I agreed. Just thinking about Gavin brought Francine to mind. It was like a shock - I knew I had to deal with that and for the life of me I had no idea how I would broach the subject. Subtlety had never been a virtue of mine and when it came to matters of the heart...well, things had gone badly wrong in the past.
A few years back, I’d been romantically involved with two women at the same time, then also too afraid to break off one of the relationships, frightened of the reaction that would result, or worse, maybe losing both in the process. It had truly been a messy business, and guess what? I lost them both in the end anyway.
“I think I’m going to leave the States and live in South Africa. In fact, I’m going to resign immediately we get back. After all, I’m your fiancée. What do you think?” She smiled.
What did I think? I should have been elated, but I wasn’t. I cringed at the thought of Francine hearing that in the past days that we had been separated, Maria had unofficially become my fiancée.
It was a total fuck up, and I hadn’t even spoken to Francine yet! Selling my share in the business followed by emigration was a possible option.
“A fantastic idea,” I responded weakly. “But first sort your things out in the States so you don’t have to go back and tie up any loose ends,” I suggested, hoping that it would give me sufficient time to sort my love life out. God, everybody would consider me a despicable bastard if I broke off with Francine for another woman.
Our discussion was interrupted by the harsh noise of the satellite phone. I answered.
Gavin and I greeted one another.
“Gavin, listen, a lot has happened. I can’t say anymore other than that our problem - you know what I’m referring to - has been so-to-say resolved. Don’t ask any questions... please! We’re a day away from Maraciabo, in Venezuela. Please leave from wherever you are as soon as possible, Maria and I need to be picked up. We are on a cabin cruiser, the ‘Dream Island’. You’ll find us in the La Nautico yacht basin.”
He wanted to give the phone to Francine who was shouting that she wanted to speak to me. I begged off, saying it was not a good idea to be using the satellite phone now, there a risk of eavesdroppers. He seemed to understand.
The next day we docked in Venezuela in the small boat harbour of Maraciabo, where a huge flotilla of yachts was moored. Venezuela’s oil drew a large contingent of Americans and most of the boats belonged to Americans who worked in the country for the large petroleum corporations. More English was spoken in the yacht club than Spanish was!
We moored to the main jetty, the property of the yacht club. The club managed and controlled all access to the jetty. Hardly had we tied up, when we were approached by an immigration official accompanied by two members of the local carbinieri. The officer spoke fair English. He requested our passports and gave us each a form to complete. Only Maria and I had passports. I explained to the immigration officer that we had run into a storm while out of Cayman Brac, that the boat had been damaged, and that we were forced to proceed west in order to ride out the storm.
” Maraciabo was the nearest safe harbour,” I said trying to sound convincing.
“Yes, I know about the storm. It affected most islands. There was even a hurricane warning. A few other sailing yachts were also caught up in it,” he said sympathetically. He gesticulated at Maria and I. “You two can enter, but the others must stay here and not leave the confines of the yacht harbour. Please, the carbinieri will be watching. When will you be leaving again?”
I told him that we were waiting for an executive jet to collect us, which we expected to arrive at Maraciabo Airport today. The mention of an executive jet seemed to impress him. I also said that the yacht had suffered some damage, and that we thought we might have to have it repaired here, as there was no such repair facility on Cayman Brac. He referred me to Eduardo’s Chandlers and Boat Locker, pointing out the sign on the other side of the basin. There I could see a number of yachts, which were undergoing repairs and refurbishment.
He produced a rubber stamp and with a flourish stamped both my and Maria’s passports permitting us to stay in the country for ten days.
It had been a lot easier than I thought. I did not report John Senior’s death. We had discussed this and John was adamant that it be left to him to report his father’s death on his return to Cayman Brac.
We all needed a wash, new clothing and a solid meal, in that order. The yacht harbour had a number of small stalls and shops, which sold those items yachtsmen would generally be looking for. I paid for clean clothes, towels and toiletries, then entered the club and asked permission to use their ablution facilities. This was granted on payment of a small fee.
An hour later, we all met in front of the restaurant, our appearance that of a happy crew, glad to be on land after a long sea voyage.
Everyone was starving and we literally ate our way through the menu - starters, fish, and steaks, bottles of wine and mineral water.
We had not finished our main course when I saw Gavin enter the restaurant with his wife and Francine in tow.
There were smiles, kisses and hugs all round as everybody was introduced. Francine swept into my arms and gave me a long lingering kiss. I had to respond so as not to start the reunion off on the wrong foot, but I could feel Maria’s eyes locked on my back as she took it all in.
The three of them had not yet eaten and joined us at the table. Francine found a chair and forced Maria to shift up a place so that she could squeeze in between us, as if she rightly belonged there. Gavin sat next to me on the other side.
Fortunately, the table was not in close proximity to other diners and we were able to speak with little chance of being overheard provided we kept our voices down.
After some small talk, I began to relate the events, which had occurred since I had last seen them. What amazed me was that Gavin showed little surprise at Trichardt’s attempts to get at us.
