Empress Bianca

by Lady Colin Campbell

  Bernardo was in the process of assuring his ex-wife that he would do everything in his power to be there, with all three children, by Sunday when Raymond, Begonia and Philippe arrived at the house. Still on the telephone as they were shown into the drawing-room by a policeman, Bianca gave them a wan little wave and a tight smile and motioned them to sit down.

  When she rang off, she went straight to Philippe. He got up, hugged her. Then she broke down and started to cry.

  ‘It’s unbelievable,’ Begonia said.

  ‘I had no idea,’ Raymond said.

  ‘None of us did,’ Philippe responded.

  ‘I’m not that surprised,’ Bianca said, bursting into more tears. ‘Suicide is always a danger with manic depressives.’

  ‘Do your parents know?’ Philippe asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I’ll ring them,’ he said.

  ‘Get them to spend the night with her,’ Begonia suggested. ‘You don’t want to be on your own tonight of all nights, Bianca.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Bianca replied.

  As their father had arranged, Julio, Pedro and Antonia all flew into Miami that Sunday afternoon. Bernardo was there to greet them, having arrived that morning from Panama. At six o’clock that same evening, they boarded a Pan American airways flight to Mexico City. By the time they had arrived, cleared Immigration and were waved through Customs, it was after midnight. Then it took another fifty minutes to reach the Piedraplata residence.

  Bianca was waiting by the front door, dressed in a Pucci black and white trouser suit, when Duarte dropped them off.

  Julio was the first one she greeted. She hugged him, squeezing him tightly in that old familiar way she had with him. It had never occurred to her that Pedro and Antonia, whom she never greeted so keenly, might notice the difference and be jealous. Where her relations with her children were concerned, their mother, who could be so sensitive to the thoughts, feelings, and needs of others, was somewhat insensitive.

  ‘What can I say, Mama? You must be devastated. We all loved Uncle Ferdie. He was a great guy,’ Julio said, making way for Antonia, who was crying.

  Bianca hugged her perfunctorily, this gesture of affection so tinged with carelessness that her daughter quickly stepped aside for Pedro to have his turn.

  ‘Mama, I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved Uncle Ferdie,’ he said, in turn stepping aside quickly before his mother could chill him with a hug that invariably had all the sincerity of a greeting between rival socialites at a cocktail party.

  Bernardo was now standing directly in front of her. ‘I knew I could count on you,’ she said gratefully, and as she hugged him, she realized for the first time ever that she was well and truly over him. It was like hugging a brother, someone you loved, wanted to see and could count upon.

  Patting Bernardo on the back in a sisterly fashion, Bianca pulled away from him. ‘Come, let me show you to your rooms,’ she said, as gracious as ever. Bernardo instantly noticed that his former wife had changed since the time of their divorce. ‘She’s even more confident than she was when we were married,’ he reflected, surprised that anyone as confident as she had been could have become even more so in two short years.

  She put Bernardo in the guest suite, the place where she had spent the nights of exile from the marital bed preceding Ferdie’s death. It was a spectacular suite, consisting of two bedrooms and a shared bathroom and sitting room, situated at the opposite end of the house from the suite she had shared with Ferdie. The children she scattered in the three remaining guest bedrooms.

  ‘We don’t need all this space,’ Bernardo said, thinking he was being helpful.

  Bianca, however, had a plan of her own. ‘Of course you do,’ she said. ‘I can’t have you all return from halfway across the world then squeeze you into tiny guest bedrooms.’

  The real reason why Bianca needed to use up all the guest facilities in the Piedraplata family home would soon become apparent when Clara arrived in Mexico City.

  Clara’s flight landed on the evening of Tuesday, November 24 1970.

  Accompanied by her husband, Rodolfo d’Offolo, and her daughter Magdalena, she had not expected her sister-in-law to meet them personally at the airport. Sending Duarte would have been more than enough. However, as Clara stepped out of customs, there stood Bianca, waiting patiently for them, a tight little smile conveying bravery in the face of adversity, as the porter wheeled out their baggage.

