Henriques gently lifted the child and held him on his niece’s lap. “See what we’ve found, Alicia, a little brother for you.”
The three year old girl stared at her new brother in wonder. The little boy was the image of his Portuguese mother. Dark, curly hair and enormous brown eyes looking out from a round, olive-skinned face.
She reached carefully out and stroked his head and face, still damp from the midwife’s washing. “He’s beautiful,” she said. “Can we keep him?”
The child was christened on the second of September at the Catholic Mission in Ambrizete, on the coast about thirty kilometres from the mining property. Sheltering from the blazing hot sun in the shabby clapboard building, the small group of family and friends listened to the Pastor, Father Cristóvão, as he blessed the newborn child and named him Raymundo Jesus Melo d’Almeida, after his uncle Henriques’s middle name. The christening was the last joyous event that the family would share together before the aftermath of the Revolution of the Carnations would sweep their homeland into a maelstrom of terror, privation and death.
Durban, South Africa
Rachel’s son was born on September 4th, two weeks late. His step-brothers and sisters were too young to understand the significance of this six month pregnancy, and his fair colouring and looks favoured the mother. He could have passed as Irish or Scandinavian. Hanny treated the new baby as if he were his own son. The rest of the family would never divulge the secret. It would never be known. He was christened Adam Johannes Peterson, and for thirty-three years he didn’t know who his real father was. And his father didn’t even know that he existed.
BOOK TWO
PART ONE: 2008
FOUR
Wednesday, April 2nd, 2008
Verbier, Switzerland
It was a cold, raw morning in the Swiss Alps and a heavy mist cut the visibility down to less than twenty metres. A jour blanc, as it’s known in the mountains. The tall, slim man in the dark-blue ski outfit wasn’t worried. He was a highly skilled skier who knew the area like the back of his hand. There had been a heavy snowfall over the last day and night and there was about fifteen centimetres of fresh powder which he wanted to enjoy while it was still untracked. This would be his last run of the season. He’d been ready to go back home until he saw the weather forecast and decided to stay for one more outing.
After getting into the Medran lift in Verbier when daylight still hadn’t permeated the mist, at eight forty he was skiing down below the Lac des Vaux towards the Vallon d’Arby. Now into his retirement years, he was still skiing as well as he’d ever been. He also played low handicap golf and enjoyed a couple of weekly tennis games when he wasn’t up on the slopes. All this was courtesy of a healthy life style, a hip replacement and no financial problems.
He stopped at the entrance to the gulley and peered around in the limited visibility. There was no one in sight. Easter had been early that year, the holidays were over and the mountain resorts had entered the quiet, end of season period. There had been some good snow earlier in the season, but until this last fall it had been getting thin. The relatively poor snow conditions meant that there were few visitors around and the lack of visibility had apparently put them off.
He had gone for a nightcap at the Crock bar the previous evening, chatting with a young American-sounding guy who said that he might join him, but it looked like he had opted out. The man didn’t mind, he loved the feeling of space and freedom that an empty, snow-covered mountain can give. His wife had passed away two years previously and they had no children, so he preferred to spend his time skiing alone, in the quiet solitude of the Alps, away from the more socially active life style of his home country.
Verbier had become a large village in the thirty or so years since he had built the chalet, but he enjoyed the atmosphere, the proximity to Geneva airport and the better than average snow conditions, compared to other lower resorts, which had hardly received a covering of snow this winter. With most runs at over two thousand metres, Verbier’s large skiable domain offered many itineraries. This morning he was in his element, skiing a long challenging run, away from lifts and other artificial infrastructure.
The Vallon d’Arby was officially closed off. The orange cord and the ‘Danger’ signs were designed to discourage less competent skiers. This meant that the tractor had not yet been sent out. The machine was taken out after each snowfall to pack down the snow on the famous, or infamous path, a long narrow track which led from the exit of the opening gulley, five hundred metres further down the slope. The path led to several kilometres of fairly precipitous descent, with the poor visibility and fresh powder snow coverage adding extra spice to his morning outing. The quiet solitude and beauty of this itinerary made it even more special. After the initial entrance gulley and the path, the skier was faced with several options, steep powder slopes and narrow gullies, or gentler, wider slopes and many routes through a large mountainous forest.
