Lady From Argentina Page 6

  Guido lunged as the dog was in mid-air, and the blade went through its ribs up to the handle. The dog gave a howl and dropped to the ground, and as it fell Guido wrenched the knife out, dripping with blood. The dog lay on the ground, twitching; it had been pierced through the heart and was dead meat.

  But Guido had no time to gloat over his victory, for the man was rushing at him now. He was a big burly fellow and he was wielding some kind of bludgeon in his right hand; it was a couple of feet long and it could have been a baseball bat. He took a swing at Guido with it and there was no time to dodge the blow. The bludgeon struck him on the left shoulder, taking him off balance. He went down and the man came in to deliver another blow, aiming for the head.

  If it had gone home it might well have brained Guido, but Adelaide took a hand in the game then; she could not stand by doing nothing while he was being possibly bludgeoned to death. Like a spitting cat she sprang at the burly man and grabbed his arm from behind. She could not completely hold off the blow, but she deflected it so that it simply glanced off Guido’s shoulder without doing any serious damage. And it gave him the opportunity to use the knife again. He thrust upward at the belly of the man and the blade sank in.

  The man screamed and fell away from Guido, dropping the bludgeon and clutching at his belly where the blood was starting to flow.

  Guido stood up, and lights were coming on in the house, shining out on to the patio. A man appeared at an upper window with a shotgun. He shouted something and fired the gun without waiting for a reply.

  Adelaide felt a sharp stinging sensation in her left thigh and gave a cry of pain. Guido was turning towards her when the man at the window fired again, and this time it was he who was hit, in the right arm. The patio had become a very dangerous place and there was only one thing to do – get away fast.

  There was no need for Guido to impress the urgency of this on his companion, and despite the wound in her leg she went at a limping run round the corner of the house and on to the terrace. From there they both headed towards the gates and reached them together. So far there had been no indication of any pursuit. But climbing the gates was a more difficult exercise than it had been before. They were both injured and each had one limb that was no longer working efficiently or without a certain amount of pain.

  Adelaide had doubts about her ability to make it. The most difficult part was getting her left leg over the top of the ironwork. Guido was already down on the outside while she was still struggling at the top, and he yelled at her to hurry. He was not so cool now; for the first time she detected a note of panic in his voice, and it frightened her.

  She got down somehow and almost collapsed on the road. But he tugged at her with his left hand and they made it to the car. They got in and Guido started the engine, but he seemed to be having difficulty in using his right hand, which was slippery with blood. And all the time he was swearing, swearing . . .

  Then the car was moving and no one had come from the house to chase them, not even the man with the gun; so that was something to be thankful for. But Guido said they were probably ringing up the police, and the bastards would be on the lookout for them now.

  ‘But why was that man there with the dog?’ she asked. ‘It was just as if they were expecting us.’

  ‘Not us in particular. Anyone. These rich swine; they’ve got so scared of break-ins they’re hiring night-watchmen to guard them now. If I’d known! If only I’d known!’

  But how could he have known?

  She had fixed her seat-belt, but she could feel the wetness of the blood seeping from the holes where the pellets from the shotgun had penetrated the skin. Guido had not bothered to ask her how things were with her, but she asked him.

  ‘How is your arm?’

  He answered sourly: ‘Bad enough. Some of the shot went into my chest too.’ He swore again. ‘Two in a row! Two in a row!’

  She wondered what he meant by that. But then he said:

  ‘Two in a row and nothing to show for it. Both failures. The stars are against me. When the stars are against you, what use is anything? Nobody can fight the stars.’

  She had never before seen him in this kind of mood; she had imagined that nothing could discourage him, that he could laugh off any setback. But there was no laughter in him now, only a black demon of depression. With the blood soaking into her jeans she felt sick and frightened. And there was no word of encouragement from Guido to help her through the crisis; only this futile railing against fate, this blaming of the stars. As if the stars had anything to do with it!

  When the police car got on to their tail it was almost as if he welcomed it as the confirmation of his gloomy premonitions.

  ‘You see? When they are against you, that’s it. One might as well give up the struggle. Who can fight against his destiny?’

  But he did not go as far as that to prove his point. He would not let himself be taken without an effort to get away, even though he might in his despondency have seen the end as inevitable.

  The police car might have been waiting for them. It was parked at the side of the road and Guido drove the Mondeo past it at speed. The police had perhaps been alerted by the man with the shotgun or they might have had the number of the stolen car. They might even have merely thought that a car going past at that speed at that time of night might be worth chasing. Whatever the reason, they fell in behind and gave chase.

  She had never been in a situation like this before, either as the pursuer or the pursued. In different circumstances she might have found it exhilarating. But not now; not with the wound in her thigh and the blood and the pain; not with a Guido at the wheel such as she had never known; a Guido bleeding also, who seemed to have lost any sense of caution that he might ever have had and seemed almost to be possessed with a death wish, by a mood of fatalism that might take them both to destruction.

  Now she was simply terrified.

  Guido! Please, Guido, please!

