Pearls (4 page)

Smiling, the woman handed the list back to Isabel.

“One more thing.” Isabel folded the paper and put it in her pocket. “I’m going to need some reference books on old Indian languages.”

Adelina’s smile faded, and she shook her head. “I would love to help you, but I do not think I can. Hundreds of tribes inhabited Venezuela before the Spaniards arrived, and they all spoke their own language or dialect. None of them used a formal written language, Isabel. You should know that from your studies.”

A nervous flutter started in her stomach and reverberated up into her chest. For the first time, Isabel feared she might not be able to finish the translation. “Yes, but surely there were explorers or missionaries who recorded information on the native languages. You must have something.”

“I do, but without knowing which tribe or language to search for, we could spend years looking and not find the answers you need.”

Defeat hovered over her, threatening to swallow the enthusiasm she had enjoyed the last few weeks. The journal had given her a sense of purpose and a heritage more wonderful than any she could have imagined. The thought of never completing the translation disheartened her. “Please, will you at least try?” she begged.

“I don’t know how, Isabel, but I think I know someone who can.” Adelina opened her desk drawer and pulled out a directory of university faculty. “Here,” she said, tapping her manicured fingernail against a name on the second page. “Manuel Santiago is teaching an archaeology class this semester. He is knowledgeable about the ancient populations that inhabited this region. If anyone can help you, he can.” Adelina scribbled his office address and phone number on a scrap of paper.

“Thank you!” Isabel accepted the note with a grateful smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll drop by his office before I head home.”

Manuel stared at the full-page picture accompanying the feature article in the archaeology journal. Julio, his old college classmate, had made the find of a lifetime in Egypt, and his success had received worldwide acclaim. Manuel knew he should feel proud of his friend, but his own sense of failure overpowered any goodwill.

“Figures! I spent three lousy years as a dig
assistant
, and now I’m stuck in a classroom. Julio probably has sponsors lined up, begging to fund his digs, and I can’t get anyone to even listen to my requests.” Manuel thumped the magazine down on his desk and stared at the stack of reports that needed grading. While he appreciated the rigors of academia, he had no desire to spend his career in archaeology behind a podium or a desk. He wanted to work in the field—exploring, digging, and discovering.

With a sigh he opened his drawer and pulled out a red pen.
I may as well get to it.
He had just lifted the first paper from the stack when a knock sounded at his office door.

“Come in!”

The door swung open, revealing a striking young woman. She was tall by Venezuelan standards, probably in her early twenties. Her appearance and coloring denoted a Spanish bloodline, but her clothes and her body language suggested she was a foreigner. “Manuel Santiago?” She eased into the room, glancing around at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining every wall, shelves bowing under the weight of their load.

A wave of self-consciousness swept over Manuel as she eyed his less than tidy desk. He quickly shuffled a stack of student reports and dropped the journal he’d been reading into a drawer. “Can I help you?” He gestured to a chair in front of his desk. She slid her backpack from her shoulders and set it beside the chair, then took a seat.

“Professor Santiago, my name is Isabel Palmer. I’m working on a project and could use your assistance. If I could have a moment of your time to show you this….” She bent to rummage through her backpack.

Though she spoke his language fluently, he noted her slight accent did not sound Venezuelan and guessed that Spanish was not her native language. “Where are you from?”

She paused and lifted her face to look at him. “Why is that important?”

“I’m just curious. It’s obvious you aren’t Venezuelan.”

“It is?” Her shoulders slumped at his declaration, making him wonder if he’d somehow hurt her feelings.

“Yes. Where are you from?”

“The United States. What gave me away?”

“Your accent.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t have an accent.”

“You’re right about that. You don’t have a Venezuelan accent.”

She frowned at him a moment then shook her head. Returning her attention to the backpack, she pulled out a smooth metal case and laid it across her lap. “Can we get back to the reason I came?”

He nodded, enjoying the irritation that sparked through her eyes.

“I’ve recently inherited a piece of family history—a journal—and I’ve been trying to translate the old Spanish phrasing. I was doing a decent job of it until I started coming across words that aren’t Spanish in origin. The librarian suggested they might be an Indian language, and I believe she’s correct. The man who wrote the journal spent a good deal of time with an Indian woman.”

Great. Some random request that had nothing to do with him or his class. Where did these people find him? “And you’ve brought it to me because….”

“I was wondering if you would take a look at the Indian words and tell me if you recognize the language.”

“I’ll take a look, but I can’t make any promises. Do you know how many tribes lived in this region?”

“I know it’s a long shot, but please?”

Something about the undisguised hope on her face made him feel obligated to at least take a look. With a huff, he conceded. “Let me see it.” He’d take a quick glance at whatever she’d brought then send her on her way so he could get back to brooding over his current dismal situation and grading boring papers.

She lifted the leather-bound journal from its case and laid it before him with reverent care.

As he examined the cover, his interest was piqued. “How old is this?”

“Five-hundred years.”

He swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”

“The entries are dated. See for yourself.”

He pulled open his desk drawer and took out a pair of cotton gloves.

“Why are you doing that—putting on gloves, I mean?”

He stared at her. Was this
gringa
a little
loca
? “You don’t mean to tell me you’ve been handling these pages with your bare hands, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Never—and I mean never—do that again! Do you understand?”

