The Sanchez Tradition Page 4

  ‘See!’ he said, pointing. ‘Palmerina!’

  Rising out of the azure waters was a small island, lushly foliaged, palms fringing the coral sands, reaching almost to the shoreline in places. From the launch the island appeared deserted, the hinterland rising to shallow hills, overgrown with a forest of trees. To Rachel, expecting the civilised cultivation she had experienced on Conchera, Palmerina was wild and primitive and much more beautiful.

  ‘Well?’ said Vittorio, glancing her way as the launch negotiated the perils of the reef. ‘What do you think?’ He smiled. ‘It’s not what you expected, is it?’

  ‘Frankly, no. Where is André’s house?’

  ‘Inland. There’s a lagoon, you’ll see.’

  The launch drifted in with the tide, and now Rachel could see a wooden jetty which projected some feet into the water. The launch bumped gently against its sides, and was moored by one of the men before Vittorio leapt out on to the wooden boards. He put a hand down to Rachel and she climbed out too, swaying a little after the rhythm of the boat.

  Then she looked about her. Away in both directions the beach curved out of sight while the foliage she had seen from the launch was just as dense close at hand but interspersed with tropical blossoms of hibiscus and oleander. Ahead, a narrow road ran from the jetty into the trees and parked on this narrow road was a small utility vehicle with a driver behind the wheel. Collecting her case, Vittorio escorted her to the vehicle, smiling a greeting to the black-skinned boy who climbed out to offer Vittorio the seat behind the wheel. Rachel was seated beside him and the boy climbed in the back. Then, leaving the two men behind them, they drove away.

  The track wound between the trees for some distance and then they gathered speed up an incline emerging through a belt of pines whose scent was sweet and crisp on to a ridge. They were crossing to the other side of the island and as they began the downward sweep Rachel saw the lagoon nestling on the valley floor. Now she could see a cluster of roofs that indicated that there was a village, and beyond, standing square to the lagoon was André’s house, its roof contrasting with the others because it had red tiles. The lagoon had a channel at the furthest side which led to the sea, and Rachel commented on this to Vittorio.

  ‘It is possible to sail round the island and reach the house through the channel by crossing the lagoon,’ he said, ‘but this way is quicker, and while I should like to show you the island, I have very explicit orders.’

  A quiver ran along Rachel’s spine at his words. For a while she had been engrossed in her surroundings to the exclusion of everything else, but now his statement brought it all back to her, most particularly her reasons for being here. Feeling she had to say something, she said: ‘It’s very beautiful. More beautiful than Conchera.’

  ‘And much less accessible,’ remarked Vittorio dryly. ‘Here, one can only breach the reef at one point, the one we used. André employs a guard who lives, with his dogs, in a house hidden by the trees you saw when we arrived. There is a telephone link with the house. No one reaches Palmerina without André being warned.’

  ‘And by air?’ questioned Rachel, intrigued in spite of herself.

  ‘Impossible, except by a chopper. André uses one, of course. But the airfield is small, and so long as his is in occupation, there’s little chance of anyone taking him unawares.’

  ‘A veritable stronghold, in fact,’ murmured Rachel, almost to herself.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’ Vittorio had overheard her. ‘Rachel! Don’t go on with this antagonism. André’s much harder now than he was. You made him so!’

  ‘I?’

  ‘Yes, you.’ Vittorio put the vehicle into a lower gear to negotiate the curve into the village. ‘André loved you, Rachel, and you destroyed that love.’

  Rachel’s cheeks turned scarlet. ‘Everyone seems to know my husband better than I do,’ she exclaimed, turning to attack rather than defence. ‘André only wanted another possession, a human one this time!’

  Vittorio gave her a quelling glance. ‘You don’t believe that!’ he stated calmly, ‘so don’t expect me to.’

  Rachel heaved a sigh. ‘Well, anyway, that’s all in the past. He has—Leonie, now. Who is she, by the way?’

  ‘Leonie?’ Vittorio looked thoughtful. ‘Her father owns a big oil concession in Trinidad. Her name is Leonie Gardner, and her parents are of French-Canadian descent, I believe. At any rate, they’re very well established in New Providence. They have a house near Nassau.’

