow stairway between stained and peeling walls. She felt a shiver of distaste which she firmly quelled. Whatever the room was like, she could put up with it for one night at least. Tomorrow she could make fresh plans—maybe even go to Villahermosa.

But the room was not as bad as she had anticipated. The floor was uncarpeted, and some of the slats were broken in the shutters at the windows, but the brightly patterned bedcover seemed clean and so did the cracked washbasin in the corner.

She turned to Hernandez. ‘How much is the room, Señor?’

The price he named made her gasp in disbelief. ‘I—I couldn’t possibly afford all that!’

He shrugged. ‘But the señorita is working. It is a fair rent.’

Now how did he know that? she wondered helplessly. She tried to speak firmly.

‘I am—hoping to work, yes, but nothing is settled yet, and I haven’t a great deal of money. Besides, I only want the room for one night,’ she added hastily.

Hernandez’ large greasy face creased into a frown. ‘Que? But the señorita is muy hermosa. She will not take long to find—work. But I am not a hard man. I make a reduction now and later we talk again.’

Gabrielle accepted with relief, deciding it might be better not to continue any argument about the length of her proposed stay. She handed over the money and watched Hernandez count it before stowing it away in his pocket. He gave her another ingratiating smile as he prepared to leave. ‘The señorita want anything? Tequila?’

‘Thank you, no.’ Gabrielle said hastily. Her empty stomach revolted at the thought of alcohol. She would have to find a restaurant nearby and have something to eat, she thought, flinching a little from the prospect of having to face another trip through the bar downstairs, and wishing that she’d had the foresight to buy some food during the day.

She was glad to see the back of Hernandez, who had seemed disposed to linger, but her heart sank when she finally closed the door behind him and discovered there was no lock on it, and a small broken bolt. She groaned aloud. If she did go out, what guarantee did she have that any of her belongings would still be here when she returned? She gazed rather desperately round the room, registering the fact that the door of the small wardrobe had to be wedged shut with newspaper. It looked as if she was a prisoner in her room until morning. Wearily she picked up her case and put it on the bed. She might as well try and get some sleep and forget her hunger that way.

She found her nightdress and slippers and closed the case again. There was no point in unpacking any further when she would be out of here first thing in the morning, she thought. She swung the case off the bed and looked round for somewhere to stow it. Under the bed seemed the most obvious place and she lifted a corner of the bedcover to make sure there was room.

Something—more than one—ran. Black, bloated and shining from the sheltering darkness under the bed, almost brushing her hand in passing. Her skin crawled uncontrollably and she heard herself scream in pure panic. She jumped to her feet, pulling the covers back from the bed with shaking hands, determined to find if there were any more lurking horrors.

‘What is the matter? Why are you shouting?’ Hernandez was back again. His voice sounded irritable through the closed door. She threw it open and confronted him.

‘There are cockroaches in this room, Señor!’

He looked at her almost incredulously and gave a short laugh. ‘So? Perhaps you should have taken a room at the Montejo Palace, gringa.’

She bit her lip. ‘I’ll need some insecticide. And a bucket of water, some disinfectant and a mop. I’m going to clean this room.’

Hernandez came in and shut the door behind him. He smiled at her genially, but Gabrielle felt a quiver of alarm run along her nerve endings.

‘Why do you make so much fuss? The room is cheap, no, and the—clients when they come do not notice such things. The other girls do not complain.’

Dry-throated, Gabrielle said, ‘Other girls?’

‘Si. You do not imagine you are the first? But you were wise to come to Hernandez, Inglesa. I will—look after you.’

The expression in his eyes as he watched her made her feel as if she was swimming through slime. Trying to keep her voice steady, she said, ‘I think there has been some mistake. I’d better leave.’

His small eyes narrowed. ‘Why you go? Soon everyone will know there is an Inglesa at Hernandez’ place. Many will come. You will make a lot of money. You were a fool to go to Pilar. Pilar is a good woman—very moral—go to Mass each day.’

‘No,’ she said desperately. ‘You don’t understand …’

‘I understand.’ He shrugged negligently. ‘You had to leave your hotel. Hotels here—very strict. But is O.K. here. Is good room, very cheap.’ He smiled again and took her arm, pinching the flesh between his stubby fingers. ‘Be nice to Hernandez, gringa, and maybe the room gets cheaper.’

Sheer panic lent her extra strength. She tore herself free from his grip and dodged past him out of the room, intent only on reaching the street and the comparative safety it seemed to offer. But there was a man coming up the dark stairs, blocking them. She collided with a hard body. Arms like steel bands went round her, controlling her struggles, as sobs of fright tore at her throat.

‘Calm down!’ The voice held a snarl, but it was English and it was also familiar. Dazedly, Gabrielle looked up into Shaun Lennox’s dark face, his eyes brilliant with anger.

‘What are you doing here?’ she gasped.

‘I could ask you the same, but it’s hardly the time for damfool questions.’ He took her arm in a bruising grip and led her back down the passage, ignoring her instinctive resistance. ‘Don’t abandon your luggage, Miss Christow. Hernandez will only sell it, and I imagine he’s had some money from you already. Don’t let him make more profit from your mistake.’

Hernandez was standing sulkily by the door as they went in. At the sight of Shaun Lennox, his whole attitude became defensive and he embarked on what seemed to be lengthy explanations in Spanish, causing every now and then to shoot accusing glares at Gabrielle.

Dr Lennox silenced him with one swift phrase which brought dull colour into the swarthy cheeks. Then he turned to Gabrielle.

‘Get your things together, Miss Christow,’ he advised curtly. ‘They’re holding dinner for us at the Institute.’

She stared at him unbelievingly for a moment. ‘What made you change your mind?’

‘I haven’t,’ he said succinctly. ‘Dennis Morgan has made one of his lightning recoveries and wants to have a look at you. I phoned your hotel this morning to let you know and found you’d left without a forwarding address. We’ve been looking for you most of the day.’

‘How did you find me?’ She rolled her nightdress into a ball and rammed it into a corner of the case.

‘Quite by accident. Rosita who works in the office at the Institute—you may have seen her yesterday—was dining at the Café Tula with her novio tonight and she saw you. She got the gist of what was going on and it worried her, especially when she heard friend Hernandez’ name being mentioned. This bar is pretty notorious. But her English isn’t too good and she doubted whether she’d be able to make you understand, so she telephoned me instead.’

‘I’m very gateful to her.’ Gabrielle snapped the locks on her case with trembling fingers.