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CHAPTER 6
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On Saturday morning, Al-Saud called them at nine. Matilde was lounging in bed and gestured to Juana to tell him she was busy.
“You never lie!” her friend reproached. “Never. Why do you have to start with the stud? What’s going on with you? Have you gone crazy?”
“Juana, I don’t want any more problems. I don’t want another man in my life.”
“Another man? Treasure, this is the man! God!” she exclaimed, looking up at the sky. “You really give bread to those with no teeth! You’re scared to death, aren’t you? Is that it? That you’re afraid?”
“Yes, I’m scared! But I’m not going to talk about that. Also, we don’t know him. We don’t know anything about him. He could be a kidnapper!”
“No, he’s not a kidnapper. He’s Jack the Ripper!”
A while later Sofía, Aldo Martínez Olazábal’s younger sister, whom Matilde had never met, called. Sofía had been her father’s favorite, and along with Enriqueta had supported them economically while Aldo served his sentence. She had never returned to Córdoba, not even for her father Esteban’s funeral. She was spoken of in whispers. Grandmother Celia forbade her name to be mentioned, and Matilde only heard her say it once when referring to her husband—“that horrible little darky” was what she’d called him.
Sofía invited them to come over for lunch and sent a chauffeur to pick them up. “The horrible little darky” had done pretty well for himself judging by the Mercedes Benz that was waiting for them outside and the apartment at number fifteen Passage Jean Nicot, near the Eiffel Tower, where they were received by a housekeeper who led them to the living room. Sofía was waiting for them there along with her husband, Nando, and Fabrice, their only son and the youngest in the family at sixteen years old, who couldn’t take his eyes off Juana and immediately endeavored to strike up a conversation with her in his heavily accented Spanish.
“You’re just as beautiful as your mother,” Sofía cooed, stroking Matilde’s cheek. “How is she?”
“Good. She lives in Miami with her husband, so we don’t see each other very often.”
“We were never friends, Dolores and I,” Sofía confessed with palpable sincerity and mature poise. “Maybe because I was jealous of her. Your father and I were buddies, we loved each other very much. I spoke to him on the phone this morning,” she announced.
“Yes?” Matilde didn’t hide her anxiety. “How is he?”
“He was happy when I told him I was inviting you for lunch.”
The meal passed in a relaxed and friendly fashion. Matilde’s initial worries disappeared in the vestibule of the luxurious apartment, when her aunt hugged her and looked at her with a maternal sweetness she wasn’t used to. Neither Dolores nor her grandmother Celia had had much sweetness or maternal instinct in their natures. “The horrible little darky” turned out to be an absolute gentleman who spoke with a slight accent and looked lovingly at his wife and son. Before leaving—he excused himself saying he had a game of golf to get to—Nando took Matilde’s hands and assured her, “Niece, this is your house and we are your family. Don’t forget that.”
Sofía invited them to come and drink coffee and tea in another room farther into the apartment, with a huge window that looked out onto the building’s garden and allowed sunbeams to stream in and dance on the parquet floor. The housekeeper came in, pushing a cart with the tea service.
“I’ll do it, Ginette,” Sofía said. “Thank you. You can go.”
Fabrice, who was making no attempt to conceal his infatuation with Juana, invited her to his room.
“I want to show you my CD and movie collection,” he explained, after a look from his mother.
Sofía and Matilde were left alone. After a pause, the older woman turned to look at the young girl with a serious but kindly expression.
“Matilde, I want to tell you why I never went back to Córdoba, not even for your grandfather’s funeral.”
“But first I want to thank you for the economic help you sent us when my father got into trouble. I don’t know what we would have done if you and Aunt Enriqueta hadn’t helped us. They took everything, even the vases and paintings. For a while we lived off Grandmother’s jewels, but they didn’t bring in much money and disappeared quickly.”
