by Ewan Lawrie
***
The wizard stopped on the corner. The Rediffusion shop was just closing. The Milk Bar was still open. The Red Lion would open soon. As good a place as any. Callimachus laid the top hat gently on the cracked pavement. Everything would have to be cards until there were coins in the hat. No vanishings though. Elspeth had made page two in the Scotsman. There hadn’t been a trial, the Procurator Fiscal hadn’t wanted to look ridiculous. But Silverman had called, told him to lie low, he could call him later. Callimachus did, but his agent was always out.
‘Pick a card, sir. Any card…’
15. Darla
'Don't leave yet,' She said.
I shrugged, 'Have to.'
'Five minutes, you haven't told me about your book thing.'
Her gaze slid down to the side. I hadn't told her about anything. We hadn't had a conversation. I'd endured a monologue and some pitying glances from the other patrons of the roadside bar. Those glances had been different when she'd arrived. I saw them licking lips and sucking in bellies and thought, just wait.
She was as beautiful as a china doll. Ten years on the Costa and she looked as though the sunlight had never touched her skin. Naturally, I'd been waiting for her inside Venta Dolorosa. The sign outside read Dolores, but people didn't call it that. The bar was inland to the side of what was once the main thoroughfare, once upon a time. Euro-built autopistas skirted the coast and ploughed north to Madrid without coming near the Venta now.
Darla put her hand on my arm and I sat down. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see shaken heads and shrugged shoulders. Farmers, builders and truck drivers all, there was no work and no need for conversation. They just kept racking up the coffees and brandies on the stained bar top. I supposed it was Darla's voice that disturbed them so. She spoke above the normal register, with more volume than required, whatever the situation. But that wasn't it. Darla's voice did not modulate, a true monotone: it was odd, it was wearing, it was hell to listen to.
She'd come for money, of course, and she wasn't going to let her fish go, not yet. I resisted as she attempted to pull me closer, turned my head so her lips collided with a bristly cheek.
'Don't,' I said.
She sniffed. 'Come on… How about..?'
'No.'
She sat back on the high stool. The truckers, farmers and builders looked away, sucking in cheeks, hissing through teeth and shaking heads. Perhaps they felt there ought to be some compensation for listening to the woman.
Darla bit her lower lip. 'Please? It's the last time, I promise.'
The TV overhead the bar let out a blast of canned laughter at something the chat-show host said. I took out my wallet, started to slip out the green 100 Euro note.
'No dealer's notes, Honey.'
She accepted two fifties instead.
'What the hell are you doing out here, Darla?'
One shoulder shrugged. 'The client was here.'
'Was?'
'Figure of speech. I've finished with him now.'
'Didn't pay you?' This I could not believe.
'It was complicated.'
I watched her eyes widen and turned to look behind me. The Guardia Civil had come in pairs and the two women ' cuffed Darla's hands behind her back. I didn't envy the policeman who drew the interview.
16. Duende
Duende.
They tell you it can mean Goblin or Sprite, in a fat enough dictionary. If so, the only duende in the bar was the owner. A Sevillano? No, not on the other side of the Big River. A Trianero. The man was a wizened little creature whose chip on the shoulder had grown into a hump. It was 11 in the evening: early for the bars and clubs along the Calle Betis. I had liked the look of the bar's owner the minute I saw him. The way he spat into the spitoon just as I passed him on the terrace made me want to stay.
The tourist traps further up on Betis had not appealed. The digitised Flamenco coming from the docked mp-3 players was distorted by the PA systems until you couldn't tell the feedback from the doleful wails of the singers. Despite this, the music seemed flattened by the process, as though turning Flamenco into zeros and ones had drained it of 'Duende'.
In the Hobgoblin's bar, there was no music at all. Just a woman of an age with the owner sharing a table with a much younger man who was picking idly at a guitar; an occasional arpeggiated dischord that even the most dedicated jazz fan couldn't claim as music. The room wasn't full by any means. Maybe half the tables were occupied. There was no-one even as young as I, apart from the gitarrista. I took a straight-backed wooden chair facing into the bar, enjoying the comfort of a stained wall behind me. No-one spoke. Everyone but me had a drink. There were occasional whispers and several people went outside to smoke on the pavement. In the darkest corner I spotted the olive green uniform of a Guardia Civil, which accounted for the slavish obedience to the letter of the law. The policeman seemed unconcerned about the haloes of recently exhaled smoke around the dim lights.
