7

IN EYE-SQUINTING SUNLIGHT, the soldier, one of three at a roadblock between two Jeeps, held up his hand for Coltrane to stop. Coltrane was driving a five-year-old blue Ford station wagon with a crumpled fender and eighty thousand miles on it, the only vehicle that he had been able to find for rent. The car-rental agency had told him that the next day something better would be available, but Coltrane hadn’t wanted to wait. So, after making sure to get a good map and buy plenty of Mexican car insurance, they had headed south from Acapulco. Forty minutes beyond the airport, the rain forest-lined road had long since become two lanes, and the soldiers blocked their way.

Coltrane nodded in what he hoped looked like respect, asking in Spanish if anything was wrong.

Instead of responding, the soldier scowled into the station wagon’s backseat and rear compartment, both of which were empty except for an ice cooler on the back floor. The soldier lifted his right hand from his automatic weapon and motioned that he wanted the cooler opened. Tash bent over the backseat and complied, the two soldiers on her side of the car concentrating on her hips as she showed them that the cooler contained only soft drinks. With a dismissive gesture, the first soldier indicated that Coltrane could proceed.

“What was that about?” Tash asked.

“The man at the car-rental agency said the army’s been checking vehicles for guns and drugs.”

“They looked so sullen, God help anyone they decide to arrest.”

“This heat can’t have improved their humor.”

The temperature was almost ninety. The car’s air conditioning wasn’t working, forcing them to drive with the windows open. Away from the ocean breeze, the humidity seemed to have increased. But at least the air wasn’t hazed with automobile exhaust.

“If this map is accurate,” Tash said, “Espalda del Gato is the third village ahead of us – another thirty miles.”

“And if this road gets any worse,” Coltrane said as the station wagon jounced over a series of deep potholes, “it’ll take us all morning to get there.”

Tash handed him an ice-beaded can of Coke.

They got there in an hour. The first two villages were dilapidated, causing Coltrane and Tash to assume the worst when they rounded a foliage-rimmed curve and stopped to peer down at their destination. Surprised, they saw neat-looking thatch-roofed houses and shops in a small cove that had cliffs on the north and south and an inviting beach in the middle.

“It’s sort of a miniature Acapulco,” Tash said. “The way I suppose Acapulco once was.”

A few small boats were pulled up onto the beach. Other boats bobbed on waves beyond the cove’s entrance.

“Looks like a fishing village.”

“But not for long.” Coltrane pointed toward a yacht in the harbor. “It’s been discovered.”

When Coltrane got out to take photographs, something on the cliff opposite him made him focus his zoom lens in that direction. “Check this.”

He handed the camera to Tash, who peered through it toward a cluster of white structures on the cliff beyond the village. “Seems to be an estate.”

“Aim the camera farther to the right,” Coltrane said.

She did, then suddenly lowered it, turning toward him. “That rock formation up there.”

“A cat arching its back. The same as in Packard’s photograph. We found it.”

Excited, they got back in the car, but despite their eagerness to hurry into town, they were forced to drive slowly down a narrow switchback road. On the left, scarlet, pink, and white flowers thrived beneath a canopy of trees. On the right, a cliff dropped into the ocean. At last, the road leveled off, winding through rain forest. They passed a villager leading a burro laden with firewood. Several women carried baskets filled with bananas. The roadside activity increased. Rounding a bend, they came into the village, its picturesque buildings made of upright poles woven together, the palm-leaved roofs tied neatly, layered thickly. Locals glanced with curiosity toward the unfamiliar car and the two strangers inside it.

The plaza appeared, stalls set up for market day, villagers shopping, children scampering. A centuries-old church stood at one end. A stone well and a trough for watering animals occupied the middle. Coltrane parked outside a tavern called La Primorosa, the Beautiful Woman, and surveyed the activity. This far south, much of the population was Indian, their copper-colored narrow faces, sloped foreheads, and pointed chins looking especially strong in profile, reminding Coltrane of the sharp details on newly minted pennies. The men wore white cotton trousers and shirts, their large sombreros woven from what might have been strands of dried palm-tree leaves. The women wore ankle-length skirts and colorfully embroidered blouses. All were either barefoot or in sandals. Hoping that his camera wouldn’t offend them, trying to conceal it, he took several photographs through his open window, the possibilities exciting him. If he could capture the textures before him…

“Assuming that is your estate up there,” he said, “you live in a pretty good neighborhood.”

A teenage girl went by, selling yellow gardenias nestled in a banana frond. He called her over, bought one of the flowers, and gave it to Tash. “A homecoming present.”

“A little premature, but a lovely thought.” Tash smelled the flower, enjoying its fragrance.

Puzzled, Coltrane noticed that the girl hadn’t moved. What’s the matter? he wondered. Does she want me to buy more? Didn’t I pay enough? But the girl wasn’t gazing at him – only at Tash. “You’ve got a fan.”

Tash smiled at the girl, who looked startled by the attention, stepped back, and hurried into the crowd.

“You’re going to have to tone down your smile,” Coltrane said.

“Probably not used to outsiders.”

They got out of the station wagon.

Coltrane assessed the Coca-Cola sign on the exterior of the tavern he had parked next to. “I suppose this is as good a place as any to ask if anybody knows about the estate up there.”

But before he could enter, he paused for an elderly woman with waist-long braided hair who frowned as she approached them. Passing, she frowned back harder.

But not at Coltrane.

“First the flower seller. Now that woman. What’s going on?” Tash said.

A bandy-legged gray-haired man carrying a chicken by its feet looked astonished when he noticed Tash.

“What on earth?” Tash asked.

“I don’t get it, either,” Coltrane said. “I’m the one who looks foreign. If you were wearing a long native skirt and your hair was braided, you’d fit right in. They should be staring at me.”

Another woman stared.

“Come on. Let’s get off the street,” Tash said.

They crossed hard-packed earth, stepped under a canopy of palm leaves, and entered the tavern. Coltrane’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the softer light. The place was clean. It had a plank floor, simple chairs, and trestle-style tables. A child petted a dog in a corner. Americans, presumably from the yacht, looked up with mild curiosity, nodding before redirecting their attention to bottles of Corona beer. Locals, however, set down their drinks and looked startled.

So it isn’t just that we’re outsiders, Coltrane thought. Trying to seem oblivious, he escorted Tash to the worn mahogany counter. But as he started to ask the bartender what he knew about the buildings on top of the cliff, a row of photographs on a warped shelf behind the bartender caught his attention.

Simultaneously, the gangly bartender glanced up from washing cups, got a look at Tash, and couldn’t stop his mouth from hanging open.

“My God,” Coltrane said. He pointed toward the photographs. They were old and yellowed – a dozen eight-by-tens. They all depicted a beautiful woman, hence the name of the tavern, La Primorosa. The face of the woman was the same in each photograph. In unconscious imitation of what the flower-selling teenager had done when Tash smiled at her, Coltrane gaped. “Rebecca Chance.”