Sweet Torment Read online

  her face in her hands and rocked back and forth. 'Oh, it was awful, humiliating—and yet I suppose I deserved it. I ... I can't tell you what happened, but it brought me to my senses, made me realise what I was doing. I ran from the house and got into the car. My one aim was to get back here, to safety, dullness and Ramon. I drove too fast, went off the road at a bend. When I came round in hospital I pretended I couldn't remember where I'd been that day. I hoped that Ramon would never find out. But he's known all along, and he believes that Juan and I were having an affair and that now we're trying to revive that affair. And we're not, we're not—but the evidence is all against me, Sorrel, and there doesn't seem to be any way I can prove that he's wrong.'

  `There is one way,' said Sorrel thoughtfully. `What is it?' Monica leaned forward eagerly. `You could ask Juan Renalda to come and tell

  Ramon that he's wrong.'

  `But how? How can I do that?'

  `Write to him. Or perhaps you could phone him.'

  `No, no. I couldn't. After what happened at the ranch I couldn't. It would be too ... too humiliating.' Monica shuddered.

  look,' said Sorrel impatiently, 'if you want to save your marriage you'll risk a little humiliation. Getting Renalda's help is the only way I can see of proving to your husband that he's wrong, not only about you but about me too.'

  `Then you go and ask him to come and speak to Ramon,' Monica retorted, showing more spirit than she had ever shown before. 'You go to his ranch and see what sort of reception you get!'

  Sorrel slid off the bed and stood up, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her dressing gown. The chal-

  lenge was all she had needed.

  `All right, I will,' she said calmly. 'But you'll have to tell me how to get there.'

  Monica stared at her, then said slowly,

  'You mean it, don't you?'

  'Of course I do. After all, I've been dismissed unjustly from my job, without references. I can't really take that sitting down. I have to do something to clear my name and at the same time I can help you to mend your marriage by showing your husband he shouldn't believe all he hears about you.'

  `But ... I'm not sure, Sorrel, whether I should let you go.'

  `You can't stop me. Anyway, you went there, so why shouldn't I?'

  'I should have known better than to go,' muttered Monica. 'This isn't England, you know. It's a big wild country and the people don't always behave in the most civilised way. Supposing something happens to you? Whatever would I tell my mother or your parents?'

  'What could possibly happen?' asked Sorrel.

  'You might be kidnapped, or robbed with violence, even raped.'

  'Did any of those things happen to you?'

  `No, but I went in my own car. You'll have to fly to Manizales and then take some form of local transport, I'm not exactly sure what, to the ranch, and it's way out in the country.' Monica nibbled at her lower lip. 'And when you get there Juan might not be very nice, and you'll have to find your way back ...'

  'Will you stop worrying!' exclaimed Sorrel. 'Nothing will happen to me, and now that I know how to start off I shall manage very well. I'll get Pedro to take me to the airport as if I'm going to catch a plane to England and instead I'll take one to Manizales. I'll find

  my way to the ranch somehow and I'll try to get back by tomorrow—unless of course I can persuade Senor Renalda to come here tonight.'

  Within an hour, her suitcases safely stored in a locker at the airport, Sorrel was airborne for Manizales. She had with her a small zipped overnight bag with a change of clothes in it in case she had to spend the night either in Ibara or Manizales after visiting the Renalda ranch. She felt quite confident that her errand would turn out successfully. Surely the bullfighter would be eager to deny any false accusations which had been made against him.

  At Manizales she was told at the tourist information desk at the airport that she could get to Ibara by the local bus which she would find departing from the central plaza of the town at about two o'clock. She went by taxi to the plaza and was soon boarding the dilapidated yellow bus with several Indian women who were returning to Ibara having been attending the market in Manizales. They all wore skirts of woven wool, loose white blouses and ruanas, poncho-like garments woven in bright colours, and had shallow-crowned broad-brimmed hats on their heads. After staring at the stranger in their midst for a while they ignored her for the rest of the journey and chattered away to, one another in their own language.