There were candles on a few of the tables, offering feeble help to the dull bulbs overhead. The Guardia shoved back his bar-stool and strode out, catching the eye of no-one at all on his way to the night outside. As he cleared the threshold the flames in the candles guttered and flared and one or two backs stiffened while some customers breathed in.
Duende. Spirit? Maybe. Afro-americans once upon a time might have called it Soul. Whatever, it entered the room and we noticed when the guitar player strummed a loud and extravagant chord. Before it had faded, the woman stood. I'd like to say she was transformed, but she was not. She remained a woman nearing sixty who had endured hardship. A woman fighting age with rouge and lipstick. Nevertheless, her back was straighter than I had expected. She began with a howl of impotence and rage, stamping her feet as though every man who had let her down was supine on the splintered floorboards of the bar. The song lasted two minutes or twenty. There were yips and cheers of appreciation from the bar's customers. I saw a red-light in the owner's eyes. Stray tufts of hair threw shadows like horns on the wall behind him.
The song finished, the woman sat down. People began speaking, one or two even caught my eye and nodded. The owner finally came over and poured me a drink. I finished it in one.
It was time to leave, Duende was on its way to another bar, and so was I.
17. Dead Men's Socks
The horse was limping. It would soon be time to lead it, maybe shoot it. Might even be time to eat it. Well, that didn't make no never mind, he’d eaten worse. Helluva thing. Pete not shooting him dead. Why’nt he do that? Carlita, turkey-trussed, was gagged and the damnfool sheriff had been hiding under the bed. Why, most ever body woulda shot. An ambush. The young man laughed. Carlita’s bush an ambush. Maybe so. Whatever way you looked at it, Johnny Mayo shouldn’t have been astride a lame horse half-way to Sonora.
He looked up, shielding his eyes with the brim of his hat. Stunk, that hat. Too much sweat. A guy could sweat a lot regulating, that was a pure fact. He liked the shooting best: the noise, and the smell of the powder. The whites of their eyes, they said, didn’t they? Sure you were close enough to see’em, but ‘tweren’t nothing to do with that. No, not at all. You got in a gunfight, your eyes got wide, you could see the white all around the other guys’ baby blues. Damn’ sure yours looked just the same. Anyways, that’s what Johnny liked. Pete had liked it too, once upon a time.
Mayo reckoned it was about noon. Might as well try and use the shade from the mesquite in the arroyo up ahead. A dry gulch. Time was only a fool would ride alone into one of those in Lincoln County, New Mexico. Billy Bonney’s boys did some regulatin’ themselves. Dirty Little Billy was dead now too. Garrett had shot him. Mayo had heard it was pretty much the set-up Pete had tried on him, but that was rumor. ‘Sides ,people also said Garrett wrote it down different in his book, so that musta been what happened. Still, old Pete never woulda thought it up on his own.
The horse was foam flecked, even though he’d been slo
wer than molasses for the last hour. Mayo uncinched the saddle and took out the Winchester, might as well be ready. He took an old gunbelt out of the saddlebag and hobbled the horse, tying the leather in a tight figure-of-eight. Horse wasn’t about to head off, but some things just had to be done right. Hellfire, his boots were tight. Took ‘em off Pete after shooting him through the eye. Looked brand new, fit nice at first too. Was going to take a turn with Carlita, ‘ceptin’ the damn hoor fouled herself when he waved the Navy Colt under her nose. Maybe he shoulda shot her too. No. Nary a sign of a posse on his trail and he was already three days ride from Perdition, so cold-cocking her had been enough.
Hell, that was better. Mayo flexed his toes. His blackened and cracked toenails poked through hose worn since stealing a buffalo soldier’s horse; dead man didn’t need no socks anyhow, he’d thought at the time. He took the tattered wool from his feet and threw them over the mesquite bush. Might could start a fire with’em, when they dried out.
Mayo lay his head back on the folded blanket and dozed off.
The rattle woke him just before the bite on the ankle. The gunman laughed, damn if he wasn’t right again, dead men didn’t need socks.
18. Dragoman
'That's him? Really?'
Suleyman turned to the grey figure beside him, lifting his eyebrows above the scimitar nose.
Frenk İbrahim Pasha looked at His Munificence, and noted that similar thoughts would have occurred to many on seeing Suleyman the Lawgiver for the first time.
'It is he, O Khan of Khans.'
