Fire on the Moon. V. J. Banis
both on them and on the main entrance—in case Carlotta came bustling in—while I was at the telephone.
I had had enough foresight to exchange some of my dollars for escudos before leaving Kennedy Airport. I supposed the telephone systems in Europe operated on much the same principle as our own. I headed for the telephone booth.
There was a little sign over the instrument which I took to be instructions on operating the telephone; unfortunately it was not printed in English.
I took out my small assortment of unfamiliar coins and deposited the only one that fit the slot—assuming that it had to be the right one. I waited. I dialed “O” and waited some more. Nothing happened. I jiggled the hook a few times. Nothing. Reluctantly I replaced the receiver and waited for the funny little coin to be returned. It wasn’t.
I picked up the Lisbon directory, but I knew before I looked up Carlotta’s name that she would not be listed. She had told me that her villa was some distance from Lisbon—or Lisboa as she had called it.
I’d need some help, I decided.
I glanced over at my pile of suitcases. They were still there, untouched.
I studied the people moving through the terminal. Having sat alone on the flight over I had spoken to none of the passengers. I didn’t see a familiar face anywhere.
My gaze fell on a man walking slowly back and forth near the exit. He was wearing a uniform with a badge which assured me that he would more than likely know how to operate a Portuguese telephone.
I stepped directly into his path. “Do you speak English?” I asked brightly.
He smiled and touched his fingers to the brim of his cap. “Si, Senhorita. A little.”
“Good,” I said, trying not to sound anxious. “I wonder if you would help me?”
“If I can.” His accent was charming.
“My aunt was supposed to meet me but she hasn’t shown up. I thought I would telephone her but I can’t seem to operate the telephone.”
His smile broadened. “Ah, sim. Permit me.”
He stepped up to the telephone and took out what appeared to be a New York subway token. He dropped it into the same little slot that had swallowed up my coin. He pushed a little plunger, which I hadn’t seen before, then muttered something into the mouthpiece. He turned and asked me for my aunt’s name and address.
Quickly I rummaged in my handbag and pulled out her last letter. I pointed to the neatly written return address. The man repeated the name and address into the telephone. I waited. Another jumble of unfamiliar words followed.
He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said, “The operator will look up the number and put your call through.”
“Thank you,” I said with relief and gratitude.
He spoke into the mouthpiece again. The language sounded so soft and gentle. All the words sounded more like music than spoken dialogue.
“It is—ah—how you say—ringing,” he said finally.
He held the receiver pressed lightly against his ear and waited for a long time.
Again he spoke into the mouthpiece then replaced the receiver. “The operator says that there is no answer,” he said, looking very apologetic. “I am sorry.”
I shrugged and tried not to look disappointed. “She is most likely on her way here,” I said.
He handed me the “subway token” that had dropped into the return slot when he replaced the receiver. “If you need to call again, Senhorita, use this. Tell the operator who you wish to speak to and she will get the number for you,” he assured me. “Sometimes they do not speak good English like me, but if you talk slowly they will understand.” His smile was infectious. “Now,” he said, giving me a polite bow. “Can I help you further?”
“Oh, thank you, no.” I said. “You have been very kind.” I wondered if I was supposed to tip him. I decided a tip might insult his gallantry. I put out my hand. He took it, and to my surprise turned it palm down and touched it to his lips. I felt my face turn scarlet.
He smiled again, turned, and went back to his post by the doors.
Now what? I asked myself as I walked slowly back to my luggage. I decided on a taxi. I looked up at the wall clock. My episode with the telephone had taken up another ten minutes. My feet hurt and I didn’t want to think about my empty stomach. I had been too excited to eat on the flight over and now I regretted having only picked at my food. There was, I supposed, some sort of eating place tucked away in the terminal, but I just did not feel up to trying to decipher a Portuguese menu, especially after my failure with the telephone.
I looked down at my pile of suitcases. I just couldn’t bring myself to struggle with them again. I’d need a porter.
“Senhorita!”
The man so startled me I jumped. He had come up behind me and had said “Senhorita” more in the tone of a command than a greeting.
I turned sharply and found myself facing a surly-looking individual dressed in a shabby waistcoat and formless trousers, the bottoms of which were stuffed into battered, mud-caked boots. By the look of him, he had apparently dressed in a hurry and had given little concern as to what he had put on. He was in his mid-thirties, I guessed, and far from unattractive—tall, with an olive complexion and black, curly hair, grown a little longer than I normally like, but very becoming. I noticed that he held his head at a peculiar angle—tilted slightly down and away from me. I thought he must have a kink in his neck.
The expression on his face was as unattractive as his clothes. He appeared to be very angry at something or someone, and by the way he scowled at me I got the distinct impression that it was I with whom he was angry. Looking at him slightly unnerved me.
Yet despite his strangely sullen and unfriendly manner, I smiled brightly and said, “Yes.” My voice rang with affability.
“Are you Jennifer Carter?” He didn’t smile. On the contrary, his mouth pulled down at the corners and he looked more fierce than before. His eyes narrowed and he gave me a look that said I had better be Jennifer Carter if I knew what was good for me. There was something overbearing in his attitude.
I never lacked nerve when it came to facing a difficult situation and would maintain an external calm in direct opposition to what I was feeling inside. Furthermore, I had always had a particular dislike for people who tried to dominate, especially men who considered themselves superior to women. Here was one such man, I decided, and I didn’t like him.
I tilted back my head and purposely let my smile fade. “Yes, I’m Jennifer Carter,” I said meeting his coldness with a coldness of my own. “Why?”
His scowl deepened. His gaze did not falter. “Your aunt sent me for you. She had to go to Paris.” His English was as clipped and as uncordial as his eyes. He made it very clear that he hadn’t been pleased about having to come for me. “Are those yours?” He glanced down at my pile of luggage. The glance and the inflection of voice made my suitcases shabbier than they were.
He seemed silently to curse himself for having asked a needless question. He didn’t wait for me to answer yes or no but reached down and gathered up the suitcases. They were far from light, yet he picked them up as though they weighed nothing at all.
“Hey, wait a mi—”
“This way.” He turned his back and started away.
My first impulse was to refuse to follow. He had all the friendliness of a cobra. Even from the back he had a sinister, look about him. He walked like a man who knew precisely where he was going and would get there, regardless of cost.
He never glanced back to see if I were behind him.
I didn’t want to follow, but my stubbornness gave way to common sense. I shrugged. After all, Carlotta had obviously sent