Читать книгу A Woman Named Coral - Jane Huxley - Страница 13

TWO

Questions without Answers

Frances had always been an excellent cook and her favourite guest, her son Stefan, was sitting at the luncheon table, a bowl of bouillabaisse in front of him.

“Mother,” he exclaimed. “This is better than Maxim’s.”

“Do they make bouillabaisse at Maxim’s?” she asked, surprised.

“I don’t know; but if they do, yours is better.”

“Eat as much as you want. You need to put on some weight.”

“Kabul is not the ideal place for it. I must say, I was happy to arrive, but a lot happier to leave.”

They went on eating and after a while, Stefan’s eyes paused on his mother’s face. Still beautiful, despite the shadows under the eyes, the pinched mouth that used to be always smiling, and the grey strands of hair whose existence he had only recently noticed.

“Mother,” he said, “you remember your friends, the Harringtons, don’t you?”

“Of course, darling. How could I forget them? Keith and Margo, and their beautiful little daughter, Coral.”

“Can you tell me what you remember about them?”

“Keith was an explorer, intent on finding an Inca tombstone in the northwest province of Ancash. Margo was a loving wife who found ancient ruins as interesting as a pile of mud. Their little daughter was delighted to be a part of the adventure.”

Frances lowered her head, as if she were unwilling to rake among the ashes of her memory. Through the dining room window she could see two swans gliding on the pond beyond her garden.

“I’m sorry if your memories cause you sorrow,” Stefan said, “but, as you know, there has been a sighting. What you tell me may make a difference between finding this young woman and not finding her.”

“I understand,” Frances said, and went on, “When the Harringtons announced their travel plans, both your father and I offered to keep the little girl with us in London until their return.”

“But they declined?”

“They were unwilling to part from her, which we certainly understood.”

“So they took off and...”

“...and were killed in the avalanche.”

“Father told me. Awful story.”

Frances removed the empty bowls of bouillabaise and brought a tray of cheese and biscuits.

“The bottom line is Coral,” she said. “Twenty years later.”

“Father said that she was raised by an Indian couple from the Sierra.”

“That’s correct. They spoke only Quechua, but they sent her to a bilingual school and encouraged her to learn Spanish and English.

“What, exactly, do you know about her?”

“Not much. That she’s young, intelligent and very beautiful.”

“What about him?”

“His name is Aurelio Fernandez-Concha. He’s in his sixties, attractive, charismatic, and one of the wealthiest cotton growers in South America.”

“A perfect match,” Stefan said, with a touch of irony.

“You may not know this,” Frances said. “But most everything in life is an exchange.”

“Not very reassuring, is it? But, anyway, going back to Mr. Fernandez-Concha, I believe I can get an introduction from Professor Greene.”

“That would certainly open doors and may provide some clues. At the moment all we have are questions without answers.”

Stefan helped himself to a biscuit and a slice of Brie topped with a drop of honey.

“Sorry to impose this burden on you,” Frances said.

“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.