Germ

Tate calmed them down, addressing each in turn. He grinned at Julia and Stephen. "Rosa wants to wash your clothes. She says she's never seen two dirtier people."

A young woman stepped closer. "Jahu?"

Tate nodded. "Ernestina will prepare baths for you in the back rooms. And Fatima will get you drinks and soo ha chipa—meat and bread."

"How nice," Julia said, nodding. "I feel like I should understand them. That's not Spanish?"

"Guarani. Mostly an aboriginal tongue, with a measure of Spanish tossed in." He pointed at Stephen's side. "You've got another injury."

Through the soaked and muddy clothes seeped a basketball-sized circle of blood.

Stephen looked under his arm at the splotch. "Must have torn out the stitches."

"Roberto will see to that."

He hailed the old man who'd helped earlier. Roberto grunted off the floor, where he was removing his boots, and began a shuffling journey toward them.

Tate said, "He was trained as a vet, but he's pretty good with humans too."

Julia nudged Stephen. "I guess I get a bath first, then."

"Enjoy."

Ernestina took her hand and led her toward a door. Before stepping though, Julia looked back. Tate was kneeling by two men, showing them how to field-strip an automatic pistol.

Fifty minutes later, Stephen was sitting on a sofa, Julia

beside him in one of the formerly overstuffed chairs. Both were wrapped in heavy Indian quilts, self-consciously waiting for Rosa to return with their clothes. Whatever the temporary discomfort of sitting almost nude among strangers, Julia thought, being warm and clean was worth it. She'd had to drain the tub of its murky red water after a quick submersion and refill it to soak the rest of the grime off her body. Even so, she was still dislodging granules of cinnabar sand whenever she ran her fingertips over her scalp.

Fatima stepped up to the low table before them, balancing three large bowls in her arms. As she set each on the table, she announced its contents. "Yva." She lowered a bowl of whole fruit: apples, bananas, mangos, and mostly oranges. "Asodos." Steaming slices of charbroiled meat.

A hearty aroma washed past Julia, and despite the meal she'd eaten at the Pig's Eye Tavern, she felt hungry again. By Stephen's rapt attention to the bowl, she guessed he was feeling the same.

"Chipa." Loaves of brioche-type bread, so hot the girl's beaming face wavered behind its steam. Fatima straightened, planted her hands on her hips, and smiled, pleased with herself.

"Gracia," Julia said.

Ernestina had given her a cursory lesson in Guarani. So far, Julia's repertoire consisted of four words: yes, no, thanks, and bathroom. What more did anyone need?

Fatima nodded at Julia. She swung her head around, tossing her hair over one shoulder. She flashed emerald eyes at Stephen and gave him a smile measurably bigger and brighter than the one Julia had received. "Okaru."

Stephen stared dumbly at her. Julia couldn't tell if it was the word or her stunning beauty, so flirtatiously displayed, that left him speechless.

"Okaru," she repeated and pretended to pick something out of one of the bowls with all five fingers and put it into her mouth. "Okaru."

"Eat!" Stephen said, snapping out of his daze. "Yes, thank you . . . gracia."

Fatima pursed her lips into a coy smile and sauntered off.

No chef in Paris or New York could have made a dish better tasting than the asodos and chipa. The two ate leisurely and watched their hosts move about the big room, discussing points, studying maps, cleaning and re-cleaning guns. A few wandered over, nodded solemn greetings, grabbed oranges, and returned to their business. Julia became aware of an almost palpable sense of apprehension hanging in the air, a musty odor of fear.

A shifting shadow caught her eye, and she spotted a man sitting high on a stack of crates, peering out one of the windows that lined the top of the twenty-foot-high walls. In the shadows, only his dark shape was visible against the dull-iron luminance of the world that lay beyond the glass, but she could clearly make out his rifle. She was scanning for other lookouts when Fatima came by with two mugs made from bull horns.

"Terere," she called the drink. They thanked her and she left, swishing her simple cotton dress to and fro as she did.

Julia smelled the concoction and sipped. She made a face and set the mug on the table.

"You better like that," Tate warned, plopping down on the sofa next to Stephen. "Everybody drinks that stuff here. Everybody, all the time." "It's bitter," she complained.

"You get used to it." He surveyed the remaining food on the table, peeled off a strip of bread, and pushed it into his mouth. Chewing slowly, he leveled his sad, perceptive eyes at her. He was not smiling. "Wanna tell me why you're here and why Nana-ykua doesn't want you to be?"

"Nana . . . ?"