CIC:
(The Canary Island Commandos)
by
Sean Patrick O'Mordha
Published at Smashwords
3.1.2012
Copyright Sean Patrick O'Mordha 2012
ISBN: 978-1-4660-9919-7
Cover Design copyright Bill Moore
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, or events is entirely coincidental or used according to law.
For more by this author see:
and
Dedicated to:
Brianne Moore Kjar
A wife, a mother, an inspiration
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Prologue
My 15th Century great grandfather, François Evreux, led two lives. In public spheres he was known as a successful and generous plantation owner. In other circles, he was the pirate, Dolphin. Equally successful in that occupation, he buried a number of treasures around the Caribbean containing far more than gold and jewels. According to his journal, from an archaeologist's view these chests contain treasures of incredible scientific and historical value. Knowing where they are located and not able to unearth them has been excruciatingly difficult. However, the time finally arrived that my team members in the CIA (Canary Island Archaeologists) acquired the necessary education and equipment to attempt recovery of what could be the greatest of all the hidden treasures, the Guadalupe del Mar. A minor inconvenience would be evading the Cuban military, the US Navy, and my sworn enemy, a member of the Spanish Mafia, who is also in the hunt – for the treasure and my head.
The summer of my thirty-fourth year, we decided to begin recovery operations for the del Mar. Pride of the Spanish treasure fleet, her huge belly held treasures stolen from the Mayan and Aztec civilizations destined for Spain to be melted down and turned into their own kind of gods. My ancestor attempted to capture her, but as the del Mar fled for safe haven at Baracoa on southeast end of Cuba, she was driven by the wind onto submerged, off-shore rocks and sank almost immediately. Those not going down with the ship were dashed against the rocky shore, leaving my ancestor the only one who knew the exact location of the wreck.
Of course, we weren't about to tell the Cubans. They would have plowed ahead, destroying any historical data and then melt the gold down to fatten already pompous posteriors while their people continue to struggle. To accomplish this mission, we decided to set up a base of operations on the Haitian coast opposite Cuba, in the very quiet cove of Bahie du Mole. That's where I met Momma Bearbear, matriarch of the Barber Clan and certified Haitian witch.
As work allows, we take our children on projects. Few pose any real danger, but if that seems possible, we leave them with a dotting grandpa, aunt, and an island load of cousins on our home island of El Hierro. That's where our daughter and twins remained during this adventure. Our twelve year-old son, François, who responds better to Delfin, came along as the recovery site was across the Windward Channel and he could remain safe at the Haitian base. Or so I thought.
I expected to spend the first week or so earning the trust of the Haitian locals. That occurred within the first hour when Momma Bearbear discovered our connection with Dolphin. Astonishingly, she knew as much about him as I. From that point, we were family.
Momma possessed a whimsical attitude, often alluding to certain historical information, withholding details in a tantalizing way until letting it pounce on us like a jaguar from an overhanging branch. A good example is the fourth day after our arrival when she dropped a bomb that sent our lives into a cartwheeling spin – even hers.
“On one of your very great grandpapa’s voyages, he delivrie son of Tainos Indian chief from being main course at Carib banquet. Boy's uncle was spirit man. He make prophesy that some day to come all pirate friends will be one. For many jenerasyon we watch prophesy come true in yo bones.”
“What do you mean, the bones?” Delfin asked.
“Right here, boy,” she said, retrieving a round, black metal canister from a high shelf in her white-painted cupboards. Mumbling something in the Haitian-Creole dialect that strongly suggested an incantation, she removed the lid and let him look inside.
“What are those? Chicken bones?” he asked while wrinkling his nose.
“Oh, no, not chicken bones, boy. They right, middle bone of first finger. H-u-m-a-n finger bones,” Mamma Bearbear replied, letting the word roll off her tongue as if they were some great delicacy.
#
Chapter 1
The Paparazzi
Leaving El Hierro and returning home in Nebraska after the first summer on that island was like stepping into a room and turning off the lights. The glitz, glamor, and celebrity status hadn’t made it that far. However, as word of our exploits came to the surface my popularity index increased markedly, something not especially welcomed. Still somewhat socially retarded, anonymity continued to be a preference, but all of a sudden, strangers wanted to be best buds, which made me nervous. Despite the risk of being labeled a snob, I was selective about making friends, and didn’t especially like crowds trying to schmooze their way into my sphere of comfort. Then they showed up – the paparazzi. At least I guessed that’s what they were, guys lurking about at the darndest times and unsuspecting places to take my picture.
At first, giving them the slip became a game like the time Raul and a couple neighbor girls went to the lake. However, as we got within three blocks of home I spotted a white, step van parked on the opposite side of the street. I’d seen it before with a telephoto lens poking out the driver’s window. With a disgusted grunt, I ignored whoever it was, but then got this funny tickle in the back of my head. I learned to recognize that as a warning something wasn’t quite right. Abruptly changing directions, we avoided coming close and losing them, for a while at least.
Two weeks later our first year in high school started. Just my luck our elementary principal, Mr. Hellman, or as Raul and I referred to him, Mr. Yellman because he always yelled at us for something or the other, was the new principal. I thought to have ditched the guy upon graduating to middle school, but no, he transferred, too. I’m sure he missed the interaction and did it deliberately. Then there rose out of the thundering herd of freshmen a couple bullies with a small following attached with IQs barely allowing them to make it through gym class. As everyone civilly jostled for a place to fit into this micro-society, these guys tried to force themselves on people because they wouldn’t fit in any hole, no matter how they were turned. Naturally, they made their presence known by targeting loners and those who acted “different.”
A week into school, Mr. Churchill, the gym teacher, demonstrated a sadistic streak. He matched star bully Ronnie Barker and Jeremy Krum to wrestle. Barker tangled with Raul and me early on in grade school and lost. There was a monumental celebration when he didn’t return for fourth grade, but here he was like a piece of cracked china no one wanted.
