The journey from the prison to Dad’s fancy hotel makes my hazardous trip to the embassy the other day seem like a gentle stroll in the countryside. I have to change buses in the bustling central terminal, fighting my way through noisy families, groups of tourists dragging heavy backpacks, and street vendors wielding piles of newspapers and bulging bags of fruit. A woman with a screaming child strapped to her back and a whole branch of fresh bananas in her arms plants herself firmly in my path, virtually ordering me to purchase one. Seeing my bus lumber to a stop just behind her, I dodge past her and make a run for it.
Heart pounding with adrenaline and nerves, I manage to climb aboard just as the bus lurches haphazardly out of the terminal and slots itself in among the oncoming traffic. There are no seats left so I’m crammed alongside six or seven other people in the tiny amount of standing room at the back, clinging on to the greasy handrail each time the bus grinds to a stop. Ignoring the elbows and handbags jabbing into my ribs, I press my nose to the window and stare out at the bustling city around us. The sky is cloudless and azure blue again as if the rainstorm had never happened, and I can virtually see the puddles on the pavement sizzling and drying up before my eyes in the humidity.
By the time I arrive at the Royal Colonial Suites hotel, my clothes are sticking to me and I’m panting from the midday heat and altitude. I stare up at the elaborate building in awe, wondering at my father, who appears to have spared no expense on his holiday with Dorice. An impeccably suited security guard opens the hotel’s outer door for me and I gaze around the spacious courtyard, taking in neatly laid breakfast tables with immaculate waiters dotting between them, interspersed with palm trees strung with coloured fairy lights ready to burst alight in the evening.
I spot my father sitting in the shade of one of the palm trees near the hotel entrance, engrossed in what could be a guidebook on the table in front of him. He looks like a typical middle-aged British holidaymaker – faded orange T-shirt mismatched with khaki combat shorts, unfashionable brown leather sandals fastened on the end of excruciatingly white legs. I feel a sudden, unexpected rush of affection for him, closely followed by a flash of nerves after his parting comments to me last night. Our first evening spent together in Quito could have got off to a better start…
‘Hi, Dad.’ I pull back the cushioned wicker chair opposite him and sit down. ‘I’m so sorry about the time – something came up last night, an emergency with a prisoner I’ve been helping, then I had to catch two buses…’
Dad is already waving away my rambling apology. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve been enjoying the sunshine and doing some research.’ He indicates the guidebook. ‘And in fact, I think I should be the one apologising to you…’ He looks away awkwardly, and I follow his gaze across the courtyard to where a waiter in a bow tie is going from table to table, topping up coffees. ‘About last night… I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m sorry. If I’m honest, since we arrived things have been a bit…’ He trails off, and glances over at the hotel entrance, as if expecting us to be interrupted at any moment. Then his expression changes and it’s as if he visibly decides to put aside whatever he was about to say. ‘Never mind that. Have some coffee… So, is this the same prisoner Liza was talking about last night?’
‘She was?’
‘Yes.’ Dad slides a basket of croissants across the table to me, ‘When you were helping Roberto clear the table. She just told me briefly that you’d actually been to visit one of the prisons?’ As he speaks he starts to gather the guidebook and papers on the table in front of him together, folding them carefully inside a plastic wallet. Is he actually listening? Was that an invitation to tell him more about what I’ve been doing? I take a deep breath and decide it was.
‘Well… as Liza maybe mentioned, there’s this British girl in the prison,’ I begin carefully, wondering how much to tell Dad. The memory of that failed dinner out, years ago, looms in my mind again. I’d accepted his invitation, optimistically thinking he wanted to congratulate me on my promotion at Home from Home, but instead he levelled all sorts of awkward questions at me about my career path. What if by telling him all this now, I’m just opening myself up again for more criticism? Not that, since then, he’s ever shown an interest in my work again.
This is a new start, I remind myself. You invited him out here for a reason… now it’s up to you to make it work.
‘Her name’s Naomi,’ I continue. ‘She’s only a few years older than me. I visited her last week, along with a volunteer who works for Liza and Roberto’s charity. And, this might sound crazy, but… we got along really well.’ I pause, remembering Naomi’s kindness to me this morning, a lump forming unexpectedly in my throat. She had seemed genuinely overjoyed with my visit – and not just because of the Twix bars – but actually it was me who had left feeling like a different person. I feel a flush of embarrassment for pouring out my problems to her, but at the same time I know in my heart she didn’t mind. Sitting on the roof sharing an illicit cigarette with her had felt just like a chat with any friend from back home, even though we had been on the roof of a prison in Quito rather than in a coffee shop or bar.