  Feeling as if she were on holiday, Sorrel enjoyed that afternoon ride in the bone-shaking bus. The scenery was not as wild as she had expected, more like a vast park of sunlit grassland scattered with small bushes and copses of trees and threaded by a glittering river which tumbled over the many rocks and boulders.

  Ibara was small, merely a collection of adobe houses with roofs of corrugated tin or ancient tiles weathered to a greenish-grey colour. On one side of the small

  plaza there was a twin-towered church decorated with many stone carvings and opposite to it was the hotel, a long low building with rows of arched windows on the upper floor and a broken-down verandah shading its entrance.

  The bus driver told Sorrel she should ask at the hotel for transport to the Renalda ranch, and after hesitating for a few moments, a little daunted by the decrepit look of the building, she went through the swing doors and into a dim entrance hall.

  When her eyes became accustomed to the dimness she saw that there were several men lounging at a bar and that they all stopped talking and drinking to stare at her in amazement.

  'What do you want, senorita?' The speaker was a short plump woman with straggly black hair and greasy skin who was smoking a long brown cigarette and carrying a trayful of dishes.

  'I'm looking for transport to the Rancho Renalda,' said Sorrel, her nose wrinkling in distaste at the dirt and smell of the place.

  `Pancho?' the woman called, and jerked her head to someone who was standing behind Sorrel. 'A passenger for you.' The woman gave Sorrel an assessing glance from eyes slitted against the smoke of the cigarette. 'Pancho will take you. You'll be safe with him. He works for Renalda.'

  Five minutes later Sorrel was hanging on to the handle of the door of a sturdy half-ton truck as it bounced its way along a winding rutted road and wondering if she was safe with Pancho, who seemed able to drive at only one speed—fast.

  'Why do you come to the ranch?' he shouted at her above the din of the engine.

  'I have to see Senor Renalda.'

  'Is he expecting you?'

  'Yes.' Not exactly true, but Juan Renalda had said she was to let him know if there was trouble with her employer.

  'You from the States?'

  The question wasn't new to Sorrel. She had heard it many times since she had arrived in Colombia. When people heard her speaking Spanish with a slight English accent they assumed immediately she was from the United States.

  'No, from England.'

  'Por dios,' he flashed her a wide white smile, 'that is a long way from here. I thought you might be a friend of the Señora's. She used to live in the States.'

  Senora? Senora who? Senora Renalda, wife of Juan Renalda? Of course, why hadn't she thought of it before? Now she understood why Monica had talked of being humiliated when she had come to the ranch. She must have been met by Juan Renalda's wife.

  Glad to be armed with this new piece of information, she felt a rush of liking for the young man who was driving the truck.

  'What do you do at the ranch?' she asked.

  'I work with the bulls, and I learn from El Valiente how to be a matador. Right now I am only a picador. I put the picas in the bull to irritate it in the first act of the lidia. You understand?'

  'Poor bull,' Sorrel couldn't help saying. 'Aren't you afraid of being hurt like Senor Renalda?'

  'I have been gored twice and I am afraid, yes, but the bullfight is a great test of a man's courage. They say that after his last fight El Valiente lost his nerve because he was hurt so badly. But
I don't believe that.' Pancho lowered his voice to a low dramatic whisper. 'I was there, at that fight. I saw him carried out, his face

  a bloody mess, his clothing ripped to shreds ...'

  Oh, please don't tell me anymore.' The sickness Sorrel felt heaving in her stomach wasn't caused by the lurching of the truck alone. 'I think anyone would lose their nerve after being gored by a bull.'

  'But not Juan Renalda, son of Rodrigo Renalda and a member of one of Spain's most famous bullfighting families. I am very lucky to learn from the brave son of a brave father. But see, senorita, we are almost at the ranch house. Isn't it beautiful?'

  It was. Long, low and rambling with small windows covered by wrought iron grilles, it was set on a rise of land above the fast-running river. Behind it the land glowed tawny and emerald in the strong sunlight and against its white walls flowering shrubs and ancient trees cast black shadows.