Always on the large size, Barker had expanded into something like a small gorilla with the same amount of hair. Jeremy didn’t even have leg hair. A poster candidate for an old Charles Atlas bodybuilder ad – the one having sand kicked in his face – he was somewhat effeminate which put a bulls-eye on his back for the likes of Barker. Susceptible to being knocked down by a light breeze, Bradford took great pleasure tossing Jeremy around like a piece of luggage at an airport. When Mr. Churchill thought enough damaged was done and a silent message sent among anyone else who didn’t measure up to “man” status, he called time. You could see Jeremy hurt and struggling not to cry.
Standing with both arms high in the air, Barker announced, “King of the hill.”
“Not yet,” I said quietly from my sitting position on the edge of the mat.
In first grade, I was one of those loners Barker picked on until Raul came on the scene and helped change my perspective. He showed me how to step up and be counted when called for. That’s why Mr. Yellman always yelled at us. We didn’t fight on school grounds after that first time, but he didn’t like having pupils show up to school with fat lips and black eyes. After what happened on El Hierro during the summer, I was well-tempered, both physically and mentally.
Barker sneered, made his usual, insipid comments, and then with Mr. Churchill’s whistle, lumbered toward me. Before anyone could gasp, I had him on the ground in a hammerlock, screaming at the top of his lungs.
“You ever do something like that to Jeremy again I’ll break your arm in little pieces and serve it to you on a platter” I whispered in his cauliflower ear before releasing the hold. No, I didn’t break it, but he did have it in a sling for a week because of a sprained tendon.
Mr. Yellman had me in his office with Mr. Churchill at his side, railing about what I had done, concluding with, “Do you understand me, young man!”
“Perfectly, sir. And I presume Mr. Churchill won’t match the biggest brute in school against the smallest kid again in wrestling just as a warning to other kids that might be different, either.” My mouth was want to run off on its own.
“You’re suspended for one week!” Yellman yelled.
“Fine. And you won’t mind if my lawyer has a talk with the school board about your treatment of gay students, will you?”
Mr. Churchill’s satisfied smile disappeared like Mario Andretti around the last curve to the finish line. There had already been some unrest about targeting gay kids and they weren’t interested reopening that can of worms.
Like I said, Barker had the intelligence of a rock so he and another rock thought to have some “fun” with Jeremy again. Raul finished off the friend and I followed through with my promise to Bradford. We might have been in super trouble if not for a bunch of girls with a massive dislike for Barker who stood for us. The rock did swing first and Papa Montoya was my attorney. A number of select people were more than tickled with my transfer to a private school a week after that incident.
While I couldn’t be there for Jeremy, things worked out when football tryouts kicked off that spring. The skinny gay kid had one heck of a throwing arm earning him the quarterback spot, and the bully was a lineman assigned to protect him with every ounce of brawn musterable.
Actually, a transfer to Daryl Hopkins magnet school was a boon. First, it was within walking distance of home, and second, it had a merging swim team. To the coach, I was just another wannabe who showed out of nowhere at the East Lincoln Aquatics Club a week after practice started
“Show me what you can do. Give me a hundred meters,” she said.
Mrs. Fletcher was in her second year coaching. She’d been a competitive swimmer in high school and college with a few medals and stuff, and dreams of seeing some of us be successful, too. Of course, with all the swimming she did, her body was well-toned, and in a bathing suit caused more than a few of us to have palpating hearts. Despite a pleasant disposition, we quickly learned she demanded and accepted nothing less than one-hundred per cent plus.
Without hesitation, I sprinted to the edge, dove in, and completed two laps, got out and stood in front of her with, “What else would you like?”
Her mouth slung open knowing that hadn’t taken nearly as long as expected. An assistant came over and showed her a stopwatch. I leaned over and looked, too.
“Is that time okay?”
“The state record was just set at 45.08 seconds. You just did it in 51.7.”
“I probably could go faster, if you’d like. Want me to try?”
She just looked at me before recouping enough to say, “We’ll work on that.”
I wasn’t bragging. For a kid who spent most of the summer swimming with dolphins, I didn’t feel like having pushed it. I never reset the state record, but did give it a nudge. For the moment, one could see visions of a state championship dancing in her sky blue eyes.
Moving to the diving platforms, she wanted to see how the new crop of swimmers handled height. The first springboard sat at one meter or a hair over thirty-nine inches above the water, the other at three meters. She had everyone start at one meter. There was a lot of feet first nose holding jumps and cannon balls. One hotshot did an honest to goodness forward one and half somersaults from the pike position. As it turned out, his dad was pursuing a swimming career through the kid, and they moved to town just before school started up. I just did a straight, headfirst dive.
Next, we moved to the three-meter board. It was more of the same, except the semi-pro did three and half somersaults. I restrained myself, keeping an eye on the next level. And then we climbed to the five meter platform. That separated the “men from the boys” so to speak. Some jumped or fell, but a significant number backed off. Those of us not intimidated graduated to the seven and a half meter platform. That’s a scary twenty-five feet in the air if you haven’t been there. Only two of us jumped as everyone else retreated to sanity. He did a very nice one and a half somersault in the straight position according to the coach. I walked to the edge, looked down, looked at the coach, shrugged, and jumped, again entering headfirst.
As we stood on the approach to the ten-meter platform my competitor said, “It’s a long ways down there.” He had a smug smile.
For the initiated, that was a good description. It’s equivalent to jumping off a three-story building. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I suppose.”
He walked out, turned his back to the pool, and executed a decent two and a half somersaults in the pike position. I didn’t know anything about scoring, but it looked impressive, punctuated by o-o-o’s and ah-h-hs from far below. I walked out to the end and looked down thinking of my dolphin friends swimming back and forth waiting for me to join them. When I walked back, the kid looked up and grinned. If smug had a brother, his grin were twins. To everyone’s surprise I ran full-bore, leaped into the air, arms spread to take flight, and yelled, “Ye-ah-who-o-o.” Doing a decent jack knife, I split the water, hardly disturbing the surface. Darn, if that didn’t become my nickname from then on.
