by Anne Mather
Dominique sighed, but she did not feel she should press him no matter how curious she felt. At least she had the satisfaction of knowing that her predecessor had not been cast aside in the divorce court. What had Marion said? She hadn't actually said that he had divorced his previous wife. She had merely allowed that assumption to be made.
Giving Salvador a faintly grateful smile, she began to climb the stairs to her room. And as she did so the full enormity of what Frederick Rivas had just told her swept over her. Until now she had been so anxious, trying to find out how soon she could see him she had not actually given a great deal of thought to the state of his injuries, and what burning might entail. To imagine him in great pain, lying alone in that hospital in Rio, with no one to love or care for him, tore her heart into shreds. Whatever he had done, she longed to see him again. Tomorrow, no matter what excuses Salvador might offer, she would go to the hospital of St. Augustine.
CHAPTER NINE
DOMINIQUE scarcely touched her dinner, but she was moved at the way Maurice, the chef, and his wife came to say how sorry they were that Senhor Santos had been injured. Afterwards Salvador got the number of the hospital and the call was put through.
The specialist who had been summoned to deal with the case answered the telephone, and he was able to tell Dominique something of what to expect. Apparently Vincente was injured mainly on one side of his face and there was some concern about his left eye which had been, scorched. Dominique winced as the surgeon described the injuries involved, and the extent of the damage.
'The burns are classed as first degree burns,' he said, clearly, 'although they verge on something more serious. However, there is no possible reason why skin grafts should not take place as soon as the patient is able to take the operations involved, and later, in perhaps six months or a year at most, plastic surgery can eradicate any scarring.'
Dominique listened intently. 'But how is he, doctor?' she asked tremulously. 'Is he in pain?'
'Not at present, senhora. He is under sedation, and there are drugs we can prescribe to alleviate unnecessary suffering. Your husband is a healthy man. There is no reason why he should not recover completely.'
'When - when can I see him?' Dominique could not prevent the question.
The doctor hesitated. 'I believe Senhor Santos prefers that you do not see him yet,' he said, with some concern. 'However, it is my own personal opinion that it is better to face this kind of thing at once, and to delay the inevitable is hardly conducive to recovery in the patient. Obviously he is very conscious that he looks - well, much different. Senhora Santos, do you want to see your husband?' This last was said rather abruptly.
'Of course.'
'Then come, by all means. I have the feeling he is in rather a depressed state just at the moment. It may be that your presence will remove his tension.'
Dominique wondered whether she ought to tell the doctor something of the situation between herself and Vincente and then stifled the thought. Vincente would hate the idea of any stranger being told of his private affairs.
After she had rung off Salvador said: 'You are going?'
'Tomorrow,' she nodded. 'Will you take me?'
Salvador shrugged. 'Of course. But I hope you are not making a mistake.'
'I've got to see him,' she replied blankly, and he nodded.
In the morning she dressed with care, choosing a slim- fitting suit of navy blue silk, edged with white. The skirt was short and had an inverted pleat at the front, while the jacket was box-shaped with three-quarter sleeves. She plaited her hair into its coronet and then studied her reflection critically. She looked cool and detached, and she prayed she could maintain that appearance.
It was quite an experience driving to Rio. She had not been through the mountains before by road, and the steep passes and precipices took her mind from the ordeal in front of her. For it was an ordeal, contemplating what Vincente's reaction might be. If he was furiously angry with her, she thought she would die.
They reached Rio before noon, and drove at once to the hospital. It was a huge modern building, and inside it was clinically white and impersonal. Dominique thought that life and death passed side by side along these corridors and she shivered at the realization. She had never felt so fanciful before.
The reception desk was occupied by a white-clad assistant who immediately contacted a doctor by telephone and Dominique waited impatiently for him to come to speak with her. She had asked Salvador to accompany her, but when the doctor appeared, and invited her into a small office that opened off the entrance hall, Salvador held back, and Dominique went in alone.
