‘Better get inside, Jane,’ Mat said.
‘Where are the police?’
‘In the station, where they should be.’
No, one didn’t want the police. He remembered telling Dave Gunner that they used to give them the day off to go fishing, and it was true. But the Company then had the daring and geniality of youth. Now there wasn’t any Company except for himself. He continued to sit at his table almost alone. The rest of the outside customers had discreetly disappeared or had joined the backward moving crowd, curiosity overcoming the risk of being caught in an eruption of violence.
As the fuming couple came abreast of the café, Rafael turned on his General Manager, partly provoked by his casual, cross-legged loneliness, partly invited by a confident wave of the hand.
‘Hola, you! This arse-licker of yours says there are no funds to pay us.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To the bank!’
‘But it is shut.’
‘Then it will be opened.’
The band of Rafael’s followers on the near side of the road turned away from their opponents to watch the unexpected conversation. There were only a dozen of them but those the toughest of the oil workers well able to hold their own in any set-to with larger crowd behind Delgado.
‘A lot of good you will get from the Bank! The manager will be hiding under the counter. He is not one of us.’
One of us. That note again which always bewildered Rafael. Don Mateo must feel it. Clever devil as he was, it could not be a pose.
‘And you! What do you know about this?’
‘Nothing, friend. I am not a cashier.’
‘Leave him alone, Rafael!’ Delgado yelled. ‘This is not for him or the Company.’
‘At least he is honest.’
‘Tell me I lie again and we come to blows!’
‘I think I had better fetch a policeman,’ Mat said.
There was an instant’s silence at so senseless a remark, and then it burst on the two factions. What a type, this Don Mateo!
He took the opportunity to stride out and join the leaders, his glass still in his hand.
‘Friends, this can be settled without blowing up the bank. One of you says that it has no funds, the other that it has. You are not the only ones to suffer from the banks and their rules and their papers. It is perfectly possible that you are both right. If you will come to my office tomorrow, Don Rafael, I will have the facts for you.’
‘I do not visit your office like this Judas!’
‘As you wish. Then where?’
‘Where our women are buried!’ Rafael retorted, carried away by his anger and not meaning a literal appointment.
‘That is a promise?’
‘If you come alone.’
‘I shall come alone this evening.’
Rafael gathered up his men with a sweep of the arm and led them away, pushing contemptuously through Delgado’s supporters. He had never intended this confrontation which started behind the port offices where the new boycott committee was distributing relief funds to the needy. The amount available had been dying away for some time as the professionally benevolent became bored with Cabo Desierto and the oil workers of the continent lost interest in supporting a boycott which had been publicised as unreasonable and against the advice of the Union. There had, however, been one anonymous and substantial transfer from Zurich every week. Gil Delgado announced to the meeting that the bank told him it had not arrived and that future payments had been cancelled.
Normally Rafael would have accepted the fact since none of those in most need was among his supporters, but his nerves were ragged after two days of holding and feeding El Vicario without any practical plan for getting rid of him. He burst out that his people were being victimised and accused Delgado of trying to bring them to heel by starvation. Gil had no trouble in refuting the accusation. Rafael’s men, he said, were among the most competent of the peasants. That in itself was offensive, for it suggested that they kept part of the communal produce for themselves. But there was a more brutal bit of his vulgarity to come. Many, he added, were without families and had only themselves to keep. It was a marvel that men who had lost their wives did not storm the committee then and there.
As committee and protesters turned into the main street Rafael was near to losing control of his men and himself and knew it. The unexpected presence of the General Manager was a relief. He could be used as a distraction. That was the main motive behind his deliberately rude response.
Well, he would have to meet him now; and nobody after that public exchange could accuse him of slinking round to the office to talk in private. He felt confident of holding his own better in the dark, and of dominating mere eyes by his physical superiority.
Antón insisted that he should post a few reliable men up among the sand hills and go armed. He agreed. That Don Mateo would try to assassinate him or have him kidnapped was unthinkable, but there were others in the Company—that Gateson for one—and how far they might go was uncertain. They distrusted their General Manager. One could see it in the matter of the Charca. Why was he unable to guard the water himself?
The little cemetery was a lonely spot out beyond the refinery and not far from the shacks where those guiltless, terrified women had picked up their children and escaped. The Cabo Desierto cemetery was full, so the priest had consecrated new ground. A lot of nonsense! What would happen to those dead was neither better nor worse than to Catalina, a pulp hurled up and down between the fury of the surf and the green peace of deep water until it was eaten by the crabs.
The ground was surrounded by a low wall, hastily built. He came early and sat there waiting. The sea itself gave some light so that the wall was white and monotonous as the breakers. Don Mateo was visible a hundred yards away as he walked along the beach—a moving rod, tall and black, against the milkiness of the spent terraces of the surf.
‘So you have come, Don Rafael!’
‘And why not?’
‘Several reasons, friend, for you as for me.’
‘I have nothing against you personally, Don Mateo. Chepe—I have not forgotten.’
