by Lewis Orde
As they neared home, Catarina asked Roland to drive around the park. It was such a beautiful evening, the finale of one of those golden days that occur all too rarely during an English summer. Lovers strolled hand in hand along the park’s paths or lay together on the grass; children chased balls; boats filled the lake. The scene was idyllic, and Catarina asked Roland to stop so they could sit and watch.
‘Rollie, don’t you sometimes feel that the entire world is in love?’
‘June always does that . . .’ His hand found hers and caressed it gently. ‘See over there?’ He pointed to a woman pushing a baby carriage; behind her cavorted three small children. ‘That’s going to be you in four or five years.’
‘Are you going to keep me that occupied?’
‘You’re the one who wanted a mountain of dirty nappies.’
‘Diapers,’ she corrected him, and they both laughed. She opened the car door and got out, walking a few yards to stand under a towering oak tree. For a minute Roland watched, enjoying the sight of her. Then he, too, got out of the car and joined her. She pointed to the bark of the tree, at the dozens of initials that had been carved there over the years. ‘Do you have a knife, Rollie? I want you to carve our initials.’
‘I’m sure it’s illegal. What would your father say if we were arrested for defacing a tree?’
‘He would blame you, of course.’
Roland pulled out his keys. Attached to them was a tiny penknife with a one-inch blade. He scratched away at the bark of the oak tree, scraping his fingers as he formed two sets of initials – R.E. and C.E. – and enclosed them with a ragged heart. As he tried to carve the shaft of an arrow piercing the heart, the blade snapped, leaving the point stuck deeply in the tree.
‘Let it stay there,’ Catarina said when Roland tried to dig it out. ‘Whenever we pass this tree we will see it still embedded in the bark, just as our souls are embedded in each other.’
‘You’re an incurable romantic.’ Roland snapped the broken blade shut and put the keys back in his pocket.
‘Take me home now, please, Rollie. I feel tired.’
He led her back to the car and helped her into the passenger seat. Even before he got behind the wheel she had closed her eyes. He couldn’t help smiling as he turned the car around and started the short ride back to the apartment. Catarina would go to bed and then, perhaps, he would sit up in the office and go through the sales reports. Or maybe he would sit in the nursery – at the table Catarina had told him was expressly for when he changed the baby – and daydream about how his life would change in just a few weeks. After ten years he would have a family again, be surrounded with the warmth and love that had been so painfully absent.
Roland found himself reflecting on memories of the past ten years – an indulgence he rarely allowed himself – what had he accomplished? Half of the time he’d spent seeking revenge against the country responsible for his family’s tragedy. Then there was that hellhole Bergen-Belsen, where he’d been forced to come to terms with his father’s heritage. After that it was two years in limbo, playing soldier while he tried to decide what to do with his life, until another confrontation over his heritage had forced his decision to leave the army. Really, he thought, the question he should be asking himself was what had he accomplished in the three years since he left the army? That was when his life had really begun again. The seven years before that were just a gap, a wilderness he had successfully managed to cross.
Yes, in the last three years he had achieved everything, had turned his life from an emotional wasteland into a fertile oasis . . . meeting Sally Roberts on the very day he’d left the army, the business, Simon, and now Catarina and their child. If he had any regrets they were over Monty Adler. Poor devil, cold in the ground these past six months because he’d overtaxed his heart over a business argument . . . Even with Michael Adler’s absolution Roland couldn’t help feeling he was still somehow responsible for bringing on the old man’s death. If he’d accepted Monty’s offer to set things right, sent the consignment to Adler’s, would Monty still be alive?
Roland tried to push the disquieting thoughts from his mind, told himself that his own actions had made little difference. Nonetheless, he couldn’t rid himself completely of his guilt.
He felt Catarina stir as he swung the Jaguar onto their street. The she screamed: ‘Rollie, watch out! Mrs Peters!’
Roland snapped his eyes at her, saw her hand pointing wildly ahead, then looked through the windshield again. Ten yards ahead, appearing suddenly from behind a van, was the elderly blind woman. She stopped and waited, and Roland touched the brake pedal . . . just in case.
Then, as Mrs Peters abruptly stepped forward into the road Roland gripped the steering wheel in a sudden panic. The memories he’d been reliving jarred him back to another day ten years ago . . . that damned old blind woman outside the school in Margate . . . watching her walk into the railings . . . her indignant screams that he’d taken her to the wrong corner . . . Old Spotty and the gambling winnings . . . then the threat of expulsion hanging over his head as he pedaled home . . . All of it came surging back, overwhelming him. The car continued to move forward as Roland’s feet fumbled with the pedals. Why wasn’t the car stopping?
‘Rollie!’ Catarina screamed again as the Jaguar closed the gap.
His left foot aimed for the clutch, his right foot for the brake pedal, but he only caught it with the tip of his shoe and suddenly his right foot was jammed down on the accelerator. The engine roared and the rear wheels spun frenziedly. Mrs Peters swung toward the threatening sound, her sightless eyes searching the street as she tried frantically to regain the safety of the sidewalk.
