Appassionata rc-5

by Jilly Cooper

  Aware of Sister Mercedes’ massive disapproving shadow blocking out his light, Rupert hastily scrumpled up the fax.

  Despite being the object of every other nun’s adulation, Rupert often wondered how he endured those long days at the convent. There were only Sister Angelica and two novices to look after twenty babies in the orphanage, which was part of the old chapel and had high windows out of which you couldn’t see. The din was fearful and when the rains came, to the incessant crying of babies, was added a machine-gun rattle on the corrugated roof.

  Rupert was also exhausted. Having come to the end of a punishing racing season, masterminded the entire trip to Bogotá and worried himself into a frazzle over Taggie’s illness, he was woken all through the night by calls from Tokyo, Kentucky and the Middle East. Like Bogotá, the bloodstock market never slept.

  But, although Rupert ran one of the most successful National Hunt yards in the country, he was coming to the depressing conclusion that if he were going to beat Lloyd’s and the recession, keep the estate going and support all his children, including Bianca, he would have to switch to the flat full time. Rupert had always been a hands-on boss, but, as he gazed at the sleeping baby, he thought how nice it would have been if he could have started handing over the running of the estate to his son, Marcus. But Marcus was a wimp, only interested in playing the piano.

  Bianca was very sweet, Rupert decided, and far prettier than the other babies, but she slept most of the day, and Rupert had finished his faxes by ten o’clock. With plenty of time on his hands, he soon noticed a nearby cot where an older child, with a terrible squint and a dark magenta birthmark down the side of his brown face, sat slumped, gazing at the white-washed wall, the picture of desolation. But when Rupert stretched out a hand to smooth back the child’s hopelessly matted hair, he cringed away in terror, whimpering like a kicked puppy.

  ‘Poor little sod, what happened to him?’

  ‘Beaten up and left for dead by his Indian parents,’ said Sister Angelica angrily. ‘They regard birthmark as sign of devil. We call him Xavier,’ she went on, ‘but it’s him who needs saving. He show no desire to walk or talk, the doctor think he’s seriously backwards.’

  When Xavier was two, next month, he was destined for the state orphanage, which meant he’d almost certainly never be adopted.

  ‘Even then he’ll be lucky,’ Sister Angelica added bitterly. ‘All over Bogotá, you must have seen the posters, advertising funerals. Always the government have purges. In Chile, unwanted children are left to die in concrete bunker, here, they shoot any kid hanging round street, because it make the place untidy.’

  Outside the convent, knee deep in mud, a little graveyard lurked like a crocodile. Rupert shivered and, noticing Sister Angelica had tears in her eyes, put an arm round her shoulder. Sister Angelica, who’d been plunging rose thorns into her flesh at night to curb her immoral thoughts about Rupert, jumped away, but not before a glowering Sister Mercedes appeared in the doorway.

  ‘You’re wanted in the kitchen, Sister.’

  Rupert was so bored, he started playing with Xavier, bringing him toys and sweets. At first Xavier shrank from him, but gradually interest sparked in the boy’s hopelessly crossed eyes. The next thing was to improve Xav’s appearance. He shouldn’t be wearing girl’s clothes. Rupert returned next day with a blue checked shirt and blue jeans to replace the flowing white nightgown. It was then he realized how pitifully thin Xav was. The trousers, which had to be rolled up at the ankle, were meant for a one year old.

  It took two hours, four tantrums and two bars of chocolate to untangle and wash his hair. The screams were so terrible that Rupert had to remove him from the dormitory. The novices were in raptures over Xav’s lustrous black curls. Sister Mercedes looked thunderous. She had spent her life in the prison of being ugly; what right had Rupert to raise Xavier’s hopes of escape?

  The days slid by, the rains continued. They’d have to build an ark soon. Taggie made heroic efforts not to scratch her spots which were crusting over and beginning to drop off. Every night she bombarded Rupert with questions about Bianca, poring over the polaroids he brought her, but beyond telling her Bianca had drunk all her bottles, put on a couple of ounces, cooed and slept, there was little of interest to report. Instead, he found himself talking about Xav who was still shoving him away one moment, clinging and tearful the next.

  ‘I took him a teddy bear this morning, he totally ignored me and it all day. He still hasn’t forgiven me for untangling his hair but when I went he yelled his head off.’

