Empress Bianca (26 page)

‘Where’s the boy’s nanny?’ she asked.

‘The captain will explain everything.’

Bianca took a seat in the wing armchair nearest the door, her right leg crossed over her left, swinging it nervously. Manolito sat beside her. Ominously, she noted that none of the servants were anywhere to be seen.

Before three minutes had elapsed, the captain was standing in front of an increasingly unsettled Bianca. ‘What in God’s name is going on here?’ she asked, covering her nervousness with irritability.

‘Señora, it is with a heavy heart that I tell you that your husband has been found dead with a gun in his hand…’

‘What?’ she spluttered, genuinely shocked despite her knowledge of what would happen and blanching without any pretence.

‘I am sorry to have to bring you this news…’

Manolito started to cry. Although he did not understand what was happening, he was picking up on the tension and reacting accordingly.

‘It’s OK, darling,’ Bianca said soothingly. ‘This nice man isn’t going to hurt you. He’s just here to make things better.’ Changing tone, she looked at the captain and continued: ‘We can’t speak about something like this in
front of the baby. Where’s his nanny?’

‘She’ll be with you soon.’

Bianca got up and, rocking Manolito, dedicated herself to soothing him, grateful for the distraction. Her heart was beating furiously, her hands shaking like an alcoholic’s. Meanwhile the policeman hovered nearby, eyeing her up and down.

The nanny arrived. She handed Manolito over, kissed him goodnight.

‘You go to sleep now, darling,’ she said, ‘and remember that Mama loves you.’

The captain watched the child putting his arms around Bianca and kissing her lovingly on the lips before he toddled off with the girl. Señora Piedraplata was clearly a family woman whose conduct fell outside the realms of suspicion.

‘Where did he shoot himself?’ Bianca asked as soon as the nurse and child were out of the room.

‘In your bedroom, Señora, but you mustn’t see him. It would be too upsetting for you.’

‘No. I meant where on his body did he shoot himself?’

‘Through the heart.’

‘Are you sure he’s dead?’

‘You can’t shoot yourself through the heart and survive, Señora. I’m sorry, but there’s no doubt that he’s dead.’

‘He really meant business, didn’t he? I suppose I always knew he might kill himself. He suffers from manic depression, you know,’ she said, careful to inject the present tense the way a grieving widow might who had been surprised by a husband’s tragic death. ‘Up for several months and then crashing suddenly…the deepest darkest depressions you can imagine. Oh, my poor Ferdie. When did it happen?’

‘The servants discovered the body when they came back on duty. They say Señor Piedraplata had given them the afternoon off.’

‘That’s right,’ Bianca said. ‘He’s the most considerate employer, as all Mexico knows… If he were going to do something like that, he would never have involved anyone else.’

‘So he knew you were going to be out?’ the captain said, his tone slightly too official for Bianca’s taste. She could see that he was used to viewing everyone connected with an incident as a potential suspect, and this did not make for a comforting experience.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, dabbing at eyes that stubbornly refused to disgorge the tears that normally flowed so easily. ‘He insisted I take Manolito. I went to visit Señora d’Olivera, you known, the wife of the minister of the interior.’

‘That would fit in with the scenario,’ he said. ‘Would you like me to call your doctor?’

‘That won’t be necessary. I never take drugs. Not even tranquillizers. But I would like a stiff drink. Where are the servants?’

‘They’re being questioned separately. We need to satisfy ourselves as to what happened, and, unless they’re questioned one by one, we can’t rely upon their accounts of what happened.’

‘Have you notified my husband’s partners yet?’

‘No.’

‘I think you ought to. Not only are they great personal friends but my husband’s death also has the potential to affect the economy of our country unless his partners can stabilize things. I’d say that ought to be a priority on both the personal and national levels.’

‘Where would they be now?’

‘I’ll give you their numbers,’ Bianca said then proceeded to do so, giving Raymond Mahfud’s before Philippe’s.

The captain of police telephoned Raymond. ‘We’ll come over right now,’ he said as soon as he heard what had happened. ‘My brother is with me as I speak. Tell Señora Piedraplata. She must be in a state. She was so in love with her husband.’

Making a mental note to include that comment of Raymond Mahfud’s in his report, the policeman rang off. ‘Is there anyone else you’d like me to contact?’ he asked.

‘It’s OK, thank you, Captain. You have a lot to do. I’ll contact the family myself.’

‘If you’ll excuse me, then, I’ll go back to the bedroom.’

