Black Pomegranate Page 3

  After completing her call, Cat handed me the keys to her car and asked me to drive. I was glad of that. I get very nervous when someone else is behind the wheel. Besides, I knew the mountain roads thoroughly and the quickest way to get to Maurice’s. As it was, someone in a black sedan was following too closely all the way down the hill. I prayed his brakes wouldn’t go out. If they did fail, he would have undoubtedly rear-ended us, and maybe even shoved us off the road into a ravine.

  I was curious about the situation in Granada Negra, but didn’t want to pry by questioning Cat about her phone call. I didn’t have to wait long to satisfy my curiosity, though. As soon as we were on our way, she told me what she’d learned.

  “My uncle said my father is still missing.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I sympathized. “But, we have a saying in America. No news is good news.”

  “I hope you’re right, Alfredo. It appears that General Pancho Villa has taken control of the country.”

  I smothered a laugh. “Pancho Villa? Surely, you’ve got to be kidding.”

  Cat looked puzzled. “Kidding? What do you mean? Have you heard of him? He’s not a very nice man. Not a nice man at all. I never understood why my father allowed him to head up our army.”

  Suddenly, she caught on and started laughing. “Oh, you thought I meant the other Pancho Villa. The bandido from Mexico. No, this is a different person. He’s not even related, I’m quite sure.”

  “Is the revolution about over, now that General Villa’s in charge?” I asked. I was worried that Cat might go back to her country and I would never see her again.

  “Oh, no. The fighting will continue until the rebels are subdued or my father returns with the Granada Negra in his hand.”

  I was getting confused. “I don’t understand. How can he have the country in his hand?”

  Cat laughed at my ignorance. “Not the country Granada Negra. The jewel Granada Negra. A black ruby the size and shape of a pomegranate.”

  She turned solemn. “To the people of my country, the Granada Negra is sacred. But it is gone. It disappeared from the presidential palace just before I left. We have a saying in Granada Negra: Whoever possesses the black pomegranate controls the nation.”

  “And if the jewel isn’t found?”

  Her eyes darkened. “There will be chaos and bloodshed until it is located and returned to the presidential palace.”

  Four

  Car Problems

  DINNER AT MAURICE’S was wonderful, but expensive. Although the tab made quite a dent in the dough I’d set aside for my car repairs, the evening was worth every penny I. The maitre d’ assigned us to a secluded booth near the rear of the restaurant. We had considerable privacy, as most of the other diners were seated up front near the windows.

  Cat edged ever-so-close to me, and I fantasized we were lovers. Her unique scent—I’m quite cognizant of aromas—was driving me up the wall. She smelled like exotic tropical flowers and sea breezes, with sultry, erotic musky overtones. And it was all natural. As I’ve said, she never wore perfume.

  Once, when Cat momentarily rested her hand on my thigh, I was tempted to tell her she was driving me crazy—crazy with passion. But I didn’t. We had a teacher-student relationship, that was all. Well, maybe it was a bit more, but I suspected she’d be highly offended if I made any improper advances. The longing was all on my side, of that I was quite certain. She was, I kept reminding myself, the daughter of the president of the sovereign nation of Granada Negra, although his present whereabouts were unknown. What would she want with a lowly-paid associate professor of computer science at—as she had put it—an insignificant college in an out-of-the-way location in Southern California?

  We started with a shared antipasto and garlic toast. Both Cat and I ordered the veal piccata—thin slices of sautéed veal, cooked to perfection, lightly covered with a thin, slightly glutinous lemon-wine sauce and dotted with capers. A dish of pasta topped with meat sauce and a sprinkling of freshly-grated parmesan cheese was served on the side. I ordered a bottle of white zinfandel to accompany our dinner. For dessert, we had cannoli and coffee.

  I remarked that I’d downed two full meals in two days, more than I usually had in a month. If I didn’t watch myself, I said, I’d develop the habit of eating regularly and probably get to be as big as a house.

