For weeks, Sabagal remained unresponsive, and except for a faint heartbeat, became an unknown casualty since, fearing his attackers, his family had kept his identity secret. A specialist was brought in from overseas, and later a team of experts. Sabagal’s broken ribs had healed, but the blow to the back of his head still caused a severe throb. He constantly envisioned horrific monsters tormenting him as he drifted between dream and total unconsciousness. Those at his bedside felt despair but prayed the rosary as Father Ignatius repeatedly crossed Sabagal’s forehead with holy oil, invoking the spirits and holding his hand as if to lift him out of the throes of Hell.
On a Saturday, six weeks later, Sabagal’s eyelids fluttered. Nicola was seized with happiness. She laughed and shouted, “Sabi opened he eyes! He is alive. Gosh — he eyes open.”
She had been rooted at his side, only moving to whisper in his ear, wipe his forehead, or kiss his pale cheeks. Now Nicola only cared about the new life given to her dead husband.
During the six weeks Sabagal had been a patient at the prestigious nursing home, the underworld believed that he had been kidnapped and taken to some remote village in Venezuela. And then the secret came to light as the story unfolded in the dailies. Journalists arrived with popping cameras and wrote their front-page blasts in heavy print. Sabagal — the Cloth Merchant, Entrepreneur, Drug Lord — Has Survived His Ordeal.
So Sabagal was removed to a safe house far from his own mansion, perched high atop the hills overlooking the city, where he peered down at the numerous properties he owned and the lands that stretched to the coastline. A sense of belonging was impinged upon by a feeling of lost hope and uselessness creeping over him. His arms, his whole body was still sore and he could not breathe properly. The neck brace kept him uncomfortably immobile as he sat in his special chair. His head kept shaking, and the fever kept his teeth chattering. He was alive, but hopelessly drained of strength and deprived of the will to live.
Memories filled him with remorse or angered him. Balbosa, Teemul, and Manickchand were never dead in his mind. Their falling and covering him on the floor of the boat had saved him the night they were mowed down by the marauders in the double-hulled craft, but he could still hear their voices in the cave when he hung like beef against the rocks, tortured and despised.
Only Nicola’s patient understanding brought him hope. She encouraged him to pray for his wrongdoings, to be grateful for new life. The beatings he had suffered were lessons, though painful, that should bring him back to his senses. She fed him pablum, crackers, and fruit juices, changed his clothes, and powdered his face. She untied the pit bulls in the yard, and added locks throughout the premises.
Slowly Sabagal regained his strength and began to walk unassisted. He assessed his position with his dear wife Nicola, who was consistently at his side, a devoted caring nurse bringing him comfort. She cooked his favorite meals which he still had trouble eating, washed his clothes, answered his calls, and read him the daily newspapers. Both maids were sent home temporarily because she wanted absolute privacy for him. But she kept the two armed guards, dependent and loyal Scobie and Habib.
One afternoon while Nicola was in the kitchen, Sabagal called both guards. He briefed them about the documents he had signed in the black pouch which had been taken by the men in the black double-hulled boat.
Scobie and Habib began their investigation, which eventually led to a boat at Carenage. Assuming the roles of repairmen in the gulf, they rowed their pirogue between the yachts anchored in the shallow bay. They tied the pirogue to an empty yacht, swam to the boat, and climbed aboard. At once they were confronted by a man who emerged from the cabin. He was tall and naked to the waist. He rushed at the trespassers with a piece of pipe. But Scobie was prepared. He swung the heavy chain that lay on the bow, knocking the man flat on his back. At first he seemed unconscious, but then he rose and fought like a beast. Muscles swelling, he grabbed Scobie’s arms, but Habib struck him again with the swinging chain. Finally, they subdued him and taped his mouth and eyes, the deep gash on his forehead splattering blood. Habib searched the boat while Scobie nursed a sore hand which he suspected was broken.
Sabagal was impressed with his two men. They had recovered the urgent documents. He did not question his men about the details — the return of the precious documents was heartwarming enough. But Nicola was perplexed that her husband did not ask for details.
“We had a hard time, boss,” Habib said. “That man in the boat gave us hell. Lucky Scobie was with me.”
“My hand and shoulder in pain, boss,” Scobie said. “If that man had a knife we woulda be dead.”
“You did a good job, men. Thanks. I get plenty licks in the cave too. I passed out. My own men, Balbosa and Teemul, nearly killed me. Imagine that your own friends are your worst enemies. But I don’t want to think about that. I have to thank God that I did not die.”
When Scobie and Habib left, Sabagal sat in his rocker gazing down at the bustling city of Port-of-Spain, deep in thought. Nicola brought him a drink and sat next to her husband. “Drink the juice, medicine after,” she said. She wondered why he kept so quiet, so thoughtful. “Well, things work out nice. Those murderers don’t have no hold on you again.”
Sabagal said quietly, “Call Father Ignatius. I want to see him.”
“You still not well...”
“Call Father,” he insisted. Nicola felt his forehead and pulse, then handed him his drink, but he refused.
Father Ignatius, a tall spectacled man, white-gowned, his crucifix displayed on his chest, arrived the next day. It was drizzling and the winds were strong. Nicola was saying, “You not eating anything. I had to dump all the food yesterday. You not even drinking. Don’t you want a sandwich?”
“No. Look, Father coming up the stairway.”
Sabagal attempted to stand as he greeted Father Ignatius, but the priest pushed him down gently.
“Father, I am happy that you have come. Look, Nicola. We have to pass these properties to Father. If they don’t sell, Father, you can auction them. The money coming from the sales I want you to keep it. So many people in the parish are poor. You have organizations, do what you like. All my life I have been a wretched soul, and I want to be relieved of the burden. I thought money would bring happiness. Now I realize that material things are temporary. I feel happy to give to charity.”
Father Ignatius sat amazed as Sabagal handed him the papers. Slowly he smiled and said in his Dutch accent, “God will bless you. Immensely. But you look pale and so thin. Have plenty rest now. Nicola will tend to you. You are lucky — she is good to you.” He stood to leave and thanked Sabagal. Sabagal remained motionless in his chair, his eyes riveted on the scene below.
“He not eating and drinking at all,” Nicola worried, walking with the priest toward the door. “He was only asking for you. Nothing was on his mind but you.”