  ‘I see.’ Rachel listened with interest. ‘I—I wonder why André waited until now to get the divorce. If he has been thinking of getting married for some time, I’m surprised everything wasn’t taken care of before this.’ She couldn’t prevent the hint of sarcasm that crept into her voice. ‘After all, he arranges everything so clinically, doesn’t he?’ She bit her lip.

  Vittorio sounded annoyed. ‘He hasn’t been thinking of getting married for some time,’ he returned shortly. ‘I must admit, I’d be chary of the institution after—–’ He broke off. ‘Besides, André doesn’t have to marry a woman before…’ He halted again. ‘Goddammit, you know what I mean!’

  Rachel bent her head. ‘And have there been many? Women, I mean?’

  Vittorio raised a lazy hand in greeting to some of the villagers that were standing by the roadside watching their progress, and then sighed. ‘For someone who professes to despise my brother, you’re inordinately interested in his affairs,’ he observed mockingly, and Rachel’s fingers gripped her bag tightly.

  The vehicle was running along beside the lake now and Rachel could see a yacht anchored out in the centre. That must be André’s boat. He was a keen sailor and when he was home they had had some wonderful trips together. She felt a tightness in her throat and a conviction that whatever her reasons she ought not to have come here, not to the Bahamas, not to New Providence, and most definitely not to Palmerina.

  As they neared the house she could see it was two-storied, with green shutters at the windows and washed in a cream paint. It was surrounded by gardens, colourful with the many varied blossoms to be found in the islands, and stood in the shade of tall, feathery palms. Double doors stood wide, opening on to a panelled hall which Rachel could see as Vittorio brought their transport to a halt at the foot of shallow steps leading on to a low veranda. Tubs of tropical plants tumbled near the entrance, while the slats of the veranda were overhung with bougainvillea. There was so much beauty and colour it almost hurt her eyes, but she removed her dark glasses and stepped out on to the paved courtyard.

  Immediately, a dark-skinned woman in a scarlet dress and sparkling white apron appeared at the double doors, and stood staring at them incredulously. Rachel looked at the elderly woman, then at Vittorio.

  ‘Why, it’s Pandora!’ she exclaimed, in welcome astonishment.

  Vittorio nodded, and even as he did so, Pandora uttered an exclamation of delight and hastened down the veranda steps to greet her.

  ‘Miss Rachel, Miss Rachel!’ she was saying over and over again. ‘You’ve come back!’

  Rachel felt herself engulfed in a bear-like embrace and drawing back a little, she said gently: ‘Oh, Pandora, it’s wonderful to see you, too. Everything’s changed—everything except you!’

  ‘Oh, Mr. André! He hasn’t changed,’ answered Pandora, her eyes a trifle moist. ‘My—my—he’ll be so pleased to see you back, Miss Rachel!’

  Rachel felt slightly emotional herself at this welcome, but she tried to sound casual as she said: ‘I’ve not come to stay, Pandora. Just—just visiting, that’s all.’

  Pandora’s face changed. ‘You’re not staying?’ she said, aghast. ‘Why are you here, then?’

  Rachel sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Pandora. I’ll tell you some other time.’

  Vittorio joined them looking thoughtfully at his sisters-in-law. Then he looked at Pandora. ‘Where is my brother?’

  Pandora gestured with her hands. ‘Out back. He’s down at the boats. Shall I tell him you’re
here?’

  Vittorio shook his head. ‘No, don’t bother. We’ll go down. Come on, Rachel. We’ll go through the house. It’s quicker.’

  Rachel accompanied him up the steps and through the double doorway into a marble-tiled hall. Arched doorways opened to left and right into lounges and dining areas. Some doors were closed, but those that were open revealed magnificently appointed apartments with crystal chandeliers reflected in polished wood, and soft leather furnishings. Some floors were carpeted, but others were polished and strewn with rugs and smelt deliciously of beeswax. Crossing the hall, Vittorio led the way out through another archway on to a patio tiled in a multi-patterned mosaic of muted colours. Rachel halted for a moment here. The view was magnificent, a backcloth of lake and hillside, and away to the right the channel that opened out into the ocean. The patio was broad, and beyond steps led down through lawns and flower gardens to where a pine-logged boathouse had been built beside a small wooden jetty. And it was here they found André Sanchez, working on the engine of one of his motor-boats, dressed casually in dark shorts and a dark shirt, unbuttoned to his waist. Nearby another man was working inside the boathouse, and he came out at their approach, obviously to see who was joining them. He nodded when he saw Vittorio, and André looked up, wiping his oily hands on a rag.