  Cat thought that was very funny. “I will do my best to fatten you up,” she promised.

  “For the kill?” I joked.

  She did not answer, but gave me a most curious smile.

  A storm front moved over while we were at Maurice’s. The temperature dropped at least thirty degrees and rain started to fall. As it hadn’t rained enough to wash off the road scum, the pavement was slick and I had to take it easy driving back to my apartment.

  Some jerk who must have been in a hurry was on my tail all the way up the hill. His high beams glaring in the rearview mirror gave me a slight headache. Several times, I pulled to the right and waved for him to pass, when I could see it was safe to do so, but he apparently didn’t want to chance passing on the twisting mountain road.

  It was after eleven by the time we returned to my apartment. “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?” I asked, hoping Cat wouldn’t say it was too late. I was not ready for the evening to end.

  “I’d love to, Alfredo,” she murmured. “You do like my Granada Negra coffee, right? I put a can of it in your cupboard.”

  “Yes. It’s the best coffee I’ve ever tasted. Where can I buy some?”

  “You probably can’t. Not in the United States. But, I have plenty of it. I brought three cases with me. When you run out, I’ll give you more.”

  A scene flashed through my mind. I thought of Cat, soon to be an exile from her homeland, frantically rushing to escape the country in the middle of a bloody revolution, with barely enough time to gather the bare necessities of life. Yet somehow, before departing on the small fishing boat she hoped would take her to safety, she maintained enough presence of mind to pack enough of her nation’s signature coffee to see her through for the duration. That was real class.

  The minute I opened the front door I sensed something was wrong. “Someone’s been inside my apartment,” I whispered. “I may have been burglarized.”

  Cat grabbed my arm and held it tightly. “Are you sure?” she asked, her eyes the size of CDs. “Was anything taken?”

  I surveyed the room. My computer was still where it belonged. So was the television. Most of the time my apartment looked as if it had just been vandalized, but not that day. After Cat had finished cleaning, everything was neatly arranged.

  “Nothing seems to be missing,” I concluded, after a cursory examination. “But I know someone was here. A man. I smell men’s cologne. It’s heavy and sweet. I smell cigar smoke, also.”

  “Perhaps your landlord came in to repair something,” Cat suggested.

  “Are you kidding? It takes an act of Congress to get anything fixed around here. Murphy would never come in at night unless something major went wrong, such as a pipe bursting and flooding the downstairs apartment. Besides, Murphy doesn’t wear cologne. He always smells like garlic and sweat. And, he doesn’t smoke cigars.”

  While Cat started a pot of coffee, I checked under the bed and in the closet and the bathroom. I was relieved that no one else was in the apartment with us. Still, I had the eerie feeling our privacy was being violated.

  We sat on the couch to drink our coffee. “Alfredo, what’s a hacker?” Cat asked innocently.

  “A hacker is someone who uses his computer to crack into other computer systems. It’s the electronic equivalent of breaking and entering.”

  “Why would a person want to do that?”

  I shrugged. “Various reasons. Most hackers are intensely curious voyeurs. For them, hacking’s a game, with knowledge the prize. They get an intellectual thrill out of being able to outsmart other computer programmers who’ve written supposedly impenetrable security measures into their
programs. Everyone thinks his own computer system is safe, but—you can take my word for it—no system that’s hooked up to a phone line or the Internet is immune from hackers.

  “Once inside a system, a voyeur-type hacker will snoop around to see what he can learn, but he won’t do any damage. Often, a hacker will provide an important service to the hackee. When he finds a program with poorly written code, he may debug or even rewrite it and send the fix back to the invaded computer together with a note saying something like, ‘Here’s an improved version of your program, compliments of Joe Hacker.’

  “Other hackers are common vandals, who get their perverted kicks by destroying programs and data files and shutting down entire computer networks. They might embed a computer virus in the system that will multiply and destroy the files. Or, they might plant a time bomb that will cause the system to crash at some specified date in the future.