  This had upset Rupert more than he cared to admit.

  But the next morning when he arrived at the convent, Xav babbled with incomprehensible joy, frantically waving his little hands, trying to express himself.

  ‘He’s happy,’ smiled Sister Angelica. ‘He refused to be parted from the bear even in the bath.’

  As Bianca was asleep, Rupert gathered up a purring Xavier and carried him across to the delapidated convent school where Sister Angelica, to the counterpoint of rain dripping into several buckets, was telling the children the legend of El Dorado, the Indian ruler, who had coated himself in gold dust before bathing. In homage, his subjects had tossed gold and precious stones, mostly emeralds, into the lake after him. Later the name El Dorado was given to an equally legendary region of fabulous riches.

  Many of the Spanish Conquistadores, explained Sister Angelica, men who looked like Senor Campbell-Black, blushing slightly, she pointed at Rupert, had died from shipwreck and starvation when they sailed across the oceans in search of the riches of the lake. Many more Colombian Indians, she pointed to Xav, had been butchered in the process.

  ‘The pursuit of gold,’ she added gravely, as she shut the book, ‘will never bring happiness. The only El Dorado is found in your hearts.’

  Rupert, who’d always pursued gold relentlessly, and who had been wondering what Sister Angelica’s legs were like beneath her white robes, raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  Wandering out of the classroom, he passed a pile of wooden madonnas, roughly carved in the convent workshop, waiting to be sold in the market. Examining one he was startled to find it opening to reveal a hollowed inside. Jesus, what a country: even the nuns were smuggling coke. As no-one was looking, he slid the madonna into his inside pocket.

  Having lunched yet again on rice and herbal tea, any minute he’d turn into a bouquet garni, Rupert realized it had stopped raining. Salvador had invited him out to his house in the country to try out a couple of horses. Suddenly desire to escape from Bogotá poverty and squalor became too much for him. As Sister Mercedes was out, no doubt terrorizing the poor, Rupert persuaded Sister Angelica to let him take Xavier along too, strapping him into the child seat in the back of the Mercedes.

  After the rain, every blade of grass and leaf of jungle tree glittered in the sunlight like distilled emeralds. Xav gazed in wonder at towering dark grey mountains, brimming rivers, rainbows arched like limbo-dancing Josephs. He was even more excited by the fat piebald cows and the sleek horses, knee deep in the lush, rolling savannah round Salvador’s beautiful white colonial house.

  Salvador, who was sleeker than a Brylcreemed otter, was seriously rich. A Monet, a Picasso and a Modigliani hung on the drawing-room walls. Suntanned girls in bikinis decorated the swimming-pool. Sweeps of orchids grew everywhere like bluebells.

  ‘You like?’ he asked Rupert proudly.

  ‘Of course, it’s beautiful.’

  ‘You should come in on that cocaine deal.’

  ‘I have to keep my nose clean rather than running,’ said Rupert, unhitching Xav from the child seat. ‘I’ve got a lot of dependants. Anyway, I can’t cope with this country, everything’s crooked, the police, the government, the customs men, even the nuns. How d’you live with it?’

  Salvador shrugged. ‘We have a popular song in Colombia, if you dance with the devil, you must know the right steps.’

  He was appalled by Xav.

  ‘You said you were adopt
ing lovely little girl.’

  ‘We are. Just brought Xav along for the ride.’

  Salvador lifted Xav’s chin, looking in distaste at the crossed eyes and the purple birthmark lit up by the sun, and shook his head.

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Nearly two.’

  ‘Better buy him a pair of crutches for his second birthday, then he can beg in the street. He hasn’t a chance once the nuns kick him out. Pity someone didn’t give him a karate chop at birth.’

  After that Rupert decided not to buy any of Salvador’s horses. But if he hadn’t resolved to switch to the flat, he would have been sorely tempted by a dark chestnut mare. Leaving a trail of silver spray, he let her have her head across the drenched green savannah, forgetting everything in the dull thud of hooves and the feel of a fit, beautiful horse beneath him. He was away for so long Xav had worked himself into a frenzy.

  ‘Little runt seems quite attached to you,’ said Salvador in surprise. ‘Probably the only good thing that’ll ever happen to him.’