A slight figure, of no great stature, or perhaps length, was approaching the divan -on all fours – as was the custom. Suleyman flicked his fingers, curious to see how short the fellow would turn out to be. The youth got to his feet. It was the slimness of the figure which caught the eye, in fact. The Sultan was a tall man, well-used to looking down on the majority of those he encountered. Some way behind his go-between, the emissary himself stood just beyond the threshold, avoiding the necessity of any obsequy. Janissaries stood in front of each pillar of the entrance. Further soldiers lined the walls of the divan.
Suleyman whispered to the Grand Vizier,
'He looks no more than a boy, Ibrahim.'
The Sultan's adviser addressed the petitioner.
'State your name and your request.'
Suleyman sighed. This was mere form and foolishness. The whole of Constantinople had known that an emissary had been sent in the name of the callow Shah of Iran. Tahmasp, it was said, could barely ride a horse as yet, and Chuhu Sultan had surely sent a Qizilbashi cat's paw to treat with him.
The whispers concerning the appearance of the Dragoman had accompanied them, from the moment they had passed the Sublime Porte.
The voice was a high and pleasing tenor, not entirely out of keeping with the soft down on the speaker's cheeks.
'O Imperial Majesty The Sultan Süleyman I,
Sovereign of the Imperial House of Osman,
Sultan of Sultans,
Khan of Khans,
Commander of the Faithful and Successor of the Prophet of the Lord of the Universe,-
The Successor of the Prophet of the Lord of the Universe waved a hand and the Grand Vizier spoke,
'Consider the formalities observed, your name and your petition, if you please.'
The youth blinked, forced his chin down towards his chest pitched his voice a little lower. The Sultan of Sultans stifled a laugh.
'In the name of His Opulence Tahmasp, Abu’l Muzaffar ‘Abu’l Fath Sultan Shah Tahmasp bin Shah Ismail al-Safavi al-Husayni al-Musav, Shahanshah, Sahib-i-Qiran, Sultan bar Salatin -'
Suleyman yawned.
'I present His Excellency Ali Beg Ghulam, representative of His Opulence Tahmasp, Ab-'
The boy brought himself up short with a polite cough.
The Grand Vizier and his Sultan exchanged smiles, each behind a covering hand.
The Persian entered, executing bows that were barely more than a nod of the head. The crimson of Haydar's Crown as he did so caught the eye even amidst the rich damask and silks of the Diwan-e-Khas.
Suleyman spoke in Arabic to his minister and glanced at the go-between.
'Look at it, Makbul Maktul! Ali Beg's thiker is growing out of his head!'
Eyes wide, the Dragoman's downy cheeks turned as crimson as the head-dress of his employer. He swallowed and eyed the offending item on the Persian at his side.
Ali Beg turned to the young man,
'You know what to say, I gave you the letter. I shall stand here and look inscrutable.'
Both of the Turkish noblemen laughed out loud, garnering looks of suspicion from the Dragoman and Ali Beg.
Dressed in a fabric of velvet ground with a floral pattern, the Dragoman nonetheless looked uncomfortable. The cut of the long coat was looser than one might expect of someone in his position. Indeed, it hung from his frame like a poorly-pitched tent. He wore no weapon of any kind. Suleyman noted that Ali Beg was festooned with sufficient blades for both to give some account of themselves, should it come to that.
The boy spoke better than passable Turkish: Suleyman could not place the accent, the boy was not Persian, though his eyes were blue enough for an Ariani guard outside the gates of Persopolis. It had to be admitted the youth was saying nothing of any remote interest to the Sovereign of the Imperial House of Osman. Suleyman hoped that the Grand Vizier was paying a little more attention.
No, the emissary of the Shah had only been admitted because the Sultan wanted a look at the boy.
It was rumoured that he had slit the throat of at least two unwanted admirers during his wait of several months outside the walls of the Topkapi. The more outlandish details of these tall tales could not possibly be true, Suleyman reflected. One of these unwanted admirers had supposedly been a Janissary; the Croatian Giant, he'd been called in the bath houses. He had been popular among a certain class of resident, in certain places near the port. Still, Constantinople was a dangerous place, and the youth had survived it, doubtless without any help for his popinjay employer.
'The Sultan of Sultans will deliberate and give his wise pronouncement directly.' The Grand Vizier was saying.
Suleyman whispered in Makbul Maktul's ear,
'The Sultan of Sultans has no idea what they want! Get rid of them! No, make the boy our guest,
Vizier. Throw Ali Beg Ghulam out of the palace. May his landing be a hard one.'