  The lane along which they had approached the house twisted past the white walls to turn through an archway into a central courtyard. Pancho stopped the truck and turned to Sorrel.

  'Here you are,' he said with his cheerful grin. 'I let you off here.' He leaned in front of her and opened the door on her side so that she could get out. 'Go to the door over there. The housekeeper will tell Señor Renalda you are here. Adios.'

  Sorrel stepped out and slammed the door after her. The truck started up and drove off, churning up dust as it bolted through the archway. Alone, Sorrel stood listening to the sound of the retreating truck and watching the water slip over the bronze statue of a naked boy in the middle of a small pool around which masses of nasturtiums, zinnias and petunias bloomed in a bright clash of colours.

  Slowly she turned towards the house, feeling the sun hot on the back of her neck. Through another arch-

  way she stepped on to the tiled floor of the cloister-like porch which was built round the three sides of the house. The heavy wooden door had wrought iron hinges and a huge wrought iron ring as a handle. She was just about to knock when the door was pulled open.

  `Madros de dios!' exclaimed the young woman who had opened the door. 'What a fright you gave me! Who are you? What do you want here?'

  She was tall and plump and was dressed in brown velvet divided skirt and high brown leather boots. Her blouse was made from creamy-coloured silk and her tightly fitting waistcoat was the same colour and stuff as the skirt. Dark brown hair curved in a fringe above her wide-set tawny-grey eyes and was bunched at the back of her head in a ponytail. On the hand which was holding the edge of the door several rings, mostly set with emeralds and diamonds, glinted with a brilliance which held Sorrel's fascinated gaze. Below one of the jewelled rings she saw the thick golden band of a wedding ring.

  'Okay,' the young woman drawled suddenly in American-English, 'so you don't understand Spanish. I'll try again. Who are you? And what do you want?'

  'I'm Sorrel Preston,' said Sorrel, dragging her gaze away from the fortune which was glittering on the woman's hand. 'I've come to see Señor Juan Renalda. Is he in?'

  The tawny-grey eyes opened wide and their gaze swept over Sorrel from the top of hair as red as an oak leaf in autumn, over a simple yellow cotton blouse and flowered gypsy-style skirt down to sandals of brown leather.

  'Mother of God,' murmured the young woman, 'what has he done now?' Then gathering herself together she

  looked Sorrel straight in the eye and added, 'No, he isn't in. He's somewhere chasing bulls on the ranch—they have to be brought in for the corrida tomorrow. I can send someone for him, if you'd like to come in and wait.'

  'Thank you,' said Sorrel, stepping by the other woman into the house. 'How did you know I'd understand English?'

  'Your clothes,' replied the other coolly. 'Come this way.'

  As she followed the square-shouldered, straight-backed, extravagantly dressed figure Sorrel had an impression of low ceilings, heavy dark beams and ivory walls, of thick carpets, red velvet draperies and arched openings, of heavily carved wooden furniture and red leather upholstery studded with round brass studs. The inside of the house was far more luxurious than she had ever imagined a country house could be.

  `How did you get here?' asked the woman, as she led the way into a long wide room with a view of the sunlit grassland sloping away to rounded tree-covered hills.

  Sorrel explained and the woman nodded.

  'I heard the truck,' she said, perching on the corner of a big handsome desk. 'That's why I went to the door. I'm expecting a car to come from Copaya to pick me up. I've had enough of this place.' She waved a flashing hand in a gesture which covered the room and beyond it. `I'm leaving. I've been thinking of it for some time, but I didn't tell Juan until he came back yesterday evening. How long have you known him?'

  'Er ... we ... met on Saturday.'

  The tawny-grey eyes went wide again and then, arching her lovely throat, the woman let out a peal of laughter.

  'How like Juan to move fast,' she said, and gave

  Sorrel a critical glance. 'Do you have a temper to go with that glorious hair of yours? If so Juan is in for a rough time. And serve him right ! It's time he was tamed. Excuse me, now.' She slid off the desk. 'I have to finish packing. I'll tell one of the boys to fetch Juan. Adios, senorita, and the best of luck. I've been here six months, but I have the strangest feeling you'll be here longer, much longer.'

