No Job for a Lady (19 page)

He takes the pipe out of his mouth and grins as he looks up.

“Had a hard day, dear?”

“You—you—you’re finished, kaput!” I wave my hands wildly like a steam propeller. “I’m going to have you arrested. You’ll spend the rest of your life in a Mexican prison making tortillas for big hombres.”

Spinning around, I grab the door handle and jerk the door open.

“Better ask Mr. Madden if that’s a good idea.”

I freeze in place and let out an involuntary gasp. With my hand still on the doorknob, I turn around slowly.

That obnoxious, annoying grin of triumph is spread across his face.

“My friend in Pennsylvania contacted the
Dispatch
to let them know their star
foreign correspondent
is progressing well on her assignment. Funny thing, though … it seems that Madden, the paper’s editor in chief, complained loudly that—”

With a bang that could have been heard by Lily Langtry in the heavens above, I send the door flying shut. Mustering all the strength and courage my five-foot frame can muster, I step forward, ready for battle.

“I will not be blackmailed.”

“And I will not sleep in the gutter. That’s what my sleeping arrangements became when you played your little joke.”

“I—I’ll talk to the clerk.”

“I already talked to three clerks and the manager.
El presidente
would have been next, but then I realized I had this room.”

“But you can’t have my room. Where will I go?”

“Madam, there is a place where I would love to send you—unfortunately, I would definitely end up in that Mexican prison you keep threatening me with if I let my anger control my common sense. As for sleeping arrangements, this room is larger than the compartment we shared on the train.”

“I will not share this room with you. It wouldn’t be decent.”

“Not decent? This big room?” He stares at his pipe as if it will answer the question on his face. “But the little train compartment was?”

“We were traveling. Men and women sleep in separate berths in the public area of Pullman cars. The compartment wasn’t that far removed, and in case you don’t remember, we had separate beds.”

He sits up and puts his feet on the floor and taps tobacco out of his pipe into an ashtray on the nightstand beside the bed.

“I am not going to argue with you. You have once again created an intolerable situation.” He smirks. “I’m beginning to wonder whether you are managing things so we are thrown together.”

I let out a wounded animal’s cry. “I would rather share a room with a snake than with you.”

“No one says you have to share the room with me.” He shrugs and again gives me his nasty smirk. “There’s always the street.”

“This—this is outrageous! Insane.”

“No. Just not to your liking.”

For the first time in a long time, I don’t know what to do, what to say. I am a trapped animal, held at bay by strong chains. It makes no sense.

“Where will you sleep?” I ask.

He looks at the cot as if seeing it for the first time and then gestures at it with his hands. “Why, I’m going to sleep right here.”

“But there’s no place for me.”

He grins. “You don’t really believe I wouldn’t think about your comfort, do you? I had the maid bring you bedding.”

He indicates two blankets and a pillow stacked on the washstand.

He waves his hands at the floor. “Pick any spot you like.”

There is murder in my heart. Rage. My breathing becomes labored. I can’t see my face, but I know it has gone from white to red and now it must be a deep purple. If ever in my life I’ve been ready to strangle, mangle, or slice and dice a human being, this is the moment.

He recognizes the danger and speaks quietly. “Don’t do anything hasty. Just remember, if Don Antonio finds out you lied about being a foreign correspondent, you can say adios to Mexico. And your career. Now this arrangement isn’t perfect; I admit that. But it will work—for both of us. You’ll see, just like on the train.”

I swallow hard and think fast, my head nodding up and down as if it has springs on it. “I’ll take the cot—”

“Sorry. Deal breaker.”

“You can’t expect a woman to sleep on the floor. Why, there’ll be bugs on it.”

He stares at the floor beneath his spread-out feet. A cockroach is crawling along it.

“I see what you mean.”

He lifts a bare foot and stamps down, smashing the roach, then twists his foot to make sure the bug is really dead. He looks back up at me.

“You can use your hands or your feet. They squish real easy either way.”