The doctor introduced himself as Manoel Verrez, and after Dominique had seated herself he explained that he was in charge of her husband's case in a general way. The specialist who had treated his injuries the previous evening and the surgeon who would perform the skin grafts were at present occupied with their work, and he had been detailed to put her in the picture.
Dominique listened as he explained that Vincente was recovering quite satisfactorily from the shock of the explosion, and that although a dressing had been put on his eye, his cheek was exposed to the air which might be rather harrowing for Dominique to see.
'He is in the intensive care unit,' went on Doctor Verrez. 'It is a special plastic unit attached to the hospital and is used to dealing with cases of this kind.'
'How long will he be in hospital?' asked Dominique.
'Hmmm!' Doctor Verrez cupped his chin with his hand. 'I am not certain. Four - maybe five weeks in all. And then later he will return for the plastic surgery.'
'Is - is that necessary?' asked Dominique faintly.
'Plastic surgery? No, it is not necessary! But we find it is the usual progression of a case of this kind.'
Dominique shook her head. 'So much surgery,' she murmured, almost to herself. 'So many operations! Oh, DoctorVerrez, can I see him?'
The doctor smiled. 'I do not see why not. Does he know you are coming?'
'Actually - no. But the specialist I spoke with last evening suggested that it might be a good idea if I came.'
'Very well. Come. We will go up to the private ward where he is at present. Come!'
Salvador remained in the reception hall while Dominique entered the lift and rode up to the third floor with Doctor Verrez. Her heart was beating rapidly, and she felt almost sick with apprehension.
They walked along a white-tiled corridor to a room at the far end, but before entering it they entered the Ward Sister's office. She looked up and smiled when she saw Doctor Verrez. He introduced Dominique, and the Sister viewed her with rather disturbed eyes.
'I do not believe your husband is prepared for your reactions to his injuries yet, Senhora Santos,' she said carefully. 'And at the moment he has a visitor.'
Dominique's heart sank. 'A visitor?' she echoed blankly, wondering who this might be. Could it be Sophia? Or even Claudia? Or someone she had yet to meet?
'But yes,' said Sister Sanchez calmly. 'It is the Senhorita Santos, the Senhor's sister.'
'Isabella!' exclaimed Dominique, in surprise. 'But I thought—'
The Sister nodded. 'You are thinking that she is a novice at the convent, are you not?'
'Well, yes.'
'Apparently the Mother Superior has granted her special dispensation to visit with her brother. After all, apart from yourself, she is his only living relative, is she not?'
Dominique turned scarlet. She didn't know. She didn't know.
'I - I—' she began unhappily, when Doctor Verrez said:
'Perhaps it would be as well if Senhora Santos went in while Senhorita Santos is there,' he suggested. 'After all, it will be less of an ordeal for both of them that way.'
'Of course. That might be a good idea,' agreed Sister Sanchez. 'Would you like me to accompany you, senhora?'
Dominique shook her head. 'No. No, that won't be necessary. Will - will you show me which room ...'
The door was straight ahead, at the foot of the c
orridor, and nodding her thanks to the Sister and to Doctor Verrez, Dominique walked slowly to the door. Then, with determined efforts, she turned the handle and entered the room.
At first, she was terrified, not only of Vincente's anger, but of her own inadequacy. She was afraid she might be unable to prevent herself from showing some emotion, some faint revulsion, at the sight of his scarred face. But she found that she was only conscious of a sense of relief that he was there, alive, and his injuries, ugly though they appeared, were nothing compared to the surge of love and anxiety she felt for him and him alone.
He was lying against his pillows, dressed in dark pyjamas that darkened his already swarthy complexion, and threw into prominence the pale, livid flesh of the left side of his face. As the doctor had warned her his eye was concealed by a dressing, while the rest of his face had reddened patches of skin where the explosion had slightly scorched it. Thankfully, his forehead and nose were unscathed, and in consequence his hair had not had to be cut back.