  She swung out of the room leaving Sorrel feeling completely bewildered. Had she come just in time to see the break-up of a marriage? For although the young woman who had just gone from the room hadn't introduced herself Sorrel was convinced that she was Juan's wife, the Señora to whom Pancho had referred and who came from the States. The woman had spoken English with an American accent, she wore a wedding ring and she had said she was tired of living here.

  Six months ! Six months ago Monica Angel had come to this beautiful house and had been humiliated. By the young woman who had just left the room? Probably. And had the humiliation taken place here among red leather, red velvet, dark wood, silver and gold ornaments, trailing green plants and many photographs of this room?

  The door opened and she stiffened, half expecting to see Juan Renalda enter, but it was only a small mestizo woman who was carrying a tray on which there was a coffee pot and a cup and saucer.

  `Señora Inez said I was to bring you this,' she said, and placed it on an occasional table near to Sorrel's chair. 'She has sent for Senor Juan to come.'

  `Muchas gracias.'

  `De nada.' The woman turned towards the door. 'Wait, please—a moment,' Sorrel said quickly, and

  the little woman looked back. 'I'd like to speak to the Senora again.'

  `No use. She has gone.'

  The woman left as noiselessly as she had come, and feeling the need for refreshment Sorrel poured herself some coffee and nibbled at one of the coconut pastries which had been served with it, hoping that Juan Renalda would come soon.

  After another cup of coffee and another of the very sweet cakes she roamed around the room admiring the magnificent examples of local Indian metalwork which were set out in a glass-fronted rosewood cabinet. Many of the pieces in copper and bronze were duplicates of the solid gold objects she had seen on her one visit to the Banco de la Republica's museum in Bogota. In another cabinet there was a collection of antique silver which she guessed must be worth thousands of pounds.

  And then there were the photographs which seemed to cover most of the available wall-space. Each one showed some action in a bullfight, although there were one or two portraits, notably of a man she guessed to be Rodrigo Renalda. He had hard eyes and a sensually curving mouth in a tough lean face. Next to him was a photo of a woman with fair hair and laughing grey eyes. His wife? -

  As she peered at the next photograph Sorrel became aware for the first time that the light was fading from the room, and hastily she glanced at her watch. It was almost six o'clock: The sun was setting and through the window she could see the fields were glowing like old gold under the rays which slanted on
them from under an ominous collection of grey clouds. It looked as if it might rain.

  It was time she went back to Ibara, but so far there was no sign of Juan Renalda. Dismay chilled her. Sup-

  posing Gabriela had made a mistake? Supposing the man with whom she had spent the night in the refugio wasn't the notorious bullfighter after all? How foolish she was going to feel explaining to an absolute stranger why she had come to see him.

  Frantically she peered at more photographs, hoping to find a portrait resembling the man she had met. Unable to see properly because of the increasing gloom, she switched on a standard lamp and turned to another wall where the photographs seemed more modern in quality.

  There wasn't a portrait amongst them. They showed only scenes from the arena; the bull, horns lowered, rushing madly at a man in matador clothes who was holding a cloak close to his body. It was impossible to see the man's face, but wasn't the way he stood familiar? And so it was the same in all the photographs until she came to the last—and gave a little shudder, for the bull was tossing the man into the air. Was that the picture of Renalda's last fight?

  She straightened up, stared at some more pictures and became aware of the silence of the house. Juan Renalda hadn't come because he hadn't recognised her name, because he wasn't the man she had met in the refugio. She must leave quickly before he did come.

  She swung round, picked up her overnight bag and started towards the archway which led into the hallway and jumped with surprise, her hand going to her mouth to stifle a scream.

  Someone was standing in the gloom, standing quite still and watching her, and while she stared the figure moved and materialised slowly in the glow of lamplight, became a well-built man who was dressed in dark flaring pants and an unbuttoned leather waistcoat which he wore over his bare skin; a man whose light

  grey eyes glinted in a lean swarthy face and whose right cheek was badly scarred.