  Had she spoken the words or only thought them? It made no difference; he would have paid no heed to anything she might have said. He was driving like a Jehu, mostly with only one hand on the wheel, perhaps because his right arm was giving him so much pain. He had not fastened his seat-belt. She noted this fact with some misgiving; this might be just the time when a precaution like that would be most needed. But there was no possibility of fixing it now.

  They were on one of the minor inland roads and there was little traffic. They came to a village and raced through, the houses dark on either side, their inhabitants peacefully sleeping. The police car was still hanging on; not gaining but not being shaken off either. She guessed that Guido would be looking to dump the Mondeo somewhere, but he had to be well clear of the pursuit before he could do that.

  She wanted to be sick, but she fought to hold the nausea in check. There was a burning sensation in her buttock and upper thigh. She probed with her fingers and could feel the bloody slime on the leg of her jeans. She wondered how much blood you could lose before you passed out. She wondered distractedly what her father was doing at that moment; asleep with Violette by his side no doubt and all his cares temporarily forgotten; while she . . . Oh God! She wondered how this nightmare ride would end – and when.

  The answer was not long in coming.

  They came to a bend in the road, some trees standing like sentinels along the outer curve. Guido scarcely slackened speed; he took the bend with screeching tyres. The articulated lorry was like a monster lying in wait. He had to wrench hard on the steering-wheel, and the Mondeo went into a skid. It struck the lorry a glancing blow, bounced off and hit one of the sentinel trees. Guido, with no seat-belt to restrain him, was thrown forward and his head struck the windscreen. He was killed instantly.

  *

  It was almost an hour before she could be freed from the wreck of the car. Metal-cutting equipment had to be brought from a distance and there were other difficulties to be overcome by the rescuers. She was conscious the whole of the time, in considerable pa
in and horrifyingly aware of Guido’s body, mangled and bloody, wedged in beside her. The physical pain was more easily borne than the agony of knowing that he was dead.

  Into her mind there came the memory of that day when they had met on the beach, when he had looked at her and said: ‘I’ll call you Addie. You wanna be my girl?’

  So she had been his girl. For a while. For so short a while. And it had been good; it had been so very very good. But now it was finished.

  Now there would be no more making love under the stars with the sea murmuring in the background. No more joking and laughter; no more shared experience, excitement, joy of living. Because Guido was dead and it was all at an end.

  She began to weep, silently, tears coursing down her cheeks and dripping from her chin. And the same words kept repeating in her brain like a clock ticking: ‘Guido is dead; Guido is dead; Guido is dead.’

  *

  Her father came to the hospital. She had a broken ankle, lacerations, bruises and the punctures where the shotgun pellets had been removed from her thigh and buttock. But she would survive; she would get well again. And perhaps the memory would recede in time, the mental pain fading with its physical counterpart. She did not believe so now; she was still too close to the tragedy but in time, who could tell?

  Lacoste was strangely remorseful, taking some of the blame for what had happened upon himself.

  ‘Perhaps I was at fault. If I had given you more of my attention you would not have got into bad company.’

  She would not accept that. ‘Guido was not bad company. He was the best.’

  He decided to humour her. She was in no state to engage in an argument concerning the rights and wrongs of the affair.

  ‘Well, maybe so, maybe so.’

  Later she said, speaking so softly that the words were scarcely audible: ‘He didn’t want to grow old, you know. And now he never will.’

  Chapter Seven – Wages of Sin

  It was two years later. She was nineteen years old and back in France. She had not forgotten Guido; she never would; but she remembered him now without pain and with only faint regret. She saw now that it could not have lasted; it had all been on too high a note and would have had to end eventually.

  And it might have ended in quarrels and recriminations that would have left a sour taste in the mouth. So maybe it was better that it should have been as it was; better for Guido that he should have gone as he had, in all the vigour of his youth; better for her that she had not been drawn more deeply into the life of petty crime that she had begun to lead with him. Though, as to that, there were perhaps worse things to come.

  She had never been brought up for trial in a Spanish court of law, though charges could have been brought against her. Perhaps her father’s name had carried some weight; perhaps her own youth and the ordeal she had been through counted in her favour. She was chastened by the experience and felt that she had been treated with surprising leniency. She came out of hospital determined to make a fresh start, putting all that had happened firmly behind her.

  Now it was all in the past; she was more experienced and if not wiser, certainly older. For a year she had been leading a vagrant life, separated from both her parents and having no contact with them except in an emergency when she might be driven to beg for some pecuniary aid. It was usually to her father that she appealed, but occasionally she put a call through to her mother and it had to be said that help was never refused from either quarter, though it was notable that neither parent showed any inclination to urge her to return to the fold. Perhaps there was no fold. They had their own lives to live and she understood perfectly well that she no longer had a part in them.

  Most recently she had been with a boy named Jean, a year or two older than herself. Together they had travelled over much of southern France, getting occasional jobs, living from hand to mouth and taking each day as it came.