  “Then, there are the forgers, embezzlers, and thieves. They hack for their own personal gain by improving their credit reports or school grades or removing blemishes from their driving or military records. Some reduce the amount they owe on charge accounts. And then there are the phone phreaks. They cheat the phone companies by making long distance calls without paying for them.

  “All hacking is illegal, but it’s the latter types of hackers who give the art a bad name.

  “Why are you so interested in hackers, anyway?”

  She shrugged. “I overheard a couple of your students talking this afternoon. They said you were a hacker.”

  I guffawed loudly. “Well, I guess they’re right. I used to be, when I was younger and had less sense and more time on my hands. I was a damn good hacker. There wasn’t a system I couldn’t penetrate with grace and skill,” I bragged. “I never stole from anyone or damaged any systems, though. I just enjoyed the challenge of being able to pit my wits against other programmers.”

  Cat must have caught me checking my watch. It was after midnight, and I’d had a long day.

  “I’d better go,” she said, standing up. “It’s getting late. What time do you want to see me tomorrow?”

  “Come over about nine. In the morning.” If she did that, I thought, I could spend the whole day with her.

  “Would you like me to bring anything for breakfast? Bacon and eggs?”

  Breakfast. It had been years since I’d indulged in breakfast. “That sounds great. Bring whatever you have a taste for.” I was embarrassed that my pantry was like Mother Hubbard’s and Cat would have to furnish the food. I vowed to go grocery shopping as soon as I could afford the expense.

  Cat gave me a good-night kiss at the door. It was chaste, a kiss between friends, but it was planted directly on my lips. Oh, how I ached for more!

  The storm had increased in tempo and volume. “It’s really raining hard now, Cat. Please drive carefully,” I cautioned. “These mountain roads can be treacherous when they’re wet.”

  “I’ll be very careful,” she promised. “See you in the morning, Alfredo!”

  I watched as she ran down the stairs and to her car. I knew her silk pantsuit would be soaked through by the time she got inside and wished I’d been able to loan her an umbrella, but I didn’t own one.

  I waited for Cat to drive off, but her car remained parked. After several minutes, I went downstairs to check. She appeared to be startled—perhaps even frightened—when I rapped on her side window.

  “Is something wrong, Cat?”

  “My car won’t start. Nothing happens when I turn the key.”

  “Let me try,” I suggested, opening the door.

  Cat slid over to the passenger side and I sat in the driver’s seat. She was right. The electrical system had completely failed. No ignition, no lights, no radio, nothing.

  “You’d better come back up to my apartment. You won’t be able to drive home in this car tonight,” I told her. “You have a dead battery or something.” I know just about everything there is to know about computers, but next to nothing about automobiles.

  By the time we ran through the driving rain and got inside, both of us were soaked to the skin. “Here, put this on,” I said, handing her my terry cloth robe. Fortunately, it was one of the items she’d just laundered.

  Cat went into the bathroom and changed, then came back out and sat next to me on the couch. “Do you think I can get a cab to take me home?” she asked. One gorgeous long leg was crossed over the other.

  My head shook from side to side. “I doubt it. I don’t think anyone will come up the hill in this rain at this time of night for a five-dollar fare. I’m afraid you’re stuck here with me tonight. The first thing in the morning, I’ll call my mechanic and have him stop by to take a look at your car.

  “You can sleep in my bed and I’ll take the couch,” I offered.

  “No, I’ll take the couch,” she insisted. “I wouldn’t think of making you give up your bed.”

  “You’re more than welcome to it—”

  “No. You’re too big to sleep on the couch. I’ll be all right.”

  I wasn’t about to argue with her. It was obvious Cat had made up her mind. I loaned her one of my tee shirts to use as a nightgown. Fortunately, I had an extra, unused toothbrush, and located a couple of old army blankets and a pillow.

  Within a few minutes, we were settled in and had the lights out.