  Bianca and Magdalena fell into one another’s arms.

  ‘I’m so sorry, sweetie pie,’ Bianca said. ‘I know how you felt about your uncle and how he felt about you.’

  Magdalena started to cry. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said between great wracking sobs.

  ‘I know,’ Bianca said, patting her on the back comfortingly. ‘That’s how I feel too. We were so happy together. If it hadn’t been for his damned depressions, we wouldn’t be in this situation now.’

  Magdalena and Bianca released one another, leaving Clara and Bianca face to face. To Bianca’s surprise, Clara stepped up to her and embraced her for the first time ever.

  ‘It’s hard on us all,’ Bianca said.

  ‘You can say that again,’ Clara replied, pulling away. Bianca could tell that her sister-in-law was not comfortable displaying affection towards her. But she had done so, and that was to the good.

  ‘Bianca, you have our sincerest condolences,’ Rodolfo said, leaning down to pick up his hand luggage with his left hand and Clara’s jewel case with his right.

  ‘Thank you, Rodolfo,’ Bianca said, waving Duarte over to pick them up.

  While the porter was loading their luggage into the trunk of the car, Bianca turned to Clara and said sweetly: ‘Where are you going to sleep tonight?’

  ‘The usual, I should think,’ Clara replied, thinking that Bianca had meant which bedroom in the Piedraplata family home did she wish to occupy. This, of course, was the same guest suite that had been allocated to Bernardo, but which all the members of the Piedraplata family invariably called ‘Clara’s wing’. Whenever she was visiting the family in Mexico City, Clara and her current husband had always occupied one bedroom in the suite, Magdalena another; and they had always treated the sitting room as their own private fiefdom. That way, they remained together, had their privacy, did not get in the way of the remainder of the family but nevertheless had a place in the family home: one that Clara partly owned.

  ‘Dear Clara,’ Bianca said, fixing the other woman with a gaze of concern and sincerity. ‘I wish I could put you up, but my whole family has descended upon me, and there just isn’t room for anyone else. I hope you don’t mind. I couldn’t very well tell my family they can’t stay with the widow in an empty house because I have to keep it vacant for the sister-in-law when she arrives. I’ll see that you’re booked into the Presidential Suite at the Hotel Imperiale. You’ll be very comfortable there. And, of course, the business will pick up the tab… I only bring up the money so that you’ll see that I’m doing everything in my power to make life as comfortable and agreeable for you as possible at this most difficult time.’

  Deciding that it was better to say nothing, Clara simply glared at Bianca, scarcely able to believe her ears. Maybe Bianca wasn’t such a brainless opportunist after all. They got into the car.

  ‘Have the police had the autopsy results back yet?’ Clara asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Bianca said quietly and started to sniffle as if she were about to break down crying.

  ‘Well…what did they say?’

  Bianca’s sniffles increased. ‘This is so painful…’ she said, trailing off.

  ‘I know it’s difficult for you, but it’s also difficult for me,’ Clara replied. ‘He was my brother, after all, and I knew him a lot longer than you did. If I can grit my teeth and face facts, then so can you. Courage, ma cherie.’

  Bianca looked over at Magdalena as if she wanted to be rescued. ‘If Bianca finds it all too difficult to speak about,’ the younger woman said ‘maybe you
should ask someone else, Mama.’

  ‘I think if Bianca knows the results, she should tell us,’ Clara said.

  ‘The autopsy shows that he shot himself through the heart,’ Bianca said with evident agitation, knowing that it was better if her sister-in-law heard it from her first. ‘You know how thorough Ferdie was. He made sure he didn’t botch the job. He shot himself twice.’

  ‘Twice?’ Clara said, shooting a look across at Rodolfo, who sat opposite her in the back of the Lincoln Continental. ‘What was the range?’

  ‘Point-blank.’

  ‘Twice through the heart at point-blank range?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s not possible.’

  ‘Anything was possible with Ferdie. He was the most exceptional human being…and nothing if not thorough. You of all people know that only too well.’

