Empress Bianca

by Lady Colin Campbell

  As the words tripped off Stella’s increasingly over-refined tongue, Bianca remembered the stories circulating around New York about how Stella had dropped all her old friends and replaced them with what she considered to be Top Drawer Europeans as soon as she had access to Belmont’s invitation list. Fortunately for Bianca, she had qualified, in Stella’s eyes at least, for inclusion in that regal circle by virtue of being a British aristocrat with international dimensions. She was therefore not about to lose face in this mutual exploitation called friendship - or her place on the Belmont’s invitation list - by defending St Moritz. So Bianca ordered Mary van Gayrib to cancel the Palace Hotel in St Moritz and book them suites at the Palace Hotel in Gstaad instead.

  Manolito was having lunch at the Eagle Club with Amanda, Anna Clara and their ski instructors when Antonia, Moussey and their guides walked in. ‘That’s Antonia and Moussey,’ Manolito said to Amanda. ‘Shall we ask them to join us?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Amanda.

  ‘I’d love to meet them properly,’ Anna Clara added, having never had the opportunity before, although she did know Pedro from having seen a lot of him in Mexico.

  Antonia and Moussey and their instructors were happy to join them and had just ordered lunch when Amanda, who had just finished her coffee, went to the ladies room to repair her makeup prior to her group departing once again for the ski slopes.

  Like in a Feydeau farce, no sooner had she disappeared from view than her successor as Mrs Ferdie Piedraplata walked into the club with Stella Minckus and the Duchess of Oldenburg.

  ‘Hello, my chickadees. Hello, everyone,’ Bianca said brightly, as Manolito and Moussey tried to stand, waving them back into their seats.

  ‘Just came over to say hi and to introduce Manolito to the Duchess of Oldenburg. She’s heard a lot about you, haven’t you, Graziella?’

  ‘Your mother’s very proud of you,’ said the Duchess.

  Manolito got up, kissed Bianca and Stella, whom he knew well, and said ‘How do you do, ma’am?’ to this representative of an old European ruling family. His stepmother then put her hands on his shoulders and affectionately pushed him back into his seat.

  ‘And who is this beautiful young woman you’re with?’ Bianca said, knowing very well who she was from the photographs in Manolito’s room. ‘I must warn you, young lady, that it will take a very special woman to be good enough for my son.’

  Anna Clara blushed.

  ‘This is Anna Clara, Mama,’ Manolito said rather awkwardly.

  ‘My, what a beauty you’ve grown into! I remember the afternoon your mother and I met up in the Pierre Hotel in New York shortly after you were born. Well, little acorns do grow into fine oaks, and you certainly have. Incidentally, Manolito, maybe you can drop by my suite early this evening. Juan Gilberto Macias is in from Mexico, and I think it’s time you addressed the issue of your will.’

  Manolito looked sheepish. Bianca, who seldom missed a nuance, realized that this was a more important topic to him than she had anticipated. How silly of her, she decided, to have listened to Philippe and let things slide in the run-up to his eighteenth birthday. Doubtless that wretched woman Amanda had already been bending his ear. ‘Well, we’ll see whose will prevails,’ she thought to herself, slapping a smile on her face.

  ‘Sir David Napley has already drafted it,’ Manolito said, wiping the smile right off it again.

  ‘And you didn’t consult me?’ she replied, clearly hurt.

  ‘I didn’t want to bother you. You’re so busy.’

  ‘You know I’m never too busy for you,’ she said lovingly, stroking his cheek and masking her disappointment as she continued. ‘I’m just amazed that neither you nor Uncle Philippe has said a thing to me.’

  ‘He didn’t have anything to do with it.’

  ‘I’m not following you, darling,’ she said, and Anna Clara noticing the glint of steel behind the seductively pleasant manner. ‘Uncle Philippe manages everything for all of us…’

  ‘I’m not moving any investments from him. Mummy just thought that I should have a will now that I’ve achieved my majority, so she took me to a solicitor in London, and he arranged it all.’

