“I think of them. I was one of them.”
“And you never forget it, not even just a little?” he teased her. She was beautiful with her eyes flashing indignation. What an effect she could have on people—she was one of them, more believable than any red duchess.
“I was poorer and hungrier than ever you have been, Tomás. You left. You made a nightmare world, and you left us to live in it. And now you come back to sneer at dreams—”
“I was talking of a bigger stage than the one you dance on. I was talking of something nobler than your own personal ambition. I was talking of service to—”
“To the people?” she cut in, mockingly. “Which people? All of them or only part of them—the part that will follow you and your masters? You say I am uneducated. I have not read all the books you have read. But I have my own thoughts. Have you your own thoughts, or are they borrowed from your approved reading list? And I have my beliefs, Tomás. Stupid beliefs, you would call them. But is it stupid to give people joy and pleasure, to show them the meaning of grace and beauty, to make fire stir in their veins and proud memories come alive to lift their hearts?”
“You always put on a beautiful performance, Tavita.”
She looked at him. He was not as amused as he pretended to be. I can disguise my anger, too, she thought, and restrained the words on her tongue. She masked the emotions in her eyes, let her lips relax. “Thank you,” she said, cool and detached.
Unexpectedly, he slipped a hand under the shawl, gripped her arm, gently but firmly, pulled her slowly toward him. “What a waste of time to quarrel like this. You have me as your guest for five days. Let us make them agreeable. After all, you are the great believer in giving joy and pleasure. No, no, I am not laughing at you.” He caught her waist, held her firm. “Strange as it may seem, I—”
“Five days?” She looked at him disbelievingly. “Four days,” she insisted, and kept her voice matter-of-fact. This was not the first time she had slackened an arm around her waist with the careful use of words and tone. A slap on the face, an attempt to struggle only aroused most men to prove they were stronger than you; the schoolteacher’s voice and manner usually acted like a bucket of cold water. “I heard you say four days.” The arm was still holding her waist, but it had not tightened.
“And Ferrier said five.”
“Why five?”
“He is going to Washington.”
“At a time like this?” she asked sharply.
“Business. Urgent business. Tavita—”
“You men! You make promises. You don’t keep them.” But Ian Ferrier will keep his, she thought. I heard his voice. I know what he meant. Nothing has changed... You aren’t alone... Just trust me... And I do. “What business in Washington?”
He hesitated briefly. “Reid’s funeral. Something like that.”
“And then Ian Ferrier comes back and takes you to safety, is that it? Did you send him to Washington to get help?”
“Of course not!” He was angry. The arm slipped from her waist. “I have nothing to do with the Americans. Ferrier is coming here as your friend, to help you. He is taking the place of Reid. That is all. Americans are easily bewitched into doing whatever a beautiful face tells them to do.” That, Tomás thought, makes it quite clear, and it is important that it should be clear. Later, if she talks of these days—and as a woman, she would talk—she will only remember that I have had no connections with the Americans, that I did not seek them out, that I did not deal with the enemy. His momentary fear passed, his anger faded. He withdrew his hand from her arm, pretending he needed—quite naturally—to rest it on the wall as he looked down at the terraces below him. “How many?” he asked, changing the subject. He had not risked exploring the narrow terraces, linked together by stone staircases, in broad daylight. There could be too many eyes. There were other houses along the top of this ravine, other terraced gardens; and across the gorge, there were paths and roads winding through the woods. He had spent the long afternoon in the main room while Tavita had locked herself into her adjoining bedroom for her siesta, and Magdalena had retreated to the only other room on this floor, the studio, to doze peacefully among the artist’s easels and pictures of flamenco dancers performing in torch-lighted taverns and courtyards, of guitarists absorbed in playing, of Tavita in fifty different costumes and as many movements. He had wondered vaguely what kind of man this painter, Tavita’s great friend, had been. No doubt one of those dilettantes with money.