“You’ve been off a thirty meter platform before, huh?” the kid said while we showered.
“In all honesty, no. At my home in the Canary Islands I’ve got this rock hung out over the ocean. It’s something over forty meters.”
“That’s over a hundred and thirty feet!”
“I think it’s closer to 150 feet.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Those guys in Acapulco jump that far.”
I’d love to get him on the dragon’s head. He’d eventually do it, of course, and become addicted, but it’s scary hitting the water at about thirty-five miles an hour and shooting toward the bottom forty feet below the surface.
Despite making a few new, casual friends at Hopkins, my relationship with Raul didn’t change. We still hung out when he wasn’t preoccupied with some girl. You see, if a person steps back and takes a long look at him, it’s understandable why he’s so popular. I mean, geez! Here’s this tall, physically put-together dude with long, raven black hair and eyes, and a perpetual tan courtesy of his Moorish heritage. And then there’s the accent. He can speak better English than me, but chose not to because it caused girls to go glassy-eyed. When he pursued gymnastics and wore an ultra-tight leotard, they flocked to the stands like sparrows on a fence eyeing a bird feeder.
Spring came early that year and the first Saturday in May turned really nice, so we decided to spend the day at Holmes Lake. Raul invited Cherise, a ditsy brunet with the thought capacity of a loose cannon. I never understood what Raul saw in the girl other than she had big boobs. Her incessant giggling drove me nuts. At the lake, she didn’t want to get her swimsuit wet, if those two pieces of anemic cloth pasted to her body could be called that. It was beyond me why anyone would go to a water activity and not get wet. I think Raul had the same thought as he spent a lot of time in the water while Cherise held down a beach towel and repeatedly lathered suntan lotion on her body in sensuous ways.
I invited Sandy who lived directly behind grandma’s house on the next street. She was about as opposite as one could find from Cherise. She wore a one-piece suit, loved the water, was a dynamite volleyball player with a deadly spike, had a tan dark like mine, and didn’t giggle. In lots of ways, Sandy reminded me of Concepción with long, reddish-brown hair tied in a ponytail. Having known her forever made it easy to be around her. She also spoke Spanish and just to tick Cherise off, we spoke it most of the time.
By noon we had tried to drown each other a couple dozen times, swam races, played a mayhem version of water polo, won four straight games of volleyball against some older kids, and ate a to-die-for lunch Sandy and Mrs. Montoya put together that morning. To top everything off I cued up some melodic, Spanish CD’s, stretch out on a towel, and let my tired and well-fed body die.
Sandy lay on her towel a couple feet away while Cherise was practically on top of Raul, ostensibly oiling him down with suntan lotion from foot to neck. Not that applying suntan lotion isn’t a bad idea. We all had hints of pink around the edges, except of course for Cherise who looked like the inside of a Twinkie. My concern was the way she applied the cream and the way Raul was enjoying it. On our side of respectability, I applied some to the exposed, upper portion of Sandy’s shoulders. It felt really weird doing that, but she had done it to my back. We did our own legs and front, thank you.
Late that afternoon we reluctantly gathered up to wander home. Cherise’s mom picked her up because she was just too exhausted to walk all the way home, if eight blocks was all that much. We collectively turned down an invitation for a ride. The weather was still too nice to ride. I also got the distinct impression Raul had enough of Cherise.
As we escorted Sandy to her house, I felt a tickle on the back of my neck as if something were crawling over it. Leaving her house, we came back around the corner to head for Raul’s home. The all too familiar little feet began a tap dance on the nape of my neck .
“Something wrong?” Raul asked as I rubbed the back of my head.
“Feels like something crawling on my neck.” Raul was aware of the feeling I painfully became familiar with on El Hierro.
“I don't see anything. Want to make any bets it’s that van down the street? Paparazzi.” he said, casually indicating a nondescript, white panel truck parked at the curb on our side of the street just beyond the alley entrance ahead. Paparazzi had become a nuisance since returning and especially since the magazine article came out a month earlier about my adventures.
“No bets,” I grumbled. I'd seen it frequently the past week hovering close to wherever I happened to be.
“Hello, boys.”
“Hello, Mrs. Douglass,” Raul responded to a neighborhood friend digging fertilizer around the numerous rose bushes in her front yard.
Mrs. Douglass is one of Grandma's genealogy colleagues whose house sits on the east side of our block next to the alley running behind Grandma's and the Montoya properties. She, Aunt Florence, and Grandma's relationship reaches back to high school days. Next to Grandma and Mrs. Montoya, she bakes the best pastries, but that wasn't the incentive to help do some yard work and shovel snow off her sidewalk. She is a sweet, old lady. Of course, we never said no to iced lemonade and ice cream rolls in July or warm cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate on a bitter cold, January day.
“Mrs. Douglass, don't turn around, but do you know how long that van up the street has been there?” She knew everything that happened in the neighborhood down to how many caterpillars crossed the street.
“They parked about twenty minutes ago. Nice looking young man, a little darker than you two. Kind of sexy-looking.” She giggled. “He'd be more attractive if he didn't smoke. I'll bet he's paparazzi.” She knew the problem I was having.
The itch got worse. “Do you mind if we go through your backyard so they don't know we used the alley?”
“Not at all, although I think they might be too busy to bother you in a few minutes.”
“Why's that, Mrs. Douglass?” Raul asked.
“I called the police. Never can be too careful, you know,” she said with an enduring twinkle in her eyes.
We said thanks and quick-stepped up the driveway until out of sight of the van, sprinted to the back fence, and over into Sandy's backyard. Peeking through the gate into the alley dividing the block, we saw a police cruiser conveniently parked behind the van. Knowing Grandma would be at her genealogy meeting until five, we continued up the alley to the gate leading into Raul's yard, and the smell of fresh-baked bread.
