by Flora Kidd
During the next few days, however, Brooke discovered that although her stranger husband was away his presence and personality were to be felt in the arrangements he had made for herself and Megan to adjust to life in Caracas. He had left instructions with Dolores to take them both to the office of an orthopaedic specialist so that the little girl could be examined and new exercises approved for her to do at home. She was also taken to a physician to have a thorough medical check-up. Arrangements were made for Brooke to take the local driving test so that she could drive the small European car which was for her use. Indeed, Brooke felt that there wasn’t anything which Owen had left undone to ensure that the adjustment was made smoothly, and she could not help but admire and be grateful for his foresight.
With Dolores’ help she learned to find her way into Caracas and back again in the little car, and with Pilar’s assistance she managed to have an afternoon’s shopping spree in the city to find more clothes suitable for the pleasant climate of the city. Quelling a twinge of conscience which she experienced on using Owen’s bank account for the first time, she splurged a little on the clothes because the house in which she lived made her feel shabby.
To her great delight she had found that there was a swimming pool in the pleasant grounds surrounding the Casa Estaban. It was situated at the back of the house and was screened from the house by white trelliswork over which the vivid blooms of bougainvillea tumbled in profusion. Around the limpid blue of the pool was an apron of rough stone and on that were set some small white ironwork tables over which huge gaudy umbrellas cast a shade. Loungers and gaily coloured canvas deck chairs were set around the tables.
In the pool Brooke gave Megan exercises for her legs every morning, knowing that the performance of such exercises in the warm water would strengthen the child’s weak muscles and help her to walk more quickly. Although timid of the water at first the girl was soon enjoying her morning activity. Brooke too enjoyed the opportunity of swimming and diving twice a day.
She had been in Caracas a week and was beginning to feel more at home as she managed a few more words of Spanish every day, when she first met Miguel Perez. He came in the morning, just after Pilar, always vigilant and kind, had taken Megan off to the house, leaving Brooke to enjoy a few moments in the water to herself.
After executing a few dives and swimming slowly up and down the pool she pulled herself lazily up the steps intending to sunbathe for a while. Removing her white bathing cap, she shook out her hair which glinted and glowed in the sunlight.
“Juan told me much about you, but not that you are a goddess stepped right out of the pages of some saga about the Vikings.”
She whirled in surprise. A tall slim man stood under one of the umbrellas. As she stared at him he came forward and she could see he had finely-moulded aquiline features, dark deep-set eyes and sleek black hair. He was elegantly dressed in a well-cut pale fawn suit and a dark red shirt which was open at the neck to reveal a cream and red neckerchief casually knotted around his throat. In one hand he carried a rakish wide- brimmed, high-crowned, cream-coloured hat woven from some coarse tough fibre and in the other he held a smoking fragrant cigar.
He placed the hat down on the table under the umbrella and held out a slim brown hand.
“I am Miguel Perez. I am delighted to meet you,” he said, speaking English with the slightest of American accents.
“I’m pleased to meet you too, Senor Perez,” replied Brooke with a smile.
“Miguel, please. I knew your father well and he talked about you often, so I feel that we’re not strangers at all. May I be permitted to call you Brooke?”
“Please do,” said Brooke, picking up her towelling wrap and pulling it on and tying the belt. “Will you come into the house and take some refreshment?”
“Another time. To-day I have only half an hour to spare. A man in my position has not much time during the day for socializing. After dark,” he smiled charmingly and shrugged his square flat shoulders, “well, that is different. May we sit here and talk?”
They sat down at the small table, their eyes busy taking in one another’s appearance. He was really very handsome in a dark Venezuelan way, thought Brooke, and she guessed he was about the same age as Owen.
“And how do you like Caracas?” he asked.
“It is a beautiful city and I love the climate. I haven’t had time yet to see many places....”
“You must let me show you some of our more attractive buildings. Owen is away, I believe,” he said.
Recalling the off-hand way Owen had replied when she had asked him if he had known Miguel Perez, Brooke was surprised to hear the Venezuelan refer to her husband by his first name.
“Yes, he is.”
“He and I went to school together,” he went on, as if wishing to explain how he came to be on a first name relationship with Owen. “My mother is a cousin of his stepmother. They visited often. Owen and I used to play at bullfights. He was el toro, the bull, and I was, quite naturally el torero, the bullfighter.”
“Who won?” asked Brooke, amused and delighted by this memory of a make-believe boyish game.
“I did, of course,” he replied, a faint reminiscent smile tugging at the corners of his wide thin-lipped mouth. “Sometimes Owen would use his superior physical strength to overwhelm me and then of course it would cease to be a bullfight and became a game of Rugby, or so he called it. He had Welsh cousins who played that game and I think he longed secretly to go to Wales and play it himself.”
“Are there still bullfights in Venezuela?” asked Brooke. Miguel was really very charming and had given her another new sidelight on Owen.
“There is no real season for them, but some are held every year. I shall take you to one.”
