A Woman Named Coral. Jane Huxley

      “Not at all. I’ll be glad to do what I can.”

      “Thank you, darling. I suppose this confirms that parents are needy.”

      Stefan laughed. A funny word. Needy. And yet, it brought to mind an image that was just the opposite – that of a heart of gold.

      THREE

      A Not so Pleasant Outing

      April was Coral’s favourite month. Though the hot Peruvian summer was over, the air was still warm, and the beauty of the trees, the hills and the sea seemed to keep body and soul in tune with one another. In April, she thought, you pretend to do as you’re told, while doing exactly as you like.

      What she liked was to ride up the steep hills, through the plains and around the plantation, faster and faster, on the magnificent horse her husband had given her as a gift.

      “There is no other horse like you, Monsieur Brown,” she shouted to him, as he jumped over a fence and bolted straight towards the pine trees he knew would lead to the creek.

      That was when they heard the shots.

      Monsieur Brown gave a frightened neigh and raised himself on his hind legs so violently Coral would have been thrown off had she not been such an expert rider.

      “Whoa,” she said. “Whoa, Monsieur Brown. Nothing to be frightened about.”

      She slipped off the horse and tied him to a tree. “You stay here,” she said. “I’m going to find out what’s going on.”

      She saw Silvio watching her as she approached. He addressed her in a tone of apology. “Didn’t frighten you, did I?”

      “Of course not,” Coral said. “Just wondered who was shooting and why.”

      He put down his rifle and looked at her with a grin. “The most beautiful woman in Perú,” he said. “And she happens to be my father’s wife.”

      The trees were utterly still. No breeze fluttered the leaves on their long branches. After a moment he addressed her again.

      “Beautiful,” he repeated, staring at the thick blond hair she had braided behind her back; her eyes, blue as a midnight sky; her sensuous lips.

      “You have a very attractive wife, Silvio,” she told him.

      “Do I?”

      “Not only attractive but seven months pregnant with your first child.”

      “So what?”

      “Is that all you have to say?”

      “That’s not all. I want to know about you.”

      “Me?”

      “Don’t you ever crave a strong naked male between your thighs?”

      Coral moved away stiffly. Within Silvio’s tight khaki pants, she could see the bulk of his erection, sheathed in dust-coloured cloth.

      “I ought to be getting back,” she said.

      “Don’t be in such a hurry. You just got here.”

      “I’m off,” she told him, and walked away.

      “Coral, wait!” he yelled.

      But she was already running away. The thought of their conversation was not only distasteful but threatening. It warned her what his intentions were and how far he might go to fulfill them.

      She untied the horse and mounted with impatience. “Let’s go, Monsieur Brown,” she said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

      As they rushed through the plains, she caught sight of a woman kneeling behind a clump of trees, half-hidden by the tall grasses.

      “Whoa, Monsieur Brown,” she yelled. “I think I know who that is.”

      She dropped down to the ground and ran towards the woman.

      “Josefa,” she shouted. “Is that you?”

      It was indeed Josefa, her maid, who had served her breakfast a few hours earlier. What had happened between then and now that caused Josefa to kneel on the grass and shiver convulsively, her arms covering her head.

      “Josefa,” she cried. “What on earth is the matter?”

      As she knelt beside her, she saw a pair of knitting needles and a lot of blood and blood clots on the ground.

      “What is it?” Coral cried. “What has happened to you?”

      “It’s over,” Josefa said. “I had to do what I did, and now it’s over.”

      Coral understood. She took the maid in her arms and craddled her gently. Her voice was urgent but soft. “I can see what has happeened,” she said. “But why? Why didn’t you want this baby? Was it Rocco’s baby?”

      “No.”

      “Whose baby was it?”

      Josefa just shook her head. She trembled and wept as Coral held her, clasping her arms closely around her.

      “You can tell me,” Coral said. “I only want to help you. I don’t want any harm to come to you.”

      “The señor,” Josefa mumbled, still crying.

      “Who?”

      “The señor,” she repeated.

      “What? My husband?” Coral exclaimed.

      “No. No. Not your husband. It was señor Silvio who raped me. He said he’d kill me if I told anybody.”

      Coral held the woman with a mixture of pity and rage.

      “You’re going to be alright, Josefa,” she said. “I’ll get Dr. Martinez to come to the house. He is very kind and he will make sure you’ll be fine. No one will ever know. Not Rocco. Not my husband. Not Silvio. No one. Just Dr. Martinez. And you and me.”

      Josefa put her arms around Coral and held her tightly.

      FOUR

      Of Love and Money

      Aurelio Fernandez-Concha had always been wealthy and his wife, Carlota, was far wealthier than himself.

      “Money attracts money,” she had said to him when he had proposed to her.

      He had replied, “But I love you.”

      “I never said you didn’t,” she had said, with a grin.

      There was nothing beautiful about Carlota except her eyes, which were dark and vivacious. Her nose was too long, her mouth too small, her body too scrawny, her legs too fat.

      She had shocked Aurelio when, early in their honeymoon, she had appeared on the terrace of their Acapulco hotel, standing naked under bushes of bougainvillae and said, “One vagina is like any other.”

      Their son, Silvio, had been born nine months after this pronouncement and Carlota had turned out to be a devoted mother.

      Twenty years into the marriage, disaster had struck in the form of Carlota’s diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. Aurelio had consulted specialists from Buenos Aires, Rio and as far away as New York, but the prognosis was grim. “Six months, if she’s lucky,” the physicians had told them.

      Carlota had been philosophical about her fate. “Nothing lasts forever,” she had told Aurelio. “It is evident to me that my time on this earth is almost over.”

      “I’m not giving up,” Aurelio had said.

      But it was obvious to Carlota that her prospect was grim.

      “Nonsense, Aurelio,” she had told him, and added, with an odd little laugh, “We will meet again up there, beyond those clouds.”

      After