“In part it helped to make up for what a terrible aunt I was to you and your sisters. When I found out about…well, about your problems, I was going to come, but I confess that I didn’t have the strength to face my parents. They caused me a lot of pain, Matilde, a lot of pain. They did something to Nando and I, something unforgivable. You know my mother well, I know she practically raised you on her own, so I don’t need to tell you what she’s capable of doing to keep up appearances. I confess that I was happy when I found out that Papa had left her to run off with Rosalía, a maid, his lifelong love. Don’t judge me for being happy.”
“I’m not judging you.”
“It must have been a terrible blow for her; she was so proud of her surname, her ancestry, her mansion. Oh, remembering all this makes me feel awful. Resentment is so…”
“You don’t have to tell me, Sofía.”
“I’d like you to call me Aunt, as you do with Enriqueta.” She looked at her, and Matilde didn’t look away; she felt comfortable with this woman, maybe because she reminded her of her father. “You’re very sweet, Matilde. There’s something so beautiful in your eyes that makes me want to tell you a secret that very few know about.”
“Only if it will make you feel better to tell me.”
“When I was very young, I met your uncle Nando, back when he was just a simple clerk in Papa’s office, in Córdoba. He was a humble young man, from Mina Clavero, who hadn’t even finished high school, but it was love at first sight. To make a long story short, just after we started our affair, clandestinely of course, I got pregnant. You can imagine the scandal that erupted in the Martínez Olazábal household. They threw Nando out and threatened him, warning him not to come back. They shipped me, like a package, to a house not far from here, in Paris, so I could have my baby. It was imperative that no one in Córdoba find out. They were the hardest months of my life. I gave birth in that same house, alone and terrified, with a broken heart, helped by a midwife I feared. When I came to after that terrible delivery, they told me that my baby had died. Don’t cry, love.” Sofía went over to Matilde’s chair and wiped away her tears with a napkin. “Don’t cry, treasure. This story has a happy ending. Listen. I went back to Córdoba, to my parents’ house; I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I wasn’t the same. I think that for a while I was teetering on the edge of insanity. I had lost the man I loved and my child had been stillborn. I wasn’t even allowed to bury him. The pain felt like a hole in my stomach. The only person I could count on was my childhood friend, Francesca.”
“Francesca? The daughter of the cook from the Martínez Olazábal mansion?” Sofía frowned in confusion and Matilde explained hurriedly. “Rosalía, Grandfather’s wife, always talked about them. She had a lot of affection for them.”
“Yes, that’s the Francesca I mean. She was my confidante and biggest supporter. A year later, Nando came back for me and our child. It was a hard blow for him to find out that the baby had died. He felt guilty. He told me that he should have taken me away, that the baby would be alive if he had. It was all so painful.” She sighed and her teacup shook in her hand as she took another sip. “Francesca married an Arabic magnate, and they moved here, to Paris. A little later they sent for Nando and I. Francesca’s husband offered Nando a job, and they ended up becoming great friends. It was he who he went off to play golf with this afternoon. So, as I was saying, we ended up in Paris. Despite the associations with the loss of my baby, I was happy here in the city. I had gotten away from the hell of the Martínez Olazábal mansion and I was living with Nando and close to my best friend. As the days passed, I saw that something was troubling
Francesca. She became taciturn, quiet, as though she was dealing with a serious problem. When I mentioned it, she burst into tears and confessed that she had hidden the truth from me for my own good and that it was weighing on her like an anvil. Through Rosalía, she had found out that in reality my baby was alive and that my parents had ordered that he be taken to an orphanage, here in Paris, right after he was born.”
“My God!” Matilde’s hands closed around her throat as if she were trying to strangle the curses that were welling up inside her. “My God,” she murmured, and her head fell. “They took away your child…my God.”
Matilde suddenly went very pale and her lips were barely distinguishable from the rest of her face. Sofía, concerned, made her drink a sip of tea and eat some coconut cake.
