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‘I have mere
ly persuaded him at last to make an inspection of what his money is building—he does not yet know that his hands are going to make an equal contribution. In fact—’ he paused again ‘—it will be a much greater one. For some, giving money is easy. For them, the real act of caritas is much harder.’
His eyes flickered over the table, resting briefly on Portia. She held his gaze minutely. He knew that, unlike the majority of volunteers, she came from a privileged background. But she knew he accepted that she had come here to battle her demons—demons that must shrink to insignificance compared with those that preyed on the lives of the children he rescued.
Portia’s thoughts slid to the tale of the boy he had taken in, who had become so rich now. In her mind’s eye she saw the photo that had brought her here, of the boy sleeping rough in a doorway.
She felt her heart squeeze with pity.
Father Tomaso went on.
‘But, for all that, I am grateful for what his wealth can do. Thanks to him we can reach out to more and more who need our help—not just here in San Cristo but throughout Maragua and beyond, in other countries, for his generosity is great.’ He gave a tired, defeated sigh. ‘I only wish that he could find the time to come back and see what his money has done…’
‘But you said he is coming back,’ said someone.
‘Yes.’ The priest’s eyes brightened, taking on a resolute gleam. ‘Finally he has accepted my constant invitation. I must be glad he can spare the time—he is a man of great affairs now, with many calls upon his time, and he no longer lives in Maragua. Indeed,’ he mused, ‘I do not think he has been back here since he left to seek his fortune.’
‘What changed his mind?’ one of the house mothers asked.
‘I do not know,’ replied Father Tomaso simply. ‘But—’
His voice broke off suddenly, as an indignant squawk sounded from one of the children, followed by a voluble protest from his neighbour.
‘José? Mateo? What is the matter?’ Father Tomaso enquired.
As the children simultaneously vented their grievance—a dispute over the last piece of corn bread, resolved by sharing it—Portia resumed her meal. The spicy vegetable soup, with slices of sausage in it, was simple fare, but she ate it with appreciation out of the pottery bowl. An image slid across her mind, of herself pushing aside the gastronomic delicacies served up to her in one expensive restaurant after another across the Far East.
Memory opened its jaws and swallowed her.
She was there again, sitting opposite him, dressed in a gown the price of which could have clothed a score of refuge children for life, her eyes sucked to him without volition, without consent, but with a hunger that had ached within her like a famine.
A hunger that was still inside her.
That she would never sate again.
Why the hell had he said yes to the old man?
Diego swirled the brandy around in his glass and stared moodily across the hotel room. The hotel was new, and held no memories, but memories crowded all the same. He tried to banish them, but he could not.
They had invaded his mind since the moment he had stepped foot inside the first-class cabin of the plane that had brought him here across the Atlantic, on a journey he had never thought to make again. Never wanted to make.
But something had brought him back. After so many years, something had made him do what he had vowed never to do.
Go back to Maragua.
He had never gone back, not since he had slammed shut the door in Mercedes de Carvello’s face. He had left the next day, never to return. Not even when the new popular democratic party, to whose funds he had so handsomely contributed, had swept to power. There had been no need for him to go back. He could invest his money in fair trade ventures and environmental projects, make his extensive charitable donations, as easily from Geneva or New York as from San Cristo.
So why was he back now? Because an elderly priest had invited him?
Father Tomaso had invited him a hundred times—and he had always refused. Had refused to read the reports Father Tomaso had sent him about what his donations were accomplishing. Had refused to do anything more than give what was easiest for him to give—his money.
So why had he said yes now?
He took a mouthful of the brandy. It burned as it slid down his throat.
So did the truth.
He lifted his head. Looked into the mirror that faced him across the room.