  ‘Come on then.’ Leaning down, Rupert lifted Xav up in front of him and set off again.

  He expected terror as he broke into a canter and then a gallop, but was amazed to hear screams of delighted crowing laughter, and the faster he went, the more Xav laughed.

  Red-Indian blood coming out, thought Rupert, reflecting bitterly and briefly once again on his son Marcus who was terrrified of everything, particularly horses.

  As they returned to the house for tea and rum punches, three Borzois swarmed out to meet them. Rupert missed his dogs terribly. He had been very upset to find a drowned puppy in the gutter outside the hotel that morning. He’d probably grown so attached to Xav, he told himself firmly, because he regarded him as a surrogate dog. And he was a brave little boy; when one of the girls in bikinis took him for a swim in the pool, after an initial look of panic in Rupert’s direction, he screamed with delight again.

  ‘He’s a sweet kid,’ admitted Salvador, as Xavier tucked into one of Colombia’s more disgusting delicacies, cheese dipped in hot chocolate. ‘But he’s still too bloody ugly.’

  On the way home, Rupert was held up by horrific traffic jams, a solid blockade of lorries belching out fumes, a bus had overturned tipping glass over the road, and a van was being checked by the police. Xav, however, slept through the whole thing. With a pang Rupert noticed the beauty of his left profile now his black combed curls fell over his forehead and his birthmark was hidden.

  As Rupert walked into the convent, he was confronted by a jibbering Sister Mercedes, who snatched Xav away like a female gorilla scooping up her baby. How dare Rupert kidnap one of the children? He had seriously jeopardized his chances of adopting Bianca. How dare he raise expectations, she shouted, as a terrified Xav screamed and sobbed as he was dragged away.

  Rupert flipped, all thought of behaving well for Bianca’s sake forgotten. Sister Mercedes’ squawks, in fact, were purely academic. There was no real likelihood of Rupert and Taggie being turned down. All the official documents were now stamped and, in private chats with Maria Immaculata, Rupert had agreed to donate a large sum to repair the school. He had also had enough of Sister Mercedes.

  ‘If you don’t shut your trap, you disgusting old monster,’ he yelled, producing the hollowed-out madonna from his inside pocket, ‘I’ll tell the Cardinal exactly what you’ve been up to, although he’s probably in it as well.’ And he stalked out, dislodging most of the flaking green paint from the front door as he slammed it behind him.

  Back at the Red Parrot, surrounded by polaroids of Bianca, Taggie had not realized how late Rupert was. She had been wrestling with a letter to her stepson, Marcus, wishing him good luck in a recital (how on earth did one spell that?) he was giving at college next week. She also begged him to come down to Penscombe soon to ‘hopfully meat yor nu sisster’.

  Taggie’s desire to bear Rupert’s child had been intensified because she knew how much he wanted a son to run the estate. This, in turn, would have taken the pressure off Marcus. Saying Rupert got on brilliantly with Marcus had been the only time, in fact, she had lied to the social workers. She was equally ashamed that the moment Rupert walked in she shoved her letter under a cushion and launched into a flood of chat to distract him.

  ‘Dr Mendoza says I’m not infectious any more.’ Taggie was about to suggest they popped back to the convent for half an hour when she noticed the bleak expression on Rupert’s face, and stammered that she couldn’t wait to see Bianca tomorrow morning.

  Fortunately Rupert was distracted by the telephone. It was Declan O’Hara, Taggie’s father and Rupert’s partner at Venturer Television, ringing from Gloucestershire. With his usual courtesy Declan asked after Bianca, Taggie’s chicken pox and then the hotel.

  ‘Even fleas boycott this place,’ snapped Rupert. ‘Get on with it, Declan, what d’you really want?’

  ‘As you’re in Bogotá, could you nip over to Buenos Aires tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s about two thousand miles, some nip,’ protested Rupert, taking a large glass of whisky from Taggie. ‘Didn’t they teach you any geography at school?’

  ‘I want you to go and see Abigail Rosen.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘About the greatest fiddler in the world, and the hottest property in classical music,’ said Declan reverently. ‘They call her L’Appassionata. I want to do a two-hour special on her, but her agents, Shepherd Denston, who are even greater fiddlers than she is, won’t answer my telephone calls. You’re so gifted at doing deals.’

