“Papa, please,” he heard Matilde whisper, and he could see his daughter once more. She looked so small next to Al-Saud.
“You and I will talk later. Now go see Ezequiel. He’s desperate.”
Eliah was bothered by how Martínez Olazábal treated his daughter and how arrogantly he gave her the order. He was even more bothered that Matilde obeyed him. He walked in behind her. When he saw her, Ezequiel interrupted his conversation with the doctor.
“Mat, thank God you’re here! Dr. Saseur, this is Matilde Martínez, my brother Roy’s wife.” Al-Saud’s bad mood only worsened when Matilde failed to correct him about being his ex-wife. “Doctor, my sister-in-law is a doctor. I’d like you to explain to her what’s happening with my brother. Matilde doesn’t speak French very well so I’ll translate.”
Dr. Saseur explained the medical team’s bafflement at Blahetter’s development. Since he had started to have seizures and vomit blood that morning, his temperature had climbed to almost 104 degrees. He appeared to be hemorrhaging from the stomach and the intestines, because he was defecating blood and experiencing numbness in the muscles of the left leg. Matilde asked to see the blood panel, and the doctor gestured to the door of the room, inviting her to enter.
“Al-Saud, you’re not going in.” Ezequiel planted himself in front of the door.
“Blahetter, this isn’t the time or the place.”
“Eze, if he’s not coming in, I’m not either.”
They went in. They were told to wash their hands with antiseptic soap and wear surgical masks. Al-Saud hid his reaction to Roy’s appearance. He looked dead. He focused on Matilde. She was acting professionally, reading a chart she had pulled from a bracket at the foot of the bed. Dr. Saseur lent her a flashlight so she could check his pupils’ reflexes.
“Matilde,” Roy mumbled, and tried to lift his right hand, which fell like a dead weight.
“Yes, Roy, it’s Matilde, I’m here.”
“Matilde, my love, don’t leave me.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not leaving you.”
These words hurt Al-Saud like darts to the chest. The only thing that prevented him from storming out of the room was his need to lay claim to Matilde.
Outside, in the hallway, Aldo was ranting and raving about his daughter’s flightiness. Juana, preoccupied by the fact that Shiloah hadn’t called her, had tuned him out.
“Don Aldo!” she interrupted him. “As I said before, stop talking out of your ass. I think we’ve reached the point where you and I need to talk a few things over. It’s pathetic to hear you spewing all this crap about your daughter’s love life when you know nothing about it. Let’s find the cafeteria. If it’s still open, we’ll have a cup of coffee and talk.”
“I’m not moving, Juana. Roy’s condition is very serious.”
“Roy’s not going to get better because you’re standing guard in the hallway. On the other hand, I have to tell you a few things that I should have told you a long time ago. Are you coming with me?”
Matilde went over to Al-Saud and whispered, “Eliah, I’m going to spend the night here.” Al-Saud breathed deeply and jerked his head up, away from her. “Please, Eliah, you have to understand. I think he’s dying. I can’t abandon him.”
“Abandon him? He’s in an excellent hospital, with his brother and your father.”
“But I…”
“You what? You what?” He leaned down, spitting the words from between gritted teeth. “Were you about to say, ‘I’m his wife’? To me?”
Matilde shook her head and bit her lip.
“I…feel obligated to Ezequiel. You wouldn’t understand. Please, don’t question me now,” she sobbed.
“Fine, fine,” he said, impatiently, and threw his hands up in surrender. “But I’m staying with you.”
Matilde didn’t dare to argue with him, although she would have preferred it if he left. The tension between him and Ezequiel made her nervous and prevented her from thinking clearly.
“Dr. Saseur,” said Matilde, “what’s your diagnosis?”
“We suspect that Mr. Blahetter has been poisoned.”
“You’re lying, Juana!” Martínez Olazábal accused her. “Roy rape Matilde? Are you delirious? Roy is Matilde’s husband.”
