Sandoval smiled a tolerant rather inscrutable small smile after a good deal of English conversation and said, “If the Señora so desires she might see for herself. I leave day after tomorrow for my village, if you care to travel with me?” I thought it was really very sporting of him to take on the responsibility, as travel after one left the railway was very precarious over rough mountain trails in trucks that carried assorted cargoes of ponchoed Indians, babies, dogs, ducks, pigs, with Indian chauffeurs who drove as if possessed of demons.
Lady Cynthia smiled her slow charming smile and thanked him, promising to be at the railway station at seven on the morning appointed. Sandoval rose, and bowing with courtly Spanish excuses of another obligatión at the Museum of Natural History, with our permiso took his hat and left. Lady Cynthia and I drove out the long palm-lined avenues to the Country Club where she was staying. We went over her wardrobe and selected the few simple things she'd need for the trip.
“How long do you think you'll stay?” I asked.
There was a dreamy expression in her blue eyes as she answered, “Oh, a long time, I think. I might even build a little house in the jungles and live there for the rest of my life. I've always wanted a little thatched house.”
Inwardly I couldn't help but smile, mentally picturing Lady Cynthia picking ticks from her toes, being bitten until she was red and mottled by every insect known to the tropics that always feast on a newcomer. But then Sandoval was a very attractive man.
I had meant to see Lady Cynthia and Sandoval off that morning but I'd been to a ten o'clock dinner party where Juan scolded me for sending anything as exquisitely helpless and beautiful as Lady Cynthia off into the jungles with an Indian … no matter how culto y correcto the Indian might be. “Be good for her,” I said brusquely and slept late the next morning.
Then a month slipped by swiftly; it seemed to me then a very busy month, but as someone has remarked “mañana is always the busiest day of the week in South America.” I thought vaguely of Lady Cynthia and wondered why I hadn't received the note she promised me. But then I remembered Clemencia, the village postmistress at Pangoa, who was in love with Sandoval, and knew that she'd probably confiscate the beautiful Gringa's mail. There was also Leandra, the jealous sister-in-law, who I suspected was also secretly in love with Sandoval. I grinned to myself, thinking of the sensation Lady Cynthia would be in a ragged jungle village where every move of your neighbor is a matter to be discussed and rediscussed for days.
Shortly after that I really became a little worried and rang Juan up one morning. “Oh,” he said, “I was just going to call you to ask you for lunch today. I'm having Lord Buzzy,” he said.
“That's fine,” I returned, “what are you having to eat?”
“Turbantes de pescado,” replied Juan affectionately.
“How do you make fish turbans?” I asked.
“Well, I've already been to market and bought six good big pompano filets. You brown about fifty grams of butter in an iron frying pan with salt, and three freshly crushed peppercorns. Then you take a half cup of milk with one well beaten egg, about a tablespoon of very finely chopped onion, and one of parsley, and cook it about fifteen minutes. Then you add a cupful of bread crumbs … real ones from Italian bread sticks, not this synthetic cracker dust …”
“Yes?” I said, scribbling rapidly on the telephone pad.
“Then I butter those individual Indian pottery baking dishes and line them with the filets and put the filling in and top with more bread crumbs and butter. You bake this twenty-five minutes and then turn them upside down on a very hot serving dish, and you have fish turbans with decorations of parsley. You, being a woman, would probably add other decorations.”
“Not so sure of that,” I retorted. “What else are we having?”
“Hearts of palm salad with French dressing. Also Lady Cynthia.”
“So she's back?”
“Yes … just last night and she doesn't know Buzzy's here. He flew over to find her. So it's a surprise party.”
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