Tavita was listening to the far-off drift of children’s voices, playing far below in the small plaza with its strings of coloured light bulbs to mark its boundaries. “There are two more terraces,” she said.
“And all planted like this one? With flowers and fruit trees?”
He was now doing his best to be friendly, she thought. “Much the same.”
“What’s this one?” He reached over, touched the top of a tree that grew on the terrace below.
“Apricot.”
“An ingenious man, your artist. How did he get all that planted on a narrow terrace? Money, money, money. It works miracles.”
“He was only following the plans of other ingenious men. The terraces were first made centuries ago by the Arabs. He restored their work, replanted. That was all. And he had money. He was a lawyer, a very good lawyer.”
“And these paintings in the studio?”
She looked at him angrily. “I told you not to go in there.”
“Oh, a sanctuary? With old Magdalena as its guardian angel?” And when she didn’t answer, kept staring at the large clear circle of moon now rising above the sprinkle of stars in the dark velvet sky, he said, “A lawyer who had a secret passion for flamenco dancers... Well, well—how fortunate for the little Tavita. Was he old?”
“Yes,” she said calmly. “He was your age.”
That silenced him. For a little. Then he said irritably, looking down at the small church tower rising from one side of the plazuela and the string of coloured lights, “There they go again. These bells... Do they never stop ringing?”
“Nine o’clock,” she said softly. “Time to leave. Have you enjoyed your view of Granada?” He looked at her sharply. “Only a small part of Granada,” she went on, “but even so, it is something to keep you company for the next four—no, five days.” She turned on her heel, walked quickly into the house.
He followed her, moved rapidly around the big room so that he blocked her path. “I am not leaving Granada,” he warned her.
“Of course not. But you are leaving this house. You didn’t imagine that I would keep you here? My friends will start visiting me tomorrow. I never know who will come, or when. And the servants will be back at ten o’clock. This morning, I telephoned them from Málaga and gave them the day to visit their relatives.”
“How gracious of you.”
“I control my household efficiently,” she said coldly. And you, too, Don Tomás Fuentes.
“Where am I going?” he asked abruptly.
“To another house—it was my home for many years. You’ll find it quite comfortable. And safe.”
“Can you drive the car? I am not having any other chauffeur called in to help us. I want no—”
“We don’t drive. We walk.”
He stared at her as if she had gone mad. He pointed to his suitcase, which lay outside her bedroom door, untouched since he had dropped it there.
“Do we walk through the streets, carrying that?”
“You carry it. And we do not go through the streets.”
“Then—”
“Quietly,” she advised him, “speak quietly. Magdalena is downstairs in the dining-room. Don’t attract her attention—unless, of course, you would like to do that.” She gestured impatiently to him, and he stood aside to let her pass between the crowded groupings of chairs and cushions and tables. “Wait here!” Quickly she moved over to her bedroom door, a massive panel of carved wood framed by two delicate stone pillars upholding a lightly decorated arch, and
vanished from his sight. He had scarcely time to decide whether to obey her nonchalantly, or to treat her small commands with contempt, before she returned. She was holding a long key in her hand. She pointed with it towards his suitcase, didn’t even slow her pace while he went to pick it up, and was already in the small semi-circular entrance hall, her high heels lightly tapping on the paved floor, as he began to leave the room. He dropped his dignity and increased his pace. She’s going to take me out of the front door and put me in some room over the garage, he thought as he entered the hall. He stopped in amazement. He had been wrong.
Tavita was standing before one of the carved wooden panels that curved around the hall. Gently, she was pushing aside one strip of its arabesque decorations. It moved slightly, just enough to uncover a small keyhole that had lurked under a formalised flower. She inserted the key in this lock, and twisted it until there was a click. Then she pressed her shoulder against the panel. It swung inward. She reached into the darkness at keyhole height, found a switch, turned on a light. She signed to him to follow, and stepped into a short, narrow corridor.