‘It is nothing. The child deserves all we can give.’
‘He has too much freedom, but you will understand my time is not my own.’
Rafael felt no more of his intended domination. He was only conscious of equality in loneliness. Don Mateo for the moment had become the vague patriarchal adviser for whom he had so often felt a need. That would not do. He was there to listen to him about banks.
‘Have you anything to say or not?’ he asked aggressively. ‘What do you know of this swindle of Delgado’s?’
‘A lot. Delgado told the truth. It’s a dirty business, but you had better know where your weekly subvention came from.’
‘Do not tell me from Russia, for I shall not believe it.’
‘You would be right. It came from an oil company—one of the biggest which hopes to buy Cabo Desierto cheap.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘Because I myself was suspected of taking this money to keep the boycott alive.’
‘You? There are people without shame or decency.’
It was Henry Constantinides in far-off London who had supplied the information. There in London Wall Henry must have envisaged his General Manager smoothly insinuating the facts—if necessary at all—into the ear of some urbane visitor from Embassy or Government, not frankly exposing them to his enemy, both together among the rusty cans and refuse on the edge of an eternity.
It had been obvious that Gateson’s accusation could not be a mere shot in the dark; the Field Manager, however angry, was not fool enough for that. There had to be some basis of fact: perhaps a private letter from Birenfield or some former colleague repeating a rumour which was running through the underground of the oil industry. Mat had at once cabled to Henry whose discreet enquiries through the head office of the Cabo Desierto bank, aided by his interlocking directorships, revealed the
identity of the generous benefactor; but attempts to prove it came up against a dead end—so dead that it stank to high heaven. Why the weekly payments had stopped was anybody’s guess, possibly because the boycott—to any outside observer—now seemed certain to collapse or because the donors had been warned of Henry’s investigation.
Mat explained to Rafael as simply as he could the motives of his charitable sympathisers.
‘So we were paid just to change one oil company for another?’
‘These things happen, friend. Don’t blame yourself!’
Still another illusion gone. Even if he had known he would probably have accepted the money and laughed at the crooks who sent it—with the help of Gil Delgado’s cynicism. Though he didn’t blame himself, he felt a need to excuse himself. He stumbled over words to explain the contradiction.
‘Don Mateo, suppose you told me to make a rotten locker for the launch. I would not refuse, but I would make a good one. That is the only way I can work.’
‘Of course. You are a man of honour.’
‘It is a shame that you were not here when the old field was closed down.’
‘Thank you. But I am here now. Tell me frankly—what have you to gain? I have got for you what you wanted.’
‘No! Without oil, yes.
‘But the Sentinels exist.’
‘And our women and children? Those that rot here?’
‘As you said, there are people without decencies. That is why there is such a thing as forgiveness.’
‘There is too much in this world, Mr. Manager. If it is to move there must be an end to forgiveness.’
‘Doña Catalina would not have agreed with you.’
‘That may be, but she was a saint.’
‘I have heard it said that there is something of that in you, too—wrong way up.’
‘Who said that?’
‘Believe me or not—González.’
‘González learned his lesson. So there has been no more violence.’
‘Lorenzo?’
‘I do not want to know anything of Lorenzo.’
‘But you can’t help it, Don Rafael. And there will be more Lorenzos if you and I cannot understand each other.’
‘I will never sit down with Gil Delgado.’
‘It isn’t necessary if you will sit down with me. Delgado wants to remain an oil worker. You and yours do not. All we have to discuss is the land and the water and more capital if you need it—a committee of the Mayor, Thorpe, ourselves and Uriarte perhaps and anyone else you choose.’
The mention of Uriarte broke the spell. Rafael shied away from all prospect of negotiation. Nothing could be done until he had got rid of El Vicario and his hands were clean.
‘Don Mateo, this is my duty, and, believe me, I have no pleasure in it.’
‘But you will meet me again?’
‘Of course. You came alone as you said.’
‘So did you.’
A tactful reply. Mat kept to himself the fact that he had spotted a match lighting two cigarettes among the sand hills. Any way he had been sure of Garay, though doubtful how far the man could ensure the obedience of his followers.
‘I? That means nothing!’ Rafael answered angrily.
That extraordinary husband of Catalina! The tactful reply had been a bad mistake. Garay had been made to feel the lesser man. He was always at the mercy of genuine conscience. It was not the kind of inferiority complex which one could foresee and reckon with.
‘Meanwhile, a bit of advice! Keep your guards on the Charca!’
Rafael was surprised and out of his depth. That seemingly simple remark needed someone like Gil to translate it. Don Mateo knew of the landing of El Vicario and must know that he had not left. What else did he know? Perhaps it was a trap or perhaps he was afraid that El Vicario was at large with the explosives.
‘Why not you?’ Rafael retorted. ‘Put some of your clerks up there! They can look at their collars and ties in the water.’
‘It’s obvious why not. Your men would suspect that I was holding the Charca in order to destroy it.’
‘But now we know it is not your policy.’