Before last summer, life was pretty low-key. In fact, life was so low key teachers had a hard time remembering our names until well into the school year. We had mellowed by middle school so even the vice principal for discipline didn't know us. Upon returning from the Island, we all decided it best to not say a lot about inheriting a plantation and discovering my pirate ancestor’s treasure right away, but the news media forced the issue. First on the scene, reporters from KOLN-TV, followed by reporters from the Journal Star newspaper, with calls from talk shows hot on their heels, and then various magazines, and . . . the list grew exponentially. Papa Montoya pre-emptively arranged for a PR agency to handle the deluge. That helped except for the appearance of paparazzi. In my case it was nothing like the flockings around really famous people, just an individual photographer now and then. Secretly vane enough to enjoy the attention and becoming a bit of a show off, at first I'd give them some poses. After a time it became a nuisance as the time Grandma and I were shopping in preparation for our return to El Hierro.
Since last fall pant cuffs posted signs of ankle creeping and by spring looked like pedal pushers. A quick check on the kitchen wall chart pegged the top of my head at five foot, ten and a half inches. The first part of April, a month and a half before returning to the island, there was a long weekend off from school, a busy weekend. El Españia was throwing a big celebration for some members getting married. Without saying, I expected a request to perform the Chufla, and both Grandma and I feared the stretchy Flamingo trousers had already stretched about as far as we dare allow. The first afternoon of vacation, she hauled me to the Gateway Mall to buy clothes.
Knowing my quixotic tastes, she didn't exactly trust me to shop for regular clothes alone. She was right, but I wouldn't admit it then. While rummaging through more conservative selections and bored, several distractions raised their snake-like head. First was a girl about my age leading a pack of four giggling tagalongs.
“Aren't you the guy who discovered all that pirate treasure?” she asked, her face pink as a grapefruit, to which I replied in the affirmative. “Can I touch you?”
Rolling my eyes, I held out a hand. She tentatively reached out hers, but I got this whimsical notion, took her hand, and kissed it as had become my custom on the Island with older ladies. Her face turned darker pink while issuing another inane giggle. Her friends joined in so that it became a gaggle of giggles. At that moment a shaved head with camera attached popped over a clothes rack and flashed off a couple quick shots. Backing away to rejoin her groupies, they undertook a quick, squealing, giggling flight. Of course, it was a setup and I couldn't wait to see what the Enquirer or some teen mag would do with those pics.
“David, I want you to try on these trousers,” Grandma said, obviously annoyed.
“Hey, paparazzi, I'm going into the dressing room. Wanna take pictures in there, too,” I called out sarcastically.
“Yeah,” came a reply as this guy extricated from his hiding place in the middle of a clothes rack.
“Not in your lifetime, baldy,” Grandma countered, taking a step toward him.
I'm not sure if it was the fact she was a head taller, a lot broader, and equipped with a death ray scowl, or the store security moving in, but the character beat a hasty retreat as I disappeared into the dressing booth. Grandma took up position in front of the entrance and stood guard like one of those Buckingham Palace guards.
Stepping out of the fitting room, Grandma looked me up and down, spun me around, and approved by saying, “If you're done putting on elevation, they should last a while. You are too active for circular expansion like your grandfather Eben. It appears to be all clear, now. Go ahead and change back while I slip over to the lady's department.”
Back in my original duds, I noticed a sale on walking shorts and detoured there a minute. That's when Barker and a couple guys from my old school showed up. I think he put himself to sleep every night thinking of how he’d get me alone someday. The bozos thought their dream had come true and started with the usual imbecilic insults. They weren't aware of Grandma until she came up on their backside like battleship approaching three rowboats.
“Do you have a problem, Mr. Barker?” she asked.
Barker, who perpetually mouthed off to teachers, obviously wanted to reply with some smart, derogatory remark, but again Grandma's mere countenance derailed pursuit of that venue. He'd been in her classroom six years before and withered like a white tomato on a droughted vine. About the same color, too.
“No, Mrs. Dolephene,” he replied, cowering and quickly moving off.
Two weeks before school ended, as Papa Montoya drove me home from swimming practice he said, “The PR people have told me that a Spanish people magazine would like to do a photo-story about you. It is legitimate. He would follow you around for about four or five days taking pictures of the things you do.”
“Let me think about it.”
That evening before bed, I was finishing homework when the Captain appeared. Somehow, he knew when I wanted to talk to him, and I told him about the photo shoot.
“You are famous Francis, and good publicity could not hurt.”
A week later Señor Cervantes sat across from me, Sandy, and Raul in grandma’s living room to discuss how he would become a shadow and snap pictures of the things I did. As difficult as it might be, we were to totally ignore him.
At first it took some adjusting, but he was easy-going, personable, and generally unobtrusive. Eventually, I didn’t even notice the camera clicking. He took pictures of me talking with friends, devouring a hamburger at a drive-in, dancing at El Espana, attending church, and playing with friends at the lake, sans Cherise thank heavens! Staying in the spare room at Grandma’s he shot pictures from breakfast to bedtime.
Just before he wrapped up the assignment, I stuffed a spoonful of shredded wheat into my mouth and then asked, “Pablo, would you do me a favor?”
“I will try. What is it?”
“That van that’s been following me around, the paparazzi?” He’d seen it, too. “I’d kinda like to turn the tables on them. Could you take a picture of them if they show up when we come home from school?”
“Of course. It might make an interesting sidebar.”
Sure enough, the van was waiting, but this time at the curb on our side of the street. Pablo went ahead and just as I approached the vehicle, he turned and snapped a couple pics. When that happened, the van suddenly took off and disappeared, all the while that uneasy itch on my neck grew intense until the van was gone.
That evening Momma Montoya served up a farewell dinner for Pablo after which Papa broke out the guitar. With Sandy as my partner, we danced. She brought along a friend so Raul wouldn’t have to dance with his mother. The next morning at breakfast, Pablo reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a couple photos.
“Here are your paparazzi friends in the van.”
