Temple Of The Moon. Sara Craven

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