  ‘Good…that’s good,’ Bianca said, and Anna Clara could almost reach out and touch the look of furious frustration her brother’s stepmother was trying to mask. ‘As long as it’s all arranged. One can never be careful enough on mountains. Avalanches and all that…’ Bianca looked at the Duchess. ‘Manolito is now custodian of a great fortune,’ she continued, ‘and it is my duty, as his mother, to see that he lives up to his responsibilities.’ Turning back to Manolito, she said, ‘Think of all the poor people whose livelihoods depend upon our welfare. Dying intestate is simply the worst. It causes such a mess, then the various governments get involved and before you know it, you’ve lost half your money, and poor innocent people are out of work in their thousands…Well, we must be off. Shall we see you at six, Manolito, for a quick glass of champagne? If you want to come, Anna Clara, do please feel free to join us.’

  With that, Bianca sailed off, turning heads as she walked through the room in regal fashion. Before she had even taken her seat, Amanda reappeared.

  ‘You’ll never believe who was just here,’ Anna Clara said.

  ‘If you’re going to tell me that Antonia’s mother is here, I can see her over there,’ she said neutrally, seeing no reason to embarrass Antonia by being disparaging about her mother.

  She remained standing.

  ‘She stopped by to say hello,’ Moussey said.

  ‘What a sweet gesture,’ Amanda said, with just the faintest trace of irony to give away her true feelings. ‘Now, kids, what’s on the agenda for this afternoon?’

  That evening, Manolito went up to his stepmother’s suite alone: his sister, who had taken an instant dislike to Bianca, having refused to attend with him. She and Philippe were on their own, and the three of them sat on the matching sofas facing each other in the sitting-room, each prepared for what they anticipated would be an awkward encounter.

  ‘Darling, would you like a little caviar with your champagne?’ Bianca said sweetly, immediately working to put her stepson at his ease. ‘No? Oh, come. One slice of toast with some butter and a great big dollop of Beluga will help the Cristal go down so much more easily.’

  ‘You’ve convinced me,’ Manolito said, immediately feeling more relaxed and leaving her, in true Latin American style, to prepare the caviar, which she always did for them.

  ‘So what’s this I hear from your mother about making a will without telling us?’ Philippe said, to the point as always.

  Manolito cleared his throat. His unease returned in even greater force than before. Suddenly, he felt almost a traitor. Silence hung in the air.

  Philippe and Bianca, who were used to applying pressure upon others by refusing to rescue them from the ensuing silence, just looked at him. After what seemed like an eternity he said: ‘Sir David Napley did it when I was in London for my birthday.’

  ‘That was quick,’ Bianca said sharply.

  ‘Commendably so,’ Philippe said, taking care to remove any sting from her words. ‘Presumably Amanda organized it for you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Manolito said, feeling as if he were caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

  ‘That’s as it should be,’ Philippe said more benignly than he felt. He was a past master of using principle pragmatically and knew only too well that by praising Manolito he would gain more trust from the boy than by undermining him.

  Bianca, who also understood the merits of keeping Manolito on friendly terms, poured a look of radiance over her face that was sorely at odds with the glint in her eyes. ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘That’s as it should be, considering the relationship between Amanda and yourself…though you would’ve thought she’d have had the courtesy to consult us, considering we’ve done far more for you than she’s ever bothered to do.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you…’ said Ma
nolito, suffused with guilt.

  ‘Of course not, my darling boy,’ Bianca said, rushing to put her arms around him. ‘I know you’d never do anything to hurt your Mama deliberately. I don’t feel hurt by you. I feel hurt by Amanda.’

  ‘You should lodge a copy of the will with the bank,’ said Philippe, keen to know its contents.

  ‘I’ll get Mummy to arrange for Sir David to send you one,’ Manolito agreed, seeing a way out of personally telling them what it said.

  ‘So are you going to tell us how you intend to dispose of your assets in the unlikely event of your death?’ Bianca said lightly. ‘Or are we going to have to be kept in the dark till Sir David Napley sends us a copy of the will?’

  Manolito, feeling like an ingrate on top of a traitor, tried to retrieve the situation. ‘It’s very simple, actually,’ he said. ‘Mummy and Anna Clara are my main beneficiaries, but if anything happens to them, Aunt Clara and Magdalena inherit a half of the estate, with the other half going to a charitable foundation, to be set up on my behalf in the name of my father and grandfather.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but it doesn’t seem like a good plan to me, son,’ Bianca said sweetly. ‘What if something should happen to Clara and Magdalena? Surely you’re not leaving things in such a way that they can dissipate your poor father’s fortune on those husbands of theirs.’ Then, looking at Philippe, she said, ‘Do you remember how poor Ferdie used to grind his teeth at those gigolos Clara was forever picking up? I understand it’s a case of like mother, like daughter.’ Turning back to Manolito, she continued: ‘What number husband is each of them on?’

