A Spy in the Family

by Alec Waugh

  It was getting late. Fewer were coming into the room now than were going out. Perhaps she was having a cold snack on the patio. He ought to have stayed in the bar, watching to make sure; perhaps he should hurry his lunch and have his coffee there. Yes, and find her sitting with a tall, handsome proprietary male. His lunch spoiled and to no purpose. Better, perhaps … but he never reached the alternative. Here she was, coming through the door; and—his heart bounded—she was alone. A group of six were leaving; she stood aside to let them pass. She was barely three yards from him. She was even more attractive than he had thought. From a distance, he could not appreciate her colouring; but he liked the short straight nose and the full mouth. She gave the impression of being warm and friendly, an outgiving person.

  His eyes followed her across the room. She moved easily, smoothly. I’ll bet she dances well, he thought. An idea struck him; though she was alone now, she might be on her way to join a group. He watched anxiously. No, it was all right. She was alone. The head waiter was showing her to one of a series of single tables, lining a banquette. The table next to her was occupied by a woman. As she took her seat, she spoke to the other woman. They could scarcely be travelling together. If they were, they would have been facing or at right angles to each other. But from the way they were talking, they were clearly on friendly terms. The other woman was dark; she was wearing a low-cut blouse. She had full smooth shoulders, regular features, and white, very even teeth. She looked over thirty. She was probably a little plump. From the angle at which his table was set to the banquette, when the women were talking together, the dark woman was facing him, while the other was in quarter profile; she would not know that he was watching her. That had its advantages. Before the meal was ended the dark woman would have become aware that he was watching her. That would make it easy for him to approach her afterwards. Through her he could approach the other.

  The conversation between the two women appeared to be a lively one. The younger woman seemed to be doing most of the talking. The other would nod, would appear to encourage her with an occasional query or remark. She smiled quite often. She had a way of slipping the tip of her tongue between her lips. She had short, practical hands; the way she used her knife and fork made him feel that she did something with them. Perhaps she was a sculptor. There were two rings on her right hand but none upon her left. She did not exactly attract him, but he felt that she was someone whom he could get to like. He wondered how long the dark woman had been at the table before she had been joined. She was drinking beer and her glass was almost empty. Would she wait for her friend to finish? It was not likely. At dinner, probably, but not at lunch. I’ll be up in the lounge waiting, he decided.

  He took a seat facing the short flight of steps that led from the main lobby to the dining room. Soon the dark woman arrived, alone. She was as he had expected—slightly plump. She was also a little short for her weight. At one end of the lobby was a shop. She walked towards it. Now that her back was turned he noticed that she had heavy hips. He followed her into the shop. They had it to themselves. A pile of English newspapers was on the counter. ‘I see that papers get in early here,’ he said.

  ‘Earlier than you’d guess. They are here by nine, a direct flight from London.’

  She spoke with a foreign accent. ‘I’d guess you come from Germany,’ he said.

  ‘You’d be right in guessing that.’

  ‘I’ve just come from there.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘From Munich. I’m a South African on a business trip. What part do you come from?’

  ‘I was born in Dresden.’

  ‘East Germany.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘That means you don’t go back there often.

  ‘It means I don’t go back at all.’

  She was smiling. He knew that she was making fun of him but it was not an unfriendly smile. Her eyes were long-lashed. She must have noticed that he was staring at her during lunch. ‘I live in Frankfurt now,’ she said.

  He told her that he had only just arrived. ‘That’s why I didn’t know the papers got in early. Have you been here long?’

  ‘A week.’

  ‘Then you can give me some advice. I see there are some tours. Would you recommend them?’

  ‘There’s a tour of Valetta which you shouldn’t miss. The city’s unique. There’s nothing like it. But that tour was yesterday. There won’t be another one till Monday.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘There’s one to the catacombs tomorrow. I’m going on it myself.’