I realise my father is leaning forward, waiting for me to finish with an expression of actual interest on his face. ‘So… I went back to visit her today. Last night after you left, she phoned up because—’
I don’t get to finish my sentence as a shrill voice suddenly pierces the air behind us, making both of us jump.
‘Well, that’s sorted that out. That will teach them to put us in a room with a… Oh! Hello, Kirsty!’
Dorice wafts towards us in some kind of green kaftan contraption looped around her slim shoulders, and tight denim shorts displaying – I think absently – exasperatingly toned legs for someone of her age. ‘Thank you for coming to meet us, I’m so looking forward to this outing.’
Do I notice a flash of something like annoyance cross Dad’s face as Dorice approaches? It’s gone too quickly for me to be sure, then Dorice is leaning over to kiss him before enveloping me in a kaftan-cloaked hug.
‘No problem. I was just telling Dad I was running a bit late this morning because I was visiting a girl in the prison…’ I flick a glance at my father, wondering whether there will be an opportunity to finish telling him about this morning. But he’s already got to his feet,
‘Um, okay. Anyway…’ I turn back to Dorice, swallowing back a sharp stab of disappointment. ‘I’m just going to pop to the loo, then how about we head off to the Basilica? That’s the big cathedral not far from here – it has wonderful views of the city. Then we could get some lunch near there, and maybe take a bus tour if we have time…’
Dorice is nodding briskly.
‘That sounds lovely, Kirsty. Now, the ladies is just up there, by reception, on the right…’ She indicates the main hotel building, and pats me on the arm.
I feel a flash of relief. Maybes she’s all right, after all, I think as I head up the steps into the main building.
Then something, something makes me stop on the bottom step, and glance back out of the corner of my eye to their table.
Dorice has turned towards my father, her face contorted into a look of complete rage.
Almost falling off the step in surprise, I hold on to the brass railing next to me and allow myself to lean as far back as possible without falling over, straining to hear.
‘I hope you don’t think I’m going to spend this whole week trailing around after you two!’ she hisses, her face twisted like a gargoyle, lip curling and eyes flashing in anger. ‘I need to be WORKING! There is no wildlife to photograph in Quito. There is nothing for me in Quito, except—’
My father interrupts her, but infuriatingly all I can hear is the low rumble of his voice, and I can just make out the movement of his arms as the rest of him is obliterated by the fronds of a large palm tree.
‘I don’t CARE about Kirsty!’ Dorice screams in return, her voice carrying over the courtyard towards the other breakfasters who turn and glance uneasily in her direction. I think Dad notices this as suddenly he comes into view, stepping forwards, gesturing for her to sit down.
‘We came here on the understanding that I was going to work,’ Dorice is hissing now, barely audible, looking at my father with an expression of pure venom. ‘I did not come here to spend every day in Quito with YOUR DAUGHTER.’
There’s Dad’s voice again, quieter, placatory, imploring.
‘Fine. One day – just ONE – then I’m taking the early-morning flight to the Galápagos. You can either come with me, or not.’
Looking down, I realise the knuckles of my hand on the railing have turned white, and my legs are shaking. I press myself back against the wall, breathing deeply, trying to supress the surge of fury that has risen up my throat like bile. How dare she speak to him like that? Is this what Dad had just been trying to tell me when he started saying things have been weird since they arrived? I remember Dad’s email when he told me they were coming here… he’d said something strange about having to ‘negotiate’ with Dorice how much time they’ll spend in Quito with me…
I hurry to the bathroom, then fix an obliging smile on my face. So Dorice wants to play it this way? Filled with defiance, I trot back down the steps and take my father’s arm. Ignoring his startled expression, I gather up the guidebook and papers and stuff them in my handbag then say purposefully, ‘Right, I hope you’re ready. We’re going on a tour of the old town!’
***
The cathedral looms above us, its twin gothic spires glinting in the sweltering afternoon sunshine. I tilt my head back to take in its magnificence, the pointed arches running along its length and the intricate detail of the many pinnacles reaching up to culminate in a simple cross, outlined against the blue sky. The taxi Dorice insisted on catching has deposited us on the steeply sloping ground at its feet, in a small square of grass populated only by some wilting trees, a few other groups of sweating tourists, and a peacefully sleeping drunk. Two hundred yards away at the cathedral doorway I can make out groups of women in the impossibly hot-looking colourful Quichua shawls, selling candles and roses to tourists as they enter. A few feet away from the salespeople, huddled on the floor in plainer clothing, are two shapeless figures, only distinguishable as human beings when they raise their hands to each passing tourist in supplication. As we slowly climb the grassy hill towards them, I realise they are an elderly couple, white hair poking out from underneath their traditional Quichua black bowler-style hats. Several tourists stoop to press some coins into their hands, but many more walk straight past them as they pass through the doorway to the church.
