The Blackbirder (6 page)

She moved to the desk, registered in her own hand:
Julie Guille, New York
. The room was up a flight, down a corridor. Relief came over her in a great gulp when she was alone, the door locked for the night. She heard the mournful bell of the little train going away, back to the dark way station. She quelled imagination that it mourned because it left her here alone; she wanted to be alone, and it wasn't ringing her knell. She wasn't afraid now. She had definite plans to carry out. She was safer than she had been for a long time.

She crossed to the window, opened it to the sharp fool night. Her eyes touched the scrap of paper there by her gloves. She stuffed it into her handbag and then she took it out again deliberately. The woman had meant kindly. A scrap of paper was easily lost. She would never need the information but she copied it into Maxl's little black book:
Prof. Otis Alberle, 417 N. Hermosa.

Julie slept late. Breakfast and lunch were one in the old Spanish kitchen which served as the Cantina. Afterward she walked into the patio, dallied over a cigarette in the bright, hot sun. She didn't want to leave this pleasant town. She didn't want to go to Santa Fe. Something held her back, perhaps the grim woman's final remark: “An unhealthy place.” But the woman had mentioned refugees. That held hope.

She packed, bought the local papers. The New York ones hadn't caught up with her yet. The locals didn't mention Maxl's death. New York was far away. She took the three o'clock bus. It pushed over the highway, past the same scenic barrenness of yesterday's long train ride, endless flat brown land spotted with scrub trees, barren, low-lying mountains on the far horizons. There was but one town, a half hour out, a Mexican village where some passengers left the bus. In the next hour there was nothing but the barren land, occasionally a small brown mud house, twice filling-stations.

The bus went on and on, climbed through a steep cut, and again there was wasteland. The sun was still high when the bus came into the town, past small tin buildings, past beautiful Spanish pueblo buildings, past the long sprawling barracks of an Army hospital. The wheels crawled through narrow, unattractive streets to the tiny bus station.

She took a cab two blocks to La Fonda, the inn at the end of the trail. It had been recommended in Albuquerque. It was large and handsome, a dust-colored building in Spanish and Indian style with terraced roofs, a walled garden. The lobby was not as rich as that of the Alvarado but it was pleasant and spacious, beautifully decorated. It opened to a patio, on either side covered portals.

She followed the boy down the right-hand portal to the lone elevator. Her room was on third; it was unlike a normal hotel room. The windows, opening to a tiny wooden balcony, were curtained with bright hangings. The furniture was painted in Spanish color and design. She had deliberately taken a higher-priced room; she must appear to be well-to-do, well able to pay, when she made inquiries about Mexico. If what Maxl had insinuated was true, blackbirding wasn't a political venture— it was for gain.

She unpacked. She must buy one or two dresses. The chambermaid might be inquisitive about an empty closet. She would have to get away quickly. She couldn't afford to be Julie Guille here for long. At this moment it wasn't fear driving her, as much as economy. She had lost her imminent fear. The lack of news in the papers, the undisturbed sleep of the night before, her acceptance at face value at both hotels. Above all being released from what she had believed was the surveillance of the gray man. It had been foolish of her to be suspicious of him simply because he rode the same train west with her. That sort of coincidence was certainly a frequent one with a traveler leaving New York for the West. If he had been from the New York police, he wouldn't have wasted time on this trip; he would have taken her into custody before the Century departed. She had been silly. Fear created such distortions. Fear magnified curiosity into suspicion. She must remember to keep fear sublimated. Remember the lesson she had learned escaping from France. If you act unafraid, you are not suspected of being afraid.

What actually had she to fear? The agents of Paul Guille? They hadn't caught up with her in the cities where the representatives of the new order multiplied like rats. They would never have heard of this out-of-the-way village. The F.B.I.? They had not sought her in New York; only if she were brought to their attention would they learn she was an unauthorized visitor. The New York police? Yes. If the identity of the girl with Maxl became known.