The Grand Vizier clapped his hands and it was so.
ۏڷڔڳ ڛڿۍڕ ۏڏڷڔڳ ڛڿۍڕ ۏڏڷڔڳ ڛڿۍڕ
'Hfffft', the intake of breath pained the Dragoman's chest. The chamber was small, but such a bed was rarely found in a cell. The bars on the high window threw long shadows across the mosaic floor. The Dragoman let out a slow sigh and stared at the high ceiling.
ۏڷڔڳ ڛڿۍڕ ۏڏڷڔڳ ڛڿۍڕ ۏڏڷڔڳ ڛڿۍڕ
Suleyman laughed, low in his throat, like the growl of a cur.
'Did he squawk, the Shah of Shah's envoy?'
The Grand Vizier gave a simple nod and then gave a cough,
'The interpreter, O Benificent One, it has been two days.'
'Indeed? Has no-one visited him? Not even Roxelana?'
Frenk Ibrahim Pasha shrugged and touched his beard.
'Send for the Dragoman, and for the Hürrem Sultan, I want to know what Roxelana
thinks of him.'
The Vizier clapped once, and two Janissaries left at the trot. The soldiers returned with the youth held by the arms between them. His head was tilted upward, his gaze firmly fixed on Suleyman's face.
Suleyman waved a hand, Frenk Ibrahim shouted,
'Release him!'
To his credit, the youth barely stumbled, although his cheeks flushed as he did so. Suleyman stared at the boy, fascinated. Where had he come from? The rumours in Constantinople were as varied as they were unlikely. There was little doubt he was a European, but some said he was from Danemark or Suomi.
Other rumours claimed that he was the son of an English Seafarer, but he looked far too clean, in the Sultan's opinion. Well, what did it matter? He was Frankish, like the Vizier. The Sultan of Sultans determined not to speak directly to the Dragoman, until Roxelana arrived.
'Frenk Ibrahim, he is an uncommon handsome boy, is he not.'
The Vizier nodded, Suleyman noted the boy had coloured once again.
'I wonder, does he have a name? Doubtless it will be as outlandish as your own, or those of the Hurrem Sultan. I am glad you both have discarded your Godless Frankish names-'
Roxelana had swept in, a miasma of Attar of Roses preceding herself and her retinue. No less than six handmaidens waved filigreed censers airily. Suleyman sighed.
'Godless, Muhibbi? Godless? The Franks are no more Godless than the Turks, O Sultan of Sultans. Am I not your Istanbul, your Caraman, the earth of your Anatolia? How then Godless?'
The Sovereign of the Imperial House of Osman sincerely wished he had never written that poem, or at least not shown it to her.
'Roxelana, mine own heart, we are not alone!'
'Гавно! Muh– O Sultan of Sultans, a thousand pardons.'
On seeing the accompanying snarl, Suleyman realised it was as well they were not alone. His beloved wife looked at the Dragoman.
'Husband mine, you are as dull as the Vizier.' She aimed a delicate foot at the prostrate dragoman's crotch and gave it a gentle kick. 'Anyone can see that this is but a girl…'
19. An Occurrence in Sierra Mojada
The Gringo sat a horse well. Even with his hands tied. Capitan Suarez marvelled at the straightness of the man's back. It was a marvel for a man purporting to be 71. Excepting the occasional shortness of breath, his health seemed remarkable. Well, dying healthy, not many did that. The horse was a good one. The Yanqui said he had brought only this and his notebooks to Mexico. El Capitan knew that this meant he was a spy. Why, the fool had practically admitted it. An observador, riding with Villa, what else was a soldier supposed to think?
'El proximo pueblo?'
Suarez flinched at the man's Spanish. He spoke it like a Yucatan goat.
'Sierra Mojada, Seňor Biyerse.'
'Llamame Ambrose, Seňor Capitan.'
The Mexican grunted and rode off to the head of the troop. 2 mounted men and 7 irregularly dressed soldados. One man wore a poncho and crossed bandoleros, it could have been Villa himself, rather than the son of a poor farmer from Chihuahua. Suarez rode ahead a little further and held up a hand. The ragged column slumped to the ground. Suarez sighed and ordered Sargento Lopez to help the Yanqui down from his horse.
There was a clump of mesquite, the only interruption to the burnt siena dirt for as far as the eye could see. The officer staked his horse and motioned Lopez to do the same with the Yanqui's.
