Authors: Sara Craven
personal freedom again.
And when she returned to England, she reasoned, the break would
have been made, and she could start, in earnest, to plan a life for
herself.
Her grin widened as she imagined her mother's reaction to the fact
that Charlie had bought her own hammock and cutlery in Belem for
this trip. Mrs Graham, when she went abroad, insisted on every
creature comfort known to the mind of man, and then some.
Charlie, on the other hand, intended to travel on the
Manoela
as far
as the boat went, and decide what to do next when she got there.
It was odd, she thought, that all her mother's objections to the trip
had been rooted in the personal inconvenience to herself. She'd
never once referred to the dangers her younger daughter might
encounter
en route
in this alien world.
'Probably thinks I'm too dull to worry about,' Charlie told herself
philosophically, and, compared with Sonia, for example, she
undoubtedly was. Her sister had been the high flier where looks
were concerned, and Charlie had existed in her shadow, learning not
to resent the astonishment in people's faces when they realised she
and Sonia were related.
Now it was wonderful just to be alone, and at no one's beck and call.
To be able to stand at this rail, and watch the jungle world of the
Amazon passing slowly in front of her.
And somewhere in the depths of all that greenery, on the banks of
some hidden tributary, Philip Hughes might be panning for gold.
Now that she was actually here she could admit openly to herself that
the idea of finding him had crossed her mind more than once. It
might be a stupid romantic dream, but she had the last place- name
Mrs Hughes had mentioned firmly fixed in her head. And if by some
remote chance she found herself in the vicinity of Laragosa it would
do no harm to make some enquiries.
Captain Gomez and some of the crew spoke a smattering of English,
but they'd stared in total incomprehension at her hesitant questions.
But that hadn't deterred her, and she planned to make some further
enquiries when she went ashore at Mariasanta—and deliver that
letter at the same time.
She shook her bobbed hair, smooth and shining as a shower of
spring rain, back from her face.
Life might have been something of a non-event' so far, but all that
was going to change now— and this trip to Brazil was only the start.
Laragosa—here I come, she thought with a swift stab of excitement.
* * *
Her first glimpse of Mariasanta two days later damped her optimism
a little. There was a wooden dock, built on piles, and flanked by the
usual leaf-thatched Amerindian houses, rising on stilts out of the
water. Behind these was a huddle of buildings with corrugated-iron
roofs, and beyond them—the rain forest.
Charlie found herself wondering if there would actually be a hotel at
all.
She'd had no further contact with Fay Preston, who'd left the boat at
yesterday's fuel stop without even the courtesy of a goodbye.
Before Charlie went ashore she took the usual precaution of stowing
her passport and few valuables in her shoulder-bag, along with her
mug and cutlery, as these items, she'd been warned, might disappear
if left on the boat.
As it turned out, finding the hotel was no problem. It was a small
wooden building with a sign, faded to illegibility, hanging over the
front entrance, and a small veranda, which, like the paintwork, had
seen better days. Charlie mounted the rickety steps with care, and
went in.
The fan, affixed to the ceiling, kept the heavy, humid air moving,
but did nothing to lower the temperature, she thought, wiping her
face with a handkerchief as she looked round. She seemed to be in
the bar, but the place was deserted. Charlie went over and rapped
smartly on the unpolished wooden counter. There was a pause, then
a small, fat man in a sleeveless vest and baggy trousers pushed his
way through a beaded curtain behind the bar and stood looking at
her in silently amazed enquiry.
Charlie said stiltedly, '
Bom dia, senhor. Faia ingles?'
'Nao.'
Well, she supposed it had been too much to hope for, she thought
resignedly as she delved for her phrase book.
She produced the letter.
'Tenho uma carta.'
She'd looked that up
already. And also how to ask if the recipient was in residence.
'O
Senhor da Santana mora aqui?'
The man's bemused expression deepened, and the shake of his head
was a decided negative, but he took the letter from her, first wiping his
hand on his trousers, and examined it as if it might bite him.
Charlie was almost relieved that the unknown Senhor da Santana
didn't live at the hotel after all. She hadn't relished the prospect of
trying to explain in her minimal Portuguese that Fay Preston had
chickened out on his family's hospitality. But then Ms Preston hadn't
seemed exactly a linguist either, so perhaps the
senhor
spoke a
modicum of English.
She shrugged mentally. Well, she'd done all that she'd been asked,
and now she could see something of the town before the
Manoela
sailed. It was clearly no use in pursuing any enquiries about
Laragosa with the hotel proprietor, but tracing Philip Hughes had
only been a silly dream anyway.
She realised the man was gesturing at her, pantomiming a drink, and
she hesitated. Judging by what she'd seen on the way, this was the
only bar in town, she thought, touching her dry lips with the tip of
her tongue, so she might as well take advantage of it,
unprepossessing though it was.
'Agua mineral?'
she asked, adding a precautionary,
'Sem gelo.'
The man shrugged, clearly contemptuous of anyone who would ask
for a drink without ice in such heat. He waved her towards one of
the stools at the bar, and uncapped a bottle taken from a primitive
refrigerator.
But the glass she was handed, along with the bottle, was surprisingly
clean, and the drink tasted magical. Good old Coca Cola, she
thought, taking a healthy swig.