But she was certain she had covered her tracks leaving New York. Only by chance would she come into that again. If her name was given she would learn it from the newspapers in time to twist away on another covered trail. There was no imminent fear to face. There was time to breathe, time to make her arrangements with the Blackbirder. Ticklish business but she wasn't without resources as she had been three years ago. She had learned the tricks of evasion, of escape. She had learned to be sly and wise; she'd learned the animal importance of self-preservation without heed to the method. Only if some uncounted ill fortune touched her, need her plans be changed. If Dame Fortuna would but hold the wheel steady a few more days...

She would gather information about Popin here, write to him to get in touch with Fran, before she departed. And if Popin did live in Mexico, she could see him personally after the blackbirding ship carried her across the border. Together they could work to effect Fran's release from prison, and his escape too on the Blackbirder's wings. Her heart beat more quickly. If the Dame were kind, she and Fran would be together so soon.

She was slightly apprehensive of carrying with her any longer the diamonds and the large amount of money. Tickets for escape were seldom bartered for in savory surroundings. No need to add to her burden with fear of possible loss while the hotel safe was below. She removed her money belt, keeping out $50 for current expenses. She rolled the belt neatly; thrust it into her handbag, went down again to the lobby. At the desk she signed a statement, the amount of money; personal jewelry, one necklace. The white-haired woman behind the desk sealed the belt into an envelope, placed it in the safe. She smiled at Julie, “This is your first trip to Santa Fe?”

Julie nodded.

“It has an interesting heritage. There are many things you'll want to see.” She passed across a folder.

Julie walked out onto the sidewalk. She stood motionless there for a moment and then unaccountably she shivered. It could be the small wind that had crept into the golden afternoon, a warning of the falsity of early spring. It could be that the blueness of sky had become flawed by the faintest brush of cumulus white. She didn't know. She looked up the street to the right. The cold brown-gray Cathedral stood rampant on its terrace, its squat towers dwarfed by the mountains pressing behind them. She turned her head quickly to the left. Beyond the straggle of narrow street stood another mountain.

Mountains. She shivered again. She didn't like mountains. The unyielding, unholy mass of inert matter dwarfed human mind and spirit.

She turned swiftly, crossed cater-corner to the barren Plaza. It was deserted. The shabby old men huddled together on the soiled stone benches only added to its desolation. They spoke in Spanish to each other. They did not see her. Perhaps in the summer when blades of green might push against the flagstones, perhaps when the trees leafed again, there might be a remnant of the gay festivity here which the word Plaza connoted. Perhaps not. It would still face on three sides the motley shops in their old brick buildings. A few were covered over in copy of Indian architecture, the bank shone marble white, but the faded brick dominated.

Julie walked slowly, past the ugly stone monument, to the far corner of the square. This was a grim little town. She hadn't known it would be so small. She hadn't known it would be a mountain town. She was familiar with others, in Germany, Switzerland, the Tyrol. Save for language, modifications of architecture, she might again be in one of them. Even in the winter-sports season, she had realized that gayety was not spontaneous in such villages, it was deliberately generated in defiance of the oppression of nature. The mountains only tolerated man.

She turned on her heel, started back to the hotel. She walked more rapidly now. Lingering in a sinister town was out of the question. She must find the Blackbirder without delay, make arrangements. Get out of this trap. Not only the encirclement of the merciless hills but the very smallness of the village trapped her. If she were followed here, there would be no place where she might hide. Anonymity would be out of the question. If she could set the wheels in motion, it might be better to return to Albuquerque, wait for passage there. She would be safer in a city.

She entered the hotel, grateful for its dim lobby, its room warmth. The white-haired woman was still behind the desk. Impulsively Julie moved to her. She asked, “Have you ever heard of a place— Tesuque?”

The woman smiled. “Tesuque.” Julie's pronunciation had not been accurate. “It's about ten miles out. The Tesuque valley. There's the village and the pueblo.” There was a shade of regret. “Before the war we conducted tours to all the pueblos and places of interest. Now we can't. But there's a bus.” She pointed to the folder. “The information is there.”

Julie clutched the unopened pamphlet, was patient until the woman had finished. She said, “Thank you so much.” She hadn't allowed her face to express the triumph that surged within her. Popin was that near at hand. Everything was simplified. Perhaps slit wouldn't have to flee without Fran. She felt his actual nearness again as she hurried toward the carved wooden doors of the telephone booths. Everything, even her meeting with Maxi and his death which put into her hands the black notebook, was part of a magnificent cosmic plan. Dame Fortuna had twirled the wheel upward. It was meant that Julie find Popin. It was meant that she and Fran after these endless years should be reunited.