  ‘Blarney wouldn’t get you anywhere if I wasn’t desperate to get out of this cesspit. And I don’t know anything about music.’

  ‘Bullshit your way through. I’ll fax out Abby Rosen’s cv. There’ll be tickets for you and Taggie at the box-office.’

  Rupert promptly rang and squared the trip with Mother Maria, who, delighted that someone had taken on Sister Mercedes, was more than accommodating.

  ‘It will do you good to have a break, enjoy yourselves. I would give the world to hear L’Appassionata.’

  ‘At least we can get out of this dump for twenty-four hours,’ said Rupert jubilantly. ‘Your father wants us to chat up some female Nigel Kennedy. You’ll love BA.’

  Taggie was so desperate to catch another glimpse of Bianca, Rupert agreed they could pop in to the convent on the way to the airport. Stopping off at a toyshop, waiting for Taggie, Rupert glanced at a cutting which Lysander had just faxed out from The Scorpion. This claimed that Rupert was giving sanctuary to Lysander and Kitty Rannaldini, now that she’d left her husband, and weaved in an old quote from Rupert, that Kitty was well shot of ‘an arriviste wop like Rannaldini’. Political correctness was never Rupert’s forte.

  Taggie by now had settled for a pink fluffy rabbit and a musical box.

  ‘We better move it,’ said Rupert, adding a red racing car for Xavier to the pile.

  But one look at Bianca was too much for Taggie.

  ‘Oh Rupert, d’you mind terribly if I don’t come to BA?’

  Rupert did mind — terribly, particularly when he thought of his battles with bureaucracy, and his heroic devotion to duty while she had chicken pox. The off-white suit he was wearing was the only thing in his wardrobe that didn’t reek of sick. It was also the first time in seven years of marriage that Taggie had admitted that she wanted to be with anyone else more than him. But he was not going to show it.

  ‘Why should I mind?’ he said icily. ‘Best-looking women in the world live in BA. Thanks for the pink ticket.’

  Not even caring that Sister Angelica was witnessing such a scene, not bothering to kiss a horrified mouthing Taggie, ignoring the anguished bellows of Xavier, Rupert stalked out of the convent, nearly dislodging the battered virgin from her niche as he banged the door.

  THREE

  Rupert’s mood didn’t lighten until he reached Buenos Aires, a city where he had often played polo and which he had always loved. As he joined the crazy traffic hurtling along the wid
e streets, elegant regal houses gazed down unperturbed over the half-moon spectacles of their balconies. Even with a chill in the air and the trees in the lush parks already turning, the merry inhabitants appeared to be holding drinks parties on the pavement outside every café. After Bogotá it felt blissfully safe. For the first time in weeks, Rupert left off his money belt.

  L’Appassionata posters were everywhere, showing off Abigail Rosen’s rippling dark curls and hypnotic eyes, like the leader of some dodgy religious sect.

  As her latest CD of Paganini’s Caprices had just topped the classical charts, her face also dominated the window of every record shop, and she certainly caused mayhem round the opera house. Huge crowds, frantic for returns, rioted and smashed windows. Motorists, driven frantic by traffic jams, anticipated the concert with a fortissimo tantivy on their horns.

  Rupert was delighted to flog Taggie’s ticket for nearly a grand, but was completely thrown on entering the opera house to see Rannaldini’s pale, sinister face glaring down from posters in the foyer. Declan had foxily omitted to tell Rupert that the New World Symphony Orchestra was touring South America, and Rannaldini, as their very new musical director, had flown down to BA to conduct them and Abigail Rosen in the Brahms concerto.

  Rupert felt a rare wave of shame. He and Rannaldini had last met at the Rutminster Cup when all their horses had fallen, and Rupert had been venting hysterical rage on Lysander in front of the entire jockeys’ changing-room for throwing the race: rage, which had turned out to be totally misplaced, as a post mortem had revealed Lysander’s old horse had, in fact, died of a massive heart attack. As Kitty Rannaldini and Lysander were now happily shacked up in one of Rupert’s cottages, the ‘arriviste wop’, who regarded Lysander as a complete dolt, would, no doubt, suspect Rupert of masterminding the entire coup.

  Rupert could have done without complications like this if he were going to sign up Abigail Rosen. She was probably under Rannaldini’s forked thumb by now.