He drew the twenty-three pounds from the bank and summoned courage to ask for the bill. Señora Alvarez was openly suspicious about it, as though it were some kind of ruse on his part. She sullenly made the whole transaction over to her daughter and withdrew to her bedroom. Since Señor Alvarez had died she played a smaller and smaller part in the affairs of the hotel. She was a pathetic figure suffering the cruel disillusionment of a woman who has told herself for years that she would be happier if only her husband were not there and then finds that his absence makes not the slightest difference.
Maria presented the bill without raising her eyes. It showed merely the rent of the room and a sum often bolivianos for medicines.
“But you haven’t charged me anything for what you did for me,” he said. “You’ve been carrying things up and down for weeks.”
“It cost nothing,” she replied, looking full at him. “I paid no one.”
“You mean you’re not going to charge me for it?”
She nodded. “When do you go away?” she asked.
“The ship sails on Friday,” he told her. “It leaves at nine.”
Maria did not reply. With her pen she was drawing vague, pointless designs over the corner of the register. When she gave him back the receipted bill, she spoke in so low a voice that he had to ask her what it was that she had said. But she did not answer him. Instead, she turned abruptly on her heel and walked into the little private room which was the office.
Dunnett stood there looking after her in amazement. “Good Lord,” he thought, “the girl’s offended with me because I offered to pay her. I suppose I ought to have got her a present or something.”
The morning before his departure Dunnett felt almost jaunty. His leg had been healing rapidly and he did not bear down so heavily on his stick as he walked. It was a crutch no longer, and when he stepped out of the Avenida into the glare of the early sun he felt more like the man who, full of hope and determination, had landed there those crowded three months before. And now that he was leaving Amricante he no longer loathed the place. There was an air of outlandish holiday to it all. And the Fiery Mountain smoking placidly in the western sky gave the last touch of genius to the whole scene. It had been a model volcano since the last eruption. In its present mood it looked as though a child could have extinguished it.
The only thing about the morning that was less than perfect was Captain Leach. He came drifting aimlessly down the Avenue Velasco just as Dunnett was passing. At the sight of Dunnett, however, all signs of aimlessness vanished: this was the moment he had been waiting for. He squared his shoulders and set off in pursuit of his quarry. Squaring his shoulders produced a curious effect. It caused the sleeves of his coat to ride up his arms—the coat had been somebody else’s before it had come to him—so that the bones of his wrists were left showing like bangles.
When Dunnett paused for a moment to peer into a shop window, Captain Leach caught up with him. He tipped his cap respectfully with the hand which had a blank space where the fingers should have been. There was something about the gesture that was at once servile and disreputable.
“You haven’t forgotten your little debt, have you?” he asked.
Dunnett stared at him. “What debt?”
“For taking you up the river.”
“And getting drunk when I needed you,” Dunnett turned his back on him and began to walk away. He had had more than enough of his company.
But Captain Leach was not so easy to throw off. He began to shuffle rapidly after him, and plucked at Dunnett’s sleeve with his unwholesome, clawlike hand. “I wasn’t drunk,” he said. “It was only the heat. I’ve got medical evidence to prove it.”
Dunnett stepped back from him. “I don’t want any medical evidence,” he said. “I saw you.” He tried once more to get away from the man.
“But what about my bill?”
“I’m not interested in your bill.”
Captain Leach came forward again. “Well, that’s just too bad,” he said, “because I am.” He sidled round in front of Dunnett as he spoke.
Dunnett eyed him critically for a moment. The temporary effects of prosperity were worn off and Captain Leach’s habitual appearance of unwashed seediness had returned. There was an air of irredeemable depredation about the man. He smiled up at Dunnett with a mouthful of broken, brown teeth.
Dunnett told him to clear out.
But Captain Leach only stepped back into his path. “And see you get away with it,” he asked. “Not likely.”
Dunnett felt his hands twitching. “I’m not going to pay you a penny,” he said.
“I see,” replied Captain Leach slowly. “Just because you’re clearing out in the morning you think you needn’t pay your debts. But you’re wrong. If I said a word to the authorities, just one word, they wouldn’t let you sail. They’re very strict about that sort of thing. They’ve been done that way too often.”
“All right then,” said Dunnett. “Say it and be damned to you.”
“You’ll regret it,” Captain Leach warned him.
“Go to hell,” Dunnett replied. He side-stepped and began to walk on. But Captain Leach was after him. He almost ran to keep up. There was no servility or subservience about him now. “I’ll make you pay,” he shouted. “I’ll make you pay. You needn’t give yourself airs. What happened in the boat with that young lady? You needn’t think that people aren’t talking, because they are. You dirty toff, trying to walk out on us.”
At that point Dunnett turned round and struck him. It was not a clean blow. It hit Captain Leach somewhere on the chest and glanced off. But it sent him down all right. He staggered half-way across the pavement, lost his footing on the kerb and fell backwards into the roadway. A horse that had just passed had made his landing soft for him.
“I’ve got you now, Mr. Dunnett,” he yelled, getting up and beginning to clean himself. “I’ve got you now. I can summon you for assault. You see if you ever catch that bleeding boat of yours.”
