Who Rides the Tiger Read online

  There were voices in the dining room, and she paused in the doorway, nervously, seeing Vincente and Salvador talking together, Vincente seated at the table, and Salvador serving him.

  Vincente rose politely at her entrance, and then as she joined him at the table, seated himself again.

  'Bring more rolls and fresh coffee, Salvador,' he instructed the manservant, and Salvador withdrew after wishing Dominique 'good morning'.

  Dominique said: 'Just coffee, thank you, Salvador,' in a small voice, but she doubted her ability to give him commands.

  Vincente had obviously almost finished his meal, and was in the process of smoking a cheroot with a cup of strong black coffee. Dressed in a lightweight tropical suit of cream linen, he looked cool and dark and attractive, and Dominique could not prevent herself from looking at him, rather surreptitiously.

  'Well?' he said, at last. 'Did you sleep well?'

  'Yes, thank you,' replied Dominique politely. 'Did you?'

  'Reasonably well,' he answered coolly. 'I hope the car did not wake you.'

  Dominique compressed her lips. He was baiting her and she would not satisfy his sadistic amusement.

  'Car?' she questioned. 'What car?'

  But Vincente merely smiled sardonically, as though he was fully aware of her pitiful attempt to deceive him. Salvador returned with a dish of hot rolls, a jug of coffee, and another of hot milk. He placed them conveniently beside Dominique, asked whether they required anything else, and then with a particularly gentle smile in Dominique's direction, he withdrew.

  Vincente studied his wife. 'You seem to have succeeded in stealing Salvador's allegiance,' he remarked.

  'I doubt that, very much,' returned Dominique, pouring herself some coffee with hands that were quite steady considering her nervousness.

  'Do you? Why? I am such a monster, it is inconceivable that a man such as Salvador should not find someone more pleasant to be his - how shall I put it? - mentor.'

  'Oh, don't!' exclaimed Dominique. 'Look, this is rid-iculous! We're sitting here, talking of banalities, when all the time the subject that is closest to the surface of both our minds remains unspoken! You've got to talk to me, Vincente. I've got to know where I stand!'

  'And where do I stand?' he countered, in a hard voice.

  'I don't understand.'

  'Do you not? I think you do. I think you understand very well. You started this, Dominique. I did not.'

  'How can you say that? I only repeated to you what I had been told.'

  'Hysterically,' he amended cruelly. 'You were like a woman possessed when you returned here yesterday. You were in no mood for reasonable argument. You listened to that woman - that snake - and believed her completely, even though you know she has a reputation for just this kind of thing!'

  'But you didn't help me! You let me say it all! You didn't try to explain.'

  'Why should I defend myself to you?' He rose abruptly to his feet. 'I do not have to explain myself to anybody!'

  'I am your wife, Vincente!'

  He gave her an eloquent look, and then walked to the window, staring out broodingly at the view. Dominique's appetite, small though it was, fled, and she pushed the rolls aside and reached for a cigarette. When it was lit, she sipped her coffee, and tried to imagine what it would be like, going through weeks, months - even years, of this kind of relationship.

  She wanted to ask him where he had been last night, but she doubted he would even answer her.

  Then he turned and said: 'I have to go to the refinery today. What will you do?'

  Dominique flushed. 'I don't know.'

  'I wish to make it clear that I do not want you to go down to Bela Vista again, without my permission.' His voice was cold as ice.

  Dominique listened, felt upset, and then suddenly his words aroused her natural resilience. How dared he imagine, after all that had happened, that he could dictate her comings and goings! She looked up at him, and said:

  'If I wish to go down to Bela Vista, I will go!' in a cool, composed voice, much different from the tumultuous emotionalism that was burning inside her.

  Vincente leaned back against the window frame. 'You think so?'

  'I know so!' Dominique sounded scornful. 'What will you do? How will you stop me? Tie me up? Lock me in my room? Are you afraid I may hear more of your shortcomings?'

  Vincente straightened, his face darkening, his eyes burning with his fury. 'Do not dare to speak to me in that fashion!' he snapped angrily.

  But Dominique was gaining power from allowing some of her hurt and anger and humiliation to escape. It was a kind of release from tension, and she was not willing to give it up no matter how frightening Vincente might appear.