  ‘My dear Bianca,’ Clara said icily, ‘thoroughness is a matter of character. Death is a matter of fact. Dead people cannot shoot themselves. Anyone who is shot through the heart once cannot shoot himself again in the same organ.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to kill Ferdie?’ Bianca asked so innocently that Clara became convinced that she must have had a hand in her brother’s death.

  Clara decided to play her cards close to her chest. ‘You know, Bianca,’ she said in an almost patronizing tone, as if she still took Bianca to be the imbecile, ‘Ferdie was a very successful businessman. He must have had many enemies. Any one of them could’ve killed him.’

  Bianca’s response reaffirmed Clara’s earlier hunch that Bianca might have had something to do with her brother’s death. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head violently. ‘Everyone loved my husband. He was the most revered entrepreneur in Mexico. It’s not possible. And,’ she added, a triumphant note creeping into her voice, ‘to show you how completely wrong you are about anyone else having a hand in his death, did you know he cleared the house of everyone before he did the deed? That’s right. He sent me to Raoul d’Olivera’s house with Manolito. He gave all the servants the afternoon off. He made sure the house was empty. Is that the conduct of someone who intends to kill himself or someone who sits in wait for an imaginary killer? No, Clara, your theory defames and dishonours my husband, and I will have none of it.’

  ‘You have a unique perspective,’ Clara replied witheringly, ‘but I don’t propose to get involved in a brawl with you.’

  ‘It’s going to be a busy few days,’ Magdalena said, hoping to channel the conversation away from controversy, ‘what with making the funeral arrangements and all that.’

  ‘Your mother very kindly offered to help when we first spoke, but I’ve been muddling through on my own. Decisions had to be made, and I couldn’t leave things until you arrived. The funeral’s scheduled for next Monday. The cathedral. Three o’clock. The archbishop will take the service. Philippe and Raymond will read lessons, and so will Raoul d’Olivera. The president and two of the Orleans-Braganza princes from Brazil are coming,’ Bianca said sweetly, looking at Clara.

  At this point in the conversation the limousine pulled up in front of the hotel, and Clara hurtled out of the car before Bianca could even draw breath. ‘A wife of less than two years and about to be divorced, and she’s the one taking over the funeral arrangements of my brother? I don’t think I’ve ever encountered such gall,’ Clara said to herself, trying to shake off the dirty feeling that clung to her after this encounter.

  ‘There’ll be no need to come in,’ she said to Bianca. ‘You must be very tired. Go back to my family home and get a good night’s sleep. And thanks for coming to meet us at the airport. I appreciate what you did,’ Clara added, delivering the coup de grâce and hoping Bianca would understand the implications of what she was saying.

  ‘It’s so nice to be appreciated,’ Bianca said warmly, ‘and yes, I am very tired. I can’t wait to get back to my home and collapse into my bed,’ she continued, replying to Clara’s pointed claim to joint ownership of the family home. ‘Call me tomorrow when you surface.’

  Of course Bianca had no intention of keeping someone as astute as Ferdie’s brainy sister at anything less than arm’s length, so, the following day, when Clara telephoned, Bianca had the butler inform her that she was not feeling well and was in bed. To maintain the illusion of family solidarity Clara in turn left an ostensibly friendly message, asking that her sister-in-law call her when she was up and about. The remainder of the day was so busy that Clara did not notice until ten o’clock that evening that Bianca had not returned her call.

  The main reason why Clara had been so distracted was that word had spread in Mexico that she was in town, staying at the Hotel Imperiale, and by midday the trickle of friends and business associates had become a flood.

  After that, even if Clara had wanted to get away from the many callers, it would have been difficult to do so. The Mexican custom of dropping in to pay their respects to the members of the deceased person’s family - and for that family to reciprocate by showing hospitality - ensured that she was constrained to uphold a custom that also conveyed the regard in which people had held her brother. The widow, on the other hand, was not receiving callers and remained cloistered with only her children, ex-husband and parents for company, having instructed the servants to direct all callers to Clara at the Imperiale.

