Dieselpunk: An Anthology (16 page)

“
Um,” I interrupt, “if you two are alright here I might . . .”

“
Stay where you are, please, Sr. Lagarto,” Donna Magdalena says, eyes still locked on Hasan Pasha. I shrug and kick back, lighting up a cigar. Where in the hell is that server?

“
So, Donna Magdalena,” Hasan Pasha says, “you are travelling to Roanoketown?” It takes me a second to realize he’s asked the question in flawless English.

“
Yes, for a cousin’s wedding to one of the local lords,” she replies, also in English. Suddenly she realizes for herself the language they’d used and her eyes grow wide. His eye narrows predatorily.

“
Wonderful, my congratulations for your family,” he says, returning to Portuguese. “It is a good family, I assume? One of the Netoppewokeesi?”

Her eyes go wider for a second. She hides her face behind a tea cup to buy herself a second. “A clan of warmongering pagan rebels? Certainly not!” she answers. Her hand shakes slightly as she sets down the tea cup.

Suddenly it hits me who called in the contraband accusation on me and why. It wasn’t a rival pilot, it was the
Yildiz Teskilati
, the sultan’s secret service. And all to get  my passenger onto the ground for this very meeting. The question is “why?” What does the sultan care about what happens in Virginia? Why should I care? I redouble my efforts to flag down that server.

“
Please, my friend,” Hasan Pasha says to me calmly, eyes still on the donna. “Allow me.” He raises one finger and a server walks briskly up. “Now, my friend, what would you like? It is on me. The sangria is fantastic here.”

“
Just a cervesa,” I reply.

“
Nonsense!” interrupts the pasha. “A pitcher of the house sangria, if you could,” he says to the server. “And for you, madam?”

“
A drink of blood on the street of bones?” she says, openly in English. “Why not?”

The pitcher arrives quickly; its opaque ruby contents swirl with ice and citrus slices. As the one server sets down the pitcher and glasses, another deftly takes away Hasan Pasha’s hookah. There I was straining to get one server and that one-armed bandit gets a serving staff. Charm of the Orient, I guess. Donna Magdalena looks surprised to see Hasan Pasha take a glass. “We in the empire are more liberal and cosmopolitan in our attitudes,” he says. “My cousin makes an outstanding
arak
.” He lifts his glass. “A toast to my fine companions.” We clink glasses and I sip back some of the cool, sweet, tangy wine cocktail.

A few minutes pass in calm silence, sipping sangria and allowing the world to flow past. The conversation returns between the pasha and the donna. I listen and drink and try not to look bored. Hasan Pasha delights Donna Magdalena with stories of elegant Constantinople and of the rugged beauty of Anatolia. She seems keen on the Greek provinces and the ancient ruins which once housed Plato and Socrates. Hasan orders us a plate of the local delicacy: conch poached in garlic butter with dill, meshing well with the fruity sangria. The conversation steers now into philosophies on thought and reason, law and justice, teeters on the edge of politics and religion. My own philosophy and politics, which pretty much boil down to wanting to be left alone to fly my plane and fish for supper, are left far behind amid discussions with big words like “dialectic” and “enfranchisement.”

The sangria and conch are replaced by poached snapper and white wine, soon followed by another glass and another tapas plate. The tapas flow by, each paired with appropriate wines, and the conversation topics shift with the meals. I gorge myself on a meal more decadent than I’ve had in years. I eat as if it will be our last, for tracking where the conversation is going, Donna Magdalena (if that is indeed her name) may have guaranteed that it will be. For all of the donna’s obvious intelligence and education, I find myself amazed at her naïveté as Hasan Pasha steers the conversation, milking her slowly for her beliefs, politics, and desires. As the minutes and glasses and plates go by, I am certain he has figured out by her passions alone what factions she’s aligned to in Virginia, which sides she’ll support, and what political use — or danger — she would be to the Osman Empire.