Tavita locked the panel behind them—this side of it was bare of ornament and disguise, its only addition being a large grip of wrought iron that let her close it firmly and quietly—and led him to the other end of the corridor, where there was a second door. It made no pretence of being anything else, strong and serviceable, held closed by a large iron bolt. This she opened slowly, carefully, so that it only scraped but did not screech. And again she reached into the darkness beyond the door and switched on the light. Or, rather, a series of lights: far-spaced bulbs, unshaded, linked by exposed wiring that was neat enough even if it looked like an afterthought. Actually it was a replacement. Near each bulb there was an iron bracket fixed into the white limestone wall. Once, the long downward stretch of corridor, tunnelled out of the rock, had been lit by torches.
Tavita watched Tomás’ face with a touch of amusement. “It is safe to talk here,” she said. “But we must walk as we talk. It is a long way down.”
He regained his breath, took his bearings. The corridor was twice his height and broad enough for two to walk closely if not comfortably. It was entirely of limestone; ceiling, walls, floor, stairs, all were a ghostly white under the reflection of the lights. It descended steeply, but it was so carefully planned that the down-grade seemed almost gentle, leisurely. There were groupings of steps, three or four to form a short staircase; and then a sloping stretch of the stone floor, sometimes only the length of a few paces, at other times as many as ten or twelve full strides. It ran fairly straight, curving slightly in a few places where the grade was steeper. The air was sweet and cool. There must be slits in the rock, he thought, although he could see nothing; how else could torches have burned here to light the steps? “Expert engineering,” he admitted, as he caught up with Tavita, “but not the brain child of your artist. A reconstruction job, like those terraces?”
She nodded. “They were all in ruins, falling to pieces, like the house itself. It was his grandfather who did the reconstruction.”
“Another painter?” he asked sardonically. “Also a lawyer?”
“A lawyer. But a musician.”
“Always the perfect Spanish gentleman,” he said mockingly. “It’s astonishing what you can do if you have enough money so that you can neglect your own business. Pay others to do all the work and bring in the profits, while you devote yourself to higher things.”
She let that pass, although her lips tightened and there was a glitter in her magnificent dark eyes that outshone the light beside her head. “Four steps here, two of them slightly crumbling,” she said, and stepped down carefully.
He saw them just in time. I could have twisted an ankle there, even broken a leg, Fuentes thought. He decided not to goad her with any more remarks about her lover, now mouldering in some ornate tomb no doubt designed by his grandfather—or was it another discovery, another bequest from the Arabs fallen into ruins and beautifully restored? He would have liked to risk that remark but he wasn’t too sure of his facts: would Christians use Arab tombs, or did Arabs have tombs? She’d be quick to point out his ignorance, and she had already snubbed him too much this evening. A beautiful woman with quick brains was a deception. Take care with this one, he warned himself: she isn’t the witless doll you thought she was. He decided to watch his step, literally as well as figuratively, and kept his eyes on the ground before his feet. His sense of direction told him that they were travelling away from the terraced garden and its outfacing over the gorge. “Your house,” he said with extreme politeness, “stands on a ridge. Is that it? And so we are now going down the opposite slope from the one I saw. But where?”
“Into the old town.”
“Into the town?” He was worried.
“Busy and crowded. But quite safe.”
“But where does this corridor end?” he insisted.
“At a little house inside a patio. I lived there, at one time. It is not unpleasant.”
“Who owns it? You?”
“In a way, yes. I pay for its upkeep. But it is no longer connected with my name. Esteban Seriano now holds the lease.”
“Esteban? Does he use the place?”
“That is not in our private agreement. He will have it all, furniture, everything, when I have no more need of it.”
“And none of his friends will come knocking at its front door? You are sure of that?”
“Quite sure,” she said acidly. “You will find it completely secure. Only occasional visitors stay there—friends of mine.” She paused. “Usually friends,” she added bitingly, and looked at him.
“Did they know about this corridor?”
“Very few.”