Bianca brought her handkerchief up to the corner of her right eye and dabbed at it, as if tears were forming there. Without waiting for the captain to leave the room, she walked over to the telephone on the Louis XV writing table, picked up the receiver and dialled. ‘Operator? I’d like a number in Switzerland: Geneva 3642. Person to person to the Marchesa d’Offolo. My name is Bianca Piedraplata.’

The policeman left the room while Bianca was waiting for the
connection, preparing herself for the exchange with the sister who was not only her adversary but who also adored Ferdie.

Clara came on the line. ‘This is an unexpected surprise,’ she said before her sister-in-law could say anything.

‘Bitch,’ Bianca thought, knowing very well that Clara had a low opinion of her.

‘I have some bad news for you,’ she said in a concerned tone of voice, taken aback at how pleased she was to be in the position to inflict pain upon someone whose good opinion she had formerly desired. ‘Ferdie committed suicide an hour or two ago.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ Clara said quietly.

‘It’s true. The police are here. They say he shot himself through the heart. I haven’t actually seen him…they won’t let me…but I don’t think they’d say something that wasn’t so.’

‘Did you hear the gunshot?’

‘No. I wasn’t here. I was visiting Raoul d’Olivera’s wife Gloria.’

‘Put me onto the police. I need to know what happened.’

‘They’re very busy at the moment. They just told me to phone the family and let you all know what’s happened.’

‘Has Mama been told yet?’

‘You’re the first person I’ve called.’

‘Don’t tell her. Her heart wouldn’t stand the shock. I’m going to try to get a flight out as soon as I hang up. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. I’ll meet her ship at the dock next Saturday. Please arrange for her doctor to be at the house when I get her back there. We can break the news to her after he’s sedated her.’

‘That old bat doesn’t deserve a daughter like you.’

‘Don’t worry yourself with the details of the funeral,’ Clara continued, doubting that a woman who was about to be divorced would wish to be bothered with organizing one for the man who about to dump her. ‘I’ll arrange it all when I get there.’

‘That’s sweet of you.’

‘I’ll call and let you know when I’m coming,’ Clara replied, putting aside her dislike of Bianca at this most poignant of moments. ‘Till then, take care. And don’t, whatever you do, speak to the press. They’ll only twist anything you say, and it could have devastating consequences for Calorblanco and the banks.’

‘Thanks for the advice, Clara. It’s so good to feel that I can rely upon you to protect me,’ Bianca said, not without a measure of irony.

‘As I said, you needn’t worry yourself about the funeral arrangements. I’ll attend to them when I arrive. Bye, Bianca.’

‘Bye, Clara,’ she said, hanging up, her feeling of triumph mixed with a sickened sensation. What had she got herself involved in?

Mindful of how injudicious it would be to turn for support to Philippe, Bianca’s next telephone call was to her ex-husband. Bernardo had moved to Panama earlier that year and was due to be married soon, but she knew that he would come running to her at a time like this. She needed only to ask. ‘Bernardo, I need you and the children to come and be here with me by Sunday at the latest. Ferdie has killed himself, and I cannot cope without your support. Can I rely upon you to make the arrangements?’

Bernardo was in the process of assuring his ex-wife that he would do everything in his power to be there, with all three children, by Sunday when Raymond, Begonia and Philippe arrived at the house. Still on the telephone as they were shown into the drawing-room by a policeman, Bianca gave them a wan little wave and a tight smile and motioned them to sit down.

When she rang off, she went straight to Philippe. He got up, hugged her. Then she broke down and started to cry.

‘It’s unbelievable,’ Begonia said.

‘I had no idea,’ Raymond said.

‘None of us did,’ Philippe responded.

‘I’m not that surprised,’ Bianca said, bursting into more tears. ‘Suicide is always a danger with manic depressives.’

‘Do your parents know?’ Philippe asked.

‘Not yet.’

‘I’ll ring them,’ he said.

‘Get them to spend the night with her,’ Begonia suggested. ‘You don’t want to be on your own tonight of all nights, Bianca.’

‘That’s true,’ Bianca replied.

As their father had arranged, Julio, Pedro and Antonia all flew into Miami that Sunday afternoon. Bernardo was there to greet them, having arrived that morning from Panama. At six o’clock that same evening, they
boarded a Pan American airways flight to Mexico City. By the time they had arrived, cleared Immigration and were waved through Customs, it was after midnight. Then it took another fifty minutes to reach the Piedraplata residence.

