Saffire (30 page)

In Panama City, at the National Hotel, Robert Waldschmidt did not respond to a call from the lobby telephone.

Nor was he in the restaurant.

Back in the lobby, I said, “We need to talk to him.”

Miskimon shrugged. “This is the republic. We have no jurisdictional say. He can move around the country as he pleases.”

“Not if the current government believes he is involved in inciting a revolution.”

“We have no proof of that. Only strong speculation. I cannot in good conscience take speculation to any authorities in the republic. It would be signing his death warrant.”

“Suggestions? Give the Panamanians the photos with Amador's signature on a new constitution.”

“That will be for Colonel Goethals to decide.”

I finally asked the question that mattered most to me. “So I am finished here in Panama?”

Miskimon gave it consideration. “I usually report to the colonel at the end of the day. I'll confirm it with him and let you know immediately after. The next steamer to New York doesn't leave until tomorrow anyway.”

“Until then?”

“I won't be out of Panama City for a few hours. I'd feel better if you stayed with me instead of wandering these streets on your own.”

“I appreciate your concern over my well-being, Muskie, but that won't be necessary. I have plans of my own.”

“It has nothing to do with you. I'm just trying to protect Colonel Goethals from any and all of your irresponsibilities.”

“Tell you what, Muskie, I promise to be good.”

I tipped my hat and walked out of the lobby.

O
delia found me easily enough at the time written on the note I had found in my cowboy boot in the morning. I had positioned myself to the side of the bottleneck of spectators at a gate, on the northeast side of the arena. Her note had stated to meet her across from a Chinese restaurant, which was accurate. But it also showed a difference in perspectives. She marked her geography by buildings; I marked mine by the compass.

She stepped toward me and touched my arm with her left hand. She wore a dress similar in style to the one she had worn the previous evening—but far less formal—with brightly colored flowers on a light blue pastel background. It contrasted well with her jet black hair and equally dark eyes. She was—as Miskimon had pointed out—very alluring.

“James Holt.” She gave me her impetuous smile. “I'm delighted you decided to meet me here. After last night, I feared you might not trust any Panamanians.”

That was an accurate assumption. I was here out of curiosity, not because I trusted her. “It seemed like a fine afternoon. I was delighted for the invitation.”

“Then let's find our places, shall we?” She lightly held my elbow and guided me away from the stream of spectators into the shade of the outer arena. The arena was about three stories high—a large circle, much like a coliseum. Given the purpose of the arena, it was fitting that the name came from the Latin word for
sand,
which the ancient Romans used to soak up the rivers of blood generated by their infamous spectator sports.

Odelia spoke quietly as we walked away from the line of those at the gate. “As you know, Raquel Sandoval is a dear, dear friend. We've been like sisters since childhood.”

“You also have her political support. Always wise to stay close to a benefactor.”

She laughed. “I suspect my run for mayor will be over before the election. Already rumors fly. It is too difficult to keep the secret, and I have been careful to ensure that most believe it was my idea, not hers. But I think she knew I would be unmasked, so to speak, and simply wanted to make a point. I have nothing to lose, you see, which is why I was happy to help her make that point. She, on the other hand…”

“Yes?”

“Has always believed that marrying Raoul Amador would make for an alliance to put her in a position where she can help the poor much better than if she were known as a woman who tried to ridicule the political system.”

“Yes. Raoul Amador. A wonderful specimen of a human being.”

She caught the tone in my voice and giggled. “He was spitting angry with humiliation last night. What did you do to him before dragging him through horse manure?”

“Made it clear I wasn't interested in a discussion with him.”

“There was more to it than that.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I'd rather not discuss it.”

“You're no fun.”

I grinned.

“He was in a foul mood all night,” she said. “Part of it, I believe, is because you were not wearing the suit he had chosen for you. He is a petty man, and I dislike him greatly, which is why I insisted that you had proper attire. He and Raquel had harsh, harsh words last evening as the party ended.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. What matters is that Raquel is happy.”

“Happiness?” She snorted. “Who marries for happiness?”

I smiled sadly, thinking of the woman I had loved and now mourned. Or maybe the sadness came because for the first time since her death, there was a woman that I wanted to love. I could not escape a sense that love for someone else might lead to the death of my memory of the woman I mourned.

“You, Señor Vaquero Americano,” Odelia said, “have given my friend Raquel a reason to be unhappy. She is drawn to you but is bound to Panama by a sense of duty and practicality.”

“I'm not sure why you would tell me that. Last night, it was distinctly chilly when she glanced my way. Which was only once. And that was before Cromwell added to my unpopularity by asking me to open the package. Are you able to tell me why it seemed to cast such a pall over the crowd?”

