Lovers and Gamblers (92 page)

It was amazing – a miracle. If Al King was still alive… What about Dallas?

He had to place a call to Carlos Baptista immediately.

* * *

Edna was sitting in the front room with John and his elderly mother when she heard. She was at their house, where she had been a guest in their tiny spare bedroom for three days – ever since moving out of the big mansion she had shared with Al. She had moved out in a hurry because the Arab who had bought the house wished immediate occupation with his wife, eight children, and numerous relatives. Leaving all furniture had been part of the deal. Edna had not minded. There was nothing she wished to keep. In fact the relief at leaving the big house had been immense.

John had been so understanding and kind. She had been forced to tell him who she was because of the fact that her picture was all over the newspapers. It had been
his
idea that she move in with him and his mother.

‘Nothing improper,’ he had hastened to add when first mentioning the idea, ‘but you will have privacy – no one will bother you.’

She had jumped at the idea – and living with them was like returning to the kind of life she had always yearned for. The kind of life she had hoped that she and Al would share. A proper cooked breakfast to see John off to his work in the morning. Housework. Tea. Six o’clock dinner, and John and his mother
loved
her cooking. Then togetherness in front of the telly before an early bedtime.

She knew that as soon as he felt a suitable amount of time had elapsed John would ask her to marry him. She was ready to say yes.

Now this. A sudden jolting newsflash that Al was
still alive!

A newsflash that made the blood drain from her face, and sweat break out all over her body.

John was wonderful. He was calm and did not panic. ‘I think,’ he announced slowly, ‘that this calls for a nice cup of tea.’

* * *

Melanie was in Las Vegas when she heard.

‘Shit!’ she exclaimed, ‘that’s impossible.’

She was sitting in the Noshorium coffee shop in Caesar’s Palace Hotel with Manny Shorto, three of his permanent entourage, two hangers-on and four interchangeable showgirls.

She was on her honeymoon, having married Manny five days previously in a much publicized midnight ceremony.

‘Manny, you hear that?’ she shrilled.

Manny was not hearing much of anything. He was into his sixth – or was it seventh – scotch, and he was working out the strategy he would employ in the poker game he planned to join at any minute. Meanwhile he was concentrating on a bagel – liberally spread with lox and cream cheese. ‘God’s food,’ he called the combination – his only gesture in the direction of religion.

Melanie flapped her hands in a mild panic. ‘Al King’s alive!’ she screeched, repeating what an alert reporter had just whispered in her ear.

‘So?’ munched Manny.

‘If he’s alive… well, maybe… well… what about
Paul
?’

‘He alive?’

‘
I don’t know.’

‘So worry about it when you know.’

‘But, Manny…’

‘Be a good broad and cool it with the
kvetching.’

‘
Kvetching?
Are you kidding? This could be
serious
. This could mean you and I are not even married!’

Manny gazed expansively around the table – bagel hovering near his lips. ‘Let’s hear it for instant divorce! Think I made myself a
record
here!’

His audience laughed appreciatively.

Melanie stood up, quivering with fury. ‘Fuck
you!’
she shrieked.

‘Name the place, kid,’ replied Manny. ‘I’ll be there!’

* * *

The journey back to civilization was a nightmare. But a minor one compared to what they had already suffered.

The three-day journey by boat to the next village was a difficult one. As they progressed in their parade of canoes the river became wider and far more difficult to navigate. There were innumerable bends and turns, and rocks and islands abounded. The water was sometimes calm, and sometimes strong currents led the flimsy boats into whirlpools and rapids.

All the time alligators were present – lounging on their islands, sliding sinuously into the water – ready to pounce at any opportunity. And the sun blazed unmercifully down.

Al did not mind the heat any more. His body was burned a deep mahogany colour, and he wore the native Indian costume which allowed him to sweat freely. Like the Indians he accepted the heat as a fact of life. They had learned to live with it, and so would he. It bothered Cristina and Paul, though. They lay in the bottom of the little boats, uncomfortable, sweating, and weak.