  ‘Aunt Clara is still married to Uncle Rodolfo…’

  ‘That’s a miracle. Maybe the Pope will make him a saint…’

  ‘And Magdalena just got married for the third time.’

  ‘To another penniless lord?’

  ‘He’s an artist and a very nice guy,’ Manolito answered, intent on ignoring the innuendo. ‘Much nicer than her previous husband, who couldn’t accept the fact that their son was born with a harelip.’

  ‘The sins of the mother are being visited upon that poor child.’

  That was too much for even Manolito. ‘What sins can Magdalena have possibly committed?’ he demanded rather sharply.

  ‘Not Magdalena, silly,’ Bianca said airily, shifting the meaning of what she had said from daughter to mother. ‘Clara’s sins have been visited upon Magdalena. The Bible says that the sins of the parents are visited upon the children even to the third and fourth generation, and, while the Bible does get some things wrong, it didn’t get that wrong. Poor Magdalena. She was always such a sweet and pretty child. Is she still?’

  ‘Yes,’ Manolito said, taking a sip of his champagne, relieved that Bianca had not intended to attack Magdalena through her child.

  ‘So you’re leaving half your father’s money outright to that sister of his, whom he deliberately cut out of his own will, and to her daughter?’

  ‘I think it only fair,’ Manolito said. Bianca could now see that he harboured secret - and dangerous - sympathies for the aunt who had lost the struggle for the Piedraplata family fortune.

  ‘At least you’re doing the right thing by Amanda and Anna Clara,’ Bianca replied, furious that Amanda had trumped her but intent on masking it. ‘That’s lovely, darling. A son should take care of his mother and sister, though I’m surprised that you’ve ignored your other mother and sister. But no hard feelings. I suppose you think we already have enough so leaving us anything else would be superfluous. Although I have to tell you that I don’t see it like that. In fact, I’m rather hurt that you haven’t realized that making a will is about more than the disposition of assets. It’s also about bequeathing people you love some physical proof of your love. By leaving neither your sister Antonia nor myself anything, it’s as if you’re declaring that you don’t really love us. It’s the thought that counts, after all, not the money.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ Manolito said, perilously close to tears, Bianca having succeeded in making him feel even more of a heel than even he had anticipated. However, Amanda’s wary voice still sounded in his thoughts, and he heard himself saying, much to his surprise: ‘I’ll change the will. I’ll leave you and Antonia and Pedro proof of my love in the form of a rare orchid each. That way no one can ever say that I didn’t even mention you in my will, and honour will be maintained all round.’

  Bianca and Philippe were nonplussed. Taking advantage of their unexpected reaction, Manolito drained the champagne from the flute, put it down on the coffee table, leaped to his feet and, rushing over to his stepmother, kissed her. Before she had a chance to catch her breath, he had kissed Philippe on his cheek as well and was out the door.

  It was only afterwards, when he was taking the elevator down to his floor, that Manolito realized how maturely he had handled the situation.

  In fact, he was astonished that he had actually beaten Bianca at her own game, for it was clear to him that she had been angling to get him to change his will in favour of Antonia and herself. While he did not actually wish to believe that Amanda was right about Bianca being a murderess, and while he did not want to accept that it would never be safe to leave even one penny to either her or any of her descendants, on a deeper level he had already accepted that fact and would therefore never leave either of them so much as a penny.