  ‘Then I’ll go too. In the meantime I’ll go into Valetta on my own this afternoon.’

  ‘It’ll be very hot.’

  ‘It’ll make my swim afterwards the better.’ With a copy of The Times tucked under his arm, he bounded up the stairs. An auspicious start. So much discovered in five minutes. As likely as not, the other woman would be on the trip tomorrow. Even if she were not, he would, by the end of a four-hour tour, know the German woman well enough to invite the two of them to cocktails before dinner.

  He lingered late at the swimming pool that evening. The two women had not been at the patio when he had come down after his return from a hot, exhausting trudge around the steep streets and cathedrals of Valetta. He presumed that they had already had their swim and gone up to change for dinner. That suited him very well. He wanted to find them already in the bar when he came down, so that he could pause at their table for a moment and make the younger woman aware of his existence. She probably had not noticed him so far. How could she have? She had been looking across from him all through lunch. Then having made his two or three remarks, he would move over to the bar. He must not appear pushing. But those few remarks should justify his asking her to dance after dinner.

  It worked out as he had planned. When he came downstairs, conscious that he looked as elegant as he could ever make himself in a white sharkskin dinner jacket, he saw the two of them together. He smiled at the German woman, bowed to the other one. ‘You are right about Valetta,’ he said. ‘It’s well worth seeing. But it is hot.’

  ‘I hope it made you enjoy your swim.’

  ‘It certainly did that. And I’ve booked myself on that tour tomorrow. I’ll see you then.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked the other woman, as he moved away.

  ‘A South African salesman who was staring at me all through lunch. I’ve an idea that I’ve made a conquest.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  The German woman shrugged.

  ‘Not interested?’

  ‘He’s not my type.’

  ‘What is your type?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. But I always know it when I see it.’

  The woman looked across at the bar. Everett was on the far side. He had a firm, strong profile; his hair had a gloss; his dinner jacket fitted neatly. He seemed very personable. She liked his voice. Its slight accent gave it character. Most women would have bothered to give him a second look.

  Everett was up in the bar soon after dinner. This time he wanted to be ahead of them, so that he could suggest that they sit at the same table. Since the band played in the bar he assumed that the room would be crowded early. Again things worked out as he had planned. By the time the two women came up from dinner, there was not a table vacant. ‘I wonder if you would like to join me for a little,’ he said. ‘I shan’t be staying here long. I’m tired after my journey.’ He introduced himself and learned their names. ‘You’re English then,’ he said to Myra when he heard her voice. ‘I’m English.’

  ‘But you live in Frankfurt now?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Because your friend does.’

  ‘I met Fräulein Hauptmann for the first time five days ago.’

  ‘I see.’

  He asked the German to dance first. The floor was small and packed, but she moved with ease and lightness. ‘Tell me about Mrs. Trail,’ he said.

  ‘Tell you what about Mr
s. Trail?’

  ‘Who she is, what she does, where she lives.’

  ‘She’s a wife and mother; her husband’s in the Treasury. That’s about all I know.’

  ‘What’s she doing here?’

  ‘What we’re all doing here, taking a holiday in the sun.’

  ‘I see.’

  Once again there was that teasing expression in her eyes. She was rather fun. For a moment he wondered whether he might not be wise to address his attentions to her instead of to her friend. But he only wondered it for a moment. He remembered the glimpse he had had of Myra Trail that morning as she climbed out of the pool.

  While he danced with the German woman, another man claimed Myra. He watched her over his partner’s shoulder. He had guessed from the way she moved that she danced well. He had guessed right, clearly.

  At last his chance came. For the first minute he danced in silence. Then he laughed. He said, ‘I made a bet with myself this morning.’

  He paused, waiting for her to take up his opening.

  ‘What was the bet about?’

  ‘That you danced extremely well. I’ve won my bet,’ he added.

  It was her turn to laugh. ‘When did you make this bet?’

  ‘At the swimming pool.’