“But I’m not sure....”
“But I am. I am not related to Owen, but I am related to his stepmother and I’m going to use that as an excuse to take you out. Bullfights are not now as popular as the game of baseball, which is the national sport. Will you dine with me this evening and then we
can talk about your father? Will it be possible?”
“I think so.” Brooke felt sure that Pilar would look after Megan for an evening.
“Then I shall bring my sister Manuela to meet you and dine with us. She liked your father too. We, my whole family and I, have great affection and respect for him. He is a great and clever man.”
“Thank you,” said Brooke, touched by his sincerity. “I’ll be interested to hear more about the search for him. You see, I’m quite sure that he is alive, and I hope that you’ll continue to search for him.”
“Owen has suggested this to you?” he asked.
“No. But I have told him too that I feel that my father is still alive.”
“What did he say?”
“That it is possible. Do you think it is possible?”
“There is a remote possibility, but very remote. I would not like to raise your hopes too much in case I have to be the one to dash them down again,” Miguel said slowly. “It was some time before we knew that Tony was missing and so the search did not begin until several weeks after he was last seen. We did not know he was missing, in fact, until Owen told us.”
“Owen told you? But I don’t understand. Why should he be the one to tell you? My father worked for the government, not for Owen’s company.”
“I know. But it’s necessary for expert drillers to accompany a geologist to find out if his surveying is accurate. Owen was down at the site where your father was surveying. He went personally because his company were using a new type of drill which they had just manufactured and he wanted to see if they were successful. He talked to your father and was the last person to see him before he disappeared.”
His last statement, uttered coolly, almost casually, shocked her. She wondered why Owen had deliberately and almost cruelly withheld such a piece of information from her.
“You are surprised,” observed Miguel, and she glanced quickly at him. His dark eyes
were watching her closely, and he must have noticed the sudden blanching of her cheeks.
“Yes, I am.”
“Then Owen did not tell you,” he said. “But you had other matters to discuss with him, perhaps. The news of his second marriage came as a great surprise to me. I had thought ...” He paused, frowned, evidently reconsidered what he had been about to say and discarded it. Instead he said, “You would know about Owen from your father. Tony must have written to you about him.”
“No. Actually Owen and I met by coincidence.” Brooke had an unexpected memory of the incident of the shoe, and laughter lit her face. “At a party, given by a friend,” she explained. “Then I found out that he was the father of a patient of mine. I’m a physiotherapist.”
“That is interesting. The courtship must have been swift,” he remarked with a touch of dryness.
“We married because he wanted someone to care for Megan. She is not yet completely recovered from the accident.”
“Poor little girl,” he murmured, and the compassion expressed in his dark eyes and in his soft voice made her like him even more. “Then I can understand the swiftness on Owen’s part. He is a methodical man and would have to have a good sound reason for taking such a step. He is, as you say in English, a chip off the old block and like his father. Even Inez Estaban has not been able to soften or smooth the corners of her piece of Welsh rock.”
“That was something else Owen didn’t tell me,” said Brooke. “I didn’t know he had a stepmother.”
“His own mother, who came out here with his father, died soon after Owen was born, from a tropical disease which she picked up when accompanying Ivor on his travels up and down South America. Ivor married Inez for much the same reason Owen has married you, to provide a mother for his child. He also knew that she belonged to an important and respected family who would help him get his business established. Inez married Ivor, I suspect, for financial security and received it for bringing up Owen. She taught him Spanish so that he regards it as his mother tongue, and when in this country he regards himself as Venezuelan, which he is, of course, by birth. But in most ways he never behaves like one. He tends to keep his emotions bottled up, a dangerous thing to do, because bottles sometimes explode and then damage is done.” With a quick lithe movement he stood up and smiled down at her, holding
out his hand.
“Forgive me. I should not be talking to a new bride like that about her husband. I must go now. I shall call for you at eight o’clock this evening. Until then, adios, Brooke.”
He left her and walked across the grass with an easy graceful stride, setting the wide-brimmed hat at a jaunty angle on his head, a fascinating, handsome man who was a mixture of that warmth, gaiety and shrewdness which Brooke was fast discovering were some of the typical characteristics of the Venezuelans.
She was ready a little before eight, having taken great care with her appearance. In one of her shopping sprees she had bought a simple midnight blue dinner gown which played up her white skin and torch-like hair. She wished she had some good jewellery to wear with it, but she possessed only her wedding ring and a golden chain which had belonged to her mother.
She felt excited as she waited in the wide entrance hall for Miguel to arrive. After all, it was her first time out in the evening since she had come to Caracas and she was looking forward to seeing the bright lights and to being escorted by a handsome Venezuelan who would know his way around.
He was on time and although Brooke answered the door herself Pilar was there to watch their departure, with a slight frown of disapproval on her face.
Miguel’s hand was warm on Brooke’s bare elbow as he guided her outside to the long dark ear in which he had come. He opened the door to the back of the car. The interior light was on and shone on the olive-tinted face and shining black hair of the woman who sat there.