She closed herself in the booth, dropped her coin, read the number from Maxi's notebook:
Tesuque 043J3.
The operator repeated. Julie heard the three metallic rings. She waited, breathless. The call was answered.

The woman's voice at the other end of the wire was accented. “Mr. Popin, she ees not here now.”

Julie accepted the deferment. “When will he return?”

“When I don't know.” The voice shrugged. “He ees gone to Santa Fe for dinner. Maybe tonight later?”

Julie said, “I will call him tomorrow.” She didn't leave her name. The lazy voice didn't ask it.

She came out of the booth, refusing to admit the keenness of her disappointment. It had been ridiculous to believe that because one sign had been favorable there would be no delay. She knew the maneuvering of escape better than that. The trouble was that the seven months of comparative safety in New York had left her responses rusty.

But those months had had therapeutic value. She was rested, she was calmed, she had a reservoir of physical and mental strength on which she could draw to carry through her escape and now Fran's as well. She had no doubts that Fran would be at her side winging to a new and safer refuge; if not that, if she were impelled to sudden departure, that he could follow on the next blackbirding flight. Fran. She hadn't allowed herself the luxury of thinking about him for so long a time. She wouldn't now. There was too much to be accomplished.

Her watch marked past 5:30. Too early for dinner. A cocktail bar was always the best place to observe those with more money than intelligence. It didn't matter if it were the Ritz, Paris, or La Fonda, Santa Fe; that verity remained unchanged. The Bible called them prodigal sons, the past knew them as remittance amen, today they were playboys. The refugees would be there too, feeding nostalgia with the universal sameness of all bars. The Blackbirder would follow to offer his wares. If he were more elusive than that, a bar would brew loose talk, gossip. The refugees always gossiped. It was a way not to talk of the past. If she were a man and could browse at the bar with constancy, she would learn soon what she wanted to know. As it was she could enter upon occasion, sip and listen. She was confident she would hear the whisperings soon. Maxl had tied the Blackbirder to Santa Fe. If the refugees in New York whispered of him, those here would certainly hold the forbidden knowledge.

La Cantina was off the lobby at left, a small room, Spanish, gay. Great leather chairs were pulled to hand-carved tables, leather couches leaned against the walls. Waitresses swished in bright peasant skirts, embroidered blouses. There were Lantz green and scarlet murals on the walls and over the bar: cactus, cock fights, dancers, horse races.

Julie moved to a table for two against the wall, sat facing the entrance. A man and a woman, both in blue jeans, were at the table nearest the door. Behind her on the couch by the curtained front window there were two women in city black, modish hats. Another table held a khaki youth and a young girl. The bar was at her left across the room. Leaning against it was a tubby man in a cowboy hat, a lean empty-faced companion in a larger cowboy hat.

It was all quiet, all pleasant. At the couch facing the bar, his back to her, was a man. The back of his head was pathed with gray. His shoulders were gray.

He hadn't followed her. This time she had followed him. She wasn't frightened of him. She ordered a Daiquiri. There was no reason why she should not be here. She would sip her iced drink. She wouldn't hurry. If he saw her, a vague nod. She had demonstrated to him on the train that she had no wish to further acquaintance. He had understood. He hadn't spoken to her after Kansas City. It was awkward that he had chosen the same town and the same hotel, but no more than that.

The swirling calico skirt brought her drink, placed it. Julie laid a bill on the tray. She kept the corner of one eye on the gray man. He was pushing up from the couch now but he didn't turn about. He was some four yards away. He moved to the right, still without turning. The pillar hid him. He emerged from it to cross the small clearance toward the door. She could see his profile. She held the cocktail glass to her lips, her eyes ready to lash if he glanced her way. The bright calico skirt bearing a tray crossed him, returning her change. He was halted and in that moment he sighted Julie. She wasn't prepared; her eyes drooped a fraction too late. He knew she had seen him and he would trespass again. She watched him limp toward her. He stood across the table, his hand on the back of the chair. His mouth wore that small smile, almost an amused smile.