  ‘I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I was on the patio with a Pimm’s. I watched you climb out of the pool. You looked so supple.’

  ‘That’s an odd compliment. If it is a compliment.’

  ‘It’s meant to be.’

  ‘That patio’s a long way from the swimming pool.’

  ‘It is, but near enough for me to tell that you moved easily; too far though for me to tell that you were very pretty.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I couldn’t tell that till later.’

  ‘When was later?’

  ‘When you came in to lunch.’

  ‘I see.’

  The music stopped. ‘I think it’s going to start again,’ he said. It did. Again they danced in silence. ‘Are you going with your friend on tomorrow’s tour?’ he asked.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then we’ll have a chance to talk without all this music.’

  ‘There won’t be much chance to talk if we have the same guide that we did this morning. He talks himself all the time.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’

  Again they danced in silence. She was grateful to him for not interrupting the dance with chatter. He danced very well.

  This time when the music stopped, he took her back to her table but did not sit down. ‘I look forward to tomorrow,’ he said and bowed.

  Fräulein Naomi Hauptmann kept a bottle of Cherry Heering in her room. She and Myra had fallen into the habit of taking a final glass together on her balcony. It was a quiet, cool, cozy conclusion to a long, hot, noisy day. They retired to the bottle soon after Everett left them. Each felt that they had things to say.

  ‘I was mistaken,’ Naomi said. ‘It’s not me he’s after.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking.’

  They laughed together. ‘You’re not annoyed?’ asked Myra.

  ‘Heavens, no. A man said to me once, “If two men are to remain friends, it’s essential that they should like different types of women. Otherwise there’ll be jealousies and competition.” It’s the same with women. The moment I saw you, I knew that we wouldn’t be getting into fights over the same man.’

  ‘What kind of man do you fall for?’

  ‘Not a very satisfactory type, I am afraid.’ It was practically the same answer that Anna had given her. In a way Naomi reminded her of Anna; perhaps it was the foreign accent. ‘Did he say anything in particular?’ Naomi asked.

  ‘In a kind of way.’

  She told Naomi what he had said. Naomi raised her eyebrows. ‘What do you make of him?’ she asked.

  ‘He dances well. He’s quite attractive.’

  ‘To me he seems so.’

  ‘It’s all rather obvious, of course, a travelling salesman, spending six days in a beach hotel, looking for a pickup.’

  ‘Isn’t that why most women come to beach hotels? To be picked up.’

  ‘That’s not why you came here.’

  ‘Not altogether.’

  They laughed at that. They managed to find the same things amusing; that was how their friendship had begun.

  On Myra’s second morning, she had been the witness of a ridiculous self-important performance by a Central American couple who were objecting to the cavalier fashion in which their elegant luggage was being handled. ‘Treat that case with respect,’ the man was shouting. ‘It’s genuine crocodile. I bought it in Buenos Aires. It cost me as much as you earn in a month.’

  Myra as she listened had become aware that from the other side of the room, another woman had been watching the scene with equal enjoyment. Their eyes met and they had smiled. It was a conspiratorial smile. They had known that they found the same things ridiculous. The next day they had booked on the same excursion. From then on they had become a team.

  There was a thoughtful expression on Naomi’s face, a ruminative tone in her voice, as she went on.