‘So… here we are!’ I grin, spreading my arms wide, feeling slightly ridiculous. The silence between my father and Dorice lasted the length of the taxi journey and now extends excruciatingly into the hot air around us, threatening to suffocate me.
‘Did you know this is the largest neo-gothic cathedral in the whole of the American continent?’ I babble, fumbling with Dad’s guidebook in one hand and wiping the sweat from my forehand with the other.
‘If we get closer, you’ll see they have gargoyles in the form of native Ecuadorian animals, like iguanas, giant Galápagos tortoises…’ The drunk, a few feet away from us under the shade of one of the trees, makes a grunting sound and turns over, almost rolling away down the hillside.
‘Er, shall we go over this way a bit…’ I try to steer Dad and Dorice away from him and further up the hill. ‘Look, if you feel like it, we could go right to the top…’ I point up to where miniature tourists are just visible as coloured dots, snaking their way up the spiral staircase on one of the pinnacles above us. ‘We can climb up, and get some fantastic photos of the city from the top…’
The last thing I see is the hard, impassive line of Dorice’s mouth before something thuds into me and I’m in the air. I see a flash of sky, city, grass, hear the sound of someone yelling my name, then hit the ground hard, a searing pain shooting across my shoulder and down my back.
‘What the…’ I reach out and feel grass between my fingers, then a hand on my arm, and look up unsteadily to see Dad’s frowning face inches from my own.
‘Oh my God, are you okay?’ He’s gripping my arms tightly and peering into my face with an intense expression.
‘My handbag…’ As my legs begin to shake violently I finally make sense of what has happened, looking up at the figure sprinting away from us, already on the other side of the park, then down to the angry red wheels on my shoulder where the bag’s strap grazed my skin, and the guidebook still clutched uselessly in my hands.
‘He took… that man took my handbag.’
‘Our passports were in that bag!’ Dorice exclaims shrilly, clasping her hand to her mouth dramatically.
Still holding my arm, Dad shoots her an absolutely filthy look, making frantic ‘shut up’ gestures. Despite the panicky feeling of shock that is only just starting to subside, I can’t help thinking ha – take that!
Then I realise with a sinking feeling that my own passport was in the bag, too, after I had to show it at the prison door this morning.
Suddenly freezing to the spot in fear, I notice a figure shuffling towards us across the grass. It takes me a few heart-stopping moments to realise we are not being mugged again. It’s just one of the Quichua ladies who have been selling candles in the church doorway.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks in broken Spanish, finally coming to a stop in front of us. Her face is barely visible under her black bowler-style hat, but I can make out heavily wrinkled skin and a look of genuine concern. She’s wearing a bright-green shawl around her shoulders, the long embroidered skirts typical to the Quichua dress, and strings of tiny gold beads around her neck. I notice the rest of the group is watching avidly from a few metres away in the doorway, and get a fleeting, bizarre image of them bickering over who should come to talk to us:
‘No, Violet, it’s your turn, I went last time.’
‘But you speak the better English, Doreen.’
‘Why don’t we ask Gladys, she’s the eldest. Go on, Gladys, go over there, you never go.’
‘Um, yes, we’re fine, thank you for asking.’ I smile down at the woman – she barely comes up to my chest – and also turn to smile and give a bit of a wave to the group in the doorway.
‘Tourists – you need to be careful around here,’ she continues, then reaches forward, pats me lightly on the arm, inclines her head at Dad and Dorice, and turns to begin her slow ascent back up the hill to her outpost in the church doorway.
Watching her go I remember what Rodrigo, the taxi driver on our first day here, said about the indigenous Quichua people being in many ways like outsiders in their own country, and I feel a rush of affection and solidarity for this little old woman who recognised another outsider in me.
‘So what do we do now?’ Dorice asks loudly, standing with her arms folded and staring at my father, obviously expecting him to provide an instant solution.
‘Well, I think Kirsty could probably do with a drink and a sit down,’ he replies pointedly, starting to lead me by the arm towards the cathedral’s main entrance. ‘Then I’m sure we’ll figure out a plan of action from there.’