  Manolito was now taking his rightful place upon the stage that the Piedraplata family fortune had created for him. How he performed as he entered adulthood became important, not only to his immediate family but also to the thousands of employees whose fate his conduct might one day affect. The three years between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one were relatively carefree for him. He had gone up to Trinity College Cambridge to read History. Once his gap-year came to an end, he commuted between his room at the university and a flat in London, which he had bought for himself in Hereford Square near South Kensington. It was a bachelor pad but not a typical one, for the area was grander, the rooms bigger and the furnishings more elegant than your average university student’s. Manolito, however, was purposefully low-key at college, so none of the students at Cambridge knew about the vast fortune he had inherited. He preferred it that way too, for he wanted to be known and liked for himself. Like his older stepbrother Pedro, he was only too aware that many people who attached themselves to the very rich had base motives. Unlike Pedro, however, who had given up the struggle for independence by embracing his mother’s wealth while despising the methods by which she had acquired and retained it, Manolito was quietly resolved to keep his integrity.

  Manolito’s life now followed an agreeable rhythm. He saw Amanda and Anna Clara - who lived in London during term time - at least once a fortnight, usually for dinner, but sometimes for lunch or tea and occasionally for the theatre, the opera, or a concert at the Royal Festival Hall. He saw little or nothing of Bianca or Philippe until the holidays, which he still split between the opposing branches of his family, usually spending his time with the Mahfuds in Europe or America, before decamping with Amanda and Anna Clara to Mexico. As he matured, Manolito grew closer to Amanda and Anna Clara, so that the axis of his interest was shifting away from the fascinating world of his stepmother to the less complicated and more straightforward one of his adoptive mother.

  Nevertheless, he saw no reason to choose one over the other, having always taken separate loyalties for granted. To her credit, Amanda did nothing to undermine his fondness for his other family, recognizing that to do so would hurt him and the other innocents, Antonia included, more than Bianca, while his stepmother’s occasional barbs at Amanda’s expense only had the effect of pushing Manolito even closer to the very camp from which she was hoping to keep him.

  This process was also facilitated by an unexpected source. Once Dolores found out that he had gone behind Bianca’s back to draw up his will, she tried every time she saw him to get Manolito to agree to intervene on her behalf with his stepmother for Biancita’s return. She nev
er seemed to understand that he could not do so; and the efforts of Amanda and Anna Clara to get her to accept that no one could do anything to change matters, only drove the young mother to greater fits of despair and ever more frenzied requests for intervention, until Manolito was reluctantly compelled to tell her that he would have to stop seeing her unless she desisted from pressuring him. It did, however, start him thinking about how Amanda must have felt when she was forced into giving up custody of him; and the more he thought about the pain that such a loss must have caused a mother, the more he loosened his ties to Bianca. Loosened - but not broke.

  The problems of Dolores aside, family life in Mexico was, in Manolito’s eyes, as close to absolute harmony as it was possible to have, for Amanda, Anna Clara, Pedro and Dolores were all supportive of the other, each of them wished the other well, and each of them was basically a peaceable and loving human being. It was less exciting but ultimately more fulfilling than the aura of endless but impersonal possibility that pervaded Mahfud family life.

  It was in 1988, at the beginning of his third year at Cambridge, that Manolito met Leila Al Musmahri. An exchange student from Boston University, Leila was at Cambridge for only one term. She was not particularly beautiful, nor was she even especially captivating, at least not upon first acquaintance. What she did have, however, was a quiet intensity that became exceedingly appealing the more Manolito, who was used to intense women, grew to know her.

  He began spending more and more time with Leila. They went out for supper, as friends, and often stayed up half the night talking about the important issues of the day. Leila was very politicized, her background being in its own way as exotic as Manolito’s. She had been born in Libya to the wife of an army officer who was imprisoned for two years by Colonel Gaddafi following his coup against King Idris in 1970. When the Libyan leader concluded that General Al Musmahri would not be a threat to the new regime, he released him and two years later sent him to London as a diplomat. Leila was sent to school at Lady Eden’s in Kensington, and later on to Benenden in the Kent countryside, but not before she had obtained a unique perspective on world affairs. Her father played host to sundry Libyans, Palestinians, Irish Republicans and Eastern Europeans. Then, in her third year at Benenden, he defected and sought political asylum in Britain. His circle suddenly enlarged to include Americans, pro-Palestinian Jews, West Germans and exiled Eastern Europeans, as well as various British politicians and industrialists. Leila consequently had an overview of world politics that few young people have ever enjoyed, and this was enhanced when the family moved to Boston, Massachusetts in 1985. There, they settled into a comfortable but by no means lavish lifestyle, her father having taken up a post as a Middle Eastern expert with Boston University.