by MARY HOCKING
‘I thought I would like to walk there, if you don’t mind,’ Frangcon explained. I’ve been shut up in the hotel all day and I’m longing to see something of Barcelona.’
As they moved towards the door, Rose said to James:
‘Where are you staying?’
‘I haven’t booked anywhere. I wasn’t sure how long . . .’
‘Well, let’s get Frangcon settled first. By that time it may not be necessary to go to bed at all!’
In Paris or London it would be very exhausting not to go to bed at all; but here, James thought as they crossed once more to the rambla, it might have more charm. In spite of the noise of the traffic, the impatient tourists seeking taxis, the crowds promenading the rambla, there was an underlying feeling of relaxation. The hustle, one felt, was superficial; beneath it there was something deep and still, though perhaps not tranquil. People, mostly Spaniards, were sitting on the seats which lined the rambla, family groups talking, children playing, solitary old men half asleep. It seemed that now, late in the evening, Barcelona had taken on a different life. Something in James that longed for leisure responded to the mood of a people for whom these were probably the only hours of pleasure; a still, mindless pleasure. An odd thought for an intellectual.
He was physically tired, yet conscious of a new and different source of energy that made him, in common with the people sitting on the benches, feel that he was coming to life again as the night approached. He gave himself to the mood, relaxed, and eased his impatient stride. Why worry about whether he went to bed or not? This was the beginning of a holiday; he could sleep on the train tomorrow. He listened without much interest to Frangcon describing their journey to Raoul; it seemed as though it had happened a long time ago.
‘What was it all about, did you find out?’ Raoul’s enquiry was rather elaborately casual.
‘Someone was trying to get across the border.’
‘It happens all the time,’ Rose said.
‘But why?’ Frangcon persisted.
Rose was steering them across the road again, taking a side- turning that led away from the Ramblas. It was not easy to side¬track Frangcon.
‘It seems so terrible,’ she insisted.
‘There is always some traffic across a border,’ Raoul said. ‘Look at Ireland. You have the same kind of thing there.’
‘But it’s not serious.’
‘Just a few people killed now and again in a border raid.’
‘But . . .’
‘It’s the landscape that makes it seem so dramatic here. It excites your emotions. Were you very disappointed not to have a brigand shot dead at your feet?’
She did not answer. Suddenly, just as in the train, she withdrew into herself, sad and inexplicably hurt. James felt as though his heart had missed a beat. They walked on in silence.
They were in a narrow street flanked by tall buildings with dingy iron balustrades and shuttered windows; there was a dank smell as though there was water somewhere near. At the entrances to the dingy cafés there were bead curtains and when these were parted there were glimpses of men sitting drinking at rough wooden tables. The people in the street were mainly Spaniards, some of them very dark. A couple of children followed them whispering ‘peseta, peseta’ and then scampered away when Raoul shouted angrily at them. They went down worn stone steps into an even older area where the unlighted streets were cobbled and the buildings were in a more advanced stage of decay. Here windows were dark cavities from which occasionally a child’s face stared into the street. In the doorways women talked and boys squatted in the dark alleys; an old woman filled a pail at a tap in the wall. Judging by the smell, the sewerage was as elementary as the water supply. No wonder they spent so much time in the streets! James thought; from what little one could see of the rooms they were almost bare of furniture. The street was their home, the centre of their communal life. And yet they laughed, huddled in the doorways, and the faces that turned occasionally to watch the passers-by were curious, but without resentment.
‘Would they be much happier if they were scooped up and rehoused in Hemel Hempstead?’ Frangcon wondered.
‘They would be infinitely better off,’ James retorted. ‘In some ways. And yet . . .’
She was quiet again; occasionally, when the light from a doorway illuminated her face, he saw her looking at the people, her bright eyes clouded and perplexed. He wondered what would happen to her during her stay here.