“The marriage between your daughter and Roy was never consummated. Matilde, thanks to the way you and your wife traumatized her and the tragedy she suffered when she was sixteen, suffered from a syndrome known as vaginismus, in which the muscles of the vagina contract involuntarily and prevent penetration. It’s like trying to get through a wall, Don Aldo.”
Aldo was unable to get over his shock at Juana Folicuré’s statement. Vaginismus? Matilde incapable of making love? Events and images from the past rained down around him, but they only served to corroborate what Juana was saying.
“Finally, one night Roy came home drunk, his head full of his cousin Guillermo Lutzer’s wisdom, and he raped her. Matilde got away with a few things and took refuge in my apartment. She was hurt badly”—Aldo closed his fists, eyes and lips—“and bleeding. I treated her as best I could. She didn’t want to go to the gynecologist because she was afraid that Roy would get arrested. The physical wounds healed but the emotional ones, as if the poor thing didn’t have enough already, grew deeper. And of course Roy continued to harass her constantly. He even made a scene at the Garrahan, and the guards had to drag the little son of a bitch out by his balls. To get back at Mat, and because he needed the cash, he sold the painting Matilde and the Snail, which Mat had left in Roy’s apartment when she escaped, like so many other things that she gave up because she couldn’t bear going back to get them.”
Juana paused to gather her thoughts. “Mat’s life was hell because of that pig. She closed herself off from love and her only thought was to dedicate herself to medicine, taking care of the poor and the needy. She worked tirelessly, often spending entire days in a row at the Garrahan, until her boss ordered her to go home and get some sleep. She didn’t even look at men; she didn’t want anything to do with them. She was horrified even when they brushed past her. She suffered like that until Eliah appeared on the plane we took to Paris and, with infinite patience, rescued her from the shame of feeling damaged and useless. He healed her wounds and made her feel like a woman for the first time.”
“My God,” Aldo kept his head in his hands. “I was so blind…”
“You’ve always been blind, Don Aldo. Or rather, you were always staring at your belly button. It doesn’t end there. Listen carefully to what I’m telling you now: Matilde and I are alive thanks to the man you just treated like shit.”
“What are you talking about?”
Juana told him about the events that took place outside the Lycée des Langues Vivantes, and explained that the criminals were looking for a key that Roy had given Matilde the night of the party at Jean-Paul Trégart’s house. She also told him about the episode with the painting in the apartment on Rue Toullier.
“So that’s why I got no answer when I called Enriqueta’s apartment this morning. Eventually, I called Ezequiel and he told me you were living at Al-Saud’s.”
“He took us into his house, thank God. Because that little son of a bitch Roy exposed us to a gang of maniacs who almost killed us. Who knows what murky business that bastard is mixed up in!”
“Good God, Juana! I don’t understand a thing.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time, my dear Don Aldo.”
“Explain to me about the key and the painting again.”
Blahetter’s condition got progressively worse. His fever wouldn’t go down, and he was writhing in pain. He screamed that he was burning inside. Matilde, authorized by Dr. Saseur, stayed by Roy’s side in spite of the restricted visiting hours in the intensive care unit; the fact that she was a doctor entitled her to special privileges.
As Blahetter continued to suffer, Matilde suggested that they inject him with morphine. Saseur hesitated; he argued that if they didn’t know exactly what they
were dealing with it might be dangerous to prescribe morphine—there could be unforeseen side effects. Roy’s suffering went on, and he gripped Matilde’s hand, unaware that he was hurting her. Al-Saud took advantage of the empty doorway and slipped inside. He took Blahetter by the wrist and, with a titanic effort, managed to open his fingers and free Matilde’s hand. He massaged it until Matilde could move it again easily.
“Don’t let him do that to you.”
“He doesn’t realize what he’s doing. He’s delirious.”
“It doesn’t matter. Don’t give him your hand again.”
At six in the morning, Matilde signed a consent form, and Saseur injected a mild dose of morphine into the saline solution. A few minutes later, Blahetter quieted down. Even though he was drugged, he still stirred and moaned. Matilde went out into the hall and rested in Al-Saud’s embrace.