Dunnett was trembling all over as he walked back to the hotel. One or two people followed him, curious to see what the mad Englishman was going to do next: the rest hung round Captain Leach listening to his story of unprovoked assault. They listened with respect and attention: it was something quite out of the ordinary, a fight between two Englishmen in this part of the town. Dunnett kept clenching and unclenching his fists as he walked. If it hadn’t been for his remark about what had happened in the boat he didn’t believe he would have done it. It wasn’t even the insinuation that startled him; he had never even doubted that some people would think it. But to have encountered the thought after it had sifted through the dirty filter of Captain Leach’s mind was something quite else. And it wasn’t true; not in that way it wasn’t. There would be only two people who would ever really know what had occurred that night; and everything else would be a dirty laying on of hands by an unclean world.
When he reached the Avenida, he felt calmer. He didn’t believe that Captain Leach would really summons him. The man couldn’t afford to. But what had Leach to lose? That was the disquieting thing: he was so disgustingly poor. And to be summoned for disturbing the peace of a South American seaport: that was a shade too degrading. He entered the cool, dark hall of the hotel and paused: he was sweating so that the cuffs of his coat were wet. But he kept telling himself not to mind. There was only one more day of it. One more day of Dago company and he would be free. It was not until he had actually crossed over to the desk that he remembered Maria’s present. He had been on his way to choose something when Captain Leach had appeared. He cursed himself for his forgetfulness.
It was Maria herself who came forward. She looked tired, he thought; tired and unhappy. He felt sorry for her. The weight of that ramshackle hotel was crushing her: it was not a burden that any young girl should be expected to support. And even though Señor Alvarez had been a useless sponge of a man while he was alive he had been someone—a male human being—who could cope with certain sides of h
otel-keeping better than a woman.
There were letters for him, Maria said. He turned to them eagerly, searching for Kay’s handwriting on an envelope. But it was not there. In its place was a long official-looking missive from Govern and Fryze, and a letter on blue paper in a hand he did not recognise. He went up to his room and opened the business letter first. He read it with the quiet assurance of a man who knows that he is completely in the right and believes that in the end it is the right which will prevail.
But he was wrong. It was from Mr. Fryze; from its tone he guessed that Mr. Govern had dictated it and had solemnly passed it over for the chairman to sign. The shaky, old-fashioned signature was not in keeping with the rest. What it had to say it said briefly and brutally. The whole letter was abominably clear. In a word, Dunnett was sacked. But it was certain sentences in the letter that stuck in his mind “… that you should have deliberately gone off on what I can only believe was private business is in itself inexcusable while you were on the firm’s business, but what makes it impossible for the firm to retain your services is that you left after you had received my strict instructions to the contrary” Dunnett sprang up from his chair and began to walk about as he read. “I do not wish to discuss the facts of the case with you, as I am convinced that there can be no reasonable explanation. My facts reached me, I may add, through official channels.” Official Costello! How the little louse must have enjoyed spreading such a story under privilege: Dunnett made a mental note that he would have an appointment with Señor Costello before he left. There was one more sentence in Mr. Govern’s letter: “… in the circumstances we are paying you one full month’s salary, which we send herewith. You will kindly acknowledge by return. Tour return ticket on the boat remains your own property. …” “And by God I’ll use it!” Dunnett exclaimed out loud. “I’ll show the bastard where he gets off!” As he said it, he was aware of the change there had been taking place within himself. His old respect for authority had gone out of him and he was used to standing on his own by now. He was actually looking forward to the scrap with the man who until that moment had been his boss. But in a way, also, he wanted to cry: the blind injustice of the dismissal was so heart-rending.
He went over to the dressing-table and picked up Kay’s photograph. Those open, candid eyes smiled up at him. “I’ve still got you,” he said to himself over and over again. “I’ve got you.” The mere sight of her made him feel stronger within himself.
There was a knock at the door as he stood there. “Come in,” he said.
The door opened and revealed two figures. One was Captain Leach. The other was a massive sergeant of police of the civic force of Amricante. He was a big man and his epaulettes seemed to fill the doorway. As soon as he saw Dunnett he brought his heels together.
“You are charged—” he began.
“It’s irregular, very irregular,” the sergeant of police replied at length. “But I suppose it can be done.” He pocketed the two ten boliviano notes that Dunnett had given him as though they had nothing to do with the sudden change of attitude. Then he proceeded to tear the charge sheet out of his notebook and destroy the carbon copy. “So far as I am concerned,” he said gravely, “the incident is now closed.”
It was Captain Leach who interrupted him. He was leaning up against the rickety washstand, surveying the two men. “Not so fast,” he said, “I’ve changed my mind about it. I’m not getting a square deal out of this.”
The sergeant of police regarded him with displeasure. “It’s too late for objections now,” he said. “You accepted.”
“But I only got half my money.”
“That’s all you asked for.”
“But what about the assault charge?”
“You withdrew it.”
“But I didn’t know that he had any more money. I thought I’d got all he had.”