“You know Peter; I have to say that we got off lightly. Had we stayed any longer in South Africa and left the matter unresolved, I believe Trichardt would have run out of patience and things would have gone badly wrong. At least the vendetta has ended.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I believe no-one else knows about the diamonds. I think Trichardt mostly kept this to himself and any ideas of seeking revenge disappeared with him and his merry men. Nobody will disbelieve Johnny’s story - after all, the man washed overboard was his father. Be happy! We’re wealthy men!”
Gavin smiled and raised his glass. “Here’s to us. And, especially to you. What do they say? You’re a friend indeed.”
I suddenly noticed that Maria’s chair was empty.
“Where’s Maria?” I asked Francine.
“I don’t know. She wasn’t very talkative; maybe she wasn’t feeling well - you’ve had quite an ordeal. I asked if she was feeling all right. She said it was the after-shock, you know, everything that has happened during the last few days finally got to her. She said she just wanted to rest,” Francine said quietly.
Just wanted to rest? I knew that had to be bullshit. Rest where? Onboard the cruiser? Never! Something was up. I started to get up from the table.
“Where are you going?” Gavin asked.
“I’m just going to find Maria.”
He tut-tutted. “Just sit down - let somebody else go. She’s got to be around somewhere.” He turned to his wife and asked her to find Maria. “Probably gone to powder her nose,” he laughed.
I told Gavin that Maria and I had discussed compensating Johnny and the Campbell’s for their losses and the trouble they had been through for us. He was in total agreement and said that I should just give him a sum that I thought would be fair.
Trudy, Gavin’s wife, returned and said she had been unable to find Maria, despite looking everywhere. Francine was watching me intently, so I decided to wait.
Another
half hour passed and still there was no sign of Maria. I was now concerned. My imagination kicked into gear, my mind full of the craziest ideas as to what might have happened to her. Fortunately, everybody then got up from the table, and Johnny and I walked off to find Maria.
I strolled over to the reception desk in the restaurant to settle the bill with my credit card. The manager called me aside.
“Senor. Are you Peter van Onselen?”
“Si?”
He handed me an envelope.
“Senor, the lady who was at your table asked that I give it to you, but said that I was to wait until you had finished lunch.”
“Thank you,” I said and stuck the envelope into my pocket. I gave him a ten-dollar note not realising that this was extremely generous by Venezuelan standards.
“What was that about?” Francine asked.
“Nothing, just a few brochures showing what this club has to offer to those yachtsmen who sleep over,” I lied.
My explanation appeared to mollify her. Of, course I realized that the envelope had to be from Maria. I had a premonition that something was amiss, which left me with a feeling of dread and foreboding. I desperately wanted to read the letter.
“Come on Peter. Let’s go back to our hotel. I’m sure Maria will eventually arrive. She knows where it is,” Gavin said.
Gavin had booked into the Hyatt Maracaibo Hotel the night before. The club concierge called a cab; we all piled in and drove off to the hotel leaving those without passports at the yacht club.
On arrival I convinced Francine to go to the room and that I would follow later, as I wanted to first kit myself out with clothes and shoes. At first, she was reluctant to leave me but eventually agreed, and we parted in the foyer. I promised to come up within an hour.
As soon as she had disappeared into the elevator, I walked to the lounge, sat down at a table in a quiet corner, and pulled the envelope from my pocket.
Dearest Peter,
Words cannot express the love I feel for you. You awakened in me a fire that I have never felt before. Not to be with you is an agony I can hardly bear.
I see in you a man of compassion and understanding; you are ambitious and brave but also very aware of your own weaknesses and shortcomings. You are any woman’s dream, and so easy to manipulate because you love women so much!
Until we met up with Francine today, I did not doubt our commitment to one another: after all, you had said that I was your fiancée.
That was beautiful.
I never pressed you - you just suddenly came out with it. It is a moment I will cherish forever.
That short while that I spent in the restaurant next to Francine and you made me acutely aware of a number of things I had not previously realized.
Francine is deeply in love with you. She is also the opposite of me. She was born to be a loving wife, to mother a horde of children (I think you would be a great father), run an efficient household. In fact, I believe her to be the ideal person to look after you and your family.
She’d also forgive you your indiscretions.
I don’t think I could fill that role. I’m not the mothering type, nor do I aspire to be the exemplary wife. I think the things I do for a living and my country have impacted severely on my life, and if we were to share our lives, I’m sure there would come a time when you would seriously question the wisdom of our union.
Also, I know you: you will be indiscreet and I would never forgive you.
Maybe I’m a coward when it comes to love but I also don’t believe it would last. I don’t think you deserve that. So, this is adieu.
I am truly sorry.
On the upside, we are now millionaires many times over. I will transfer $200,000 into your account here in the Caymans, this being my contribution to Bess, Christopher, and John. I leave to you as to how best these funds should be distributed.
Marry Francine, she’ll be good to you- she certainly loves you.