I’ve seen this game before, and I keep my mouth shut. My past is something I try not to think about. Dark corners exist in my memories that I try my best not to illuminate, and Abdul Hasan Pasha lurks in many of them. You do what you can with the hand you’re dealt, and when you’re the son of a Dominguiano sugarcane farmer you find you have to palm a card or three if you’re going to have any chance at all of doing any better. I can’t say I’m proud of the things I once did, or the people I once worked with or for, but in the world of shadows there are those who have limits…and those who do not. I was one of the former. Hasan Pasha is most definitely one of the latter. Donna Magdalena has, by her words, either earned herself a dark hand up in her business, or signed her own death warrant. She’s obviously new to this game, and only the cards Hasan keeps in his hand and boot will dictate whether she has the chance to learn from her amateur mistakes.

The tapas end and out comes the final round of drinks, this time a palate-cleansing concoction of rum, mint, lime juice, and fizzy soda. I toast to the next empty salutation and sit back, enjoying the ebb and flow of the streets, so much like the tides, as the street hawkers fold up their carts and roll them away, the young sharks congregate near the corners, and the old women whose feet have never left this island hurry towards their small abodes. Santa Maria’s, its white stucco glowing pink in the dwindling sun, chimes out seven. I light my last cigar amid a growing cacophony of evening birds and insects and toast the setting sun as it sinks away, envying its westerly escape.

“
My friends, I fear I must depart,” says Hasan Pasha. It is now deep into the night and we are alone in the lamp-lit courtyard. The servers, exhausted but anxious to serve for the massive tips they’ve been getting, stand by like an honor guard. I’m exhausted, stuffed, more than a little drunk, and ready to hit the sack. The donna looks like she can hardly sit up straight. Hasan Pasha looks fresh as the Devil himself and I wonder what other chemicals he’s taking to allow this, or whether he really is immune to spirits. He signs the bill and by the look of the server’s eyes had added one hell of a gratuity. “So,” Hasan Pasha says, getting up effortlessly with nary a sway, “I bid you both adieu.” With a deep formal bow, he turns and struts back towards the door to the hotel.

“
W…what a nice fellow,” Donna Magdalena says in English, hiccupping. Her eyes do not look like she’s too sad to see him leave.

“
He a cold-blood murderer,” I reply frankly, in my halting English. Don the iguana, gives a half-hearted hiss. He’s getting chilly and sleepy. I wrap him in a napkin I’ve warmed under my shirt. He tucks his nose into my collar and closes his eyes.

“
Read me like a book, d…did he not?” the donna asks.

“
Yes, Donna,” I reply. “Are…you a real donna? It is clear you are not Mayana.”

“
Yes…and no. A lady, actually. Lady Catherine Elizabeth Nanzatico, at thy service.” She bows awkwardly across the table. “I…I should not have told you that. God, if that man had heard me . . .”

“
I think he already know,” I say. “Is his job. Those questions he ask? To read you like the book.”

“
His job? My God, he’s an intelligence agent!”

“
Yes. You new to this job, this spy game, yes?” I ask.

“
It’s that obvious, is it?”

“
Yes, Donna…M’lady.”

“
What now, then?” she asks, looking frightened. “Run? Steal a boat? Steal back your plane?”

I shrug. “Waste of time, M’lady. He plan to kill us, we dead. Just be glad he give us such good last meal.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Frankly it was all a bit too spicy for me. I’d have preferred broiled alewife and hominy with a side of poke greens, to be honest. And a bottle of good buttery Virginia white, maybe a Virgin Blanc-Vigonier blend.” She smiles warmly, thinking about bland Anglo-Powhite fare.

“
Get some sleep, M’lady,” I say. “Tomorrow we leave, assuming Hasan no kill us.”

She looks at me, brown eyes visibly frightened despite the blur of alcohol. “I…I don’t want to die, Antonio.”

“Me neither, but . . .” I shrug.

“
C…can’t we do…something?” She leans over and grabs my hand, her dangling jewelry reflecting in the lamp light like sunlight on ocean ripples.

“
I plan a pray to São Pedro da Crossroads, maybe promise São Ghede a bottle of chili-rum and a black hen if he look other way tonight.”

She smiles now. “You’re one of those ‘Kongolese Catholic’ heretics, aren’t you?” Surprisingly, the smile is warm, not judging or offended.