The rear wheels gripped the road surface, then the Jaguar shot forward. Roland jerked the steering wheel to the right to avoid hitting the woman, slammed his foot down on the brake pedal again. The heavy sports car swung sideways, skidded as the back wheels broke traction, then spun around completely. Roland held the steering wheel with one hand, fighting to regain control; he threw his other arm in front of Catarina, pressing her back into the seat as he saw the red shape of a mailbox on the opposite sidewalk looming closer. The back end of the Jaguar bounced over the curb with a sickening jolt. Catarina’s side of the car smashed into the mailbox, shearing it off at the ground. Letters spilled out as the mailbox rolled off the curb into the street to rest against the Jaguar’s front bumper.
Despite his protective arm Catarina had been hurled forward by the impact. ‘Are you all right?’ he said anxiously.
Slowly, she straightened up to look at him. Across her forehead was a thin red line where her head had banged into the top of the dashboard. Her eyes were open, glassy with shock.
‘Are you all right?’ Roland held her, pressing her body to his.
Finally she nodded. ‘I think so. Go and see about Mrs Peters.’ Roland was reluctant to let go . . . all he could think of was Catarina’s earlier thoughts of death, how she’d alarmed him . . . and now this. ‘I’m all right, Rollie. See about that poor woman,’ she repeated. ‘You must have taken ten years from her life.’
Roland set Catarina back against the seat, climbed out of the car and ran across the street to where the blind widow still stood by the van. Attracted by the noise of the collision, people were coming out of their homes. Some joined Roland, others went to the Jaguar.
‘Mrs Peters, are you all right?’ Roland said, grasping the blind woman by the shoulder.
‘Is that you, Mr Eagles? I’m sorry . . . so sorry.’
‘Why did you step out like that?’
‘I waited a long time. No one came. I know my way around here. I didn’t hear a car coming. Was it your car?’
‘Yes. I was just turning into the street.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘No, thank God.’
‘Was your lovely car damaged?’
Roland hadn’t even looked. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He turned to a woman who stood next to him. ‘Please call a doctor.
I don’t think my wife’s injured but she’s pregnant. She should be examined.’ The woman ran back to her home to make the call. Roland placed Mrs Peters in the care of another neighbor, then turned to go back to the car. As he did a man came running toward him. ‘What’s the matter?’ Roland called out.
‘It’s your wife. I think she’s fainted.’
Roland raced past the man and leaned into the Jaguar. Catarina was lying back in the seat like a broken doll. Her face was white, the mark on her forehead was even more livid now, an ugly line etched across her pale skin. Her breathing was irregular, a series of shallow gasps. Roland had no idea what was wrong, he just knew this wasn’t a fainting spell. He frantically looked up at the crowd gathered around the car.
‘Will someone see what’s holding up the doctor? Tell him to hurry!’
*
Like a man possessed, Roland paced the floor outside Catarina’s private room in the Middlesex Hospital. He strode up and down the corridor, his tall frame stooped over, hands clasped tightly behind his back. He stopped only long enough to grab the arms of doctors whenever they came out of the room and ask about his wife. When they shook their heads, he resumed his relentless pacing.
Following the accident, Catarina had been taken to Middlesex Hospital on Mortimer Street. It hadn’t taken doctors long to diagnose that she was suffering from an enormous cerebral hemorrhage. Roland calmed down just long enough to telephone his father-in-law. Then he resumed his frantic pacing.
Ambassador and Señora Menendez arrived at the hospital within half an hour. The ambassador was wearing white tie and tails, his wife a long evening dress; they had been ready to go to a diplomatic affair. ‘What’s happened to my daughter?’ Menendez demanded the moment he spotted Roland in the corridor. ‘What have you done to her?’
‘I didn’t do anything to her!’ Roland’s anguish momentarily turned to anger at the ambassador’s question. ‘We had a minor accident!’
‘In that sports car of yours? How fast were you driving?’
‘Ten miles an hour. We were just outside our building. A blind woman stepped out in front . . .’ Roland quickly related what had happened.
‘When can we see Catarina?’ Maria Menendez asked. She wanted to break up this confrontation before it had a chance to grow. There should be no blaming done now; their only concern should be with Catarina.
‘I don’t know. She’s unconscious. They’re deciding when to operate to relieve the pressure on the brain.’
‘And the baby? What about the baby?’
A doctor swept out of Catarina’s room. Roland grabbed him, introduced the Menendezes and asked him to explain exactly what was going on. ‘We believe your daughter was suffering from a berry aneurysm—’
‘A what?’ Menendez asked.
‘It’s a bulge that forms in the wall of an artery at a weak spot, like the bulge an inner tube makes when it sticks out through a worn tire. In this case, the artery was at the base of her brain. It could have been congenital, with her from birth.’
‘And this accident caused it to rupture?’
‘Yes, just as any knock to the head might have. Tell me, has Mrs Eagles ever complained of double vision?’
Roland pursed his lips in thought. ‘Yes. Coupled with headaches.’
‘When would this have been?’
‘January, when we were . . .’ He glanced at the ambassador and his wife. ‘. . . when we were in Scotland.’
‘Hiding from me,’ Menendez said. ‘Would the double vision and headaches have been a symptom?’
