Read The Last Resort for Free Online Page B

leaned forward once again to say:
    “Uncle Rafael, how can you not realize, at the very least, the irony of the story I have just told you? That night, everything that happened was perfectly ri-di-cu-lous. Death has such a strange sense of humor, don’t you think?” When Fernanda saw that her uncle was not following her train of thought, she decided to conclude her tale in a more light-hearted tone. “Well, anyway, that’s that. Now that you know the grim story of Isabellalaínez, I suppose we can go. It must be awfully late.”
    She got up from the table and Molinet followed suit.
    “Is that it?”
    “That’s it.”
    A hush fell over them for a few minutes. A waiter, now dressed in street clothes, opened the door for them with an exceedingly professional smile despite the fact that it was four-thirty in the afternoon. Back out on the street it was cold and still drizzling. Without another word, Molinet took his niece by the arm and guided her toward Sloane Square, where he would wait for the bus to take him home.
    “That is the most inane bit of gossip I have ever heard,” he said as they stopped on the tiny bridge that led to Knightsbridge. “There was no sex, no mystery—there wasn’t even money involved. And what are we left with? A flirtatious Casanova who chokes on a cocktail almond. How appalling.”
    “Well, in Madrid it’s the topic of the moment. Everyone is totally fascinated by the story. Did you really find it that silly?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “And you don’t think that if thoughtless Isabella, instead of going to her husband in her moment of despair, had done something to help Valdés, he might be alive today? What do you have to say about
that
?”
    “People do irrational things in moments of stress, Fernanda.”
    “If Isabella is irrational, darling, then I am a nun.”
    “I can see why it occurred to you to start your story by calling that poor girl a murderess. Murderess! Women just love embellishing
petites histoires
so that they come off sounding as scandalous as possible. From the very beginning, I knew I was in for something farfetched, some kind of exaggeration.”
    Fernanda, her raincoat wrapped tightly around her body, clung to her uncle’s arm even more tightly and laughed.
    “Well of
course
it’s an exaggeration, but what did you expect, Rafamolinet? That we would spend the whole meal talking about dead relatives? You have to admit, at least, that I kept you in suspense for a good little while. Now didn’t I? But in all honesty, most people think that one person and one person only is to blame for Valdés’s death: Is-a-bella!”
    “The story of a murderess! So that’s what they’re all calling it . . .”
    “The problem, Uncle, is that you have insisted I tell you the strictly official version of the story. That was a very foolish error on my part. Now I know for next time: One should never recount a story according to what witnesses say, even if they swear up and down. Nobody ever believes those official versions. Even if they do happen to be true.”
    “Mysterious allergies, men who choke on a tiny almond sliver—do you really find it such an extraordinary story, my darling?”
    “Oh, it’s all your fault, Uncle. You were in such a rush that I didn’t get a chance to tell you what some other people think. There are some very imaginative interpretations, let me tell you . . .”
    “No, no. Please, for goodness’ sake, don’t go into them. I can’t bear this nonsense one second more.” Molinet loosened his grip on his niece’s arm and pointed across the square. Two or three buses were pulling in.
    “Oh look, one of those must be the 137,” Molinet exclaimed. “That will take you straight to Park Lane. If we hurry we might be able to catch it.”
    “But I still have one little tidbit left to tell.”
    “My dear, it’s starting to rain buckets. You wouldn’t want to wait another half-hour in this weather for the next bus to come around, would