  'I'll speak to you as I like,' she cried, getting to her feet. 'Until now I've been subdued, I've allowed you to take the initiative, to offer no explanation for your actions but anger. I've even imagined myself as the protagonist in this - black comedy! But no more. You seem to be forgetting! I am not one of your clinging Spanish/Portuguese senhoritasl I am English, and in England men treat women as human beings - not playthings - not useless vessels!'

  Vincente crossed the floor to her side, staring at her with tormented eyes. He gripped her shoulders cruelly, shaking her violently.

  'Stop this hysterical emotionalism!' he shouted. 'You don't know what you're saying! You imagine because I do not plead with you to forgive me, make unnecessary excuses for something that should have absolutely nothing to do with us, that I am therefore trying to hide even greater misdemeanours. Grow up, Dominique! You are a woman now, not a foolish child! And I am a man - and I do not care to be treated like an animal!'

  Dominique stared at him tremulously. 'Then tell me about John and Isabella!' she said.

  Abruptly he released her. 'Obviously you have not listened to a word I have been saying,' he said heavily. 'Is there no trust in your whole body?'

  Dominique hesitated. Always he was capable of arousing the uncertainties inside her. Already he had succeeded in subduing that rebellious desire to hurt him as he was hurting her.

  'You want complete submission,' she exclaimed bitterly.

  'I want a wife! Not an inquisitor!' His voice was harsh. 'Why do you continually concern yourself with what is past? Surely it is the future that should concern us?'

  'Future? What future?' asked Dominique bleakly.

  'Quite!' he replied cruelly.

  Dominique moved restlessly. 'Then let me go.'

  'Let you go? What does that mean? You want to be free of me, is that it? Free to rejoin Harding, perhaps?'

  Dominique knew she could never go back to John, but he need not know that. She clung to a foolish sense of pride. 'Is that so inconceivable?' she asked. 'After all, he was my fiance, he loved me!'

  Vincente's face was contorted with his anger. 'That English pig does not know the meaning of the word!' he swore furiously.

  'Do you?' Dominique stared at him.

  Vincente gave her a strange look, and then he walked to the door. 'Oh, yes,' he said coldly, 'I know.'

  Then he left the room, leaving her alone and unhappy, and as confused as ever.

  The day passed unbearably slowly. Dominique wandered aimlessly about the house, touching a thing here, altering an ornament there, collecting flowers from the garden and replacing those in the hall and in the lounge, putting on her swimsuit and lying on a lounger by the pool. But there was no peace from her inner torment, and she could not stay long in one place.

  In the late afternoon, when the bees were humming drowsily through the flowers, and the heat seemed to hang in the air like a tangible force, Dominique was lying on a lounger on the patio. She had managed to seduce her mind to a state of inertia, and a couple of magazines lay open on her lap. Then the telephone rang, its loud peal breaking into the stillness and banishing the quietude.

  Dominique sat up and saw Salvador walking at his usual unhurried pace into the lounge. He lifted the receiver, and she settled back again. It could be no one
for her. Maybe it was someone who thought Vincente might be at home, spending some time with his new wife.

  When Salvador appeared in front of her, his impassive face unusually animated, she said: 'What is it, Salvador?' in a puzzled tone.

  Salvador linked his fingers together. 'It is a call, senhora. From the refinery. It is for you.'

  Dominique frowned. 'For me?' She felt a faint feeling of apprehension. 'Who is it? Vincente?'

  'No, not the Senhor, senhora. Please, you come to the telephone now.'

  Dominique shook her head. 'Whoever it is, Salvador, youtake the call. You give me a message. I don't want to talk to anybody.'

  'But you must, senhora,' insisted Salvador urgently. 'It is important!'

  Dominique sighed. 'Oh, Salvador, you know I don't want to talk today.'

  'Senhora!'

  Dominique shrugged her shoulders. 'Oh, very well. Who is it?'

  'It is the Senhor Rivas, senhora,' replied Salvador, helping her to her feet.

  Dominique relaxed. She liked Frederick Rivas. At least she was not nervous of speaking with him. She followed Salvador into the lounge and took the receiver when he handed it to her. Salvador did not leave the room, but waited by the door, and Dominique did not like to ask him to leave.