Today, he would ski right along to the end of the path and across to the forest, which provided better visibility for the run down. It culminated in a picturesque, protected valley, with a stream running parallel to the track towards the village of La Tzoumaz. There he would enjoy a coffee and croissant before a few more runs and then back to his chalet for lunch.
He ducked under the cord and adjusting his snow goggles, he set off through the mist in a tight line, turning expertly around the large moguls, slaloming his way through the light powder to the bottom of the gulley. There was a sharp, rocky turn to the left to negotiate then he would follow the path to the forest at the end, before starting his descent through the trees.
It was a narrow track, only wide enough for one skier. No more than a gash cut across the mountain, it was well covered in fresh snow with no other tracks to be seen. The start was between two steep slopes and visibility was better than further along, where it disappeared into the foggy gloom, snaking between the snow-covered mountainside tight on the left and a precipitous drop down the right side to a large field of jagged, icy rocks below. His heels tight together, he skimmed along the narrow, uneven surface and then started side-slipping to slow down before a hairpin bend to the left, which led down to a series of bumps with no room for speed or error.
Exiting from the hairpin bend, he heard the sound of someone behind him. He came to a stop and standing precariously at the first bump, the gaping void disappearing into the mist below his skis, he looked back. Behind the tinted goggles his eyes opened wide with astonishment. Another skier, in a black outfit, appeared from the hairpin bend, just a few metres behind him, coming down the slight decline without slowing, now virtually on top of him. Merde! What the hell?
He frantically turned back and stepped sideways, left, to the high side of the path to leave room below him, but the oncoming skier had already gone higher. As he sped past, he struck the tall man hard on his left shoulder. Completely off balance, he was thrust sideways to the right and projected straight out into the misty void towards the rocks ten metres below.
Instinctively he turned desperately in the air, trying to pull his skis below him to land feet first. The skis collided against the cliff side, propelling him headfirst into the rock field. He put his arms up to cover his head, his ski poles still hanging from his wrists by their straps, and landed in the middle of the rocky ground, breaking the clavicle of his right shoulder,.
His left knee smashed against a massive boulder and his skis flew off and clattered down the mountainside as he skidded further into the rocks, trying vainly to protect his head with his sleeved arms. One of the ski poles caught amongst the rocks, and his arm was pulled down behind him. A wrenching pain tore through his left shoulder as his body twisted unnaturally. A root of bracken trapped his boot and his knee cracked as it was torn sideways by his falling weight. The snow goggles were broken and ripped from his head along with his ski hat, as his body was thrust between two large jagged boulders. A ragged outcrop tore into his right eye. Then his head smashed into a co
rner of the rock and he lost consciousness at the impact. He slid limply to a halt, trapped between the two rocks, unconscious and bleeding.
The stranger halted sharply on the path and removed his skis. Looking around, he ensured that there was nobody in sight, then using his batons, he carefully scrambled down over the icy rocks to the unconscious figure. The victim’s body lay twisted in a grotesque position. A massive gash was oozing blood from his forehead and one of his eyes seemed to have been penetrated by a sharp rock. He felt the side of his neck, there was still an unsteady pulse.
After peering around again carefully, he removed his ski gloves, under which he was wearing rubber kitchen gloves. He pushed up his goggles then took out a leather box from the inside pocket of his anorak. It contained a small phial and syringe. He filled the syringe from the phial and injected it directly into the gash on the injured man’s forehead, withdrew it and replaced the box in his pocket. He searched through the pockets of the man’s torn ski jacket and found what he was looking for, zipped into the inside pocket. Slipping it into his own jacket, he replaced his fur gloves and climbed carefully back up over the rocks to the path. After checking his boots for snow, he stepped into his skis and pulled down his goggles. He looked around again at the deserted scene and skied off along the path towards La Tzoumaz.