“Well?”
“And now he goes and forks out another twenty just like that.” He snapped his fingers in the air in the sergeant’s face. The sergeant crossed over the room towards him. “I don’t want to hear any more from you. The money the gentleman gave me is private between the two of us.”
“Private my foot,” Captain Leach replied. “It’s my money.”
“You’ve got your money. I saw him give it to you.”
The sergeant began to fiddle with his truncheon as he spoke.
But Captain Leach was not to be intimidated. “If I don’t get the rest of it, I go ahead with the assault charge.”
“You can’t, it’s not in my notebook.”
“Well, it’s there, isn’t it?” As he spoke, he dived for the two crumpled pieces of paper on the floor. But the sergeant was too quick for him. He put his foot over them.
“You’d better be quiet,” he advised.
“And let other people rob me?” Captain Leach enquired bitterly.
The sergeant pushed his face forward until it was within an inch or two of Captain Leach’s face. “What other people?” he asked.
Captain Leach began to show signs of nervousness. “Oh, just people,” he said evasively.
“Then forget about them,” said the sergeant. “Just forget all about them.”
He began moving towards the door, pushing Captain Leach in front of him as he went. The door closed after them and Dunnett could hear the sound of their voices raised in anger at the top of the staircase. There was a pause and then the noise of someone’s falling. After that came the sound of a large man slowly descending the stairs.
Dunnett did not move for a moment. He stood still where he was, looking after them. Captain Leach’s contribution to pantomime was over and the room was suddenly very quiet again; quiet except for the hum of flies that circled meaning-lessly around the bare electric light bulb. But it was not of Captain Leach he was thinking, but of Mr. Govern. “I’ll show him,” he said slowly. “I’ll show him. Even if I am sacked, I’ll get in to see him. I’m going to tell him the truth.”
He pulled out his steamship ticket and looked at it. It was the one thing they’d left him with. But what was the use of it? People didn’t take steamship tickets to England just for the voyage: they took them because there was work to do at the end. And there wasn’t any work for him. He sat down on the edge of the bed and rested his hands on his knees, staring at nothing.
Of course, he’d get another job all right: he wasn’t worrying about that. With his experience there would be plenty of other posts he could step into, he told himself. But would there be? Wouldn’t those posts be filled already by men who had had the sense to lie low and not go off sky-larking on tropical adventures. So many men and so few jobs, he remembered; it had been like that ever since the war.
He got up and went over to the window. The narrow street glared up at him, a thin slat of brilliant white sunlight fringed on one side by a broad margin of purple shadow. There was movement in the roadway below. An Indian came trotting past bearing a coffin on his back; in an alcove two negroes were on all fours like animals placidly gambling with bones: and down the nearside pavement like ducklings behind a hen, came the children of a well-to-do Amricante business man led by the family’s capacious wet-nurse. But Dunnett saw none of it. As he stood there, his forehead pressed up against the shutters, he saw only a row of small villas in Alexandra Terrace. Kay Barton lived in one of them, and she was waiting for him. He wondered what she was going to say when he told her. And he reflected that he must never tell her. He must find another job and confront her with a new career ready made. She had told him once that she liked successful men best. It was partly that which made it so difficult to admit to really overwhelming failure.
There was still one letter that he had not opened. It lay on the dressing-table amid a litter of torn envelopes. He took it up casually and looked at it. The handwriting conveyed nothing to him. He tore back the flap and began to read. When he had done so, he stood quite still. His face had gone very white and the letter hung limply down from his fingers like a fan. He made no attempt
to do anything. Then he abruptly felt in his breast pocket and took out his steamship ticket again.
Holding it up in front of his face he tore the ticket into small fragments and let the pieces fall to the floor at his feet.
Book IV
A Place in the Sun
As He stood there in the dusty, over-incensed side-chapel of the Church of Santa Magdalena he was aware of only two things. One was that his leg no longer hurt him and the other was that in that heat all the candles were crooked—they were bent like stale sugar-sticks. The fact that he was early, ridiculously early, did not worry him: he had always been in good time for everything. And now that he was actually there he felt strangely calm again, as though it were to someone else that this was happening.
After all, other Englishmen before him had settled down abroad, in the heart of the tropics even. And during those last five months he had found himself becoming gradually adapted to it all, merging imperceptibly into the life that was going on around him. Only one thing remained to distinguish him—his natural and inexpressible zeal for getting things done. He had asked to be allowed to go through the books of the Avenida before he guessed quite how bad things really were, and he had found that they were not books at all. Señor Alvarez, who had insisted on looking after that side, had evidently had no talent for figures or had been too lazy to use it; the books were dishonest even to themselves. Dunnett had straightened all that out by now, had given his services in return for his keep. And already things were better. The shopkeepers began to respect the hotel again, even though they found that under the new system they could expect to be paid only for what they actually supplied. And the guests were conscious of a changed management too. Their linen when they trusted it to the hotel, was no longer stolen so frequently (a different laundress had been one of the first of the innovations which Dunnett had recommended) and meals were punctual at last.
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