  By the end of that first day, Bianca had established a pattern that kept Clara out of her way while allowing her to present herself as the grieving widow to a wider public. Not that Clara was starved of information on what was going on in Bianca’s household. Magdalena was spending much of her time at the Piedraplata family home. Her daughter, like many of her peers in full rebellion against the authority symbolized by her parents, could see every side of every question except that of her own mother. ‘I feel sorry for Bianca,’ she said on the night before the funeral. ‘At a time when she needs all the help she can get, not only does she have to contend with a sister-in-law who doesn’t like her, but her son Pedro decides to flip his lid.’

  ‘I’d be a lot more convinced by this grieving widow act if I didn’t know that your uncle intended to divorce her,’ Clara replied, well used to Magdalena’s cutting remarks. ‘But what’s that you say about Pedro’s flipping his lid?’

  ‘He’s flipped his lid. Gone crazy. Loco. We were sitting around the pool having coffee after lunch. Bianca and Philippe came out to join us. Bianca said something to the effect that Uncle Ferdie could be a real bastard at times. Pedro said he’d always liked him, and she replied: “Of course you did. He was always very nice to you. But then, he would’ve been. He identified with you. He felt you were both victims. But the truth is, neither of you has ever been anyone’s victim.” Pedro just went crazy. He accused her of never loving him. Of never loving Uncle Ferdie. Bianca started to cry, but this only made Pedro even angrier. He said: “What are you crying for? You never loved him, and you don’t love me. You only married him for his money. You broke up our family so that you could social climb.” Bianca started to cry even harder. Philippe tried to intercede, but Pedro wasn’t having any of it. He told him to keep out of it and said to Bianca: “You can’t fool me. I know the way you function. Don’t think we didn’t figure out what was going on between you and Uncle Ferdie this summer. You think we couldn’t tell that he was getting fed up with you? He could see through you just the way I can. He knew he couldn’t trust those smiles or tears of yours, and I’ll bet you had him killed because he wanted to be rid of you.” I tell you, Mummy, you could’ve heard a pin drop as far away from as Geneva when Pedro said that. Bianca looked as if he’d slapped her hard in the face. She was completely shocked and appalled…like a doe caught in the headlights of a car on a highway.’

  ‘What did Julio and Antonia say? For that matter, what did you say?’

  ‘Julio said Pedro should keep his voice down before the servants heard what he was saying. Antonia and I said nothing, but Philippe said: “This is a terrible accusation for a son to make against his mother. It’s immoral an
d obviously untrue. She was with the wife of the minister of the interior when Ferdie shot himself.” Pedro started to laugh and said: “You’re a man of the world, Philippe. You know as well as I do, you don’t have to pull the trigger yourself to kill someone. This is Mexico, man. You can hire anyone to solve any problem. Well, dearest Mama, your problem’s solved. You don’t have to put up with Uncle Ferdie any longer, and you’ve got his money, which is all you ever wanted from him in the first place. You even have the best alibi anyone in Mexico could come up with. The wife of the minister of the interior, indeed! Unfortunately, whoever shot Uncle Ferdie was too efficient, and only a fool would buy the explanation that he shot himself through the heart twice just to make sure he was dead.” Bianca was wailing like a baby by this time, so Philippe said: “You don’t have the right to speak to your mother like this.” Pedro looked at him very scornfully and said: “You’re just like my father. You’d swallow any line she comes up with. Well, work it out for yourself, Philippe. How is it possible for a right-handed man to shoot himself through the heart with the gun in his left hand? Then, to compound the impossibility of it all, he repeats the process a second time? Come on, this is bullshit. Someone killed Uncle Ferdie, and if Mama isn’t behind it, she’ll use some of that money she’s going to inherit to get Uncle Ferdie some justice. The guy deserves it.”’

  ‘Well, I don’t believe it,’ Clara said, shaking her head before continuing, ‘Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings…so what happened next?’

  ‘Nothing really. Philippe took Bianca inside. Julio, Antonia, Pedro and I stayed outside, and Pedro and Julio lit up a joint.’