Dallas had rallied wonderfully. Her swollen feet were almost better, as was her face. She had lost a lot of weight with the fever though, and her once voluptuous body was painfully thin. ‘Who needs a health spa,’ she joked. ‘This is instant diet.’

Al knew that a couple of weeks of proper eating was all she needed to regain her strength. The primitive medicine the Indians had given her to cure the fever seemed to have worked wonders.

After three days they had arrived at the next village – and they were left there surrounded by more Indians who came running out of their huts to form a circle and stare. Then a man had appeared dressed in shorts and a shirt. A white man – well, half white, as Al had discovered later.

He stared at them in amazement, and then shook his head and exclaimed in faltering English
, ‘I can hardly believe it. How long?’ He gestured out into the jungle.

‘Twenty-one days,’ Al replied, ‘and are we glad to see you!’

The man’s name was Pucal. He was of mixed Indian and white blood. He was a trader who lived a nomadic existence among the Indians – only occasionally travelling to civilization to fetch supplies for himself and his Indian family.

‘I have a signal you coming,’ he explained. ‘Cannot believe you come from jungle. Tonight we rest. Tomorrow I take you trading village – one day’s journey. I radio them now you here. Small plane take you nearest city.’

He took them to his house. A more civilized affair than the Indians’ habitations. It had walls, a thatched roof and a raised floor. There he gave them steaming hot coffee, mashed banana, and a sort of maize bread.

Al decided it was probably the best meal he had eaten in his entire life.

Pucal could not seem to get over the fact that they had trekked through the jungle alone and practically unarmed – and emerged still alive. He kept on staring at them unbelievingly and muttering: ‘A miracle… God sends a miracle…’

The next morning they set off early – Pucal and five sturdy Indians accompanying them. Another river journey. More sun. More mosquitoes to plague them.

But nobody minded. They were on their way home. They were on their way out of the jungle.

Late afternoon they left the river and travelled overland for an hour. The terrain was smooth and flat, and rose steadily. Eventually they reached a cluster of run-down houses, and beyond them the land was more cultivated and the people that ran from the houses to stare were dressed in ragged trousers and shirts. Civilization.

A small twin-engined plane was waiting to fly them to the nearest city. The pilot, a weather-beaten American, regarded them with the same amazement as Pucal. He chain-smoked cigarettes and chewed vigorously on gum. ‘I gotta message hadda fly some people out… Where the hell you all
come
from?’

Al tried to explain, but the American just shook his head in disbelief. ‘Nobody could survive an air crash and come through that jungle alive.’

‘We did,’ said Al. ‘I’m Al King. Maybe you read about me…’

‘Holy mackerel!’ The American peered at him intently. ‘Jee… sus! You’re that singer fella – the one the papers were full of a few weeks back…’ Within minutes he had radioed in the news, and by the time they were airborne the rumour that Al King was still alive and had been rescued from the jungle was spreading all over the world.

* * *

Carlos Baptista was as stunned as everyone else. Everything seemed to have happened so quickly. One minute Al King was dead and forgotten – the next – alive and on his way back to Rio.

The information filtering through was vague, and it had not yet been established exactly who was with him – but there were, apparently, three other survivors. And they had been transferred off the rescue plane, and were now on their way to Rio via a jet due to arrive at any minute.

Carlos waited at the airport with Jorge. Both men were silent and tense. Both men were hoping that their children were among the survivors.

Two ambulances waited on the tarmac ready to whisk Al and whoever was with him to a private clinic where Carlos had arranged for the best doctors to be standing by. Now that the singer was alive Carlos felt that he was his responsibility – besides which Al still owed him a concert – and what a concert it would be! Magnificent! The best ever! A giant tribute to Al King’s return to life! Carlos’s business brain was ticking over. He would use the Maracana Stadium again – but this time he would be able to charge
double
the price for the tickets. Everyone would want to see Al King. Everyone. It would be the most exciting concert ever staged.