'Cabo Fortuna, head on to Sierra Mojada. Arrange forage and billets.'
The corporal spat. Suarez' own mouth was dry, so he said nothing.
Fortuna had re-mounted and turned to look at Suarez,
'And the Yanqui?'
'He won't need a bed.'
The Yanqui had not demurred when El Capitan had suggested a walk. The officer's subordinates were either asleep or answering calls of nature of various kinds. Suarez was glad, and they took the opportunity to move upwind. He tried his English, learned in a whorehouse while training in Vera Cruz.
'What ees he like? Villa?'
'Well, I'll allow he ain't a conservative.'
'Conservativo? What is thees?'
'A politician enamoured of existing evils, Seňor Capitan.'
'He talks of revolution, but he is no more than a thief!.'
'I guess it remains to be seen if he is a liberal.'
'Don't make a fool of me, Billerse!'
'I could leave it to you, at that.'
Suarez turned abruptly and left the man to the wheezing brought on by his laughter.
The town square was deserted. The alcalde's house had the shutters locked. No-one had come out to witness the event. The sun had just begun to stain the sky the colour of damsons. Suarez and his Sargento inspected the squad. Corporal Fortuna was finishing up the loading of all but one of the Mondragon rifles. Tradition was important, Suarez believed. The Yanqui was already tied to the hitching post outside the Cantina. He hadn't said much. Just,
'We'll see how it is, now.'
Suarez wrote it down in one of the man's own notebooks.
The squad got themselves ready. Suarez noted the Yanqui's still straight back and gave the order. Six puffs of smoke and a click. The man jerked on the post and shouted. Suarez wrote it down how it sounded.
'Ow-ool Criik!'
One day he'd ask someone what it meant.
20. Lovebite
The purplish mark peeped above the unaccustomed high-necked blouse. Livid. Like a birthmark; only neither of us was born yesterday. The over- complicated coffees sat in front of us, steaming. The soulless chain coffee shop was empty. Just us. And something we weren’t going to talk about.
‘Today?’
‘5.’
‘Worried?’
‘No… Yes… I … Maybe.’
‘You’ll be fine.’
I sipped the coffee. Hot; I blew on it, lips pursed. She watched me and licked the froth from her lips and I shivered at the thought of my breath on her skin raising goose bumps.
‘This time, really.’
‘You think?’ She looked at me doubtfully.
‘I think.’ I laughed. ‘Sometimes, anyway.’
‘You can visit. Telephone, MSN, video calls…’
‘Carrier pigeon?’
She said nothing; just raised the garish Styrofoam to her lips.
We sat silent for a while. I looked at my watch, it said 3.15. We both nodded at each other.
‘Good luck.’ I said. I kissed my fingers and put them to the mark on her neck. She looked at me sadly.
‘It is the Philharmonic, Jo’
‘I know’
She picked up the violin case, with my rival in it. The one who marked her neck with her own passion.
21. Thursday Afternnon at the Venta
Paco stood on the terrace. Across the carretera, smoke was rising from behind the Ayervic Retreat. Tiny figures were running around the blaze. He laughed. Not much contemplation going on today. Those Scandinavians were too old to be doing that kind of exercise. They came down to the Venta from time to time. Mixed Grills in the winter, Paella in the summer. Didn't drink much for Scandinavians, it was true. He looked at his watch. A first anniversary present from his wife. Good things came from Switzerland. It read 4.15. The locals were finishing lunch and the guiris hadn't arrived for what they called dinner. 7 o'clock! What kind of time was that to have dinner? Paco liked this time of day. Two hours to escape from behind the barbecue and have a smoke on the terrace in the shade of the pergola.
Over the Sierra Gorda, something glinted in the sun. The drone of the helicopter grew louder. Three fire engines were already as near as they could get to the retreat. Cars were slowing down to look. Every third one seemed to be turning into the car park. They wouldn't be eating if they even came into the Venta. The others could take care of their drinks, if they did. He himself was going to have another cigarette and watch the show. There were a couple of English stragglers from lunch, but they were on coffee and brandy and would soon drive home. He let out two jets of smoke. They curled out of his nostrils and hung in the air. Lucky there wasn't much wind. That would keep the fire on the other side of the road at least. Four fires in as many weeks. Surely even tourists could not be so foolish as to keep hurling glowing dog-ends from their cars?