“Let’s go to the cafeteria. We need to eat something.”
Matilde nodded, weak and dispirited. Ezequiel was talking on the phone in the hall. His phone rang every five minutes. His parents were calling, as was his grandfather Guillermo.
“My parents and my grandfather just arrived in Paris,” Ezequiel announced. “They’re coming straight here.”
They had flown in on Don Guillermo’s private jet as soon as Ezequiel told them about Roy’s condition. Matilde had no desire to see her in-laws. Her father-in-law was the only one she had gotten along with, while the others had opposed their marriage. For some obscure reason, they blamed her for everything that had happened and she was afraid that her mother-in-law, and especially the ancient Guillermo, would blame her once more. Al-Saud put a hand on her shoulder, and she felt a tingling, as though an electric current were running through her. She looked up and saw his grim, tired face. She smiled at him, and Eliah was barely able to lift the corners of his mouth. Nothing bad would happen if he stayed by her side to protect her.
Aldo declined to accompany them to the café. He hadn’t said another word to his daughter. He sat in the waiting room or occasionally just disappeared.
Al-Saud saw to it that Matilde’s cheeks regained some of their color with the coffee and croissants.
“Let’s go home,” he suggested. “We’ll take a bath, change and come back.”
“No, no. The situation is critical. The end could come suddenly at any time. I know, I can feel it.”
“He’s going to die? There’s no chance of saving him?”
“Medicine can’t do anything for him now except ease the symptoms of whatever it is that’s destroying him inside. Saseur says that he must have been poisoned. How? By whom? Why? With what?”
“Clearly whoever sent those guys to take the key from you did it. Just as it was them who broke into the apartment on Rue Toullier to get whatever the portrait contained.”
“My God!” Matilde gripped her head in her hands. “This can’t be happening. And now my in-laws are coming with Roy’s grandfather. I don’t want to see them.”
“Let’s go home, then! You’ve done too much already. Let them take care of him.”
“I can’t. You don’t understand, I just can’t. I owe it to Ezequiel. Are you going to stay with me?” she asked suddenly, and torn between a sudden bout of selfishness and her natural generosity, added, “Eliah, you have a lot of commitments and work at Mercure. Don’t stay, my love.”
“I’m staying here, Matilde. Don’t ask me to leave again.”
When they got back to the fourth floor, Ezequiel, worn out by exhaustion, hunger and anxiety—having Jean-Paul and his grandfather in the same room was more than he could bear—charged at Al-Saud again.
“I want him out of here, Matilde!” He rarely called her by her full name. “His presence is terrible for Roy. He hates him. Did he tell you what he did the day after the party? Of course not! He showed up at our house and pointed a gun at Roy’s head.” Matilde turned brusquely to look at Al-Saud, who was glaring at Ezequiel defiantly. “Yes, it’s true! He pointed a gun at him and told him that if he ever bothered you again he was going to kill him. And now my brother is dying!”
“Tell me, Blahetter, would you like me to explain to your parents and your grandfather, Matilde’s father too, why I did what I did? And I want to make one thing clear: I don’t regret what I did that day. Any man would have done it for his woman. Perhaps I should tell Mr. Martínez Olazábal why his daughter was almost killed outside of the institute—your brother had a key role in that. Would you like me to tell them all that? What kind of dirty business is your brother involved in, I wonder, that he should end up poisoned like a dog?”
“Enough, enough,” Matilde implored in a hysterical gasp, pressing her hands against Ezequiel’s chest as he tried to leap at Al-Saud.
“You want to fight?” Eliah simulated surprise and chuckled menacingly. “I didn’t think you were so stupid. Didn’t you have enough the other day?”
Jean-Paul Trégart, witnessing the scene, took Ezequiel by the arm and dragged him off. Matilde wasn’t expecting her reception from the rest of the Blahetters to be much better, except for Ernesto, Roy’s father, who hugged her and burst into tears. The mother and grandfather looked away. Aldo was just as distant, shrinking into an armchair in the waiting room, where he leafed through the magazines and drank coffee.