Carlos sighed. If only Louis was alive…

Beside him Jorge stood stiffly to attention. He appeared to have aged ten years, his black hair – once tinged with attractive grey sideburns – had turned suddenly white. His face sagged, his whole body sagged. He was a lost and lonely man. All the money in the world could not buy back his lovely wife or return his daughter to him.

At fifty-eight years of age he found himself with nothing but an abundance of material possessions and wealth. He did not want to return to his former empty life. A different woman every week. A different party every night. A different city every month. That kind of life was for young men – men who had nothing more on their minds than how many women they could seduce in a year. Jorge had lived that life. Lived it to the hilt until Evita. Evita… Evita.

The jet coming into land was his last chance. Perhaps God would be kind and give him back Cristina. Although how a young girl could have survived the ordeal they must have gone through…

He closed his eyes and muttered a fervent prayer.

* * *

Dallas held Al’s hand tightly. ‘What do I look like?’ she whispered.

He hugged her. ‘Alive. That’s what you look like.’

‘I never thought we would make it. I really didn’t.’

‘Come
on
. If it wasn’t for you we would still be sitting in the wreck – dead. It was you who said we had to find a river…’

‘Yes, and you who took us down it. Al, I’m so sorry about Evan, so very, very sorry. He was a terrific boy. I just don’t know what happened that day… It’s all a blur… a nightmare…’

‘He went to find food. The funny thing is none of you could have eaten anyway.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘I don’t know…’

They had discussed it back and forth for days. How was he going to tell Edna? He just didn’t know…

The plane touched the ground and roared along the tarmac.

‘This is not going to be easy,’ Al said. ‘The press are going to be after us like vultures. Say nothing – whatever you let slip will be twisted – so silence. Right?’

‘You make it sound as if we’ve done something wrong.’

‘I just don’t want a lot of bullshit fairytale stories hitting the papers.’

‘And no Bernie to protect us…’

‘Just remember I love you,’ he squeezed her hand. ‘We’ve come through one jungle – here we go again. Just watch out for the snakes!’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will. The media is out there waiting. The real savages. They want me – they want you. We’re news – the best goddamn news they’ve had for a long time. They’ll try to tear us into shreds – so watch out, lady – they’ll claw each others’ balls to be the first with the story. You understand me now?’

She shuddered. ‘Yes.’

‘So – stay silent, and I’ll protect you.’

The plane taxied to a stop.

The doors opened.

Chaos.

They were back.

The gates to the huge Bel Air estate opened at exactly noon and the cluster of journalists and photographers entered impatiently.

They followed a laconic security guard up a long winding path which led them to the main house. ‘Don’t know why we couldn’t have
driven
in,’ one woman complained.

‘We’re lucky to be here at all,’ a black girl, dressed in a jumpsuit and aviator shades, replied. ‘I mean this is
the first
interview Al King has given in six months. The first since his
crash
.’

‘Who cares about Al King,’ sniffed the woman reporter, ‘it’s Dallas
I’m
here to see.
She’s
the star as far as
I’m
concerned.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed a lanky male photographer. ‘Man – she is the greatest. Hottest TV star of the season. Beeee-utiful! I am glued to my set when
she
is on – but
glued.’

‘So is every other man in America,’ intoned a languid blonde, ‘and who can blame them? I wouldn’t throw her out of my bed – and
I’m
into guys!’

‘Hey – Marlene – that stud you bin running with a guy – I thought he was a gay!’ interrupted the photographer.

‘Go stick it up your own ass!’ Marlene replied. ‘Since when did
you
even know what to do with that noodle you’ve got hanging between your legs!’

Linda, walking at the back of the crowd, was only half listening.

Had it really only been six months since Al had come walking out of the jungle? And Dallas… the girl Cristina… and Paul.

It seemed years away. Was it really only months?

She could remember the night she had heard. The phone call to Carlos Baptista. The suspense of waiting to find out who the other three survivors were.

When she had heard that one of them was Paul she had rushed to the airport and boarded the next plane to Rio.

Seeing him lying in bed in the private clinic she had thought that he would die. He looked like a man teetering on the edge of death.