In the village, the stranger took the skis, batons and boots back to the ski shop, where he reclaimed his cash deposit. Up in his room in the Hotel de la Poste he changed out of his ski gear then carried his overnight bag down to reception. He paid his bill in cash and walked along to get the bus to Martigny station. The Geneva train arrived at Cointrin Airport two hours before his flight. He had time for a sandwich and a beer before leaving.
The body wasn’t found until nine thirty, when the mist cleared a little and the first tentative rays of sunshine started to warm up the mountain. A group of three young snowboarders stopped on the path above the rocks to negotiate the bumps and saw what looked like a bundle of clothing below. They scrambled down to where the crumpled, semi-frozen body lay. Then one of them pulled out his mobile phone.
Twenty minutes later, the paramedics arrived and tried vainly to find a pulse. The body was carried up to the path, wrapped in blankets and laid on a sled. They skied along to a large open area called the Col des Mines, where a helicopter from Air Glaciers had landed. It transported the man to the nearest hospital, the Cantonal, in Martigny, where he was pronounced dead on arrival.
The pathologist found several broken bones, a ruptured spleen and very severe trauma to the head and eye. She didn’t find any trace of nitroglycerin because she wasn’t looking for it. The death became a statistic, added to the seventeen other skiers and climbers who had already lost their lives in the Swiss Alps that season. A season ski pass was found in the man’s blue ski suit, together with two hundred and fifty Swiss Francs and the keys to his chalet in Verbier. The file was passed to the Martigny police.
They called the Verbier Gendarmerie, who sent two gendarmes to the chalet. There were documents with the man’s permanent address and several thousand francs in a drawer in the bedroom. A copy of the file was sent down to the authorities in his country of residence. The local police entered the magnificent penthouse apartment and were able to open the safe with a key found in the Regency style desk in the office. There was little of interest except for a large amount of Euros in cash and two envelopes addressed to Sra. Angela Soto-Mendez, in Montevideo, Uruguay. The first envelope was marked, “Will and Testament”. Apart from some charitable donations, she was the only beneficiary. The other envelope was marked, “Only to be opened by Angela”. It seemed to contain a key. The executor, a local attorney, was advised, and the police in Montevideo were asked to contact her.
A week later they heard back from Uruguay. Señora Soto-Mendez was travelling in the Antarctic and couldn’t be reached for at least a month. The police were undermanned and overworked and in any case saw no reason to mount an investigation into the accidental death of a foreign resident, so the file was put aside until her return. It subsequently transpired that the dead man left no direct descendents.
FIVE
Friday, April 11th, 2008
New York, USA
New York was having a freezing cold, late winter spell. It was pouring in Manhattan and the wind was blowing the rain sideways. The wet, slippery pavements had become even more dangerous than usual. The temperature in the night club however, was suffocatingly warm, either as a result of the central heating, or perhaps the floor show that was just terminating.
Cinderella’s was a very private and discreet club located a few hundred metres to the north-west of Broadway and Times Square, in the basement of a small office building with a greasy spoon café and a greengrocer on the ground floor. Unlike the fairy tale, at midnight Cinderella’s didn’t turn into a pumpkin and mice. Instead it became even more private and a lot less discreet. The decor was in various shades of pink, which must have looked odd in daylight, but at night the lights were dimmed, so that it wasn’t a garish, but more a relaxing, almost cosy environment. Despite the smoking ban in most New York clubs, there was a smoky haze across the room, and the smell of cigars pervaded the atmosphere.
At midnight on this particular Friday, in fact on almost any given Friday when he was in New York, Rodrigo was lounging in a wide leather chesterfield, watching the floor show, a glass of Chivas Regal in one hand and a Romeo y Julieta Cuban cigar in the other. He was in his early forties, but looked younger. A taller than usual Portuguese, well built, with the dark complexion and curly black hair of his race. He was based in New York since leaving London in 2000, although his sexual preferences required him to make frequent visits to Kuala Lumpur, Bangkok and other destinations which fuelled his alternative lifestyle choices.