“Love, don’t feel bad,” she begged her, and dried her tears again. “I got my baby back. She was actually a girl. They had even lied to me about that. Francesca’s husband, a very wealthy and generous man, hired several investigators, who gave us the name of the orphanage where we found Amélie. Then he hired the best lawyers to make sure that we would get her back. There were many difficult months, but finally Amélie was with us. When I carried her into our house…” Sofía let out a sob, and Matilde kept her lips pressed tight together so that she wouldn’t start bawling like a child.
Sofía sat up when she heard voices coming down the hall. She left her armchair and walked toward the door, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
“Hi, Sofi!” a woman greeted her. “Look who I’ve brought you. Oh, sorry! I didn’t realize you had company. Ginette didn’t warn us.”
“Please, come in,” Sofía said, still trembling.
Matilde rummaged in her shika until she found Eliah’s handkerchief. She turned a little to hide and dry her face. When she turned back, she froze. Eliah was staring at her from the doorway. She stood up instinctively, utterly confused. His expression scared her.
It wasn’t just the rigorous training he had received from L’Agence that had prepared Eliah to minimize all possibility of surprise, which could be the difference between life and death; Takumi sensei had also taught him to expect the unexpected. Finding Matilde in his Aunt Sofía’s living room had sent all his rigorous discipline to hell, giving him a terrible shock, though he soon recovered and noticed the trail of tears running down her cheeks. He was next to her immediately, grabbing her by the shoulders.
“What happened? Why are you crying?”
“It’s nothing, nothing,” Matilde could barely stammer in reply.
“What in the world?” She heard Sofía’s voice. “Do you two know each other?”
“Yes, Aunt, we know each other,” Eliah answered without taking his eyes off Matilde, who bravely held his gaze. “Tell me,” he whispered to her, bending down, “what happened?”
“Eliah, son, are you going to introduce us?”
Eliah took his hands off Matilde’s shoulders and moved away from her.
“Francesca, this is my niece Matilde, Aldo’s youngest daughter. Matilde, this is Francesca, my childhood friend and Eliah’s mother, as you can see.”
“Charmed,” Francesca said, and kissed her on both cheeks, which were still wet with tears. Matilde, still bewildered, caught a whiff of perfume from the woman’s neck, sweetening the air around her just as her grandmother Celia’s Japanese jasmines had at home in springtime. Juana would be able to tell me what perfume she’s wearing.
“It’s a pleasure,” Matilde mumbled.
“You’re just as beautiful as your mother.”
“Thank you.”
“Aunt, why is Matilde crying?”
“Because I was telling her a sad family story. She got upset, that’s all, Eliah.”
“You’re pale,” Al-Saud insisted, and took her forearm to lead her back to her seat.
Francesca, still standing, watched her son. She didn’t remember ever having seen him so solicitous. He hadn’t even shown this kind of concern for Samara. Aldo’s youngest daughter. She’s so beautiful! she said to herself. Actually, she was much more beautiful than Dolores Sánchez Azúa, who possessed an undeniable but cold beauty, completely lacking the warmth that radiated from this girl, who was clearly still shaken by the story she had heard.
“Aunt, give Matilde another tea, with a lot of sugar. Please,” he urged her, sitting next to her on the chair. “Eat something.” He passed her the plate of cakes.
“I’m fine,” she promised him. “What are you doing here?”
“I came with my mother.”
“Francesca, please, sit down. What would you like? Tea or coffee?”
Matilde heard the woman accept a tea with milk and then apologize for their sudden arrival as she settled into the chair opposite. Her voice, with a pretty, low timbre, and a refined accent, filled Matilde with peace. She turned her head to look at her and found that the older woman was already looking at her. They smiled at each other.
“And how do you and my son know each other?”
Matilde, still nervous, cleared her throat before she explained, “We met on the plane two days ago. We were sitting next to each other. And yesterday we ran into each other in a subway station.”
Al-Saud cursed how easily Matilde volunteered information, with an innocence that might become dangerous. His mother’s reaction didn’t surprise him. Francesca raised her eyebrows and looked askance. Sofía wasn’t so restrained.