Melita came out to join her husband. Paco smiled. He shook two Ducados from the packet and lit them from the last embers of his own. It wasn't really chain-smoking. After four hours behind the barbecue, a man was entitled to a cigarette. He thought Melita looked tired. People came for the meat, the t-bones, the entrecotes, the rump, the sirl
oin, the pork fillet, the long skewers and the sausages. Of course they did. So many of them had patatas fritas. ‘Cheeps’, Paco knew that wasn't quite right, but English was so hard to pronounce, truly. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. Melita narrowed her eyes. Paco shrugged.
The door into the bar swung open. Mario backed out carrying 4 pintas and several long drinks on a tray. Paco smiled at his son. He had seen that some English had decanted from a pair of all terrain vehicles with their strange number-plates. The cars looked battered and were dusty: Paco doubted they were less than 10 years old. They had dragged two tables together out in the sun and sat down to watch the conflagration. Mario put the drinks in front of the four couples. Their over-loud chatter paused long enough for ' Grah-see-arse!' Mario simply said “nada!” Paco winced, but his wife just laughed.
“You'd better have a word with your son, Paco.”
'Por que?
'I don't think he meant you're welcome, it might have been a comment on our latest customers.'
But Paco shook his head,
“Melita, your son is not that way…'
Then the bar-owner embraced his wife and whispered,
'But your daughter…”
Paco felt his wife shake with laughter and hoped he too seemed as young as the person he had married so many years ago.
22. Café Corto
Jane's cup rattled in the saucer. She set it down on the bottle-scarred table. It was her third café corto. Too strong, really. Still, she wasn't up to explaining how she wanted it. In Salamanca it was 'Manchado'. That meant stained. Hot milk stained with very little coffee. Made sense, if you thought about it. Here at the other end of the country it just meant, well, stained, as in marked, or even dirty. She'd given up on it after the waiter's blank look. So Jane was on her 3rd murderously strong espresso and she was still waiting.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, then peered again into her handbag to see if another wetwipe had appeared in the packet. Keeping the empty avoided having to ask in the shop. Point at the packet and say 'Hay aqui?' Eventually you'd get what you need. Part of living abroad, not being understood, wasn't it?
From time to time the bar's owner stood in the doorway staring out to sea. The Café 's tables were empty. Terrace and bar. The rollers disturbed the turquoise surface of the Med, but there was not a boat in sight. 35º outside and not a tourist for miles. The man looked to Jane like gaoler with no-one in his charge. A fat tortoiseshell cat was curled up under the table nearest the doorway to the bar's interior. There was a faint smell of urine at the foot of the canvas marking the Mermaid's territory on the Paseo Maritimo.
Jane picked up the Nokia. Flicked through the menus, as if she wouldn't have heard the tone in the silent Café . Of course there was nothing. She opened the last message.
'Of course I'll be there. You know I will. Don't forget what you said you'd bring.
X'
'X' One measly 'X'. At least it was an odd number. Such things were unlucky in even numbers, everyone knew that. He loves me, he loves me not. Clever girls checked the petals before picking daisies, Jane never had. Jane flicked to the option to call message sender. The number rang out. A Spanish voice said out of coverage or something, same as it had all morning. Of course, he wasn't late, not yet. Two hours was nothing, almost on time in fact. MSN, Facebook, Twitter, an appointment was a moveable feast. Why he said a time if he couldn't make it was a mystery. Still, he'd been the one fussing about the time. To tell the truth he'd been more punctual in person, after they'd finally met. That time in Puerto Banus, well, he'd said it was the Guardia Civil's fault and maybe it had been.
Waiting. Sometimes it was delicious, the anticipation. Jane replayed moments. The first time, the first shock, as she looked down to see the dark, shining skin between her white thighs. It had been exhilarating, despite the cheap Hostal in Estepona. He still hadn't come to the 2nd Line apartment she'd rented in Cabopino. Wouldn't come, he said. They were looking for him, people from home, best to keep moving. Some of the Hotels had been better. The phone beeped. It wasn't him. It was Jose Maria.
'Hope you are enjoying your break. Faculty meeting the week before start of term. Friday 10 a.m. OK? XX.
He'd been the one to interview her for the post. Comparative Literature, visiting Professor. Two years in Salamanca. Why not? She hadn't foreseen the boring nights alone in her studio flat in the university town. Going on-line had been a life-line. The dating site had been just a bit of fun. She'd never been going to meet anyone. So what did it matter if she ticked the ethnicity box Afro-Caribbean?