Odelia didn't answer my question directly. “Don't you understand? Raquel feels she made a fool of herself during her walk with you along the beach. That night, she confided to you her interest in you only because she believed she would never see you again. Had you left as we expected, Raquel could have kept that memory and clung to a romantic illusion for the rest of her life. So to see you again, knowing that she had shown weakness and vulnerability? Well, I understand her aloofness. It did not help that Amador was watching her at the party. He would be an idiot not to sense she is intrigued by the cowboy with the broken nose, and while Amador is many things that I do not like, he is most definitely not an idiot.”

“I leave tomorrow. He has nothing to fear.”

“I suppose, yet there remains much to be discussed before this afternoon is over.”

That was certain. I was aware of the envelope of photos still inside my shirt. Odelia's name and signature had been among those that I excised from the document.

We had reached the north end of the arena, and she pointed to a small door and led me to it. “Special privileges.”

I understood this from my own days of performing for the Wild West show. In each city, the rich found ways to separate themselves from the unwashed—in seating and in mingling with performers behind the stages.

She knocked, and a finely dressed man opened the door. Seeing her, he smiled and made an elaborate sweeping gesture with his arm to allow us inside.

The tunnel was dark and filled with the smell of livestock. I could not ignore the homesickness that had lurked beneath the surface of my senses since arriving in Panama.

Each side of the tunnel held separate rooms, which I guessed had been set aside for the matadors. At the end of the tunnel, a door was propped open to the arena, letting in sunlight that helped our navigation. When ready, the matador, I assumed, would step out of this door to greet the crowd, and the door would be shut firmly behind him, with a crossbar in place on this side to prevent a rambunctious bull from knocking it down.

At that door, we turned to our left, away from the trampled sand, to a set of stairs that brought us up to the base of bleachers, already nearly full of spectators.

This did not seem like an area set aside for the affluent. It was crowded and smelled of wood wet with spilled beer—a scent that competed with the smoke of roasting meat and baked flat breads sold by aproned men screaming for attention.

“You will be discreet, Mr. Holt?” Here, she had to raise her voice to be heard.

I was thinking of the constitution with signatures. “I am nothing but.”

“Excellent. As you probably know, the best place to hide is in a crowd.”

She took me to the highest set of bleachers, what I presumed were the cheapest seats. Two steps away, I saw Miskimon, already seated. Then a woman beside him, dressed in the rough clothing of a peasant, an inexpensive bonnet giving shade from the sun and almost concealing her face.

But I knew who it was.

Raquel.

The circle of sand was empty, but the stands were crowded, and the excitement of collective anticipation combined with an equally collective festivity surrounded us.

The seating arrangements were not subtle. Odelia sat on Miskimon's left. I sat on Miskimon's right. And to my right was Raquel. Because of how she was dressed and because of the bonnet, unless someone was standing within one or two rows, a casual observation would show Odelia and Miskimon and me, and Raquel would be invisible among the other spectators.

While I was highly conscious of Raquel's proximity to me, she and I only said polite hellos as the extent of our conversation for the first few minutes after I took a spot on the unpainted bleachers.

“Mr. Holt,” Miskimon said in greeting as I settled and tried to get comfortable. I was happy to have my cowboy hat to give me shade.

“Muskie. Full day for you. I suppose you knew I'd be joining you here when you suggested I spend the afternoon with you?”

“Shocking that some things escape my encyclopedic knowledge, but I had no idea. I now see that this was a well-planned and well-executed maneuver by two women. In private conversation, Odelia has speculated to me on your interest in Raquel, but I assure you, I give it little attention.”

“Hmmph.” I tried to imitate his manner in saying it.

On the other side of him, I saw Odelia pat his knee. He didn't recoil, as he did when I had done the same to his shoulder. He was in an official position to help her if she needed it, and because of the photographs, I knew she might desperately need it soon. I hoped, for him, that her motives were a genuine affection for the man.

As for Raquel, a discreet meeting in a rowdy public place was exactly the best way for the two of us to have a conversation, and I ached with the desire to believe her true intention was motivated by interest in me, not by interest in finding a way to protect herself from a man she feared knew of her signature on a treasonous document. For even if neither woman knew that I possessed the incriminating photographs, both had watched me unfurl the flag the evening before. Both no doubt knew the significance of that flag. Both women—obviously intelligent—would assume, then, that I had investigated more of the nascent rebellion and would wonder how much more I knew.

It was going to be difficult to keep my suspicions from tainting this time with Raquel. I decided, however, to ignore my suspicions and proceed as if I could trust the inclinations of my heart.

I looked out at the arena. “I know little about bullfights.”

She took her eyes off the sand inside the empty circular walls below. The smile she bestowed upon me felt sincere—

Stop it, I told myself. Stop evaluating her intent and simply enjoy the smile.

“I'm astounded at that,” she said. “You are a cowboy.”

“One who makes a living by trying to keep his cattle alive in the badlands. The more cattle I put on train cars at the end of the season, the more successful I am.”