She shrank away from him, as if the tone and volume of his voice made her uncomfortable. “Why not?”

“The oils in your skin will increase the rate of decomposition. I’ll give you a pair of gloves to take with you.”

Manuel opened to the first entry and began to read. His practiced eye made a rough translation without the aid of a dictionary. The story would interest a historian, but he saw no immediate value to an archaeologist.
Maybe I can send her to someone else. I don’t have time to bother with this sort of thing.
He pretended to give the first entry a careful examination then flipped to a page further into the journal. A line of script caught his eye, sending a chill down his spine.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice sharp with interest.

“I told you, it’s a piece of family history. My grandmother recently placed it in my care. Why?”

Manuel’s voice rose to match his excitement. “Do you know what this is? Do you know the value of this journal?” When she backed away from him, he realized he was shouting at her. He paused and drew a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m having something of a bad day, and you happened to walk into the middle of it. I don’t mean to take out my frustration on you.”

She watched him with impassioned eyes. “Can you help me translate the journal?”

“Yes. And maybe I can do something better.”

“Better?”

“Did you know there’s a legend connected to the man who wrote this journal?”

Isabel smirked. “Are you going to talk about stolen treasure now?”

“So, you know?”

“I’ve heard the fairy tales, yes.”

“You don’t believe them?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Stolen treasure? Are you serious? Maybe in the movies, but….”

“
Señorita
Palmer, if you’d read some of the later entries, you’d understand.”

“I tried, but I kept running into Indian words that I couldn’t translate.”

Manuel nodded. “I see them. I think they’re a Pachacamac dialect because I remember seeing this name, Karwa, associated with this tribe before. I’d need to pull some resources to confirm it. Translation would be tricky because there isn’t much from that tribe. They were largely extinct before anything could be recorded about them.”

“The slavers killed them.”

“Yes, slavery took a heavy toll on the native population.” Manuel leaned back in his chair and took a moment to assess her. A plan began forming in his mind, and he wondered how she would react to it. He needed an opportunity to get his career off the ground. This could be just the ticket.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he blurted. “I’d like to translate this journal, and I’ll do it for free on one condition.”

“Yes?” A look of apprehension accompanied her smile.

“I’d like your permission to use the information we uncover.”

“Use it? How?”

“Several years ago, one of my European colleagues did a study of sixteenth century captains’ logs. He specializes in locating and exploring sunken ships, preferably ones containing treasure. The logbooks often give valuable clues about the location of sunken treasure.”

“Wouldn’t the logbooks sink with the ships?” Isabel asked.

“Yes. But ships often traveled in groups, so a fellow captain might record the sinking of a sister ship in his log. Or a captain who sunk an enemy ship would write down the incident. Anyway, my friend found the log of a Spanish captain stationed off the coast of Cubagua during the time the Spaniards harvested the pearls. The pearl beds at that time were rich and ripe for harvest. Having never been touched, the oysters had enough time to multiply and mature, offering an incredible bounty. The pearls the navy transported to Spain eventually totaled forty percent of the world’s wealth.”

Her eyebrows lifted and he could see that his brief history lesson was answering questions she hadn’t even known to ask.

“As my friend read, he found an entry about a chest of pearls stolen from the Spanish Navy. These weren’t just any pearls. They were the best and largest pearls harvested off the coast of Cubagua. Some were said to have been the size of a man’s eyeball. The admiral overseeing the fleet insisted the most valuable pearls be set aside in order to make a special and impressive gift to the royal court upon his return. To his dismay, the chest containing the queen’s gift disappeared one night without a trace.”

Manuel pointed to an entry in the journal. “I see similarities in the story outlined here. I believe your ancestor may have stolen the pearls, and this journal could hold the key to their location.”

She fixed him with a blue-eyed stare, her eyebrows drawing together in a frown. For a moment he thought she would turn down his offer, but when she broke the silence, she sounded interested. “Will you look for the pearls if the journal gives you enough information?”

The change in her voice made him uneasy, but he knew he couldn’t lie to her. “I would if I could find a sponsor to fund the expedition.”

“Then I’ll agree to your condition if you agree to mine.”

“And that is…?”

“If you go looking for the pearls, I’m going with you.”

He slammed his palm against the desktop. “Absolutely not! You are not qualified or prepared for fieldwork.”

She shrugged her shoulders and reached for the journal. “Then I’ll be leaving, Professor Santiago. I’m sorry we couldn’t come to an agreement, but I thank you for your time.”

He watched in disbelief as Isabel returned the journal to its case and tucked it into her backpack, her face and posture confirming her resolve. Desperation mounted inside him. His teaching contract with the university ended after this semester, and he had no job lined up after the holidays. Work in the archaeology field could be scarce at times, and he had suffered his share of unemployment over the last few years. Aside from his desire to make a name for himself, he also needed to repay the debts he’d accumulated during his jobless stints.
This could be the break I’ve been waiting for, and this stubborn female is not going to blow it for me.

Manuel swallowed hard. “Please, I’m sure we can work something out.” He rose from his chair and stood in the doorway, blocking her escape. “I could send you daily updates or arrange for you to visit me on site once a month to look over my work.”

She rose from the chair and faced him, her chin tilted at a determined angle. “He’s
my
ancestor. This is
my
journal. Either you agree to work with me from start to finish, or there’s no deal.”