Fire on the Moon. V. J. Banis

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      I stared in wonder at the exquisite contrast between quiet isolation and teeming vitality. Summer waters broke winter white against the beach; flat, creamy sands swept high into towering cliffs of green; square, low houses stretched up to touch the sky with their tapered, filigreed chimneys. The smell of oranges, lemons, grapes, and almonds mingled deliciously with the fresh sea air.

      It was the paradise I had always sought. I hadn’t the faintest idea what this place was called, or how far we had to travel. And I didn’t care. It was too beautiful.

      “Magnificent, isn’t it?” I asked, hypnotized by the beauty of the landscape, completely forgetting what had gone before.

      His silence suddenly brought memory back. Our eyes met again in the mirror. This time it was I who lowered my gaze.

      CHAPTER TWO

      We drove until the sun dipped slightly to the west. The dreary weather that had greeted me when I arrived was gone; I scarcely remembered its having been. Neither I nor the surly man in front of me spoke a word. From time to time we regarded each other in the rear view mirror, but that was our only communication.

      I found him looking at me again. This time I gave him a nervous smile. I decided the long period of silence had to come to an end. I was becoming too uneasy.

      “You have me at a disadvantage,” I said as brightly as I could manage.

      He didn’t answer.

      I paused. I decided to be my usual persistent self. “You know my name, but unfortunately I do not know yours.”

      Still he said nothing. I was going to persevere when I heard him say, “Neil.”

      My heart gave a little tug. He was going to come out of his shell.

      “Are you a friend of my aunt’s?”

      I saw his shoulders sag slightly and was sure I’d won the battle over silence. I waited. But he said no more. He simply pressed down harder on the accelerator.

      His stubbornness only served to increase my nervousness, and unfortunately when I’m nervous I usually find myself tempted to talk in order to alleviate my discomfort. Those who know me can always tell when I’m jittery or restless. I talk.

      And so I began to talk. I flattered Portugal, the scenery, the people I’d noticed at the airport, the polite man in uniform who had helped me with the telephone. I talked about Michigan, the vastness of the New York airport, the smoothness of the flight over. I tried to overlook his silence.

      I was careful not to ask any more direct questions. I knew he’d only ignore them. Furthermore, I was careful not to say anything too personal, concerning either myself or him.

      “I had no idea my aunt lived so far from the city,” I said as we made a sharp turn off the main road and started up the side of a mountain.

      “We are nearly there,” he said.

      I almost didn’t believe my ears. He had actually volunteered an entire sentence. I felt my verbosity had paid off. I smiled to myself and leaned back in the seat. I was content.

      And we were nearly there. After a few minutes’ drive up a very steep road we leveled off atop a high bluff. I gazed out at the vast Atlantic. Somewhere out there, farther than I could imagine, was the world I’d left behind. I suddenly wanted to rush back to it. Despite the exquisite beauty of Portugal, I had a strange foreboding. I wanted to return to where I knew everything to be secure and safe and friendly.

      As we skirted the edge of the cliff I found myself turning to stare at the back of the man’s head—Neil’s head. Was he representative of what Portuguese men were like? I hoped not.

      Who was he? I wondered. Did he live at Carlotta’s villa?

      As I thought about these questions, he swerved into a driveway, drove between two giant stone posts that supported intricately wrought iron gates, up a gravel drive and into a spacious courtyard.

      I was stunned by the beauty of the villa. It was the lightest of pinks with a peaked roof of a darker hue. A marble terrace ran the full length of the lovely old house.

      The terrace was dotted with potted cyprus trees. Tall French windows blinked at me as I got out of the limousine. Their shutters were open and fastened to the flat façade. I had known that Carlotta lived well, but I had hardly expected such luxury. The lawns were freshly manicured; obviously they received loving care.

      It was an enchanting place. The moment I saw it I completely forgot my feeling of foreboding and my anxiety to return home. Now I was eager to rush inside. The house virtually shouted out a welcome to me.

      Neil took my bags from the back seat and stacked them near the front door. He rummaged around in a flower pot, produced a key and unlocked the door. He pushed it aside for me. I stepped through into the cool luxury of the interior. Neil remained outside. I heard him move my bags immediately inside the foyer. I was so captivated by the beauty of the house that I hardly heard the door close. I was sure Neil was standing behind me, but then I heard the car’s motor roar and speed down the drive and away.

      Quickly I went back outside. The car was just disappearing. I stood there watching it go. I shook my head and turned and started back into the villa. The key, I noticed, was in the latch. I took it out and dropped it into my purse.

      “What a strange man,” I said to the emptiness of the foyer.

      At least he had brought me here, and for that I was very grateful.

      A long sweeping staircase led from the foyer to the floor above. I glanced at my bags and decided I was too weary and hungry to bother carting them upstairs. Anyway, I had no idea where to put them after I did lug them up.

      I crossed the foyer, listening to the echo of my heels on the black and white marble squares. “Anybody home?” I called.

      No answer. I went down several steps that led into what I thought must be the “lair” Carlotta spoke so fondly of. It was a beautiful room, bright and feminine, and not very well organized. Carlotta’s sketches were everywhere, and her award-winning dress designs were framed and hung in a cluster on one high wall.

      An easel and a drawing board stood before one bank of windows, isolated somewhat from the rest of the room and their rough, natural wood contrasted sharply with the highly polished, exquisitely carved French antiques on the deep-pile rug. The “lair” was massive clutter, but exquisite clutter.

      I took my time inspecting the room. Aunt Carlotta, I knew, wouldn’t mind my exploring. I wondered about servants. Surely Carlotta didn’t keep up this magnificent place all by herself. It was much too large, and by the look of it, was cared for quite regularly. Everything seemed in its proper place. Even the fabric swatches were neatly stacked.

      I half-expected a note or message of some kind but I saw none. I crossed the foyer. There I found the living room, which far outshone the lair. Unlike the lair, the living room was exclusively Spanish—Portuguese, I corrected. In spite of its massive furniture, it exuded warmth and intimacy. A СКАЧАТЬ