her through before she put her head against his shoulder and shut her eyes again. It was so much easier just to let him handle everything, and after all, this was his country and he was used to such adventures.
She was aware of the low murmur of Spanish, and then felt the sweet comfort of a soft bed receive her weight. She meant to protest the loss of Matteo’s arms, but found she was too tired. When he let her go she fell fully asleep immediately, and she didn’t feel him cover her with a light blanket or hear him leave the room.
* * * *
When Helen awoke she didn’t know where she was. It took her a moment to remember the trip into the hills from San Jacinta and her arrival at their destination. She sat up and looked around her, taking in the rustic room with oak beams overhead and the darkness outside the single window. It must have been the middle of the night. The furniture was spare and mismatched: the bed on which she lay, covered with a faded patchwork quilt; a washstand with a pitcher and bowl, both cracked; and a cane chair by the window, some of the latticework missing from its seat. The window itself was bare, and the only covering on the floor was a rag rug made from bits of yarn, a washed out riot of dulled colors like the quilt.
Helen listened carefully and could hear the faint thrum of music from the floor below. She remembered Matteo saying something about a taberna. Was that a restaurant or hotel? It seemed as though it was both. If so, some of the patrons downstairs must be keeping late hours. And she was in one of the rooms to let on the second floor.
The first order of business was to find Matteo. She got up, putting aside the sheet draping her legs, and went to the door, opening it a crack. The music got louder, but the hallway was almost dark, illuminated by a single electric bulb. Helen felt her way along it to the stairwell and was about to descend when a door on her left opened abruptly. A large woman in a sunny yellow peasant blouse and a lipstick red skirt confronted her, clapping her hands together with obvious delight.
“Ah, la senorita de Matteo” she exclaimed, beaming at Helen. Her shining black hair was scraped back into a severe bun, which did nothing to detract from the bright good humor of her expression. Gleaming gold hoops dangled from her ears and a hand-embroidered apron was tied about her ample waist.
“¿ Tiene usted hambre?” she asked Helen, and when Helen indicated that she didn’t understand, the woman mimed the use of a knife and fork.
Helen nodded. She was, in fact, famished, but locating Matteo was of even greater interest than food at the moment. She tried desperately to remember the phrase for “where is” that the Costa Rican maid had taught her and finally came up with it.
“¿Donde estd Matteo?” she said triumphantly, and was gratified when the woman’s smile became even wider. She answered with an incomprehensible flood of Spanish, however, and Helen wished she hadn’t tried to get cute.
“Matteo,” she said again, desperately, hoping that the woman would take the hint. “¿Donde esta Matteo, por favor?”
The woman responded by taking her hand and leading her back to the room she had just left.
“Sientese,” she said to Helen, pointing to the cane chair. Helen understood that she was to sit and did so.
Satisfied, her companion nodded vigorously and then launched into a short speech in which Matteo’s name figured prominently. She was either going to get him or telling Helen that he had left for parts unknown, never to return. Helen decided that it had to be the former and settled in to wait.
The woman departed, closing the door behind her. Downstairs, someone started to sing, accompanied by a number of guitars. Helen was listening to the music, feeling like a third grader waiting for the principal to arrive, when the door opened and Matteo walked through it.
Helen jumped up and flung herself into his arms.
“Hey,” he said,
She was aware of the low murmur of Spanish, and then felt the sweet comfort of a soft bed receive her weight. She meant to protest the loss of Matteo’s arms, but found she was too tired. When he let her go she fell fully asleep immediately, and she didn’t feel him cover her with a light blanket or hear him leave the room.
* * * *
When Helen awoke she didn’t know where she was. It took her a moment to remember the trip into the hills from San Jacinta and her arrival at their destination. She sat up and looked around her, taking in the rustic room with oak beams overhead and the darkness outside the single window. It must have been the middle of the night. The furniture was spare and mismatched: the bed on which she lay, covered with a faded patchwork quilt; a washstand with a pitcher and bowl, both cracked; and a cane chair by the window, some of the latticework missing from its seat. The window itself was bare, and the only covering on the floor was a rag rug made from bits of yarn, a washed out riot of dulled colors like the quilt.
Helen listened carefully and could hear the faint thrum of music from the floor below. She remembered Matteo saying something about a taberna. Was that a restaurant or hotel? It seemed as though it was both. If so, some of the patrons downstairs must be keeping late hours. And she was in one of the rooms to let on the second floor.
The first order of business was to find Matteo. She got up, putting aside the sheet draping her legs, and went to the door, opening it a crack. The music got louder, but the hallway was almost dark, illuminated by a single electric bulb. Helen felt her way along it to the stairwell and was about to descend when a door on her left opened abruptly. A large woman in a sunny yellow peasant blouse and a lipstick red skirt confronted her, clapping her hands together with obvious delight.
“Ah, la senorita de Matteo” she exclaimed, beaming at Helen. Her shining black hair was scraped back into a severe bun, which did nothing to detract from the bright good humor of her expression. Gleaming gold hoops dangled from her ears and a hand-embroidered apron was tied about her ample waist.
“¿ Tiene usted hambre?” she asked Helen, and when Helen indicated that she didn’t understand, the woman mimed the use of a knife and fork.
Helen nodded. She was, in fact, famished, but locating Matteo was of even greater interest than food at the moment. She tried desperately to remember the phrase for “where is” that the Costa Rican maid had taught her and finally came up with it.
“¿Donde estd Matteo?” she said triumphantly, and was gratified when the woman’s smile became even wider. She answered with an incomprehensible flood of Spanish, however, and Helen wished she hadn’t tried to get cute.
“Matteo,” she said again, desperately, hoping that the woman would take the hint. “¿Donde esta Matteo, por favor?”
The woman responded by taking her hand and leading her back to the room she had just left.
“Sientese,” she said to Helen, pointing to the cane chair. Helen understood that she was to sit and did so.
Satisfied, her companion nodded vigorously and then launched into a short speech in which Matteo’s name figured prominently. She was either going to get him or telling Helen that he had left for parts unknown, never to return. Helen decided that it had to be the former and settled in to wait.
The woman departed, closing the door behind her. Downstairs, someone started to sing, accompanied by a number of guitars. Helen was listening to the music, feeling like a third grader waiting for the principal to arrive, when the door opened and Matteo walked through it.
Helen jumped up and flung herself into his arms.
“Hey,” he said,
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