“Well, did your inamorata come to pick her daughter up?” Mattie asked impishly with a smile, looking over the top of the book she was reading in bed.
“She was never my inamorata. No, if she came, I did not see her. We can ask Maria tomorrow.” He threw himself on the bed. “I did not hear the little girl, and we’ve not even seen her once. Very strange. But it is pitch dark outside. Perhaps I missed them.”
In the morning, the couple explored the extensive grounds of their hosts’ rambling Altamira bungalow, Mattie delighting in the hedged backyard orchard and astounded to discover the house lacked a back door until Paul showed her the concealed sliding metal gate that was pulled across the patio at night to discourage thieves. It had rained overnight, and the lawn sparkled with light. Maria had made a breakfast for the couple of fresh fruit from the garden to accompany the imported muesli she had set out on the table. Paul asked her if she was to babysit Alicia that day. “No, senor, hoy es sabado.” Of course: today was Saturday. She would presumably be at home with her parents. Esmeralda and her daughter were forgotten in a weekend of sightseeing. The couple visited the Museo de Bellos Artes, empty of patrons, but full of art celebrating the country’s struggle to free itself from Spanish dominion. In the foyer, a loudspeaker played the national anthem softly. Schoolchildren sang sweetly: “Abajo cadenas! Y el pobre en su choza libertad pidio!” went the chorus: “Down with chains! And the poor in their humble homes cried out for liberty!” The couple saw the house where Simon Bolivar had lived and hatched his plans for the liberation of South America; they visited the Panteon, and the presidential palace bristling with soldiers armed with sub-machine guns, but could not take the teleferico, the cable car to the Avila mountain-top, as it was under repair yet again. It would open, they were told, by mid-week, but one could not be sure in an era of chronic shortages, labour strife, and unexplained power cuts.
On Monday the couple spent much of the day exploring the school, a mere short walk from the Becks’ house, past villas resplendent with bougainvillea behind high walls topped with razor wire, some with armed guards. This was a pleasure in daylight, but an acknowledged danger at night when streets belonged to thieves and purse-snatchers. They visited classrooms and chatted with obliging staff. They were both teachers themselves and they found most appealing the uniformed pupils’ courtesy and politeness, the open-air amphitheatre with its distant view of the city below, and the well-equipped library with its books in English, French, German, and Dutch, but few in Spanish. Only privileged ‘temporary residents’ could attend this school: native citizens were prohibited by law.
“Did you know the school was designed by Hendrik Beck?”
“No,” replied Paul, “I didn’t know that. I knew he was an architect, though.”
“Not a man to draw attention to himself,” the counsellor continued. “Unlike his wife.” He laughed uncertainly, unsure of Paul’s allegiance. “He was disappointed his daughter did not take to graphic design. She had an artistic flair for sure, but gave it all up, scholarship and all, came back from college and we heard no more of her. Some sort of personal crisis, I think…”