“You, Eliah, on the métro? What were you doing there? I can’t even imagine you taking the métro. Here, love.” She passed him a cup of coffee. “You know something, Francesca? Matilde knows about you and your mother because Rosalía always used to talk about you.”
“Really? The lovely Rosalía…”
“Rosalía and I were great friends. She taught me how to cook,” Matilde said. After a few sips of tea, she was back in control; not even the presence of Eliah, whose thigh was touching her leg, intimidated her. “And she always said,” she continued, “that what she taught me she had learned from Antonina. So, indirectly, everything I know how to cook I owe to your mother.”
She looked down, suddenly startled by the sound of her voice still hanging in the silence of the room. She usually didn’t expose herself in front of strangers; the presence of Eliah’s mother was having an odd effect on her.
Francesca noticed that Eliah was prying Matilde’s hand open so he could claim the handkerchief, which he studied before smiling to himself. Her son smiling was so rare that it made her smile as well; she was intrigued to find out what might be causing this transformation. Sofía said something and she nodded, concentrating on the young people.
Eliah noted that Matilde’s expression was somewhere between embarrassment and anxiety. They looked at each other in silence, and Francesca regarded the exchange with great pleasure. She felt a deep connection between them. The started to murmur to each other with their heads close together. She couldn’t hear what they were saying.
“Tell me what these initials stand for.” Matilde stroked the S and A with a finger.
The sight of her index finger tracing out the letters of his last name made his groin tingle. The power of this woman was growing vast, as was the obsession that threatened to overwhelm him, and he had no idea how to control even if had wanted to.
“It’s my last name,” he explained, in a deep voice. “Al-Saud.”
“Al-Saud,” she whispered, her eyes on the embroidering. “It’s so strange to see you here,” she admitted suddenly, looking up at him. “You, the son of Madame Francesca. I grew up hearing her and your grandmother Antonina’s names. I can’t believe what a coincidence this is!”
“Coincidences don’t exist, Matilde.”
“No?” She was actually flirting with him—her, the girl who usually stayed as far as possible away from men.
“No, they don’t exist. It’s clear that you and I are fated to…”
“Bonjour, tante!” Fabrice burst into the room with Juana trailing behind him. “Cousin!”
Eliah stood up to shake Fabrice’s hand. Juana, whose expression had changed when she saw Eliah, stopped dead in the doorway.
“Stud?”
Eliah’s chuckle made Francesca and Sofía exchange looks.
“Yes, Juana, it’s me.”
They hugged each other.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to drop my mother off. Mama, allow me introduce you to Juana, Matilde’s friend.”
Juana leaned forward to kiss Francesca.
“It’s a pleasure.” She turned back to Eliah. “What a crazy coincidence! Yesterday on the subway and here today. I can’t believe it.”
“So you just arrived in Paris,” Francesca said, starting a conversation with Juana and Sofía. For his part, Fabrice hogged Eliah’s attention, and Matilde appreciated her cousin’s interference, because Eliah spoke to him in French. She never imagined that such a small thing—listening to a man speak French—would make her shudder with pleasure. Alone and forgotten on the armchair, she watched him closely. She noted the quality of his clothes, and for the first time she was ashamed of her gray wool skirt and black cardigan, bought in a Buenos Aires market for a few pesos, while Al-Saud was dressed as though he were a model for Yves Saint Laurent. The impeccable cut of his gold-buttoned, ivory blazer showed off his athlete’s body, and clung to his shoulders and his straight back as though it were made to measure. His blue jeans showed off his legs, which were long and a little arched, like a horseman’s. Does he know how to ride? she wondered. She liked his blue-and-green tartan shirt, which was crisscrossed with white lines. She even stared at his feet, his butter-colored shoes, which were informal without being inelegant. He seemed comfortable in his body and his clothes, although he wasn’t wearing enough for such a cold day. Everything about him—the way he held his head and squared his shoulders, his clothes, the timbre of his voice, the way he moved his hands as he spoke—reflected his strong personality.