Ever loving
Maria
I felt numb with devastation. Something I deeply cherished had been wrenched from me. I did not know how to get hold of her and I probably wouldn’t find her anyway: she was a past master at disappearing.
“Can I get you anything, sir?” the waiter asked.
“Yes, a double Black Label on the rocks.”
After an hour and a half and five doubles, I finally got over the worst of the shock. In fact, I was drunk.
“For Chrissake, what are you doing here? God, you’re pissed out of your mind!” I heard Gavin’s voice and looked up to see him staring down at me.
I feebly grinned at him, withdrew the letter from my pocket, and handed it to him. He smoothed it out on the table and then read it. You have to realize that he was my one true friend even though at times he procrastinated and sometimes put an impenetrable wall around himself, which drove me insane. A true puritan at heart, religious and always concerned for the well-being of others: although if you put it to him that he was a do-gooder, he’d emphatically deny this.
He read the letter in silence, his face expressionless. Then he slowly folded it and handed it back to me.
He looked at me, his voice barely above a whisper. I could hear that he felt my hurt.
“I’m truly sorry; Peter and I feel for you. But to be honest, I’m both sorry and glad.”
God, I thought, he’s being an asshole again. He’s glad! I felt my anger rise and I spluttered. “Fuck you, Gavin.”
“Stop and listen!” he hissed. “Let me finish, don’t start acting like a drunken sod.” He hesitated for a second. “I agree with her - isn’t that strange? As beautiful as she is, I mean, she can stoke any man’s fire, I really don’t believe she was ever intended for you. I honestly believe that ultimately you both would’ve ended up being unhappy. She’s right, you know, Francine loves you. I mean, we’ve spent days with her and we know. This is the best thing. Peter, what you have to remember is this, that she knew it even if you didn’t.”
Being as drunk as I was, his words were sufficient to bring tears to my eyes, and they rolled down my cheeks. Whether this was indeed sorrow or merely self-pity brought on by the scotch, I’ll never know.
I was a mess.
Gavin smiled. “Come on friend, let me select some clothes. Francine told me that was what you had gone to do.”
Led by Gavin, I staggered out of the hotel.
Chapter Forty-Two
Edward Street in George Town on Grand Cayman is the business centre of the Cayman banking world. It is also the address of a few revered firms of attorneys and barristers. Doolittle, Morris, and James were one of them. Their chambers took up two floors of an impressive two-storey building, built when Britain’s empire was at its peak.
That this was so was evident in the interior design and décor of the building. The woodwork and floors were the best of British oak, as were the furnishings, covered in dark red leather.
Johnny Campbell was uncomfortable in his suit. The day was hot and he was perspiring, but he hoped it did not show. He hesitantly approached the reception desk, where a young black woman smiled up at him.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Unsure of himself, he handed her the letter in his hand. She perused it.
“You are here to see Mr. James? We are expecting you. You are a few minutes late,” she chided him, “but not to worry, it’s only a few minutes. Please follow me.”
She led him into what he thought to be a conference room, with a long table surrounded by cushioned ornate chairs similar to those found in a dining room. Heavy damask curtains framed the large small-paned wooden windows, the sun streaming in. An elderly man in a dark suit with half frame glasses sat at the head of the table surrounded by papers. Johnny was surprised to see both Christopher and Bess seated at the table, Bess looking prim in
a floral dress with a handbag and a ridiculous hat perched on her head. Christopher, like him, was dressed in a dark suit, looking just as uncomfortable.
The old man smiled genially.
“Ah, Mr John Campbell, at last. Let me start again, now that we are all gathered. I am Robert James and I’ve been appointed to act as a correspondent on behalf of Singh, Shapiro and du Toit, a group of attorneys who were appointed as trustees in the estate of late Peter Gueshoo.”
The old man looked up from his papers.
“Do you know him?”
“Never heard of him”, said Johnny without hesitation.
“Neither have we. Are you sure you looking for us?” asked Christopher.
The elderly man harrumphed, not happy at the insinuation that he could be dealing with the wrong people.
He read off the names, which included that of John Senior and asked the three to confirm these.
“There’s no doubt you are the correct people,” Mr James said. “Now let’s get down to it. I’ll read that part of the will that relates to you.”
“This is a will from somebody? Where?” Christopher asked equally surprised.
“South Africa,” the attorney replied.
The three Caymanians could not believe what they were hearing. An amount of $150,000 had been bequeathed to each of them. Johnny was to receive $300,000; this included the $150,000 that his father would have received but which was now his. Furthermore, the attorney said to Johnny that, should he be willing to undergo surgery to correct his crippled leg in the United States, all expenses in this respect would be borne by the estate of the late Peter Gueshoo, and all requests for payment in this regard were to be served on the offices of Doolittle, Morris, and James.
The lawyer obtained their signatures to various documents and then handed them each a rather impressive looking cheque, beautifully handwritten by somebody who knew calligraphy, drawn on a Caymanian Bank. The drawer account was the trust account of Doolittle, Morris and James. Two impressive signatures appeared below the firm’s name. He then led them to the door, smiled and shook their hands.
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