I laughed at the vision of them tearing off like spooked rabbits, and then stopped, staring at one of the photos intensely. It was blurred because the van moved pass Pablo so quickly.
“What’s wrong?” Grandma asked.
“If I didn’t know better, that looks like Fuentes in the passenger seat,” I said.
#
Chapter 2
Home
Again
Teachers in private schools are more stoked and creative as if fresh out of college, and pumped by equally enthusiastic students and administration. Activities we pursued made learning enjoyable and memorable, but nothing they did could take my mind from that last day of school when the building itself would exhale us in relief.
Each day closer to that moment became agonizingly slower than the one before as if life itself was a wheel about to come to a grinding stop before reaching the magical moment. The problem was knowing that within days after being jettisoned from the building I would be on a plane to El Hierro in the Canary Islands and reunited with my brother and sister, Alejandro and Concepción. During those last few days, I often caught myself staring blankly at the blackboard as if stranded in a time warp.
Grandma made flight reservations months in advance. I wanted to charter a plane, but she smiled, looked at me over the top of her wire glasses, and quietly said, “That is wasteful, Francis. Besides, don't you enjoy the attention the flight crew gives us?”
“I’ll hire a flight crew,” I replied with youthful excitement, having a teenage penchant for letting money burn a hole in my pocket.
“And what about the young girls on the commercial flight?” She chuckled and had her way, quietly teaching me yet another valuable lesson about the value of a dollar even if you literally have tons.
It wasn't as if she was poor. Like her sister, Aunt Florence, Grandma possessed a comfortable bank account, if a million dollars or so is any judge of comfort. Both widowed, the two ladies were habitually frugal, enjoying a simple life, and I do mean enjoy. Especially after retiring, nothing made them happier than genealogy work – and me. I never realized how my presence filled their hearts with joy until both were gone. Although my life has been richly rewarding and full, there will always been a hole without them.
With our flight to El Hierro arranged, it became a matter of counting down the time to departure, first months, then weeks, and finally that last day at school with its agonizingly slow hours dribbling to an even slower trickle of minutes. Of course, the teachers knew this and silently counted along, but the State Board of Education obviously had a workaholic’s brain fart, scheduling the last week with proficiency tests. Coming down to the last twenty-five questions on the last test on the last day I could have cared less and blazed through them. That probably was true salvation as I aced the exam. My problem with testing is to think too much about the question, attempting to cipher and second-guess what is being asked. Finally, the last bell sounded and the halls erupted into a boisterous tumult with the final, metallic slam of locker doors, and thundering feet out the front door. We were free, free at last!
That was the last Thursday of May and our plane was booked for departure on Monday. The excitement was nearly impossible to contain. The plan was for Momma Montoya and Raul to accompany us as far as Madrid for their annual family visit. Papa Montoya would join them three weeks later. In order to prevent exploding, Sandy and some friends from school met at Holmes Lake where we picnicked, swam, and generally horsed around both Friday and Saturday. Sunday was reserved for church, of course, and final packing.
In that, I had packed a suitcase the week before, taking only essentials with the expectation of buying clothes there. Grandma spent the evening closing down the computer system. Too excited to sit in front of the computer, I declared Genealogy would wait and headed to Raul’s house. Papa Montoya engaged us in a spirited game of round-ball, two on one. I still don’t know how he did it, but we had a heck of a time getting around, over, or through him. For a guy pushing forty something, he was amazing!
Finally, Momma Montoya called us to dinner. I was for loading into the Montoya family SUV and head for the 48th street Valentino's, not far from where we lived, thinking it would be a farewell meal neither Grandma or Momma Montoya had to fix. They wouldn't hear of it, and when the aromas began tickling my nose, I was not disappointed. Of course, Grandma was in the thick of the kitchen helping. Quickly washing up, Raul and I helped set food on the table. It was a marvelous meal after which us menfolk took over the kitchen. Raul cleared the table, Papa washed the dishes, I dried, and Raul put them away. In no time, we joined the Señoras in the front room. Shortly thereafter, the dancing began. At last! I was able to expend the energy that had built to an incredible pitch over the past weeks. At the conclusion I performed the Chufla.
Hearing that song the first time sparked a fire in my breast and instantly became my most favorite Flamenco. It's hard to resist joining in as the foot strikes the floor sounding like a heavy machine gun accompanied by hand claps. My style tended to be thunderous, making a statement accompanied by shouts of ‘Ole,’ or ‘Anda,’ or ‘Alla’ from onlookers. Normally 6/8 time, Papa’s fingers grazed the guitar strings with blurring dexterity, accelerating the tempo to dizzying speeds until I fell wasted onto the sofa at the last chord amid lots of laughter. It wasn’t until years later I learned of his relationship to the flamenco guitarists Ramon and Carlos Montoya. He could have been a famous musician too, choosing to practice International Law with the same flamboyant adroitness.
Early the following morning we flew a charter to Omaha where the four of us caught a two-hour jaunt to Atlanta. While Raul and I explored the airport there waiting for our overseas flight, Grandma and Mama Montoya relaxed in the VIP lounge. Three hours later, we passed security for the nine-hour flight on Air France to Madrid arriving at 8:00 a.m. that next morning. Of course, Grandma was right. A chartered plane may have been faster, but small and not near as fun. Going first class made it possible to stretch out in the seat, walk about, and receive pampering by the flight crew. And, as she insinuated, a charter wouldn’t have provided the opportunity to meet a couple cute girls who kept Raul and me awake the whole trip. Fourteen hours and exhausted, we touched down at Madrid-Barajas International. Primed to change planes and continue on, Grandma neglected to mention that we would stay over several days with Montoya's family to rest and adjust to all the time changes. After working through customs, a big group of cheering and waiving Montoyas met us in the lobby and kept us up another twelve hours before the two of us crashed.