  Jean described himself as a student of life. He was a Gascon, short and somewhat plump, with a round chubby face that seemed to be made for smiling. He said he was gathering material for a book which he intended writing, and he made copious notes concerning the places through which they passed. Frankly she doubted whether the book would ever be written, but it seemed as good an excuse as any for just wandering around and enjoying the freedom of the open road.

  She liked Jean but she never tried to convince herself that she was in love with him. In her relations with him there was none of the overwhelming emotion that there had been with Guido. There was no passion in it, and when they finally parted it was without any deep sense of loss or even regret. It was a kind of tacit agreement that the time had come. Summer was drawing to its close and it appeared somehow fitting that they should go their separate ways.

  ‘Goodbye Jean,’ she said. ‘Take care of yourself.’

  ‘And you, Adelaide.’

  They kissed and parted. It was at a crossroads. He went one way and she another.

  *

  Three days later she was walking among the vineyards of the Gironde. The dusty winding road led upward to the château, which was visible from quite a distance. She was hot and tired and dusty too. She was carrying a pack, and she put it down at the side of the road and sat on it.

  The grapes were ripening on the vines, and soon the time of harvesting would come and the wine-making. In past days the juice of the grapes had been trodden out under the bare feet of men and women; it had been a more bacchanalian scene then. Mechanisation had done away with all that and much of the romance had gone with it.

  She saw a car coming towards her up the road. She watched it approaching. It slowed as it drew nearer, and she could see that it was not a white Mercedes as she had thought and rather hoped it might be. But it was of course more than two years since she had been taken to Bordeaux in the Mercedes, and rich men bought new cars pretty frequently, so maybe . . .

  It was in fact a red Ferrari. It drew level with her and stopped, and she saw that Raoul was at the wheel. He looked at her and smiled.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘it is you, Adelaide.’ He did not sound surprised. It was as if he had been expecting to find her there; though that was unlikely since she had given no warning of her coming. ‘Welcome home.’

  He got out and helped her to her feet and kissed her. ‘I am very happy to see you,’ he said. And then he added: ‘Your mother will be too.’

  She had her doubts about that, but she was glad to see Raoul. She remembered what he had said when they parted, that there would always be a home for her at the château. It was good to find that he was still of the same mind.

  ‘I hope so,’ she said.

  She could see no change in him; he looked no older. He was just as lean and handsome, just as charming as ever.

  He lifted the pack and said with a faint smile: ‘This is your luggage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You had rather more when you left.’

  ‘When one travels on foot one tends to discard all but the essentials.’

  He nodded. ‘I imagine that is so.’ He put the pack in the boot and opened the door on the passenger side for her to get in.

  It was so long since she had had that kind of attention, it choked her a little. The interior of the car was more luxurious than anything she had experienced for quite a while. She relaxed in the upholstery of the seat with a sigh of satisfaction. The vagrant life was all very well in its way, but there were certain advantages in which it was undoubtedly lacking. It was good to come back to them now and then.

  The château was of course just as it had been when she had last seen it, a grey turreted pile with its tall windows and the fountain playing in the foreground. It had remained largely unaltered in the course of centuries. There had been wars and revolutions; kings and emperors had come and gone, communes and republics; but the château had endured. Only its occupants had been of less durable material.

  Madame du Gard’s welcome for her daughter was somewhat muted; it lacked warmth.

  ‘So yo
u have seen fit to honour us with a visit. How nice.’ Her kiss was a peck on the cheek. ‘I hope you have learnt your lesson.’

  ‘Lesson?’

  ‘From that deplorable Spanish affair.’

  ‘Oh, that!’

  ‘Yes, that. I might have guessed what would happen. Your father always was far too lax where you were concerned. I suppose he could not be bothered to keep an eye on you.’

  She had of course received a full account of what had happened and no doubt had been duly censorious.

  ‘He was very busy,’ Adelaide said. ‘And rather worried about the film.’

  ‘With reason, from what I hear. The report is that it is going to lose a lot of money. Did you know?’

  ‘No. I’ve been out of touch.’

  She was sorry for her father. He had put a great deal of work into the film and it would do his reputation no good at all if it turned out to be a flop at the box-office. But you could never tell with films; it was always a gamble; you might make a winner, but you could never guarantee success. And blame for failure naturally had to be accepted by the director. He was the one responsible.

  ‘Well,’ Raoul said, ‘let’s not rake over old ashes. We all make mistakes. The thing is not to look back, not to brood on what is past and can’t be altered. Adelaide is here now, and we must do our best to make her stay a pleasant one.’

  Madame du Gard failed to offer any wholehearted support for this idea. She simply asked:

  ‘How long were you proposing to stay?’

  It was hardly the most encouraging way of receiving a guest. Adelaide felt that what her mother was really asking was: ‘How soon will you be leaving?’

  Raoul might have thought so too, for he said: ‘My dear, she has only just arrived. She must of course stay as long as she wishes.’

  ‘Of course,’ Madame du Gard said. ‘I was merely inquiring whether she had any plans for the future. Have you, Adelaide?’