The Sanchez Tradition. Anne Mather
Ramon frowned. ‘You could hardly expect André to feel kindly disposed towards you,’ he said reasonably. ‘Naturally he was cruel. You were pretty cruel to him yourself.’
‘I know, I know. Oh, Ramon, my journey here—–’ She lifted her shoulders hopelessly. ‘It’s all been for nothing. I couldn’t ask him for anything now.’
‘And what did you come to ask him?’
She shook her head. ‘I’d rather not discuss it,’ she said quietly.
Ramon gave her a regretful smile, and rose to his feet. ‘So what will you do now?’
‘Go back to England,’ she replied, rising too.
Ramon studied her green eyes which still glinted with unshed tears. ‘Tell me something,’ he said softly. ‘Was it money?’
Rachel coloured. ‘I’d like to leave now,’ she said, evading a reply. ‘I—I can easily get a cab. Th-thank you, Ramon, for everything.’
Ramon shook his head. ‘You’ll get no cabs here,’ he remarked sardonically. ‘This isn’t the West End of London, you know. Come, my car is outside. I will take you back to your hotel. After all, that is what André instructed me to do.’
Rachel hadn’t the heart to refuse. Instead, she accepted his offer passively, and after he had made the necessary arrangements with his manager, she accompanied him out of the side door on to the car-park. They were immediately joined by a tall, broad man who looked rather like a wrestler in city clothes, and Rachel glanced at Ramon in wonder.
‘You, too,’ she murmured incredulously.
Ramon shrugged defensively. ‘You can’t be too careful at night,’ he remarked smoothly. ‘Henry doesn’t intrude. But when he’s around, nor does anyone else!’
Rachel glanced again at the huge black man who walked just behind them. ‘But why?’ she exclaimed. ‘Why?’
Ramon halted beside a low-slung white limousine, and inserted his key in the lock. Swinging open the passenger door, he helped Rachel inside. Then he walked round and slid in beside her, behind the wheel. Henry climbed into the back, levering his bulk on to the softly padded seats almost silently. Rachel looked at Ramon, waiting for his answer, and with a gesture he said:
‘As the owner of the casino at Pointe St. Auguste, I have many enemies.’ He swung the limousine round in an arc and allowed it to run smoothly down the ramp on to the road. ‘All my clients can’t be winners!’
‘But that’s ridiculous!’ gasped Rachel, staring at him. ‘Oh, Ramon, I thought you were free of this cage that surrounds the Sanchez family, but you’re not—you’re not!’
Ramon glanced her way. ‘Don’t we all have cages, of one kind or another?’ he queried gently. ‘Do you think you are freer now, living the life you have chosen?’
Rachel did not immediately reply, but looked out on the beauty of the night. She could inhale a thousand perfumes at a breath of the many flowering shrubs and trees, and in the car’s headlights the brilliance of poinciana and hibiscus, growing in profusion by the roadside, excited the senses. There was a magic about the place, she had to admit, and in honesty the thought of returning to London wrapped in the drabness of January was not appealing. But freedom was a mental as well as a physical thing, and while money could buy many things, it could not buy happiness, this she had discovered. For money had seemed to create all the problems in her life.
Now she said: ‘No one is ever completely free. But freedom comprises many things, and bars need not be tangible things. Some people make bars where no bars exist.’
Ramon sighed. ‘I guess you’re talking about André.’
‘I guess I am.’
‘He only wanted what was best for you.’
‘You think so?’ Rachel’s voice was impassioned suddenly. ‘He took me—he moulded me—he controlled me! All he wanted was a puppet on a string!’
‘He made you unhappy?’
‘Yes! Yes!’ Rachel was adamant.
‘But you loved him.’ He frowned. ‘At least—so you said.’
‘I did!’ Rachel bit her lip until she tasted blood in her mouth. ‘Of course I loved him. But then I discovered that the man I loved bore no resemblance to the man I married!’
‘You’re talking in riddles.’ Ramon sounded impatient.
‘No, I’m not. Once we were married—once André took me to Conchera, I was expected to fall in with his every wish!’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘I wasn’t even allowed to go out alone!’
‘You were André Sanchez’s wife. You were vulnerable,’ intoned Ramon, and Rachel thought he sounded a little like André used to sound.
‘How was I vulnerable?’ she snapped. ‘No one troubled me! No one knew me! Why couldn’t I act like any other tourist in Nassau?’
Ramon swung the wheel through his fingers. ‘We are at impasse,’ he commented, controlling any annoyance he might have felt at her avowals of injustice. ‘You cannot see my way—André’s way—and I cannot see yours.’
‘You used to be able to.’
‘I was much younger then. I think I have matured now, Rachel!’
‘And I have not?’ she asked chokingly.
‘Maybe so,’ he agreed quietly, and Rachel turned and stared out of the car’s windows. Thereafter they did not speak, and not until they reached her hotel did Ramon break the uneasy silence which had fallen.
Then he said: ‘You know, Rachel, that I would do anything to make you smile again. My feelings for you were always transparent. They have not changed.’
The car was still and he turned towards her, his arm along the back of the seat. He seemed totally unaware of his man in the back seat, but Rachel was not, and she could not relax as she would have done had they been alone. Instead, she said: ‘You’re very kind, Ramon. If it is any consolation, you’ve made me feel a little better.’
Ramon touched the softness of her hair with a lazy hand. ‘You’re a very beautiful woman, Rachel,’ he murmured, ‘as I said before. If André does divorce you, will you marry again?’
Rachel bent her head. ‘That’s a little difficult to say,’ she prevaricated.
Ramon straightened, and swung round in his seat. ‘Yes, it is,’ he agreed. ‘I’m sorry. Goodnight, Rachel.’
‘Goodnight, Ramon.’
Rachel slid out of the car, appreciating its length and luxury. It had attracted quite a crowd of sightseers in a street like this, and she hastened inside before anyone should attempt to prevent her. She heard the limousine glide away, and her shoulders sagged. Was that all there was to be? Was that what she had come here for? Was her defeat so complete? She shook her head wearily, and climbed the stairs to her room. Outside, the town of Nassau was still alive and full of noise and excitement, but in her room, that small cubicle whose only claim to air-conditioning was provided by the slowly revolving fan in the ceiling, she sought the bleakness of her lonely bed and a sleeping tablet to dispel the memories that persisted in haunting her tired brain. Tonight, even the narcotic powers of the drug gave her no relief from the tortuous train of her thoughts, and she lay on her back staring at the night sky through the casement wondering whether there was some point in her life where everything started to go so wrong.
She considered her father, back home in London, waiting for news from her that his immediate problems were over. Was he managing adequately without her? Was he eating? And more importantly, had he found that bottle she had hidden so carefully in the bathroom cabinet?
She rolled on to her stomach,