32

All night long, I lie on a hard floor, jerking awake repeatedly, keeping an eye out for spiders, scorpions, and whatever else they have in Mexico that stings or bites. Never have I welcomed a morning with such aggravation and fury.

As quickly as possible, I get out of the room, fleeing from Roger; otherwise, I fear I would have committed bodily harm as he nonchalantly lay in bed, starring up at the ceiling, smoking his pipe, after he had a peaceful night.

For certain, everyone in the reception area can hear my teeth grinding as I head for the front entrance and storm out into the street. Even the doorman turns away to avoid making eye contact as he holds the door open. Smart man.

I’m as angry at myself for letting Roger get the best of me as I am at his conniving and rudeness. Our relationship has degraded to pure blackmail—and I am the victim!

What awful luck! There are thirty-eight states in our great nation. The odds of bumping into someone who knows someone else who knows my editor has to be almost nil.

Regardless of how I slice it, the bastard has discovered my charade and can make demands of me at will. I’m doomed.

Since the moment I finagled a sleeping compartment for two so I could avoid sleeping upright on a hard seat for days, I have had nothing but bad luck, ill fortune, poor karma, everything that evil spirits can throw at me. In hindsight, I would rather have ridden on the roof of the train than be subjected to that man’s whims.

Not knowing what to do or where to go, I wander aimlessly down endless streets, turning here and there, not really caring if I get lost or what time it is. I hate this helpless feeling.

Exhausted, I stop and take a deep breath. What am I doing? Here I am in this lovely, exotic city, and instead of enjoying it or giving it the concentration that is needed for writing articles about its colorful streets and people, I’m too caught up with my anger. This will get me nowhere.

I take another deep breath. “Move forward Nellie.” I’ve never been one to cry over spilt milk—waste of time. Let him think he’s won or at least has the upper hand. The real war has just begun. I’ve never been a quitter, nor given in to men. Roger has a lot to learn.

With my strong, in-control attitude restored, I soak up the atmosphere of the city, jotting down my impressions in pencil on a small tablet I carry, not at all concerned about how far I’ve ventured from the hotel, for there will always be a taxi available to get me back.

My one misgiving about leaving the hotel in such a rush is that I forgot Gertrude might contact me and arrange a time for us to meet. Hopefully, she didn’t plan anything for today. I’m enjoying this time to myself.

As I trudge along in a neighborhood that is poor and much less crowded than the heart of the city, where I started, I feel a bit light-headed—probably because the day is quite warm and the air thin, making one feel giddy.

Giggling young girls start to dance around me, pulling at my skirt. Knowing they are just having fun, I let them lead me into an alley that opens into a much smaller square. It appears deserted, but I am suddenly surrounded by Mexican men, and the dancing girls are gone.

“What is it? What do you want?”

No answer comes from them. Instead, the men stare at me, strangely silent, their features impassive.

I don’t like this at all.

They are dressed in the straw hats, white pants, and shirts typical of peons. Their features are expressionless, telling me nothing. I have no clue as to their intent.

Panic starts to grip me.

A young girl carrying a bouquet of flowers abruptly appears in front of me. She shoves the flowers in my face, violently shaking them, sending a powder at me.

To avoid the stuff, I put my hands in front of my face, but I know I’ve breathed in the dust, because I can feel my lungs burning.

I feel faint. As in a slow-motion dream, I find myself falling, soaring downward, as if I am a bird that has lost its wings, diving straight down into a bottomless black pit.

33

Murky black mist swirls around, gripping me. I spin with it, moving slower than the strange pandemonium that surrounds me, my vision distorted, my mind fouled.

I am no longer soaring downward without wings; instead, my whole being feels like it’s suspended in a violent, twisting maelstrom. I have no control of my body—it is attached to me, but not mine.

Strange figures dart by as clawlike hands grope my body, pulling at my clothes. Try as I might, I don’t have the strength to push them off. They dig into my flesh and I cry out in pain.

A wet, sticky, smelly hand covers my mouth, smothering any chance that a cry for help would be heard.