It had been funny, rather than a bit of fun. Mis-spelled e-mails detailing strange inheritances and business opportunities. Several pictures of Denzel Washington purporting to be lonely guys looking for love. She'd almost answered the person whose profile showed Idi Amin. Then she got the one. The e-mail with no spelling mistakes, no once-in-a-lifetime offers. Just a conversational introduction, the kind someone might give if they met you in person. Oh, and there was the picture. He'd said it was old, over ten years. It was a scan of a black-and-white studio shot. A university graduation thing, judging by the gown. It showed a handsome man of about 22.
When the video-calls started she could scarcely contain herself. He was beautiful, mid-thirties. As handsome as a film-star and a real person. Jane kept the light dim at her end at first. Until she actually told him she was fifty-five. The next mail begged her to meet him. She couldn't get away, not until the end of term. Summer Vac. She'd taken the lease in Fuengirola on impulse. It had a week to go. The summer had evaporated in the heat of the sun and the bedclothes.
Jane looked at her watch. Checked through the bag one more time. Passport, Birth Certificate, Divorce papers. He'd come. He wanted to marry her, Jane. If that was what it took to keep him, she'd do it. Hopefully today.
23. The Woman on the Beach
I met her on the beach. The most beautiful woman on the sand, standing sleek and wet. Her feet were still being lapped by the Mediterranean waves. It didn't look like she was with anyone. So I spoke to her.
'Not coming ashore?'
'I'm not Spanish,' she said.
Her English was accented, with the careful fluency of someone who had worked hard to get it.
'Neither am I, but are you ,then? Coming ashore?'
She laughed, 'For a while.'
I tried to be discreet and noted she wore a black one-piece. A striking thing in contrast to the day-glo, multicoloured bikinis all over the beach.
'Do you like it?'
She ran her hands down her sides as she spoke. So I swallowed and said I did.
'Let's get your towel and things, I'll buy you a drink!'
I waved in the direction of a nearby chiringuito.
'No towel, I have all I need. Let's go!'
So I followed behind her confident stride and admired the view.
We ordered cocktails and I suggested lunch.
'Sardinas?' She asked as she ran her tongue over her upper lip.
We ordered twelve and I ate two. She devoured them. When I asked her if she liked them she told me that she preferred raw herring and then laughed.
'Silke, my name is Silke', she said when I insisted on knowing her name.
'German?'
'No, you'll never guess.'
And I didn't.
Later, we walked to my hotel. I wondered why the hot pavements didn't burn her bare feet.
In the morning, I took her one-piece to a laundrette below some nearby holiday apartments. The Spanish matron used to do me a service wash once a week. She said nothing as she put the swimming costume in with my faded shorts and singlets, just smiled and gave a slow wink.
'Una hora y media, vale?' she croaked and I promised I'd be back in an hour-and-a-half, for sure.
My hotel room looked like Hurricane Katrina had passed through it. The dressing table mirror was smashed. Silke was sobbing on the bed, which
it least looked no worse than when I'd left.
'Where is it?' She screamed.
'What?'
She rubbed her hands down her sides as she had done yesterday. It seemed much less provocative now.
'Your bathing suit? It's safe. I'll have it back in an hour or so. I thought maybe…'
Her clawed hand missed my face by a feather-breadth and I realised that maybe we wouldn't. My hands were locked around her wrists and she was spitting something Scandanavian that I didn't recognise – although I had a few words of Danish, Norwegian and Swedish. The kind of thing you picked up from girlfriends.
'Calm down.' My voice was a little hoarse.
But she didn't. She lay on the bed for all the world as if she'd suffered a catatonic fit. No movement at all for well over an hour, not even when I left for the laundrette.
My plan was to use humour to defuse the situation, so I dumped my clothes on the floor after I got back and held up the black one-piece against my body.
'Suit me?”
Silke almost knocked me over on her way out. Maybe she put the swim-suit on in the lift. I don't know, I never saw her again. She left me with only the memory of the smell of kelp and the ocean on my fingers. 24. Playing Away
At the far end, perched atop each post, two hook-beaked birds eyed each other. From time to time, one or other made a movement which would have entailed the ruffling of feathers, had they not been quite such poor specimens. I turned to Giles, who was about five metres away.
'Bedknobs and Broomsticks, eh?'
The referee blew the whistle before he could answer.