The hotel proprietor had vanished back into the domain behind the
beaded curtain. Charlie suspected that he was probably steaming
open Senhor da Santana's letter at that very moment, and wondered
whether it would ever reach its rightful destination. Well,
fortunately that wasn't her problem. She was simply the messenger
girl.
She glanced at her watch, decided there was time for another Coke,
and tapped on the counter with a coin. There was no response, so
she knocked again more loudly. The bead curtain stirred, and this
time two men entered, both strangers.
More customers, she decided, dismissing a faint uneasiness as they
came round the bar to stand beside her.
'Senhorita.'
It was the smaller and swarthier of the two men who
spoke. He was wearing denims and a faded checked shirt, his hair
covered by an ancient panama hat which he lifted politely.
'Senhorita,
the boat, he wait.'
'Oh, my God.' Charlie slid off her stool, thrusting a handful of coins
on to the bar-top. Either she'd lost all track of time, or her watch
must have stopped. Thank heavens Captain Gomez had sent
someone to find her. The last thing she wanted was to remain here
in Mariasanta, possibly at this hotel, until the
Manoela
came
downstream again.
A battered jeep was waiting outside the hotel. The small man
opened its door, motioning Charlie on to the bench seat.
Under normal circumstances she wouldn't have dreamed of accepting
such a lift, but time was of the essence now, and she scrambled in.
However, she was slightly taken aback when the other man, taller,
with a melancholy black moustache, climbed in beside her,
effectively trapping her between the two of them.
Her uneasiness returned in full force. She began, 'I've changed my
mind...' but got no further as the jeep roared into life with a jerk that
nearly sent her through its grimy windscreen.
By the time she'd recovered her equilibrium they were heading out
of town—in the opposite direction to the dock and
Manoela,
she
realised with horror.
Suddenly she was very frightened indeed. She turned to the driver,
trying to speak calmly. "There's been a mistake—
um engano.
Let
me out of here, please.'
The driver beamed, revealing several unsightly gaps in his teeth.
'We go boat,' he assured her happily.
'But it's the wrong way,' Charlie protested, but to no avail. The jeep
thundered on towards the heavy green of the forest, and if she was
going to scream, now was the time, before they got completely out
of town. But she wasn't in the least sure that her throat muscles
would obey her.
She took a deep breath, trying to think rationally, then reached in
her bag for her wallet.
'Money,' she said, tugging notes out of their compartment. 'Money
for you—to let me go.' She thrust the cash at the man with the
moustache. 'It's all I've got, really.'
The man inspected the cash, nodded with a sad smile, and handed it
back.
'I haven't any more,' she tried again desperately. 'I'm not rich.'
Or were all tourists deemed to be millionaires in the face of the
poverty she saw around her? Maybe so.
But if they didn't want her money—what did they want? Her mind
quailed from the obvious answer.
The road was little more than a track now, and the jeep rocketed
along, taking pot-holes and tree roots in its stride. It occurred to
Charlie that if and when she emerged from this adventure it would
be with a dislocated spine.
The driver was whistling cheerfully through one of the gaps in his
teeth, and the sound made her shiver.
He glanced at her and nodded. 'Boat soon.'
She said wearily, 'The bloody boat's in the other direction,' no longer
caring whether they understood or not.
The track forked suddenly, and they were plunged deeper into the
forest. It was like entering a damp green tunnel. Animal and bird
cries echoed raucously above the sound of the engine, and tall ferns
and undergrowth scratched at the sides of the vehicle as they sped
along.
Charlie had a feeling of total unreality. This couldn't be happening
to her, she thought. Presently she would wake up and find herself
safely in her hammock on board the
Manoela.
.And when she did
her first action would be to tear up Fay Preston's letter.
The jeep began to slow, and Charlie saw a dark gleam of water
ahead of them. Perhaps there was going to be a miracle after all, she
thought incredulously. Maybe this was just a very roundabout way
to the dock, and the
Manoela
would be there, waiting for her.
But the age of miracles was definitely past. Journey's end was a
makeshift landing stage, at which a small craft with an outboard
motor was moored.
The driver nudged Charlie. 'Boat,' he said triumphantly.
'But it's the wrong boat,' she said despairingly.
'Um engano.'
They looked at each other, and shook their heads as if in pity.
Charlie dived for her wallet again.
'Look,' she said rapidly, 'turn the jeep round, and take me back to
Mariasanta, and I won't tell a living soul about all this. You can take
the money, and there'll be no trouble—I swear it. But—please—
just—let me go...'
The driver said, 'Boat now,
senhorita,'
and his voice was firm.
She walked between them to the landing stage. They didn't touch
her, or use any form of restraint, and she was tempted to make a run
for it—but where?
People, she knew, had walked into the Brazilian jungle and never
emerged again. And by the time she managed to make it back to
Mariasanta, if she ever did, Captain Gomez would have sailed
anyway. He waited for no one.
For the first time in her life she understood why extreme danger
often made its victims passive.
You clung to the hope, she thought, that things couldn't possibly be
as bad as they seemed—or get any worse—right up to the last
minute.
She could always dive into the river, she thought almost detachedly,
except that she was a lousy swimmer. And the thought of the shoals