Rachel Dann - Pieces of My Life

Going abroad won’t solve anything, you know. My father’s voice bursts unbidden into my mind.

Determinedly I block him out again. Dad knows virtually nothing about my life, so how could he comment on my relationship with Harry?

If he was even talking about my relationship with Harry?

It’s not that by agreeing to go travelling with Harry I wanted to solve anything… but somehow I had felt that if we left our old life behind for a while we would draw closer together again, realign on the same wavelength.

I close my eyes and let the water stream over my face, holding on to the sense of strength, of conviction, that filled me just now when I told Harry I was going to volunteer with the prisoners. A feeling, I realise in an instant, that I’m not going to let anyone take away from me.

Chapter Five

‘Here we are!’ Gabi pulls up her clunky old Chevrolet and turns to smile at me in the back. Harry, in the passenger seat, has his eyes closed. ‘This is Liza and Roberto’s house.’

My heart starts to pound in excitement as I look up at the modest, yellow-painted, box-like house standing before us among a row of similar, colourful houses in this narrow, pot-holed side street. A few minutes from now, not only will we meet our potential new landlords, but also – far more excitingly – I’ll finally be able to find out more about the prison volunteering.

We’re only about fifteen minutes from Casa Hamaca but I’ve watched the bustling town centre give way to quieter, residential surroundings. Now we’re parked in a narrow side street, lined either side with more of the box-like, tumbling apartment buildings we saw in the city outskirts on the drive from the airport. Some are well cared for and neatly painted, others faded and stained with graffiti, while others are still bare concrete blocks with ugly corrugated iron roofs. A reflection, I suppose, of the varying economic circumstances of their owners. As we step out of the car into the blazing sunshine, I find myself marvelling again at how almost all of Quito is built on some degree of slope. We seem to be about halfway down one side of a steep valley – like gradient seats in the cinema, our road is just one of many parallel lines scarring the side of the hill. It has taken five minutes of bumpy downhill driving, during which Gabi has surprised me by unleashing a series of colourful Spanish swear words, before a sharp left turn brings us on to one of the narrow streets branching off to the side.

Harry is rubbing his eyes and looking around him.

‘You okay?’ I reach for his hand as we follow Gabi a few feet down the road.

‘Gnnnrgh. Yeah. Just didn’t sleep too well last night.’

As Gabi stops outside one of the better-cared-for buildings and presses the buzzer beside a heavy iron door, I search Harry’s face and realise how tired he looks. His usually alert blue eyes have heavy shadows under them and there are some new frown lines on his forehead.

‘It’s just the altitude.’ He smiles down at me and squeezes my hand. ‘Don’t forget we are over two thousand metres above sea level. I think a lot of people find it hard to sleep here to begin with.’

I’d almost forgotten about the altitude. Climbing stairs is a bit harder than usual, but it certainly hasn’t stopped me sleeping. In fact, after staggering my way through the first two days of horrendous jetlag, I feel more energised than ever, thanks to the constant supply of fresh, delicious food and perfect weather.

Needless to say, Harry’s trial teaching day at the English school went well, and he came back raving about how laid-back everything was and how they let him use art materials as part of the English classes for adults. I haven’t even seen the school yet, but Dreadlocked Luke has stopped by Casa Hamaca several times (notably, only when the bar is open) and also raved about what a great job Harry is doing and how grateful he is for the last-minute help.

The problem is there doesn’t seem to be any particular schedule, with Harry being called in to work every day for either a few hours in the morning or the afternoon, usually at the last minute. So, after nearly a whole week in Quito, we haven’t been able to plan any trips or visits anywhere. Almost all my free time has been spent with Ray and Gabi, who have naturally taken on the role of friends as well as hosts in the few days we have spent at Casa Hamaca. On Harry’s first day at the school, Ray took me to the top of the Pichincha volcano, one of the imposing peaks surrounding Quito and after which the whole province is named. We stood at the top and took panoramic photos of the city spread out before us, legs trembling and pulses racing from the nearly 4,000-metre altitude, then rode the dizzying cable car back down the mountainside, where Gabi was happily devouring a large ice-cream sundae while waiting for us in the café at the bottom.

Every morning they have invited me into the back room of the hotel for a coffee and some form of homemade local treat – yesterday it was llanpingachos, the impossible-to-pronounce fried potato cakes typical of the mountain region, the day before pristiños, sugary deep-fried types of mini doughnut. After the first few days I stopped thinking about calories or cholesterol and just tucked happily into the colourful, delicious, horrifyingly fattening food.

I would have preferred to spend more time with Harry, of course – especially in moments like seeing the sun set from the top of Pichincha and riding the cable car – but I keep telling myself we’ve only just got here, and he’s only doing this job temporarily. Harry’s weird phone call is there at the back of my mind all the time, too – like a tiny splinter in your finger, aggravating enough for you to know it’s there, but not enough to make you want to prod around and sort it out… yet.

Gabi reaches out to press the door buzzer again, turning to smile apologetically.

‘Sorry about this. Sometimes they’re a bit…’ She doesn’t finish her sentence, but makes a ‘crazy’ gesture and rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, and they don’t speak a word of English…’

What? Oh no… we’ll have to communicate solely in Spanish…

I don’t have much time to dwell on this unnerving prospect, because we hear a woman’s voice cry out from inside, in perfect Quiteño dialect:

‘They’re here! It’s them!’

Then a man, in a lower, measured tone: ‘Calm down woman, we don’t want them to think we’re completely—’

The female voice replies shrilly: ‘But they’re early ! We haven’t even finished the packing up yet!’

Back to the man again, sounding irritated now: ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, it doesn’t matter, just open the—’

Suddenly the door swings open. Standing before us is a tall, stern-looking man dressed in a smart grey suit, which matches the last tufts of hair clinging on behind his ears. Beside him is the owner of the female voice, as short and dumpy as her husband is tall and stately. She’s wearing heels, smart trousers and a bright-red poncho swathing her upper body, her jet-black (presumably dyed) hair in short, neat curls, and bright-red lipstick to match the poncho. They both look about sixty-something and very formal. I cast a glance at Harry’s saggy jeans, ancient SuperDry T-shirt and scruffy hair, and even my own cut-off trousers and plain top, and feel a sharp twinge of embarrassment. Not to mention nerves at the imminent requirement to speak Spanish properly for the first time since we arrived.

No one else seems to have noticed any of this, as the woman has already propelled herself forward to envelop Gabi in tight hug, crying ‘Gabriela, sweetheart!’ and planting an enthusiastic lipstick stain on her cheek.

‘Auntie Liza, Uncle Roberto…’ Gabi smiles as she extricates herself from Liza and leans up to kiss Roberto on the cheek in greeting.