  Rachel felt suddenly a mass of nerves, and she hovered uncertainly on the path, unwilling to venture on to the jetty. André said something to his companion, and then vaulted up the slope to their side, raking back his dark hair with a lazy hand.

  ‘So. You came,’ he remarked, unnecessarily.

  Rachel bit her lip. ‘I didn’t have much choice.’

  André half smiled. ‘No, you did not, did you? Okay, Vittorio, I can take it from here. I want you to go back to Nassau and see Kingston.’

  ‘All right.’ Vittorio nodded. ‘What about Ramon?’

  ‘I’ll see Ramon later,’ replied André, looking thoughtful. ‘You know what to do?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Good.’ André nodded, and Vittorio gave Rachel a rather amused smile, and walked away through the rose gardens and round the side of the house. Alone with André, Rachel was bereft of speech, and when he indicated that she should precede him into the house she did so with some misgivings.

  Once inside, André led the way into a cool lounge that overlooked the rear of the building, with the lake and the trees beyond. Excusing himself for a moment, he left her alone, and she seated herself in a soft red leather armchair by the french doors and lit a cigarette. She might as well compose herself. Until he chose to tell her why he had brought her here there was little she could do.

  When he returned, he had washed his hands, and he walked over to a bell and pressed it before sitting down in the chair opposite her. When a manservant appeared a few moments later, he ordered coffee for two, and then reached for a cigar from a box on a nearby table. As he did so, Rachel studied him surreptitiously. The previous evening she had been too disturbed to register every detail about him, but now she found she enjoyed just looking at him. His limbs were tanned a deep brown and looked much more attractive than the pale bodies of men she had seen sunbathing in England. But then he lived in an ideal climate, and had that kind of colouring that took to hot weather. Besides, he had Spanish blood in his veins only slightly diluted by his English mother. His chest was darkened still further by the hairs that grew there, and she could see a silver medallion shining in the darkness. He had made no concessions to formality and Rachel wondered if it was an attempt on his part to disconcert her. He must have known she would be expecting a business-like encounter.

  Getting to her feet, she moved restlessly over to an exquisitely carved relief in ebony. It was the head of an Indian, and the planes and angles of his face were almost lifelike.

  ‘This is attractive,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Where did you get it?’

  André rose also and came to stand beside her, taking the head from her unresisting fingers. He replaced it on the small table it had previously occupied, and stood looking down at her with curiously enigmatic eyes. ‘You didn’t come here to talk about ebony reliefs,’ he remarked distinctly.

  Rachel caught her breath. ‘I don’t know why I am here,’ she said tightly, gripping one hand painfully with the other.

  André put his cigar between his teeth. ‘Do you not?’

  Rachel was breathing rather jerkily. ‘You know I don’t. After—after last night—I’m surprised you can bear to speak to me!’ There was anger in her voice, and a kind of defiance.

  André shrugged, and moved away from her, momentarily restoring her breathing to normal. ‘Last night you caught me unawares. I foolishly allowed my—what shall I call it? Anger? Yes, anger, to—well, gain the upper hand.’

  Rachel took a breath. ‘And now?’

  ‘Now?’ He turned to look at her. ‘Well, now I’ve had time to think, time to put things into perspective. I realise my behaviour was completely uncalled-for.’

  ‘I see. You mean the computer has taken over from the man again. That’s normal!’

  André did not look perturbed. ‘I can see that you are still angry, Rachel.’ His eyes were mocking. ‘Why should that be? What have I ever done to arouse your anger? Apart from living, of course.’

  Rachel’s cheeks suffused with colour. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say!’

  His eyes darkened. ‘Why? Your actions five years ago were designed to hurt me, were they not?’

  Rachel bent her head. ‘How does a puppet hurt its master?’