Mat realised that he should never have mentioned the Charca. Another mistake! He had hoped to find out from Rafael’s reply whether El Vicario was safely dead or not. Such sparring for position was stupid when the bond of sympathy existed and was half admitted. He took refuge in honesty.
‘Look! We both know there are secrets we cannot yet tell and we both know what about. Leave it so—but it’s the devil that neither of us can trust the only man who counts.’
‘You feel that, too? But you are the General Manager.’
‘What does that matter? And you are a good carpenter. We do what we think we must and it is never enough to win.’
‘That may be true, Don Mateo, for there are times when I do not see how either of us can lose.’
Rafael walked back with him as far as the town to keep his men from showing themselves prematurely. He felt more peace in himself. If he called off the boycott—he allowed himself the ‘if without admitting any intention—it would not be surrender to the Company but an agreement with Don Mateo. Both avoided the subject, talking a little of neutrals whom they liked, such as the Mayor and Dr. Solano, and then of Chepe’s future—a difficult subject for Mat since any mention of grants and apprenticeships implied the continued existence of the Company. He was content to say cautiously that wherever he might be he was always ready to be consulted.
At the tank farm Rafael stopped and held out his hand. He would have liked to go on talking and perhaps have a drink with his enemy, but he could not be seen in the street on such friendly terms. Don Mateo appeared to appreciate that, and went on by himself into the lights of the quayside where he had left his car. He was slightly bent with weariness and no longer the bold figure which had come out of the night. Rafael could not have said what it was he wanted for him—at any rate some more human form of relaxation than the society of all those crooks up the hill.
Antón and his men joined their leader, all asking at once what the manager had to say of Gil Delgado’s swindle. Their curiosity seemed irrelevant. For Rafael the original object of the dialogue had slipped away into unimportance.
‘That? A bribe! We are better without it. A thing of other oil companies, friends, who are as dirty as the Union.’
He walked on to his house, expecting to find Chepe in bed, but the boy was still up and waiting for him. He seemed to have eaten very little. His large eyes were darker than usual and his neck seemed too childishly fragile to hold up his head.
‘Where have you been, papacito?’
‘Talking to your friend, Don Mateo.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Nothing. Why?’
‘Nothing at all? You promise?’
‘I promise. You have no need to be afraid, Chepe. I would trust myself with Don Mateo anywhere. You know what a true man he is.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘About you, little one, sometimes.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘Such a lot of questions? For one thing he told me that you will be a man to be proud of.’
‘Will he always be in Cabo Desierto?’
‘I hope so, Chepe.’
Rafael caught himself up sharply. He didn’t hope so. One could hardly imagine Don Mateo renting a bit of land from the community and settling down.
‘That is something we will see,’ he added at once. ‘And if he is not here I can send you to London with a little note saying “this is Chepe”.’
‘But he would know it was Chepe.’
‘No, he wouldn’t—not when you are taller than your father with smart shoes!’
The child laughed and laughed. Rafael did not think his remark all that funny, but he was aware that some sort of cloud had blown over. Chepe was obsessed with killing. That was his own fault. Yet surely he could never have believed his father in danger from his other hero, Don
Mateo? When he went into the bedroom to see if his son was asleep and to adore him like a silent shepherd if he was, he noticed that the vile rag which he held against his cheek was missing. Well, if he had lost it, that accounted for his puzzling mood. He must remember to ask about it in the morning.
He did not remember, having El Vicario on his mind. The man was no use—a phrase Chepe had solemnly used some time or other—but he did not deserve a bullet in the back of the neck. The only other way out was to steal a boat and let him take his chance. El Vicario could not go far wrong if he was over the horizon before dawn and thereafter kept the coast in sight. And what he said to the lumps of dung who paid him mattered to nobody but himself.
When Rafael reached the Company Farm to attend to his prisoner’s daily requirements, he found Uriarte deep in discussion with Thorpe. Uriarte was nervous, naturally enough, and not at all pleased to see him; but Thorpe at once dragged him into the conversation. That was like Sr. Thorpe—always expansive and impulsive and on tip-toe. One could never begin to dislike him.
‘Now, here’s a man who will want a bit of land of his own!’ Thorpe said.
‘No, Mr. Superintendent. When the Company is no more I shall work for the community.’
‘Rafael, I cannot understand why a man like you doesn’t see sense. The Sentinels can’t just disappear.’
‘But they will give no oil.’
‘You’re crazy! You’ve won all along the li’e—frightened that bastard Birenfield off, chucked out your lousy Union and got a General Manager whom you all like!’
‘What I think of Don Mateo has nothing to do with it.’
‘By God, it has I You know very well that he could give us all a happy field again with your own houses and the right to work on the land.’
‘He cannot give back our women and children whom the Company killed. I have much respect for you, Mr. Superintendent, but it is you who will not understand.’
‘Listen! If it’s just the women, it’s about time you knew the truth.’
‘What truth? We have enough of excuses and apologies. The Company refused to let their husbands back and they were all alone and terrified of the police.’
The Three Sentinels Page 16
