The heat in Montedora City was sticky and oppressive, even after sundown. The dimly lighted bar wasn't air-conditioned, and the ancient electric fans overhead, which groaned with each sluggish rotation, only managed to push the hot, damp air around the room, as if trying to ensure that everyone enjoyed an equal level of discomfort. Even the omnipresent flies seemed heat- stunned, for they had taken to buzzing in a strange calypso rhythm, flying straight into the walls, and then falling to the floor, apparently unconscious.
Madeleine Barrington sipped glumly on her tepid rum and coke; the Andrews Sisters would never have sung so cheerily about the drink if they could have tasted this one. Madeleine wished desperately for a glass of mineral water with a slice of lemon, a cool, fragrant bath, and the comfort of a firm mattress and clean sheets. But all of that, she acknowledged resignedly, was several thousand miles away in her Manhattan apartment. And she was stuck in Montedora for another night.
A poor South American country, Montedora boasted only one real city, Montedora City, its chaotic capital. Not exactly a tourist mecca, the entire city had only two or three big hotels. The Hotel Tigre, which hadn't been decorated in nearly twenty years, was the best and safest of them; and it really wasn't all that bad if you didn't mind threadbare towels, sagging beds, peeling paint, squeaking ceiling fans, bad food, and sullen service.
Madeleine minded.
She took another sip of her drink and closed her eyes, sternly fighting the wave of depression which threatened to engulf her. What a rotten day it had been. After spending twelve hours in miserable discomfort at the airport, she had been informed that her flight, scheduled to take off this morning, had finally been cancelled. The news had been disappointing enough, after a whole day of unexplained delays, but then something worse happened. When she tried to reclaim her luggage, she was informed that it had been mistakenly loaded onto another flight, and now no one knew where it was.
So here she was, stuck for another night in Montedora City, and she couldn't even change into a fresh set of clothes. She couldn't even buy some, since--due to the curfew--all the shops had already closed by the time she caught a taxi back into the city. Well, she supposed she could wash out her things in the bathroom sink in her room.
She sighed and decided that she had better finish her drink in the Bar Tigre and go across the courtyard to the reception desk, where she could get a room for the night. Perhaps the taxi- sized cockroach which had shared her room last night would still be there. It could keep her company. She grimaced and finished her drink. Then, although she was usually abstemious, she ordered another. She'd need a little fortification if she was going to face one of those sullen desk clerks again. Not to mention the slightly brown water in the bathroom.
"Make it a double, please," she said to the bartender.
"Ah, you like?" The chubby man smiled.
"Actually, I'm trying to get the mosquitoes drunk," she explained seriously.
He didn't get it.
It had not been a good week, and Madeleine regretted that another trip to Montedora would probably be necessary before her goal was accomplished. Her grandfather had bought a huge plantation in this country over fifty years ago and named it El Rancho Barrington. It hadn't been a bad investment at the time; the year-round growing climate and rich soil produced tomatoes, sugarcane and other crops for Barrington Food Products.
However, social, economic, and political conditions had changed considerably over the years. Montedora had become unstable, for one thing; President Juan de la Veracruz was the country's third military dictator in seven years. Moreover, the farm was only producing half of what it used to, due to bad local management. Madeleine had been urging her father, Thackery Makepeace Barrington, to sell the plantation for several years. Not only did she worry about losing the property to nationalization, but she also firmly believed that Barrington Enterprises should support the U.S. agricultural economy rather than operating a feudal estate in a foreign country.
Her father had finally listened to her. Having gotten him to agree, she had come here to Montedora to review the property and the local management before putting El Rancho Barrington on the international market.
It had been a grueling, lonesome, and depressing week, and she wished desperately that her flight home hadn't been cancelled. She also wished she could feel more optimistic about her chances of getting out of here tomorrow. The airport seemed more like a county fair on its last legs than an international flight center.
"Another, senorita?" the bartender asked, noticing she had finished her second drink.
She probably shouldn't. She never had three drinks in an evening. But what else was she going to do? Go check into a shabby room and stare at its four walls? Re-read the two books she had brought from home and already finished? Review the paperwork which made her despair of ever being able to sell El Rancho Barrington?
"Yes, I'll have another," she said.
She felt her elegant dress of thin silk clinging to her back, and her brow was damp with moisture. She pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief and pressed it delicately to her overheated face. She was sweating. Amazing. She never sweated. It was one of the many things her sisters disliked about her.
Oh, she knew they loved her, but there were a lot of things about her they didn't like. In fact, she supposed the same thing could be said about almost everyone who knew her. The uneasy, slightly snide jokes about her magna cum laude degree from Princeton, her mastery of every area of the enormous family business, her fastidious personal appearance, and her general competence were legion. The more she proved herself, the less affection she seemed to inspire.
Sitting here alone in a strange, seedy bar at the ends of the earth, she had to admit that, despite a large family, a prominent social position, and a vast personal acquaintance, there was no one she could call long-distance right now to simply say she was feeling lonely and demoralized. She wasn't that close to anyone.
She was thirty years old, healthy, wealthy, and socially and professionally successful. And, as she downed another swallow of flat coke and cheap rum, she felt ... empty.
What had gotten into her? It must be the heat. She should stop being so appallingly maudlin. Thank goodness there was no one around to see her in this condition--sweaty, cranky, and wallowing in self-pity. She never permitted people to see her this way. She never permitted herself to feel this way. Fortunately, the bartender didn't seem to care, and the three other patrons of Bar Tigre were all involved in a poker game in the corner.
Still, she was a disciplined woman who never gave in to despondency. There was a dirty, cracked mirror lining the wall behind the bar. She looked up at it, staring forcefully into her own eyes, and ordered herself to feel capable and confident, as usual.
That was when she saw him staring at her.
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