Awake, sort of, the next day, Raul gave me the native's tour of Madrid. Thursday I was feeling more alert as while driven to a small community up the coast from Barcelona where the Montoya villa – more like a family timeshare – overlooked a beautiful, private beach where we spent some serious sand time regaining lost tans with his cousins until catching a Spanair flight Saturday morning from Barcelona to Tenerife.
My brain feeling clearer, the excitement level began rising as our Boeing-Douglas MD-87 began circling the island preparatory to landing. So far there had been a number of delightful surprises Grandma neglected to mention, each coming like a nearly endless string of Christmas presents.
Disembarking, we were greeted by none other than the lip-biting-beautiful lady who prosecuted Fuentes and his gang. Having moved up in government circles and hearing of our return, she eagerly took it upon herself to meet us in the terminal and provide a personal escort to the VIP lounge. Pretty as ever, she was still not married. How such an atrocity could happen was beyond me, as my adolescent brain secretly toyed with the hope she’d stay that way a few more years until I was eligible to consider matrimony. Seeming so interested in every humdrum thing I had done, it spurred further hope she might be interested in waiting for me, as well.
All too soon, the booming voice of Señor Gonzales rattled the great windows overlooking the tarmac and hills beyond. “Don Evreux!” Arms open wide as his grin, the bull of a man charged into the lounge to envelop me, before unexpectedly backing off. “I am so sorry, Don Evreux, one should never greet a marqués in such a grosero manner. I am sincerely apologetic.”
I stared at him a moment before throwing my arms as far around my third cousin as they would go. “Yes, you should.” His reciprocal hug nearly cut off breathing.
Disengaging a second time, there was a tear in one eye as he stepped to Grandma and kissed her hand. “Welcome back, Señora Dolephene.”
“Ah-h, Don David, there is someone I want you to meet,” Señora Alvarez-Rodriques said while looking beyond me to a debonair gentleman entering the lounge in Señor Gonzales' wake. “This is my novia, my fiancé, Profesor Victor Reyes.”
Someone yelling “Earthquake!” would have had the same effect as the ceiling toppled on my swooning head. The storybook-handsome, Prince Charming as sculpted by Di Vinci shattered my adolescent dreams with one stroke of his chisel.
“It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Don Evreux,” he said, shaking my hand. It was a firm, confident handshake.
“A pleasure Señor Reyes,” I answered, remembering my manners, but not cheerfully.
“Congratulations. When is the wedding?” Grandma asked.
“In five weeks,” he answered.
“We would be honored to have your presence,” the Señorita said.
“We would be delighted.”
“Victorio is the Assistant Director of Education for all the Islands.”
“Your generous donations have furthered education not only on El Hierro, but throughout the Canaries as well because of the increase in tourism money. I have been very busy keeping up with all the changes.”
“Sounds as if that will keep you away from home a lot.” I replied, still pouting.
“Oh, that should not be a problem,” my heart-throb replied. “We are not so spread out that Victorio cannot be home almost every night, especially when the children arrive.”
Children! That bucket of Gatorade doused my last dying hopes. I was sixteen, barely out of puberty, and still in high school. How could I possibly compete with that? Having that dream trampled into the concrete floor, I acquired lead shoes as Señor Gonzales escorted grandma and me out to his new airplane and packed us in. Posterity had arrived for him, as well. Unfortunately, they didn’t make cockpits any larger as he had to wiggle into his seat like before. The only difference was that I sat as co-pilot and even handled the controls a little once we made altitude. Learning to fly became another item on my “to do” list.
Setting down at Valverde, we walked into the terminal while Señor Gonzales insisted on handling the baggage. Just like last year, there stood Papa Vasquez, as dashing as ever – tall, lean, the neatly-trimmed mustache as thick and black as remembered, ruffled white shirt overlain by dark gray waist jacket with silver-trim, form-fitted trousers, and calf-high boots. A knot tightened in my throat upon seeing the man who had become like a second father like Señor Montoya. I will always miss my dad, remembering it took two great men to replace him.
Next to him were Alejandro and Concepción, more than my very best friends, they had become my brother and sister. Attired much like his father, Alejandro had gotten taller, too. Concepción may have added some height, but now stood several inches shorter than her twin, the long, wavy, dark brown hair tied in a ponytail. My mouth went dry.
When we first met last year, they dutifully acknowledged our arrival before hauling off to fetch the luggage. This year as we stepped through the double doors into the terminal, Concepción squealed and outran our brother, throwing arms around my neck and planting a kiss on my cheek. Two paces later Alejandro enveloped us both in a group hug. Out of the corner of one eye, I saw Papa Vasquez take Grandma’s hand and kiss it.
From the airport, we drove straight to Aunt Herminia’s villa overlooking Valverde and another mushy reunion, and then to the back veranda where more extended family waited (which seems to be most of Valverde’s residents and half the island). Yes, it was nice to be home, but by eight Grandma was exhausted and excused herself. I continued with the party until eleven when everyone began leaving. Still wound tighter than a new mainspring, I had plenty of energy left which meant a stroll through the streets to the disco and another welcome home party.
Alejandro became more conservative in dress after Concepción’s joke last year. Only the top two buttons of his shirt were undone so to not cover a crucifix. His black shorts were much less tight and below the knees. However, for the disco I was back into walking shorts and sandals. Feeling less inhibited and more frisky, I left the top three buttons of the ruffled shirt undone to show off the old key that had opened the treasure chests to this new life. Concepción cocked her head and closed one eye when I presented myself before leaving.
Knowing what she was thinking, I leaned close to her ear and whispered, “No good, sis, I never swim naked.”
She stepped back, stared at me with mock surprise before displaying that faint, upward curl at the corners of her generous mouth and a twinkle in those soft, puppy eyes that precursored trouble. I swallowed. Once again, when I should have kept my big mouth shut, it flapped like a loosened sail in the wind. I’d set her on a quest and she would think of something – eventually. Unless vigilant, I was doomed.