‘Quite possibly. Such an aneurysm at the base of the brain could produce double vision by interfering with the nerves that supply the external muscles of the eyes.’
Menendez turned to Roland. ‘Didn’t you see a doctor when she was ill?’
‘Yes, in Scotland.’
‘Some country idiot who is accustomed to dealing with cattle, I suppose. What did he say?’
‘He examined Catarina and recommended she see an optician. We saw one when we returned to London and he could find nothing wrong.’
‘So you didn’t bother to check further?’
‘Nicanor . . .’ Señora Menendez clutched her husband’s arm. ‘When she was younger, long before we ever came to London, Catarina had attacks like that. Headaches that we thought were caused by nervous tension. Even the doctors we took her to told us that.’
Menendez fell silent, stared at the floor. ‘I remember,’ he said softly. and reached out to place his hand on Roland’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What are Catarina’s chances?’ Señora Menendez asked the doctor.
‘We don’t know yet. At the moment your daughter is in a coma. Her heart and lungs are functioning normally which means that the baby’s growth is assured. If your daughter’s condition deteriorates, though, that will be another matter. Then we would have to consider a Caesarian section.’
‘Could pregnancy have made the aneurysm worse?’ Roland asked the question, dreading the answer.
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘I’m going to call in other opinions, other specialists,’ Menendez announced.
‘That is your privilege, sir,’ the doctor said. ‘If you wish to use a telephone, please come to my office.’ The ambassador strode after the doctor. Roland followed, holding Maria Menendez by the arm.
Menendez called the embassy, instructed his staff to contact the best brain surgeons in France and Switzerland; no matter what the trip to England would cost, he would pay for it.
Roland listened, then waited for his father-in-law to replace the receiver. ‘Sir, I am perfectly capable of paying for my wife’s medical treatment.’
Menendez eyed Roland incredulously. ‘Do you actually believe that I would exploit this tragedy for my own personal satisfaction in exposing you as a money-motivated playboy? At this moment I don’t even think of you – only of my daughter lying in there.’ He jerked a finger in the direction of Catarina’s room.
‘I apologize, sir. And I appreciate any assistance you can offer.’
Menendez’s face softened a fraction. For a second time he rested his hand on Roland’s shoulder and gazed into the younger man’s eyes. ‘You know, at this moment I can believe that you really do love my daughter. It is a great pity that all too often it takes something like this to bring us to our senses.’
For the first time, as Maria Menendez smiled tearfully, Roland felt the briefest spark of fondness for his father-in-law.
*
Ambassador Menendez and his wife left the hospital shortly after eleven that night, convinced there was nothing to be gained by staying. Roland lingered, sitting on a chair in the corridor, chain-smoking, waiting to hear something. Just before midnight he was joined by Simon Aronson and Sally Roberts. News of the accident had reached the Mercury. Roland had no doubt that all of Fleet Street would be carrying the story in the morning editions, the latest chapter in the elopement saga . . . Roland just prayed it wouldn’t be the final chapter . . .
‘Roland, if you need money . . . I can pay for the finest brain surgeons,’ Simon began.
‘Thanks. My father-in-law’s already got his staff calling all over the world. But the people here—’
‘They’re as good as anyone,’ Sally broke in.
‘I know. They say they’re going to have to operate to relieve pressure on the brain. That’s only the start. They won’t know until then what the real damage is.’
‘Are you going to sit out here all night?’ Simon asked.
‘What else can I do?’
‘You should get some rest,’ Sally answered. ‘I’ll run you home and bring you back first thing in the morning.’
‘I don’t want to go home.’ Roland dreaded being alone in the apartment. He would only think of Catarina being there, standing in front of the mirror, running her hands over her swollen belly. He would sit in the nursery and wonder forlornly if his child would ever sleep there.
‘Then stay with me.’<
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Both Simon and Roland looked at Sally. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, the two of you! Just like two bloody men to think the worst of anything a woman says!’
Despite his own bleak feelings, Roland managed a smile. ‘Just get me back here first thing in the morning.’ He left Sally’s telephone number with the night nurse. When he climbed into Sally’s red MG he thought about his own car. It was still drivable, nothing a body shop couldn’t repair easily enough. But as far as Roland was concerned he never wanted to see the damned car again. A car bought on impulse with money won at gambling . . . some pleasure it had brought!
In Hampstead, Sally fussed over him. She made him a cup of hot chocolate, which he normally detested but drank obediently. Then she found pillows and a blanket, made up a rough bed on the couch in the living room and set the alarm for six in the morning.
Sleep refused to come to Roland. He lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, unable to stop his mind from replaying the events of the day. He touched his scraped fingers and thought of the broken blade embedded in the oak tree. Tears came to his eyes, thinking of it. Would the bark eventually grow back to cover the piece of blade, disfigure the initials and heart he’d carved for Catarina? Would even that small memory of her be gone? What would be left?
No . . . there would be more. The baby. A Caesarian delivery. Suddenly he sat up, bathed in sweat. Why was he even allowing himself to think along these lines, assuming that Catarina would die? That’s what he was doing, wasn’t he? Of course she wouldn’t die. The surgeons would operate successfully – they were the best, weren’t they?