  'Hello,' she said into the phone. 'This is Dominique Mall— Dominique Santos!'

  'Ah, Dominique!' Rivas sounded relieved. 'Thank heaven you were there! My child, I have a terrible piece of news. There has been an accident in the laboratory!'

  Dominique felt the blood draining out of her head, and an awful feeling of faintness enveloping her whole being. Grasping the edge of the table, she said: 'An accident? Senhor Rivas, what has happened? Has my husband been injured - he's not—'

  'No - no, he's not dead. But yes - he is injured.'

  Dominique pressed a hand to her throat, swaying a little, and Salvador crossed the room to her side to provide support should she require it.

  'Go on!' she said weakly. 'What has happened? Where is Vincente? I want to see him.'

  All of a sudden their argument that morning assumed minute proportions. All that mattered was her need of him and the desire to know the full extent of his injuries.

  'You cannot see him, Dominique,' said Frederick Rivas gently. 'He is at present in a helicopter - on his way to Rio de Janeiro, to the hospital there. They are much more adequately equipped to deal with his injuries than the hospital in Bela Vista.'

  'But what are his injuries?' exclaimed Dominique desperately. 'Senhor Rivas - please!'

  'Well, he has been burned!' said Frederick Rivas bluntly. 'There was an explosion—'

  'An explosion!' murmured Dominique incredulously. 'But how did that happen? How could that happen?'

  'That's what I intend to find out,' replied Rivas grimly. 'However, for the present I will concentrate on Vincente. He was conscious when he left and it was at his insistence that I did not ring you sooner. He did not want you to dash to the refinery in a panic as no doubt you would have done.'

  Dominique felt a cold hand round her heart. Even when he was injured, probably in pain, he had not wanted her around. He had not needed her! That hurt. That really hurt!

  'Yes,' she said now, a little dully. 'So - so what must I do?' Her voice shook, much to her annoyance.

  'Well,' Rivas sounded rather uncomfortable now, 'well - Dominique, if I were you, I would wait until this evening, and ring the hospital in Rio. They will be able to give you all the details.'

  Dominique felt sick. 'But - but - I want to see him,' she exclaimed. 'I - I must see him!'

  'I do not think he wants you to see him just now, Dominique,' said Rivas cautiously. 'These burns that I mentioned - they are about the face. I must tell you - I must zoarn you, Dominique - Vincente has been badly burned!'

  Dominique shook her head impatiently. 'Do - do you think I care about that? Do you think I care what he looks like? Do you think I would feel repelled? Oh, Senhor Rivas, I love him! I - I would love him if he looked like - like - like a monster!'

  'Are you sure, Dominique? Vincente was a very attractive man—'

  Dominique noticed that he said 'was'. She felt an awful sense of impatience..

  'Of course I'm sure,' she said now. 'Senhor, give me the name of this hospital. Let me decide for myself what I must do.'

  'It is the Hospital of Saint Augustine,' replied Rivas slowly. 'But wait, Dominique. One moment. Give yourself time to think.'

  'To think? About what?'

  'Vincente does not wish that you should rush to see him. This much was obvious from his disturbed state before he left. At least give him the chance to accept his injuries.'

  Dominique compressed her lips. 'You're asking the impossible, senhor.'

  'Am I?' Rivas sounded uncomfortable. 'My child, things are not well between you and Vincente, this I know.'

  'How do you know that?'

  'Last night Vincente came to our house. He had dinner with us. He was very restless - very disturbed. He stayed late - much later than before. This is not the behaviour of a man with a new bride - a bride of only two days. We are not fools, Dominique.'

  Dominique heaved a shaky sigh. At least now she knew where he had been! All her stupid imaginings had been for nothing. Why did she always think the worst of him? Why was she so suspicious? Had she so little faith? Was her love the puny thing he had said it was?

  She gave up this speculation. It was impossible to try and work things out at this time. There were more important issues at stake.

  'I'd better go,' she said. 'I - I promise to think over all you've said. I can't promise more than that.'

  'Well, that's something,' said Rivas approvingly. 'Goodbye, Dominique. And good luck!'