“Manuela, this is Brooke, Owen’s wife,” said Miguel.
“Brooke, this is my sister Manuela Perez.”
The woman, who was about thirty years of age, smiled, showing shining white teeth and said in a rather dry voice:
“Welcome to Caracas, Brooke. Come and sit beside me.”
“Gracias, senorita,” replied Brooke, and sat down. Miguel sat beside her, closed the door and gave instructions to the chauffeur. The light went off and the car moved forward.
“We are going to the Circulo Fuerzas Armadas, the officers’ club,” explained Miguel. “It is one of the finest in the world,” he added with a touch of the naive boastfulness which had been Juan’s when talking of his country.
“Is it only for army officers?” asked Brooke.
“No. There are certain civilian members like myself. They are admitted after having obtained the signatures of three officer members,” said Miguel. “You will find that members of various diplomatic missions are also afforded membership of the club. There are many facilities, including a hotel, a theatre and a huge ballroom which is often used for international conferences, as well as dancing.”
“Juan tells us that Owen is out of the country,” Manuela interrupted the flow of description as if she were impatient with her brother. “It was a pity he was unable to greet you on your arrival here.”
“But typical,” remarked Miguel. “You should know by now, Manuela, that Owen never lets anything come between him and business.”
Manuela chuckled, a throaty sound which sounded slightly malicious.
“You will guess, perhaps, Brooke, that my brother does not like Owen,” she said.
“Manuela,” warned Miguel softly, “it is unnecessary for us to discuss personal feelings. Brooke will not wish to hear...”
“But I think she should know that you don’t like him and why. You don’t like him because he once succeeded where you failed. For all his lack of manners and polish, El Toro, as you call him so disparagingly, once conquered in a field which you were beginning to regard as entirely yours.”
“That is enough, Manuela.” This time Miguel sounded angry. There was a short, strained silence, then Manuela spoke again, pleasantly and easily as if nothing unusual had happened.
“I also work for the government,” she said. “I am a historian, and I help to keep the record of our country’s history. I also act as a guide to tourists when they visit the Capitol, the seat of government. You must let me take you round some time. Its a beautiful old building.”
“I would like that,” murmured Brooke, glad that the awkward moment had passed, although her mind was busy with the implications of Manuela’s remarks about Owen.
For the rest of the evening brother and sister behaved charmingly to each other and to their guest, and Brooke soon forgot the remarks made about Miguel’s relationship with Owen. They dined in the hotel part of the club where Miguel first introduced Brooke to the drink Ponche Creme, made with a milk base, eggs, sugar and alcohol. The main dish of the meal was hallaca, which consisted of small pieces of chicken, pork, and beef seasoned with olives, raisins and onions all rolled into a layer of corn dough and wrapped in plantain leaves.
After the meal they strolled about the club buildings which, like many others in Caracas, combined the grace and elegance of old Spain with modern construction and fabrics. Each room was named after a famous battle in Venezuelan history, and the room which Brooke found the most interesting was the Salon Carabobo, where there was a huge mural painted in bright colours by the Venezuelan artist Vallenilla.
“It explains our history,” said Miguel. “In this first panel you see the conquistadors arriving and fighting the Indians. See that cloud in the sky, like a serpent? It is a reference to an Indian myth that serpents are seen when doom is near. Look at this old gentleman here, sitting wearily on his horse. He is Don Quijote Alfonso de Ledezman, a nobleman and coloniser. He gave his life for the defence of Caracas. And in this panel here is Simon Bolivar, the Liberator, the greatest man of all time, who freed our country from the rule of Spain and yet died in exile and misery.”
Brooke star
ed up at the painting of the famous man and then glanced at Miguel. There was a likeness between the two men and judging by the expression on Miguel’s face as he gazed up at the picture it was obvious that he admired and would possibly like to emulate the Liberator.
“He was the perfect man,” he murmured. “Brought up on the theories of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, there wasn’t anything he could not do. He was centuries ahead of his time. Do you know he could dance all night and fight a battle the next day?”
“Is it any wonder that he died of tuberculosis?” put in Manuela in her dry way. “He wore himself out - as you will if you do not slow down. You should get married.”
Miguel flashed a haughty impatient glance in her direction.
“Marriage is not for me. If I cannot marry a certain woman I shall not marry anyone,” he retorted.
“You do not seem to be very good at managing the other sort of arrangement and as far as I can see there is nothing now to stop you from marrying ‘a certain woman’. Surely you can see that with the coming of Brooke the way is wide open.”
“I cannot be sure that it is,” murmured Miguel enigmatically. Then turning to Brooke he smiled, “And now I shall take you to my favourite night-club and we shall dance until the early hours of the morning.”
They went down the staircase, past the theatre, past the patio where already people were dancing under the stars, past the room where the old Russian cannon was preserved, a relic of some old battle, and out to the car which swept them back into the brightly lighted streets of the city centre, and the entrance to a night club.