  André uttered an exclamation and stepped towards her ominously, her quiet words arousing him as no amount of anger could have done, but the manservant chose that moment to return with the tray of coffee, and Rachel returned to her seat. The man placed the tray on the low table beside her and she was forced to take charge of it, handling the silver coffee jug with trembling fingers.

  ‘Cream and sugar?’ she asked automatically as the man withdrew, but André shook his head.

  ‘I’ll take it black,’ he answered abruptly, and she poured some into one of the tall pottery beakers and handed it to him, avoiding his eyes as she did so. Then she poured her own, adding cream and sugar, and sipped it rather desperately, almost as though she hoped it would provide her with strength to remain composed throughout this interview.

  André did not sit, but stood by the french doors, staring out across the lake. Rachel glanced his way, registering that the rich gold curtains that blended so well with the cream tapestry-covered walls acted as a foil to the almost swarthy cast of his features. In profile she could see the strength in his face, the firm line of his chin, the angles of his cheek and jawline. She could even see the length and thickness of his lashes which had always been the only feminine thing about him.

  When Rachel felt that her nerves were stretched to breaking point, he turned back to her again, and she realised he had again got himself in control. Replacing his empty beaker on the tray, he re-lit his cigar and drew on it deeply. Then he came to stand before her, looking down at her thoughtfully.

  Rachel quivered, and put down her coffee rather untidily, spilling some on the tray. Fumbling for cigarettes, she was forestalled as he offered her a box from a nearby cabinet, and then when she had accepted one, lit it for her.

  ‘Now,’ he said, as she smoked vigorously, ‘why are you so nervous?’

  Rachel tapped ash unnecessarily into the ashtray. ‘Considering you’re doing everything to make me feel so, I don’t see any point in that question,’ she retorted, rather unevenly.

  ‘I make you nervous?’

  ‘Of course. Oh, stop fencing with me, André. Tell me why you’ve brought me here, and be done with it.’

  André seated himself in the chair opposite her, sitting forward, legs apart, his arms resting casually on his knees. ‘You came to Nassau to find me,’ and as she would have argued, he continued: ‘Don’t bother to deny it. Ramon told me. He also told me that he believed you had not received any communic
ation before you left, and that your reasons for being here were more personal ones, personal to you that is.’

  Rachel bent her head. ‘He had no right to tell you anything.’

  ‘Why? What was your intention? To fly right back again without even telling me why you came?’

  ‘Yes, if you must know!’

  André shook his head. ‘Still the same arrogance!’ he muttered softly. ‘So proud—so unwilling to ask for anything!’

  ‘I came to see you,’ Rachel flared indignantly. ‘I was willing to ask all right. I agreed to humble myself before the mighty André Sanchez! But even I have feelings!’

  ‘And I do not?’ André’s voice was taut. ‘Rachel, you are the most exasperating and infuriating woman I have ever met! Here you have a chance, a real opportunity to speak reasonably with me, and what are you doing? I will tell you. You are selfishly absorbed with your own pride, your own humiliation, your own feelings!’

  Rachel got unsteadily to her feet. ‘What’s the point in continuing this argument?’

  ‘You intend to go back to London?’ André looked up at her with narrowed eyes.

  Rachel turned away, groping for the back of her chair, anything to give her support. She was a fool, a crazy fool, here was her chance, here was her opportunity as he had said, and she was too proud to take it. Maybe if she had not been aware of his desire for a divorce it would have been easier to accept his contempt, but now all she could think was that he would find it all so amusing to relate to Leonie Gardner.

  She caught her breath, as she recalled her promise to her father. How could she jeopardise his future, his chance of happiness, because of foolish pride? She ran her tongue over dry lips. It was no good behaving in this manner. She stiffened her shoulders. In this, at least, André was right. She was behaving selfishly, only thinking of her own mortification. But it was terribly difficult to suppress the desire to tell him to keep his patronage for somebody else, and destroy that mask of indifferent politeness once and for all. He was so controlled, so much the master of the situation, while she was a trembling mass of nerves and sensations. She wanted to smash his disciplined restraint and arouse him to a full awareness of her again. But she quelled such feline irresponsibilities, and finally said with difficulty: ‘I’ve considered what you’ve said, and perhaps I have been a little impulsive.’