  After she had rung off, Dominique said urgently: 'Salvador, how do I find the number of the St. Augustine Hospital in Rio?'

  Salvador studied her for a moment. 'You have listened to what Senhor Rivas had to say, senhora?'

  'Of course. Did he tell you what had happened?'

  'Briefly, yes. He said that Senhor Santos was most anxious that you should not attempt to see him without his knowledge.'

  Dominique took a step back. 'What do you mean?'

  'Senhor Rivas must have told you.'

  'Yes, he did. But - you can't agree with him! I mean - well, obviously I've got to see him!'

  'Why? There is nothing you can do at this time,' asked Salvador impassively. 'Senhora, do not be precipitate!'

  'Oh, you're impossible!' she exclaimed. 'In any case, how could I reach Rio without your assistance? I just want to know how he is. Surely that is permitted.'

  'He will barely have arrived, senhora. Give them time. Let them examine him. Ring later - after dinner.'

  Dominique considered this, then moved restlessly. 'I should have been told when it happened,' she fumed. 'I'm his wife! I had a right to know. To be there. Salvador, surely you of all people must know how I feel!'

  'Oh, yes, senhora, I, too, would like to know more of what has happened. But we can only wait. There is no other heli-copter, and the telephone is at least an immediate link.'

  'We have a car,' she reminded him.

  'No, senhora.' Salvador was firm. He sighed then. 'Senhora, it is obvious you have never experienced this kind of situation. I was in a civil war once, and with a man when some explosive he was handling blew up in his face. I was lucky. The blast knocked me over and I fell face downwards. My friend was not so lucky. His face was badly injured. It was many months before it was recognizable as a face again. That man could not bear the company of anyone who had known him prior to the accident. Can you not understand that?'

  Dominique quivered. 'You don't-you don't imagine Vincente's injuries are that severe, do you? Oh, God!' she sank down weakly on to the side of the telephone table.

  Salvador clucked his teeth. 'No, senhora, I did not say that. I was merely trying to show you that a man who is disfigured in an accident can be very conscious of that disfigurement.'

 
Dominique shook her head. 'But you're so cool, Salvador! If I didn't know you so well I'd say that you were completely indifferent to what had happened!' She buried her face in her hands.

  Salvador's features tautened. 'Do not ever say that, senhora,' he said almost angrily, and she looked up at the intense feeling in his voice. 'I - more than anyone - pray that this affair is not as serious as it sounds. But if it is, then it is up to me to be a comfort to you, a support for what may be to come. I-cannot show my feelings so blatantly. I have had years of hiding my inmost thoughts. Only with Senhor Santos was I ever myself, and now - with you.'

  Dominique felt guilty. 'I'm sorry, Salvador, that was thoughtless of me. I'm truly sorry. I suppose I'm distraught. Oh, what time is it? How much longer until we can ring the hospital, do you suppose?'

  'It is a little after five-thirty, senhora. I will ask Maurice to prepare dinner for seven this evening. We will ring at eight.'

  Dominique nodded. 'All right. All right, Salvador.' She smoothed the sweat from her forehead. 'I think I'll go and take a shower in the meantime.'

  'Yes, senhora.'

  Dominique walked across the lounge, then she looked back. 'Tell me one thing, Salvador, what was she like? The other woman Vincente married?'

  Salvador bent his head. 'She was a woman,' he replied. Then he looked up. 'This is not my affair, senhora.'

  'Salvador!'

  'She was a beautiful woman, powerful and rich, and older than Senhor Santos.'

  Dominique halted, fascinated. 'Go on.'

  Salvador looked as though he would refuse, then he sighed. 'Her name was Valentina Cordova. But it was many years ago. Many things have happened since then.'

  'Were they divorced?'

  Salvador frowned. 'Divorced? No! Senhora Santos died.'

  Dominique swallowed hard. 'She died?' she echoed dis- believingly.

  'Yes, senhora.'

  'But why? She was not so old, surely.'

  'No, senhora. She was about as old as Senhor Santos is now.'

  'Then how—' Dominique stared at him.

  But Salvador shook his head. 'Senhora, I have told you about the other wife of the Senhor. I have told you her name, and I have told you she died. I do not wish to talk any more about it. I have already said too much.'