“And Esteban, and Magdalena?”
“No.”
“But Reid knew of it?” he asked shrewdly.
“Yes.”
“You must have trusted him a lot.”
She stopped. She turned to face him. “I would have trusted him with my life.” She looked quickly away, hid the sudden betrayal of tears.
“An American?”
She was silent for a few moments, walking on with increasing speed. “I never thought of him as anything—except as a good man. An honourable man. That, I think, is too hard for you to understand. We shall not discuss him.”
All he was left to admire was the back of her head, held high and proud, with its thick dark hair smoothed into a heavy twist at the nape of her neck. Her shoulders were enveloped with the silk shawl, its long fringes swinging over her hips; her legs under the sway of her skirt were perfect in symmetry, the ankles slender yet strong. Spain produced some magnificent women, he thought, and then frowned at this outburst of chauvinism. “Not so fast,” he called to her. “I am carrying the suitcase. Remember?” He changed it to his left hand. There was nothing valuable in the case, nothing that could give away his true identity: a small cosmetic kit, with peroxide, hair dye, changes of clothing, some extra ammunition for the pistol, a knife he prized, a few carefully forged documents he might need if his present passport (Argentine citizen, Juan Blanco Jiménez, of Buenos Aires, rug importer) needed to be destroyed.
She slowed her rapid stride, but did not look around.
“How much farther?” he tried.
“Three hundred metres, no more.” She still did not turn her head.
All right, he thought, I shall talk to the nape of her neck, and resist making the obvious remarks such as “You must know this route extremely well. Did you always go up this way to visit your artist?” Instead he said amiably, “But we’ve already come that distance, haven’t we?”
“Less.”
Three steep steps, then ten long strides on a descending slope. “The Moors built this, did they? Must have taken them a few years.”
“They had plenty of time.”
“Yes, they were here for centuries. Almost seven? They must have begun to feel that they owned Andalusia. I have heard stories of Arab families, no
w in Morocco, who took away the keys of the houses they built, and have them yet. Of course, they have only been out of Granada for five hundred years. That leaves them two more centuries to wait, and equal the record set by the Christians.”
She didn’t answer. Her head was held even higher.
“Are there many of these corridors?”
“Several.”
“Well known?” he asked quickly.
“This one isn’t.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite sure. The records say that this was one tunnel that fell into complete disuse and became impassable.”
He said musingly, “Why did the Moors build them? They lived on the heights, yes. But they could take a troop of cavalry whenever they wanted to visit the Spanish quarter.”
“Some did not always want a troop of cavalry along with them. And by night, it was dangerous to ride down to the city. They were pulled off their horses and had their throats slit.”
They walked the remaining distance in silence.
At the end of the corridor, there was a stout door similar to the one at its beginning. As Tavita slid aside the giant iron bolt he looked back at the way they had come. Incredible, he thought, and was impelled to speak even if he had determined that he would say no further word until she began talking again. “What lay above our heads? Streets and houses?”
She nodded, pulled the door open. Again, just as at the entrance to this long white tunnel, there was a short space leading to another door. And again, this door opened with the long-stemmed key and a peculiar twist once it was plunged deep into the thickness of the lock. She noticed his curiosity. “Enough security?” she asked with a touch of contempt.
He didn’t answer. Yes, there was enough security to please even him, but he would give her no satisfaction by looking impressed. She switched on a light, and he followed her into a small interior room, more like a large closet except for its decorative panelled walls—the excuse for the door that, now closed, made one of the panels, with its keyhole hidden under a movable design. Most ingenious, he thought, and now it is time for you to take charge. He moved ahead of her, entered a larger room. She had switched on two small shaded lamps which cast a benign glow around him. Probably safe enough, he decided; there were windows on either side of a large door—the front entrance to this apartment, obviously—but they were heavily shuttered on the inside, their louvres completely closed. These little pink lamps could attract no attention outside.
Message From Malaga Page 21