We danced and partied until four that morning before staggering back up to the villa where I collapsed into bed until nearly noon. Coming into the kitchen to find something to munch on, I looked a sight. Aunt Herminia glanced up from her lunch preparations and snickered. I had passed a full-length mirror on the way down. Approximating a puppy-ravaged chew toy, my hair was a gargoyled mess, my eyes bloodshot and drooping. Still in pajamas, they hung on me like limp rags as my bare feet shuffled across the tiled floor. Fortunately, the family wing had a separate entrance to the kitchen by going around the back on the outside balcony and down the curved stairs; otherwise her guests might have overdosed from laughter.
“It is so good to have you home,” she said with another hug, trying to keep from flouring me with her hands.
Aunt Herminia is a loving, Panda-like woman, soft-spoken, deliberate in her actions, with a huge smile and greater laugh. Pictures of her younger years revealed a thin, beautiful woman. The body had filled out a bit, but the long, wavy, light brown hair hadn’t changed. Bound in a knot on the back of her head, a small, vertical comb adorned with polished red stones rose up from it, a gift I sent at Christmas. They were rubies collected during a Scouting trip to northern Idaho several years BT, Before Treasure, as I often refer to time now.
It never failed to amaze me how such a warm, kind, loving person would not garner the attention of suitors. She did, of course, but remained widowed, like Papa Vasquez, for nearly twelve years. I liked the smell of her perfume. It was the same Concepción used. On the other hand, I hadn’t showered yet and self-conscious that I may not smell quite so wonderful after working up a sweat at the disco.
“Did you have a good time last night?”
“Oh, yes,” I replied with a yawn.
“Good. Sit down. I’ll fix you something.”
“Don’t go to any extra work. I’ll just . . .”
“Nonsense. Growing children need three meals a day,” she said, just like Grandma. If anyone else referred to me as a child, my response would not have been friendly. I was sixteen. I was a man – well, sort of.
“Where is Grandma?”
“Oh, she and my brother went to the museum. Now, tell me all about your year.”
I’d sent regular eMails, and letters, and pictures, and talked to them on the phone, but she wanted to hear it all again in person, interjecting a string of penetrating questions until the last bite of breakfast/lunch had been devoured. Then Alejandro appeared, as sleepy and disheveled as me. Without complaint, Aunt Herminia fixed him something to eat, too. When Concepción bound in from the guest patio she was the picture of a saint, neatly attired in lime green pedal pushers, a cream-colored blouse, bright blue neckerchief, and hair tied back. Her energy must have been the catalyst my body needed to rev up into high gear, because ten seconds after she appeared I felt ready to face the world.
“Good morning sleepy heads,” she chirped, giving the two of us a quick kiss on the cheek. “Can I help, Aunt Herminia?”
“Have our guests arrived for lunch?”
“Yes. Cousin Hernandez just arrived from the morning tour. They are cleaning up.”
“Good. Get them seated and set out the fruit plates. The sandwiches are in the cooler.”
“I’ll get out of the way and take a shower,” I said, becoming more self-conscious that paying guests seeing someone pad around in pajamas at noon might not give a good impression. I wasn’t worried in the slightest what people thought of me. I didn’t want to create a bad reputation for Aunt’s villa, which was really a bed and breakfast for tourists.
The Captain built the place as a residence Valverde while governor. That it mirrored Casa de St. Nazaire was no surprise. Drawings in the museum depict a smaller place with additions over the centuries expanding it to the current large, two-story structure capable of housing a lot of people. However, about the only things remaining from the original construction were the beautiful marble fountain in the courtyard and the eight-foot perimeter stone wall. Remodeling, refurbishing, and the second story addition changed the appearance so that he might not recognize it if he came back from where dead people were supposed to be and walked in today. Of course, he already did that last year, so he knew, making the thought rhetoric.
There are twelve large guest rooms and four suites on two floors. Until refurbishing was complete, Grandma and I occupied two of the upstairs guest rooms. The rest of the family had additional rooms along the back. There are three sets of large, communal bathrooms on the second floor and a large family room directly above the public dining room with its own large, covered patio deck. Many quiet evenings were spent there or lounging in the family garden also at the rear. An ornate, curved stone staircase connects the family rooms with the garden, and the eight foot, stone wall on either side retains privacy.
At the back of the lower level is the public dining room opening onto a huge, tiled patio. Next to it is the kitchen and then the private family dining area. A sitting room is located across the patio entrance from the public dining room. Except for an office, the rest of the lower level contains three guest rooms, three suites, and two sets of communal bathrooms. The broad covered veranda with balcony above encircle the entire building, and a thick, rock wall encompasses the entire property except at the rear where it shrinks to four feet so not to obscure the mountain vistas beyond.
That the Captain loved the outdoors was obvious from the design. Windows are seldom shuttered except during really nasty storms. Otherwise, the perennially mild climate encourages one to enjoy the comfortable breeze.
Alejandro staggered into the bathroom just as I was stepping out of the shower at the family end of the villa. He still wasn’t completely awake as he stumbled into the shower. Towel wrapped around my waist, I was trying to wrestle a couple kinks out of my hair with a brush when there came a light knock on the door just before it cracked open. It was Concepción.
“Is sleepy head in the shower?” she whispered.
“Yes,” I responded, suspecting she was up to no good, again.
Pushing past, she slipped up to the curtain, reached in, and fled. She hadn’t quite cleared the door when Alejandro let fly a piercing scream. She’d turned off the hot water!
“That should wake him up,” she tossed over her shoulder with an effervescent cackle and disappearing down the courtyard stairs.
I was standing mouth open when the curtain flew back and my brother launched an IBM glare. In defense, I pointed wordlessly at the open door as an older couple exited their room at the far end of the balcony and stared at a kid in a towel with his mouth open, arm stretched out pointing an accusing finger in their direction, and another trying to cover himself with a shower curtain.
“Concepción!” Alejandro yelled. “Why didn’t you stop her?”
“I didn’t know what she was going to do,” I squeaked in defense.
“You know you will be next.”
“And you will know what she is up to and stop her.”