At her entrance the girl who was sitting at the far side of the bed rose to her feet, but Dominique was only conscious of her as a dark-robed figure; her attention was centred on Vincente. His good right eye was immediately turned in her direction, and as she watched she saw his face register a procession of emotions, most powerful of them all being a violent angry rejection of her presence.
'Por Dios, Dominique!' he muttered furiously. 'What are you doing here? I told them to tell you not to come!'
Dominique almost shrank back from the anger in his voice. 'Vincente—' she began unsteadily, unsure as to whether her traitorous emotions might betray her once again.
The girl, whom Dominique recognized from the photograph in Vincente's apartment, said: 'Your wife has the right to see you - to comfort you, Vincente,' in a calm, gentle voice.
Dominique glanced at her and then returned her gaze to her husband. Vincente, who had moved restively when he saw his wife, sank back against his pillows as though exhausted by the effort, and said harshly:
'Dominique has no rights as far as I am concerned!'
Dominique stared at him incredulously, then Vincente's sister moved round the bed to her side, and said: 'I am Isabella Santos, Vincente's sister.'
Dominique summoned all her small store of composure. 'Yes - yes, I know. I - I'm only sorry we had to meet in such circumstances.'
Isabella smiled. She was very calm, very composed, and very beautiful in the plain robes of a novice.
'Come,' she said. 'Sit down. I am just leaving.'
'No!' Vincente's voice was imperative. 'Isabella, please. Stay!'
Dominique twisted the strap of her handbag tightly. 'I - I think perhaps I ought to go,' she began awkwardly, aware that she could not stand much more of Vincente's antagonism. Not after the emotional strain she had been suffering.
'Nonsense!' exclaimed Isabella sharply. 'My brother is too conscious of himself. He is under the false impression that appearances are everything.'
'Isabella! For God's sake,' muttered Vincente wearily. 'Can't you see she's positively dying to get away again? Not that I blame her. I'm sure my face is enough to make anyone feel positively sick!'
'That's not true!' cried Dominique, turning to him. 'Do you honestly think I care what you look like! Heavens, I'm only glad that you are alive!'
'I find that hard to believe,' said Vincente roughly. 'Surely things would have been much simpler for you if I had been killed!'
'Oh!' Dominique pressed a hand to her lips. 'How can you say such things?'
Isabella gave her brother an impatient glance. 'Stop it, Vincente! Can't you see Dominique is practically at the end of her tether? It must have been a terrible shock for her—'
'Get out! Both of you!' muttered Vincente, sliding down on his pillows and staring at the ceiling of the small private ward. 'I'm tired.'
Dominique looked at Isabella, and with a faint sigh and a shake of her head Isabella indicated that they should do as he suggested so brutally.
Outside in the corridor, Dominique broke down completely, and Doctor Verrez who appeared just then looked very disturbed.
'Senhora Santos!' he exclaimed, in astonishment. 'Was his appearance such a shock to you? I did warn you—'
'Oh, no,' cried Dominique, 'it's not his appearance. I - I can't explain. Excuse me.'
She hurried off down the corridor, and after a few moments Isabella followed her. She put her arm around Dominique, and they entered the lift together.Downstairs Salvador hurried to meet them, greeting Isabella warmly, and kissing her hand. Isabella spoke with him rapidly in their own language which Dominique simply could not follow, and then Salvador nodded, and with one on either side of her Dominique left the hospital.
They went to the car, and Isabella helped Dominique into the back and then slid in beside her while Salvador got into the front seat as usual.
'Now,' said Isabella, in English, 'we will go to a hotel I know here in Rio. Once there we can talk, and maybe salvage something from this mess.'
Dominique nodded, and leaned back against the upholstery of the car weakly. In all her vain imaginings she had not really believed Vincente would reject her so completely. It wasn't only his appearance, she was sure. He could no longer bear the sight of her.
They went to the Hotel Maria Magdalena, and Dominique tried to forget the memories this hotel invoked. Was it only three weeks since she had arrived in Brazil so light- heartedly? So many things had happened that it seemed like a lifetime ago!