  Five

  The Big Storm

  ALTHOUGH I’D GONE TO BED exhausted, heavy rain pounding incessantly on the rooftop and beating against the windows kept me wide awake. Cat was just a half-dozen paces away, lying on my couch in nothing but one of my tee shirts; so near and yet so far. I could smell her presence and hear her tossing and turning, as if she were having a troubled sleep.

  Suddenly, the room lit up with a brilliant blue flash, followed almost immediately by a deafening crash of thunder. A bolt of lightning must have struck very close by.

  “Alfredo!” It was more of a yelp than anything else.

  “Yes, Catarina.”

  “I’m frightened!”

  I could hear the fear in her voice. “It’s only a thunderstorm.”

  “Is that all? I thought the rebels were attacking.”

  “There are no rebels here,” I assured her. “You’re perfectly safe.”

  “I must have been dreaming. I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

  “No. I haven’t been able to get to sleep.”

  “What time is it?”

  Without my glasses on, I had to squint to read the LEDs on the clock-radio. “It’s nearly two.”

  I fumbled around in the dark until I located my lighter and cigarettes. I removed one from the pack and lit up. Cat came over and sat on the edge of the bed.

  I took a deep drag. In the dim glow of the cigarette, Catarina looked even more beautiful than in daylight. We sat silently for several minutes. When there was little more than the filter left, I extinguished the butt in an ashtray I’d liberated from Caesars Palace the last time I was in Vegas. Cat continued sitting on my bed.

  “Alfredo …”

  “What, Catarina?”

  “I’m cold.” As if to prove her point, she held an icy hand to my face.

  “You take the bed and I’ll sleep on the couch,” I offered. “You’ll be much warmer. Really. I want you to.”

  “Alfredo …”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to get in your bed, but I don’t want you to sleep on the couch.”

  I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. “What did you say?”

  “I said I want to sleep with you.”

  At that moment I knew I was being seduced. Oh, hell, that’s not true. Cat had seduced me the first day we met. We just hadn’t acted on it until now.

  THE AROMA OF FRESH COFFEE brewing awakened me. Cat was sitting at the dinette table, wearing my bathrobe. Did she spend the entire night on the couch? Had I dreamt we made love? Did it really happen or was it a delusion? There was no way to tell from her expression.

  She pou
red two cups of coffee, brought them to the bed, climbed in, and sat beside me. It had not been a dream!

  “Good morning, Alfredo, my love,” she said, leaning over to give me a kiss.

  “Good morning, Catarina, my love,” I echoed, repeating the kiss.

  “We should actually be wishing each other buenas tardes—good afternoon,” she corrected, a twinkle in her eyes. “It’s after twelve. I’ve been awake since ten.”

  “Are you hungry?” I asked. “I’m sorry there isn’t any food here. Maybe half a jar of peanut butter, but there’s nothing to put it on.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “I can wait. I’m in no hurry to eat.”

  “As soon as I finish my coffee, I’ll throw on some clothes and see if I can find out what’s wrong with your car. I don’t know much about automobiles, though. I’ll probably have to call my mechanic.”

  She did not seem to be concerned about the status of her car. “There’s a quaint little café near my apartment that serves breakfast all day. I know you’re hungry—we can eat there. But first, I’ll have to stop off at my place to change. My clothes have dried, but they’re badly wrinkled.”

  We finished the coffee, but I didn’t check on Cat’s car immediately. We made love again, and I knew for certain all the things I remembered about the previous night really happened.

  While we were sleeping, the storm had passed over and now the sun was out. Cat’s car started up immediately and the lights were bright and the horn loud. The battery wasn’t dead nor were the fuses blown. I shut off the engine and went back upstairs.

  “Your car seems to be fine now. I have no idea why it wouldn’t run last night. Maybe the rain shorted something out.”

  Cat’s lips turned up slightly to form a Mona Lisa smile. “Perhaps it was a miracle. If I had driven home last night …”

  She didn’t need to complete the sentence. I knew what she was thinking. If Cat had driven home, I would have slept alone, and we would not have become lovers. Not then, anyway.