Chatty voices surround me, speaking in a strange tongue, as I’m being moved deeper and deeper into a void I fear I will never escape. Cold, wet dampness embraces me. I feel like I’m being prepared for death and there is nothing I can do.

The hand leaves my mouth, but I don’t scream. A wave of courage inside stops me, gives me hope, telling me not to let them know my fear.

My eyes hurt as my vision starts to come back, blurred at first, then darting around as if I am a wild animal trapped and looking for a way of escape. Nothing comes into view except different shades of darkness. I realize I’m in a chamber of stone and mortar, some sort of concrete monster that has me entrapped in a murky hell.

Grotesque faces appear around me. Some are masks, others are animalistic—
faces of jaguars.

I don’t have the power to scream as my heart races out of control. A flash of fiery light—a torch—blinds me, and I close my eyes as voices in the strange language shout at me, saying things that I don’t understand.

My eyes blink open again and the fire is gone, but I see another light ahead of me. I jerk forward, taking a step, trying to move out of the nightmare.

A strange force of panic and terror arises inside me and I scream and run like a wounded animal toward the light. The closer I get to it, the more it blinds me, but I keep running, stumbling forward.

As I burst out into bright daylight, I hear voices, exciting voices, not that awful chattering I was surrounded with. I try to run, but mostly stagger toward the voices. People—normal, everyday people jabbering in Spanish—gather around me.

Slowly, the dense mist in my mind is starting to clear, and I force myself to breathe deeply, to get life back into my body, but my knees buckle as my mind slips back into that dark, ugly void, and I feel myself free-falling.

34

“Fraulein … Nellie…”

I open my eyes and squint, trying to make the blurred features come into some kind of defined shape.

“Don’t move.”

The command is accented, but it’s not a Spanish one.

I try to push the person hovering over me away.

“Lie still.”

A wet towel is laid on my forehead.

“You passed out from the sun and might have hit your head when you fell.”

I know exactly who is hovering over me, giving me instructions. I recognize the voice and the blurry countenance, but I just can’t unite them together into a coherent thought. I close my eyes and slip back into the black void; only this time, it’s not threatening.

*   *   *

R
OGER IS IN THE ROOM
when I arrive back at the hotel.

He takes one look at me, and jumps off the cot, tossing aside the newspaper he was reading.

“Good Lord, what happened to you? You look—are you all right?”

I don’t have to be told that I look like something the cat dragged in.

“I passed out on the street. The sun, the food, the altitude, whatever. I was taken to a hospital.”

“You poor thing. Here, lie down. The cot is yours.”

“No, thank you.” I grab my blankets to curl up on the floor.

“No, please, take the cot. Tell me what happened.”

“That’s about it. I passed out, and next thing I knew, I was at a hospital. The doctor said I was dehydrated. Do you mind if I freshen up?”

He leaves, again showing concern, wanting to know if he can get me anything. I am surprised. This is not the Roger I have learned to hate.

I slip off my dress and stand at the washbasin in my petticoat. I didn’t necessarily have to send him out to keep him from seeing me in undergarments. I was raised with brothers and, like many women, in a pinch I don’t consider it indecent to be seen in undergarments as long as the clothing hides my flesh and my shape.

I sent him out because I needed more time to think. My mind began racing with thoughts as soon as I got my senses back, and I need to sort them out.

The person who aided me on the streets, or at least supervised the aid given to me, was the man with the German accent and pack animals from the train. He and a woman took me to a nearby hospital in his carriage. The woman, the wife of a shopkeeper near where I fell, stayed with me until I saw the doctor. The German left before I had enough of my mental faculties back to thank him for his aid.

There was little wrong with me, and the doctor was probably right when he advised that I sorely needed liquids. But as soon as I had my wits back, I took a taxi to the police station.

It took a while to get a police officer who spoke enough English to have even a rough idea of what I was saying. I tried to explain that a girl had done something with a bunch of flowers to make me lose my senses.

When I told him about hideous creatures staring at me, he said, “
Sí,
señorita, many skeletons.”