He looked at me with a wicked gleam in his eyes, “Not likely.”
Yes, it was good to be home.
#
Chapter 3
An
Old Friend
The stopover in Spain was for a number of reasons. Primarily Grandma wanted to start working off the jet lag. Also, this was a great opportunity to meet some of the people we'd spoken to on the phone. The day following our arrival on the island was pretty quiet, spent recovering from all the partying and cruising about town. The third morning home we climbed into the back of Papa Vasquez's new minibus. Grandma, on the other hand looked and acted a bit off her usual pace as she sat in the front. Still, an air of excitement moved us forward as Papa Vasquez headed out for a lazy afternoon drive to Casa de St. Nazaire.
It was still a narrow, twisty, dusty road, however there were marked changes upon the land. The fallow but weedy fields were now plowed and sprouting crops. The trimmed vineyards no longer looking like a Medusa thrown to the wind. That meant return of the grapes to produce El Hierro’s own brand of preserves based on a unique, family recipe Grandma discovered while rummaging around in historical research. That proved a better money-maker than wine, something everyone produced. Besides, I was still trying to decipher the secret, family wine formula hidden in the other family journals. Elsewhere, bands of sheep grazed over the rolling, grassy hills, lazing in the mild sunlight. Suddenly the VW swerved.
“Sorry,” Papa Vasquez apologized, “I thought that lizard was going to step in front of us.”
We three looked at each other remembering another time when that happened and turned in unison to gaze out the back window. Of course, everything was obscured by a dense cloud of dust. Unpleasant memories surfaced, but now we could laugh at some of them.
“Not getting any funny feelings to turn back, are you?” Concepción asked.
“No. Not this time,” I snickered softly, not mentioning a sporadic tingling at the back of my head that had pestered me since February and shifting into a higher gear a week before leaving Lincoln. Most of the time, I chalked it up to the excitement of returning to what I began to consider my real home.
The first time it happened, Raul, a couple of our girlfriends, and I took a long detour to have a milkshake at Burger King after school. As we left, I had a feeling like someone was staring at us. I casually looked around, but didn't see anything except some cars, vans, and a few pedestrians. It happened off and on after that, often turning out to be a wannabe paparazzi.
For a while it became a game. Upon spying them, I'd wave or put an arm around one of the girls or Raul—my weird sense of humor. Sharon got into the thing big time. She got caught more than once reading a teen mag in class and knew the kind of pics they wanted. One Saturday as we headed into a movie theater she conned me into allowing her to kiss my cheek. Oh, that wasn't good enough for me. She was the first girl I kissed full on the lips in public. That not only made paparazzi's day, but a fat bonus. Grandma and Momma Montoya never saw that publication, not that I was embarrassed. I really enjoyed that kiss. I kept it from them to avoid a lecture. I knew what they'd say. Besides, Papa Montoya said enough.
Several weeks after the mag hit the stands, Raul and I stopped at his office while window-shopping with some girls and paparazzi. Always the gentleman, Papa stood and shook each one's hand as we introduced them.
“I hope you left your checkbook at home,” he teased.
“Just my weekly allowance,” I said. Twenty bucks wasn't that much and most of it went for lunches at school.
“Here,” he said, digging out a twenty from his wallet. “The deli on the corner has the best hot chocolate. Have them dash a bit of peppermint in it. Oh, and by the way, be mindful of those photographers following you. You have more than one reputation to protect.” With that, he pushed a copy of that particular teen magazine to our side of the big desk as he sat down.
Sharon's face flushed as we quickly turned and left. I knew exactly how he came by that thing. The coy smile was plastered all over his secretary's face. After that, public relations were delegated to at most holding hands, and not with just one girl. When we left the office building that day the stalking photographer got a great shot of me holding hands with Sharon and another girl on either side. Raul held hands with a girl he was going fairly steady with. While there would be no more public kissing shots, that didn't mean lip-locking stopped completely. It was just more private. Well, most of the time. There was this one time at the lake in May. The guy had one heck of a telephoto, but fortunately Raul and his girl sufficiently blocked the view to identify anyone, and I wasn't with Sharon.
As the van broke from the trees, Papa surprised everyone by mashing the accelerator to the floor. The bumpy, rock ford had been replaced by a concrete so that two, arching plumes of water erupted either side of the van causing us to lurch forward as if a big hand tried to stop us, but no jarring bumps.
“How do you like what I had put in?” he said while laughing.
“Great,” I answered trying to reclaim my seat, not having refastened my seatbelt when we turned to look out the back of the van moments earlier.
“Yes. Much smoother, and a good way to clean the undercarriage,” he said proudly.
The expression on Concepción's face was enough to know that was a total surprise. Papa was not given to sudden, impulsive behavior. Always very conservative and proper befitting his position as Curator of El Hierro's museum and its priceless pirate treasure, this was as big a transformation in him as had occurred to the plantation. However, this was only a fleeting sample to be visited later, in private with close family.
The wall of water parted like the opening of a sparkling, white curtain revealing Casa de St. Nazaire majestically growing from the volcanic cliff. Its beauty literally left me breathless. Under Papa's watchful eyes, my extended Island family restored the impressive mansion to its original splendor, carefully following drawings from the museum archives and the Captain's journal. Intruding vegetation was gone and the landscape neatly manicured. A new, slate roof adorned its crown. Exterior wood trim was replaced and the whole given a new coat of stucco and fresh, white and dark gray paint making it glow against the black, volcanic rock from which it extended. The dark green trees along the far, south side and attending slope appeared as a muffler. Fences along the circular drive sweeping around the front had been completely rebuilt and painted white. Even the original garden had been restored. A stout, wood fence encircled the perimeter as it had during Don Miguel's time. Not much was needed to restore the swimming/bathing pool except thinning the masking vegetation. Ensuing Evreux dons tweaked the place over the centuries with their personal touches and I was no exception with the installation of solar electricity and plumbing. Other than that, the place looked much as the day Don Miguel disappeared.