Isabella, with some of her brother's assurance, arranged for a suite of rooms to be put at their disposal for the afternoon. Then Salvador departed about some business of his own and the two girls went up in the lift to their apartments.
It was very hot, and already most of the populace were indulging in the usual afternoon siesta. But Dominique did not feel tired, although she had a severe headache, and would have appreciated some time alone to collect herself. However, Isabella seemed to sense this for she suggested that Dominique might like to rest in one of the bedrooms while she arranged for some lunch to be served in the suite.
Dominique insisted she wanted nothing to eat, but when Isabella tapped on her door later and produced a tray of light snacks and sandwiches, accompanied by fresh fruit and coffee, she managed to swallow some of the food and immediately felt better equipped to face what was to come.
Isabella seemed disposed to talk, and seated herself on the end of the bed and said, rather disconcertingly: 'What has happened between you and Vincente? Why is he so antagonistic towards his bride of only three days?'
Dominique put away her coffee cup and reached for her cigarettes. 'Didn't he tell you?' she asked, putting a cigarette between her lips and lighting it with rather shaky fingers.
'No,' replied Isabella calmly. 'If he had done so I should not be asking you. I am not being unnecessarily curious. It's just that - well, I love my brother, and I do not like to see him so unhappy.'
'Unhappy?' echoed Dominique. 'He's not unhappy. At least, that wasn't the impression I gained. He - he seems to hate me!'
'Oh, I think not,' exclaimed Isabella sharply. 'I do know my brother perhaps rather better than you do. I can tell when - well, I believe he is brooding about something. Can't you - couldn't you tell me?'
Dominique sighed. How could she explain to Isabella about their row? How could she tell her that it was to do with her - with her and John Harding?
Finally she said: 'I - he didn't tell me he had been married before.'
'I see.' Isabella nodded. 'Tell me something, Dominique, how long did you know my brother - before you married him?'
Dominique flushed. 'Not very long.'
'It was an instant attraction, then?'
'You could say that,' agreed Dominique cautiously.
'And so I suppose you got to know very little about one another - about one another's affairs - before you actually got married.'
'That's right.'
'What do you actually know about Vincente?
Do you know his background?'
Dominique stared at her. 'No. I know nothing - absolutely nothing. Oh, it's difficult to explain -1 expect it sounds completely crazy to you, but - well, words were not important between us. Not then. And after—' She sighed. 'We didn't have time. I only know what Salvador has told me. Will you tell me about Vincente? Will you tell me how he became what he is? When I arrived here, he seemed violently aroused when I discussed the poverty of some of the people, and later he made some remark about not having always known this kind of life. I didn't understand him, and he wouldn't explain. Will you?'
Isabella rose to her feet and paced to the window, staring pensively out at the view. Then she looked back at Dominique and smiled.
'I'll tell you a little,' she offered quietly. 'I will tell you what I think you should know.'
'Yes?' Dominique was expectant.
'Yes.' Isabella sighed. 'To begin with, Vincente and I are not - how shall I put it? - er - solitary children. Hmm, we have brothers and sisters, but we do not know them.'
Dominique stared at her in surprise. 'What do you mean?'
Isabella shrugged. 'Our parents were very poor. There were, I believe, nine of us. But our parents could not afford to keep us, and we ran the streets, like those children you saw in the favellas, yes?'
'Yes.'
'You do not know what it is like to be poor, I can see that. Believe me, I do not mean to sound patronizing, but unless one has experienced that kind of existence, one cannot understand the complete and utter degradation of not having shoes or clothes, or even combs for our hair. We were thin and ragged, but we were together, Vincente and I. He was much older than me, of course, and much wiser, I am sure.' She smiled. 'One day a man came to the favellas. He was a business man. My father had been working for one of his companies, and he had stolen some money. The man threatened to call the police. My father begged and pleaded, he told him he had a large family to support, and that we would starve if he was taken away.'
She sounded slightly bitter, and Dominique realized that their father had not been entirely truthful in his estimation of his value to the rest of the family.
