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He was looking at her curiously and she could see he was about to pursue the subject. She knew she must head him off instantly. It was dangerous ground—far, far too dangerous!
‘How … how does eighteenth-century style in Britain compare with its equivalent in South America?’ she asked, trying to find an anodyne topic, the kind of neutral small talk she made when at her father’s social gatherings, to draw him away from her own situation. ‘I’ve never been anywhere in Latin America, but the historic colonial style is very distinctive, and so attractive—both in the town houses and in the country estancias.’
Leon’s voice, when he replied, was dry. ‘Yes, indeed. For those few fortunate enough to live in such style. Unfortunately most of the population does not. It was not until I visited my country for the first time in a dozen years since I left for Europe that I was able to set foot in such a property—one that had been converted into a luxury hotel. Until then my only experience of accommodation in my native land was in a shanty town.’
Flavia stared. Frowned. ‘A shanty town?’ she echoed.
‘A favela—though strictly speaking that is a Brazilian term.’ He paused, looking at her openly astonished expression. Questioning it. ‘I was raised in a city slum,’ he said. ‘I came to this country, penniless, at the age of fifteen.’
Flavia set down her fork. ‘I had no idea,’ she said.
Leon’s frown deepened. Could it be true that she had no idea of his background? There had been astonishment in her voice.
But not revulsion.
He could feel hope flare within him again. Were his doubts about her unnecessary? Let them be so …
‘How did you manage to get here?’ she asked. There was genuine enquiry in her voice, interlaced with her astonishment.
She wanted to know? Well, he would tell her. Tell her the grim, difficult story of his rise from penury to wealth. See how she reacted to it.
‘I came with my uncle—he spent his life savings getting us here. He wanted a better future for me, his dead sister’s son, than could ever have been possible at home.’
She was still staring at him. ‘But how on earth did you manage to get from that to … to what you are now?’
There was a note of disbelief in her voice, as if she thought he must be exaggerating the poverty of his origins. But what there was not, Leon could tell—and the realisation surged through him—was any note of repugnance or revulsion at his lowly start in life.
‘I worked,’ he said simply. ‘To anyone from the Third World Europe is a place of incredible opportunity to make good. So I worked non-stop. And, though it was hard, little by little I put money aside. My uncle, to my grief, became ill three years later and died, but by then I was on my way. I studied at evening college to understand the financing of business, and did any work going to increase my savings.’
He warmed to his theme, feeling memories leap in his head from a dozen years ago. ‘What I spent them on was others like me, striving to make good. I chose very carefully, and if I thought they were serious and dedicated, and above all, hardworking, I loaned them the small amounts of money that they needed to buy inventory, rent premises, machinery, transport—to start their own businesses. I took a share in their profits—a fair one, no more as they prospered, and little by little I prospered, too. I increased my investments, my loans, nearly always amongst the immigrant community who understood—still understand—how much the West has in comparison with the Third World, how hard work can lift them out of poverty with an ease that is almost impossible in the Third World primarily because of the lack of credit, the mass poverty there. And that is why,’ he finished, ‘now that my investments are on a corporate scale, and my profits, too, I run an extensive financing programme in microloans and similar on-the-ground investment back in South America.’
There was a caustic note in his voice now, Flavia heard, listening with growing astonishment and attention as he went on. ‘Some economists who are used to vast government-backed investments from the global banking community, and they might consider my efforts small fry. But—’ his eyes narrowed, becoming piercing with his intense emotion ‘—they have never lived in those shanty towns, never realised that it is individuals who are poor—not populations. National prosperity is built from the ground up, family by family, and that is my focus. My goal. My mission in life.’
He fell silent at last, burningly conscious that he had done something he had never done before—bared his soul about what was most important in his work. She was gazing at him, lips parted. The expression in her eyes was different from any he had yet seen there.
And it filled him with an emotion he had never yet felt.
‘I think it’s extraordinary,’ she said quietly. ‘An extraordinary achievement.’ She paused, picked up her fork again. ‘No wonder you think me shallow and spoilt for not working.’ Her voice was small, subdued, and she would not look at him.
Emotion was coursing through Leon. Not just because he had bared his soul, but because of how Flavia had reacted. Relief—more than relief—leapt in his breast.
She didn’t know I was born poor—and she is not offended or contemptuous of it!
If there was any hint of contempt it was for herself.
He was swift to dissolve it.
‘None of us is responsible for our background. Only for what we do, how we live our lives, the decisions we make,’ he said.
It was meant to be a gentle remark, a soothing one. Yet before his eyes her face changed. The animation that had been there a moment ago as she’d spoken to him vanished. Tension leapt again, and it was as if a mask had shut down over her. Her eyes dropped and she swallowed, reaching for her wine glass.
She took a mouthful, feeling the need for it. His words burnt like a new brand on her skin. Consciousness of what she was doing here—why she was there, at whose bidding and for what purpose—scalded her. But there was nothing she could do—nothing! If she did not go along with what her father wanted he would turn her grandmother out of the house she loved, sell it from under her feet, without pity or compunction or remorse.
But if she’d felt bad before about what she was doing at her father’s behest, now, having heard just what kind of man Leon Maranz truly was, she was excruciated.
I thought him just one more fat cat financier, born to some wealthy South American family, cocooned in money, caring only about the next profit-making deal to be made.
The truth was utterly different.