At six in the evening, two doctors from the intensive care unit spoke to Matilde. Roy was suffering from multiple organ failure. Now there’s no hope left, Matilde thought. They urged her to go in. Al-Saud made as if to follow her, but she raised her hand and shook her head.
“Roy, it’s Matilde.” Because his lungs had stopped working, his skin had taken on a bluish color and he had been intubated. “Roy, can you hear me?”
His eyelids flickered weakly open and he stared at her. The grip of death was clearly upon him. Matilde also saw the desperation in his eyes. She coughed as though to get rid of whatever obstruction was preventing her from speaking.
“Yes, Roy, I know. You want me to forgive you.” He answered with a slow blink. “I forgive you, with all my heart, I forgive you. Do you forgive me for not being able to give you the love you deserved?” Blahetter showed that he did with another blink. “Don’t suffer anymore, dear, not anymore. I’m going to remember you with affection. There’ll be no bitterness, I promise. Don’t suffer anymore.”
Matilde moved aside to make room for Roy’s parents. Minutes later, even though Mrs. Blahetter’s sobs drowned everything else out, she could hear the long, continuous beep from the heart rate monitor that announced the death of the man who had humiliated her and made her suffer. She ran outside and fell into Juana’s arms, bursting into bitter tears. Al-Saud came toward her and stopped a step away. He could feel Matilde rejecting him as though she had put up a physical wall between them. She didn’t want him there at that moment. He picked up his jacket and sunglasses and left. As soon as he crossed the hospital’s threshold, he called Diana and ordered her to report to the fourth floor of the intensive care init. He put the Aston Martin in gear as soon as he saw his employees enter the Hospital Européen Georges Pompidou.
Just after eleven that night, Matilde burst into the kitchen in the house on Avenue Elisée Reclus and anxiously asked Leila in French, “Where’s Eliah?”
“In the music room.”
She crossed the space almost at a run, ignoring the stupefied expressions of the three people she left behind. Diana, Sándor and Juana looked extremely funny with their mouths open and eyes popping out of their heads. They stared at Leila as if she had grown a third eye.
“Good evening, Leila,” Sándor said in Bosnian, almost in fear, and Leila smiled and hugged him without making a sound.
As she climbed the stairs, Matilde stripped off her shika, gloves, scarf and coat. She would have liked to be completely naked to feel the warm air of Eliah’s house on her skin. It was freezing outside. Outside, Roy was dead and his family was grieving for him. Outside, Aldo with his cold courtesy and distant treatment, had deepened her pain and guilt, drainin
g her strength. Inside, in this warm, dreamlike refuge, was Eliah. Why did you leave? Why did you leave me alone with them? After emerging from Juana’s arms, almost blinded by tears and swollen eyes, she turned her head frantically from side to side searching for his tall, dark presence. “He left,” Juana told her. “When you came out, he stared at you for a second while you were crying, got his things and left. Maybe he thought you wanted to be alone.”
As she went toward the music room, the waves of sound pulsed in her chest, and her heartbeat accelerated along with her steps. All of a sudden she didn’t feel tired anymore. Standing in front of the closed door to the music room, Matilde put her hand against the wood. It wasn’t pulsing anymore; the silence was devastating. Her eyes began to prick and she felt a pain in her throat. When the music started again, the tears began to flow, mixed with a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a giggle; there was still life behind this door. She had no doubt that she needed the energy of the chords to confront him. She stood still, with her forehead and hand on the door, absorbing the vibrations. She knew this piece, it was one of Al-Saud’s favorites: Revolutions, by Jean-Michel Jarre. The overture had just begun. It reminded her of the day she first heard it, in Eliah’s Aston Martin, while he was taking her to Berthillon to drink tea.
Why was she afraid to go inside? Because she knew that she had meant to push him away at the hospital, as a form of punishment after she found out that he had threatened Roy with his gun. She didn’t like how easily he resorted to his weapon.