“I dunno.” She still looked dubious. “Where I’m fixin’ to go y’all won’t be able to use your credit cards, your reputation won’t get you out of any scrapes, and you’re gonna need a strong constitution and a stronger stomach.”
“Are you saying you’ll be able to handle it and I won’t?”
“Okay,” she said tightly, “you’re in. You found me. That shows resourcefulness and independence. Just keep in mind there’s probably nothing to this.
“You’ll have to get your own kit together. I’ve got other things to do. We leave this comin’ Sunday. Varig’s only got one flight a week out of LAX and I ain’t gonna miss it.”
She tried to brief him during the long flight, extrapolating upon the maps and information she’d copied out. He’d never been much on geography and recognized little of what she showed him. But the name of one tiny town in the region they were to enter jogged his memory.
“Fitzcarrald?”
“What about it?” she said.
“Herzog made a movie about a guy named Fitzcarraldo. Kinski was in it. They shot most of it on location. Horrible conditions. I didn’t know it was a real place.”
“This ain’t a movie, hotshot, and where we’re goin’ there won’t be any towns.” She traced a huge section of map. “This whole area’s called the Infierno Verde. The Green Hell.” She grinned. “You can always hop a turnaround flight after we land.”
V
They didn’t linger long in Lima, hanging around the foggy airport only until they could recover their luggage and catch the first flight to Cuzco on an antique Aeroperu 707.
That’s when they learned that their confirmed onward reservations meant nothing. Fortunately a few persuasive words from Carter to the female sump block of a scheduling clerk cleared the way, leaving Ashwood to grudgingly admit as how her companion might be of some use on the journey after all.
Nothing fell off the flying vibrator during the short flight, and the landing was smoother than it should have been, given the powerful crosswinds that usually scoured the high Andean plateau. The air on the tarmac was thin but free of the familiar pollutants. To the east the snowy peaks of the Andes delineated a pale horizon.
By afternoon they were both slightly woozy and nauseous. Their hotel provided cups of coca tea, the traditional remedy for altitude sickness. Carter drank only after being assured that there wasn’t enough serious stimulant in the brew to get a gerbil high. Within a few hours they felt well enough to try dinner.
Still, lingering aftereffects compelled him to keep his eyes averted from Ashwood as she hungrily devoured a disgustingly rare chunk of steak.
She smirked across the table at him. “Remind me again later how fortunate I am to have you along.” He responded with a wan smile. “Hey, if you want to puke, feel free. But not while I’m eating, okay?” She put her knife and fork down and rose.
“I’m goin’ up to my room. Y’all ought to get some sleep. Tomorrow we’ve got to try and find us a guide who won’t lead us around in circles to run up his bill.”
“I’m not sleepy,” he told her. “Mom.”
She started to respond, caught herself. “All right, sonny-boy. Truce. Do whatever you want, so long as you’re ready to go at sunup. But if you’re plannin’ on waiting around to sign autographs, you’re wastin’ your time. There’s no audience here for y’all.”
But she was wrong.
The woman who approached the table half an hour later did not ask for an autograph, nor did she gape simperingly at him as so many of his female fans were wont to do. Staring boldly and not waiting for permission, she sat down in the chair Ashwood had vacated.
The salubrious effects of the hot tea having banished the last traces of dizziness, he found himself debating whether to follow Ashwood’s advice and do the sensible thing or let his present situation continue to evolve. The woman was extraordinarily tall, almost his height. She towered over everyone else in the hotel. Her features were classical Castilian, her eyes saturnine. Shoulder-length black hair, black eyes, a slim upper body, and slightly wide hips completed his initial impression. Her attitude was a not unattractive mix of the sophisticated and the girlish: a twelve-year-old trapped in the body of an Amazon.
“Buenos … good evening,” he ventured. His Spanish bordered on the nonexistent. As it happened, his linguistic ignorance was not a hindrance. Her English was fluent, mellifluously accented.
“I’m Francesca. I live here. You don’t. You’re a norteamericano.”
“That’s right.” He was used to forwardness in women.
“You a tourist?”
“Yes.”
“You just get in?” She lit a cigarette. Everyone here smoked, he’d noticed. “I don’ mean to pry. You don’ have to talk to me if you don’ want to.” Her gestures, like her speech, were abrupt, hyperactive. “I’m not a whore. I just like talking to people. You here to see the ruins?”
Her energy was formidable. “Yes.” It was easier to let her ramble on like a runaway rocket than try to interject more than a simple acknowledgment or denial.
“I live here. Cuzco’s my home. What do you do?”
“I’m an actor.”
She nodded. “When I first see you I think that might be it. You are very good to look at.”
“Thanks. You’re quite a knockout yourself.”
She smiled, cocked her head sideways. “Mutual admiration is good.” She eyed the plate in front of her. “You not alone.”
“I’m traveling with a friend.” He saw no reason to elaborate.
“I unnerstand.” She looked around the nearly deserted dining room. “I come in here a lot, to talk with people. Cuzco is very provincial. The people here are either very poor or think they are very rich. Those who think they are rich are arrogant. Arrogance makes them dull. Tourists carry a different kind of baggage with them and can be so much more interesting. So I spend my free time visiting the hotels. It lets me practice my English.”
Her earlier disclaimer seemed to be the truth. An hour of casual conversation included nothing to suggest that she was in fact a loquacious nocturnal capitalist who was simply biding her time prior to venturing the expected proposition.
“I don’ have the money to travel,” she was telling him as they both nursed local coffee. “So I watch the television and read magazines. But it’s better to talk with someone who has actually been such places as Paris or New York or Buenos Aires than jus’ to read about them.”
He checked his watch. “Then I hope I’ve been informative as well as entertaining. I’ve enjoyed your company, Francesca.”
She ignored the hint, leaning forward across the table. “So tell me: what you gonna do while you in Cuzco? You mus’ go up to Sacsayhuaman, of course, and there are many interesting buildings around the Plaza de Armas.”