He had been back in New York for the last week, after spending a month in Cape Town, where his particular fantasies were well catered for. A few days in a private safari park in the Kruger had rounded off his winter break and he was feeling good. Fortunately, his extravagances were financed by a substantial inheritance from his father, who would certainly not have approved of them, God rest his soul.
He took a sip of his whisky and settled back to watch the floor show.
In front of him, a sinuous, large busted blonde wearing nothing but a leopardskin g-string was sexually harassing a similarly dressed, huge, muscular black man. For some reason, a silver and yellow Harley Davidson motor bike was involved, as they pranced around the catwalk that served as a stage in the middle of the floor.
There were fifty or sixty people in the club, mostly men, some of whom were with younger male partners. A number of women, professional and others, several of them topless, were drinking with customers. The remaining single clients were looking for a partner for the weekend. They were all mesmerised by the dancers, watching and waiting for the denouement. A tense atmosphere of sexual excitement pervaded the scene. They knew what to expect and they waited with bated, and in some cases panting breath.
The music climaxed and so did the dancers. After one last thrust of the hips, the black man lifted the girl up over his head and supporting her with just one hand, ripped off her g-string, baring her carefully shaved pubes. Then he stripped his own garment off, proudly showing a massive penis, aroused and rigid. Still carrying the girl above his head, he backed off along the catwalk and out of the room to the blaring finale of ‘Sex Bomb’.
After a palpable sense of anticlimax, the audience applauded and went back to their primary occupation, partner hunting. Rodrigo surveyed the room, looking both for the waitress and also for some interesting company.
“Hi, Roddy.” The girl who appeared from behind him was a striking redhead. She was topless, showing expensively enhanced breasts with large pink nipples. She had on a tiny mini skirt, with apparently nothing underneath.
“Hello! How do you know my name?” Rodrigo was particularly attracted to redheads of both sexes, preferably younger, but he was intrigued b
y the novel approach.
“Trade secret. I hear you’re an old customer. I’m Cindy, I’m new around here. Mind if I join you?”
She dumped herself in the chesterfield beside the Portuguese, almost on his lap. Her skirt rose up and he saw she was wearing a flimsy pair of panties. Turning towards him, she brushed her breast against his hand. It was surprisingly soft, despite its firm shape. She had a beautifully clear complexion, with a small freckle on her upper lip. He estimated that she couldn’t have been more than twenty or twenty-one and he suddenly felt rather old and jaded.
“How about a drink, Roddy?” Her breath smelled of peppermint toothpaste. Her short hair was fragrant with shampoo and he could also detect a subtle perfume. Rodrigo was an aficionado of odours of every kind. The girl was very clean, he decided. He signalled the waitress. What’s your fancy?”
“Champagne of course, I wouldn’t insult you by drinking anything else.” She laughed. A nice sound, rather naive and childish.
The waitress was wearing nothing but a miniscule red tartan kilt. She stepped nearer and Rodrigo ordered another Chivas, his third that evening, adding, “Bring a bottle of champagne for the young lady.” He knew that Cindy would get a twenty per cent commission on the bottle, but he figured it would be a good investment.
“The barman said you’re a gentleman.” She kissed his ear and stroked his inner thigh.
“So you’re Cindy, of Cinderellas. Which part of the States are you from? Do I detect a southern twang there?”
“I’m a country girl from Florence, South Carolina, just arrived from the farm.” She laughed again. “And you, Roddy, where’re you from? I’m figuring you for a European.”
“A bit complicated, you know, but basically Portuguese.” Rodrigo licked his lips in a greedy, almost predatory manner then pulled on his cigar, inhaling deeply, his eyes half closed.
“Does this bother you?” He blew the cigar smoke away from the girl, who smiled and shook her head.
[African Diamonds 01.0] The Angolan Clan Page 4