  ‘I’ve an idea that books and films and plays spoil our enjoyment of a great many of the best things in life. They make one expect more than life has to offer. Particularly in the case of love. We feel that it has to be unplanned, spontaneous. “The stranger across a crowded room”; Romeo going to a party in love with Rosalind, then meeting Juliet and forgetting Rosalind. But usually such loves are catastrophic because they run counter to the practical ordering of life. There’s much more happiness to be found when two people feel a need for the same thing at the same time and guess that they can get that thing from the other person. The marriages that were arranged by parents often turned out very happily. Fifty years ago marriage bureaus were considered highly unromantic; no man or woman would have dared confess to going there. Yet the directors of these bureaus say that the results are very satisfactory because the men and women who go to them definitely want to be married and to make their marriages a success. Don’t you think it’s the same with an affair? One talks of the coup de foudre—and I’ve nothing against the coup de foudre except that it’s disruptive—but there’s nothing wrong either in a woman thinking, “I’ve got a thoroughly satisfactory marriage. I’ve a pleasant home, adorable children, a husband with whom I see eye to eye. I don’t want to alter the fabric of my life, but I would like to enliven it. I am going to spend two weeks in a beach hotel. I hope I shall find someone there who will enliven it.” What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘This is very dangerous advice you are giving me.’

  ‘It’s very sound advice. Come now, be honest with yourself. When you decided to come to Malta, didn’t you have at the back of your mind a hope that you might meet some equivalent for Francis Everett?’

  ‘If I did, it was so much at the back of my mind that I didn’t admit it to myself.’

  ‘And now that you have found him, what do you propose to do?’

  ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘Whatever would make you happier. You are, you know, a very dear, sweet person.’ She paused. ‘Anyhow, to me.’

  To her surprise Myra found that she was blushing.

  ‘We’ll let tomorrow decide then, shall we?’

  Tomorrow; it went the way that Everett had hoped. It was a warm day, but a tempering wind was blowing, as it usually did in Malta. There was nothing to stop it after all. A soft ochre-brown haze lay over the low limestone walls. The tour drove out to a river bed where the bones of prehistoric animals had been discovered. They saw some catacombs and a burial site over ten thousand years old that had only been discovered less than fifty years ago by chance because it was a local law in Malta that, in order to conserve water, every house had to have a cistern under it; so that a man digging under what had been a temple came upon these galleries. They also were taken to some Roman temples. And all the time, as Naomi had prophesied, the guide talked on and on. As he
talked interestingly, it was hard not to listen to him. Yet even so, Francis Everett managed to get said a great many of the things he had upon his mind.

  He talked of that first sight of her at the swimming pool. ‘It was the most astonishing experience I have ever had. You revealed yourself, you revealed the beauty of yourself inch by inch. You lifted up your arms. They are very lovely arms; not bony but not fat. You pulled yourself up; you must have taken one step on the ladder. The line of the water fell away; I could see your shoulders, down to the level of your bra. They are what one dreams of shoulders being—soft firm flesh; the shoulder blades not showing, but making you aware that they were there. Another step upon the ladder and the line of the water was just below your waist—and how the waist curved in, as though the hand of a god had modelled it. Then one more step and the line of the water was below your thighs; you seemed to be sitting upon the water, and what firm, rounded curves! This is too much, I thought, as one phase of perfection was added to another. Something must go wrong soon. The lower thighs must be too plump, the knees knobbly, the calves too muscled. But no, another step upon the ladder—you had pulled yourself right up, only the ankles hidden, those slim, strong legs; and then finally the ankles. Perfection achieved inch by inch, a series of miracles leading to the final miracle—complete perfection, and I had only realised how complete it was by seeing it achieved inch by inch.’ He said it all laughingly, flippantly, not as though it were a serious declaration. She was grateful to him for that.

  ‘All the great painters have realised,’ he went on, ‘that the line of a woman’s back is the loveliest thing God ever made. Have you seen that picture of Titian’s, in the Uffizi gallery in Florence, the one with the hip raised? You surely know that story about Sir Thomas More—the Man for All Seasons chap. There was a father who wanted More to marry one of his daughters. More was to choose which he preferred. So the father had the girls undress, and then brought More up to their bedroom. The two girls were lying side by side under a sheet. The father pulled back the sheet. “Now make your choice,” he said. More looked at them for a couple of minutes. Then he said, “May they turn over on their faces, please?” He again looked at them for a couple of minutes. Then he smacked one of them on the buttocks. “I’ll have that one,” he said. Did you know that story?’