Bianca was waiting by the front door, dressed in a Pucci black and white trouser suit, when Duarte dropped them off.

Julio was the first one she greeted. She hugged him, squeezing him tightly in that old familiar way she had with him. It had never occurred to her that Pedro and Antonia, whom she never greeted so keenly, might notice the difference and be jealous. Where her relations with her children were concerned, their mother, who could be so sensitive to the thoughts, feelings, and needs of others, was somewhat insensitive.

‘What can I say, Mama? You must be devastated. We all loved Uncle Ferdie. He was a great guy,’ Julio said, making way for Antonia, who was crying.

Bianca hugged her perfunctorily, this gesture of affection so tinged with carelessness that her daughter quickly stepped aside for Pedro to have his turn.

‘Mama, I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved Uncle Ferdie,’ he said, in turn stepping aside quickly before his mother could chill him with a hug that invariably had all the sincerity of a greeting between rival socialites at a cocktail party.

Bernardo was now standing directly in front of her. ‘I knew I could count on you,’ she said gratefully, and as she hugged him, she realized for the first time ever that she was well and truly over him. It was like hugging a brother, someone you loved, wanted to see and could count upon.

Patting Bernardo on the back in a sisterly fashion, Bianca pulled away from him. ‘Come, let me show you to your rooms,’ she said, as gracious as ever. Bernardo instantly noticed that his former wife had changed since the time of their divorce. ‘She’s even more confident than she was when we were married,’ he reflected, surprised that anyone as confident as she had been could have become even more so in two short years.

She put Bernardo in the guest suite, the place where she had spent the nights of exile from the marital bed preceding Ferdie’s death. It was a spectacular suite, consisting of two bedrooms and a shared bathroom and sitting room, situated at the opposite end of the house from the suite she had shared with Ferdie. The children she scattered in the three remaining
guest bedrooms.

‘We don’t need all this space,’ Bernardo said, thinking he was being helpful.

Bianca, however, had a plan of her own. ‘Of course you do,’ she said. ‘I can’t have you all return from halfway across the world then squeeze you into tiny guest bedrooms.’

The real reason why Bianca needed to use up all the guest facilities in the Piedraplata family home would soon become apparent when Clara arrived in Mexico City.

Clara’s flight landed on the evening of Tuesday, November 24 1970.

Accompanied by her husband, Rodolfo d’Offolo, and her daughter Magdalena, she had not expected her sister-in-law to meet them personally at the airport. Sending Duarte would have been more than enough. However, as Clara stepped out of customs, there stood Bianca, waiting patiently for them, a tight little smile conveying bravery in the face of adversity, as the porter wheeled out their baggage.

Bianca and Magdalena fell into one another’s arms.

‘I’m so sorry, sweetie pie,’ Bianca said. ‘I know how you felt about your uncle and how he felt about you.’

Magdalena started to cry. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said between great wracking sobs.

‘I know,’ Bianca said, patting her on the back comfortingly. ‘That’s how I feel too. We were so happy together. If it hadn’t been for his damned depressions, we wouldn’t be in this situation now.’

Magdalena and Bianca released one another, leaving Clara and Bianca face to face. To Bianca’s surprise, Clara stepped up to her and embraced her for the first time ever.

‘It’s hard on us all,’ Bianca said.

‘You can say that again,’ Clara replied, pulling away. Bianca could tell that her sister-in-law was not comfortable displaying affection towards her. But she had done so, and that was to the good.

‘Bianca, you have our sincerest condolences,’ Rodolfo said, leaning down to pick up his hand luggage with his left hand and Clara’s jewel case with his right.

‘Thank you, Rodolfo,’ Bianca said, waving Duarte over to pick them up.

While the porter was loading their luggage into the trunk of the car,
Bianca turned to Clara and said sweetly: ‘Where are you going to sleep tonight?’

‘The usual, I should think,’ Clara replied, thinking that Bianca had meant which bedroom in the Piedraplata family home did she wish to occupy. This, of course, was the same guest suite that had been allocated to Bernardo, but which all the members of the Piedraplata family invariably called ‘Clara’s wing’. Whenever she was visiting the family in Mexico City, Clara and her current husband had always occupied one bedroom in the suite, Magdalena another; and they had always treated the sitting room as their own private fiefdom. That way, they remained together, had their privacy, did not get in the way of the remainder of the family but nevertheless had a place in the family home: one that Clara partly owned.