Tired of my English stuttering I return to Portuguese. “For the record the new pope has recently spoken with the Bishop of Kongo and is considering some form of reconciliation in the churches.”

“
Fascinating. Think it’ll work?”

“
Is the pope Danish?”

She laughs. “Of course not.”

She looks at me deeper, deadly serious. “I’m afraid to sleep alone tonight. It…it may be our last. If you…if you think . . .”

Silence. Only insects and kitchen sounds. I notice the wall of servants, waiting patiently. I consider the social ramifications of the unspoken offer. There is no way such a liaison would go unnoticed or unrecorded here. Such things are not unheard of, but they are rarely proper for a lady. Could I really ask her to face her death amid such scandal? And what of her soul? Or mine?

Besides, where would Don sleep?

I look into her dark brown eyes for an eternal moment, then look down to the table sadly. She looks half-disappointed, half-relieved. “I thank the donna for the lovely meal,” I say aloud, standing and formally bowing and kissing her hand. “Tomorrow we fly out, so I would be remiss to keep the donna from her rest.”

She smiles demurely and with reluctance she gets up and leaves through the double doors to the hotel, sneaking a final peak over her bare shoulder. The wall of servants closes in on me as I watch her go, the maitre d’ clearing his throat haughtily. The nobles are gone, time for this commoner to go, too. Smiling I leave a silver bit on the table, tip my hat, and leave.

Don’s claws burrow into my shoulder as I walk back across the Camino Hueso. The crushed coral crunches loudly in the silent night. José’s cantina is less empty now, with a dozen men huddled around the bar with cheap drinks and glazed smiles. A bored looking quadroon plucks Songhai rhythms from a battered guitar. I notice my erstwhile police escort, sloppy drunk, conversing with an old Vinlander. Ignoring the lot, I head back up to my room. My pack has been rifled through and a pair of socks is missing. I shrug, deposit Don on the buggy mattress, and curl up next to him under the ragged blanket for what may be my last night. Just another lovely day in the Florida Cays.

The sun’s still on the far side of the world when I’m kicked roughly awake. The steel-tipped boot prods my ribs again and I bolt up, knife ready. I quickly put the knife away as I notice the shine of a gun barrel and the brown cloth of the gendarme uniforms, both illuminated by the weak light from the single, dirty window. Two of them stand by, one with the pistol at the ready. Their faces are hidden in the shadow, but their slim profiles and ready-bearing makes it immediately apparent that these are not the fat Alandro-Mendez and slouching punks from yesterday. “Yes, officers?” I ask, my head foggy with lack of sleep and an alcohol-soaked brain midway through the transition from drunk to hungover.

“
It is time to return to your plane, sir,” the one says in formal Castilian Spanish, his voice gravelly and officious.

“
Already?” I ask. It can’t be much past four. Don is still out cold.

“
Yes. Your plane is ready. The governor has granted your leave, but only if you leave immediately.”

“
And the donna?”

“
Will join us shortly.”

“
Where is the boy from yesterday?” I ask scrambling to pack my bag and awaken Don.

“
In detention,” the gravelly voiced man replies. “Drunk on duty.”

They march me down the stairs. The faintest-of-faint glow in the east marks the distant approach of dawn. I see a brief flash of my escorts’ grim faces as we walk past a small window, but their caps, pulled low over their eyes, continue to shroud their eyes. The gravelly voiced man has a sharp cut to his jaw and bad pox scarring. The other man has a long, thin face with sunken cheeks that make him look corpse-like. Both men are lily-white as Euros fresh off the boat. Everything in my alcohol-thinned blood tells me that I am in danger and I begin to look for escape routes. The hope of escape is limited by the readiness of the two men and the small size of the island itself. I have no delusions I can run faster than corpse-man can shoot.

They march me back across the Camino Hueso where a third man, this one athletically built, stands by the donna and her bags. She’s teetering there, hair amess and a simple silk dress apparently thrown on in a hurry, trying hard to look strong and regal through the worry. She bolts up to me and puts a desperate hand on my shoulder. “What is going on?” she asks, quietly in English. Her breath is sweet despite the night of alcohol. I doubt I can claim likewise.