They came out eventually into a better neighbourhood and crossed a square with a plane tree in the centre bordered by wooden seats. There was a hotel, faceless with the shutters down and only a glimmer of light in the doorway. Rose was saying:
‘All the Spanish pensions look a bit decrepit; but it’s clean and the food is good as Spanish food goes.’
They stood in the square. Frangcon hesitated, suddenly forlorn as she had been at the station. She turned to James.
‘Well . . .’
‘We must have a proper evening out,’ Rose said, with a trace of impatience. ‘Tomorrow night perhaps.’
‘But tomorrow . . .’
Frangcon stopped, waiting for James to complete the sentence for her. He said nothing, annoyed that she should make an opening for him in this way. He knew that she was watching him, but he would not look at her.
‘Yes,’ Rose said. ‘Yes. Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Frangcon echoed.
Still James said nothing and she turned and went into the hotel. Rose followed her.
‘How long are you planning to stay in Barcelona?’ Raoul’s voice had an edge to it, the voice of someone determined to put an end to a tiresome situation. James said:
‘I have no plans. That is a part of my holiday.’
‘Very wise. Plans tend to involve other people and other people are so unpredictable. They always let you down.’ Raoul’s voice was mocking; it was difficult to tell whether he was serious or not. ‘One must renounce other people in order to have freedom of action, don’t you agree?’
‘I wouldn’t go as far as that.’
There was a growing friction between them. They strolled across to the bench and sat beneath the plane tree, not speaking, watching as lights went on in the front rooms of the hotel. James remembered that only a few hours ago he had told himself that he could leave Barcelona with an easy conscience. He had not met Raoul then. The light from a street lamp slanted across the thin face of the man beside him and James noticed for the first time the faint white scar that ran from cheekbone to jaw. Was it the scar or the effect of lamplight, yellow and unhealthy, that roused uneasy fancies, that made this face, neither young nor old, seem as though a blight had fallen on it, destroying youth while denying maturity? He was glad when Rose came out of the hotel and said briskly:
‘Now! We have to find somewhere for you.’
‘But why not here?’ Raoul’s laughter grated. ‘What could be more pleasant than to develop the friendship so promisingly started on the train? After all, you have no plans; you are free to follow pleasure.’
Rose was watching him in surprise. It was evident that he did not normally behave in this way. She said impatiently:
‘I don’t think they have a spare room.’
‘No?’ He turned and looked at the far side of the square where there was another, rather dingier hotel. ‘What about that? It would be more proper, perhaps, to keep a certain distance? The Scots are very scrupulous in such matters, I believe.’
‘Come along! Don’t be so silly,’ Rose admonished.
As Raoul turned to follow her there was a smile on his lips that was almost rueful; one might fancy that he was congratulating himself on the success of a manreuvre that had been too easy. James let them walk away. They reached the road leading out of the square before they realized that he was not with them.
‘What’s the matter?’ Rose called to him.
He waited while they retraced their steps uncertainly. He did not answer until they came near enough for him to see Raou
l’s face as he said, his Scots accent unusually pronounced:
‘I think that hotel would do very nicely. As you say, it’s at a perfectly correct distance.’
Raoul stood quite still, he might almost have been holding his breath. James thought that he was angry, but when he spoke his voice was flat and weary:
‘That’s settled, then.’
The episode ended with a feeling of anti-climax. It was only later when James was undressing in the scruffy, un-ventilated hotel room that he realized what had happened. He took out a pair of pyjamas and stared down at them, reflecting that they would be much too thick for comfort.
‘Why?’ he said aloud. ‘Why did I do that?’
It was not the fact that he had brought the wrong pyjamas that dismayed him. It seemed to him that he had made a decision that involved something more than the postponement of his trip to Seville. He decided that he was overtired; he also decided that it had been a mistake to come to Spain.
‘A sense of proportion,’ he said sourly as he got into bed. ‘That’s the real answer. This country lacks a sense of proportion.’
Chapter Three
James did not sleep well. He was, however, reluctant to waken and for hours after the light began to filter into his room he kept his eyes tight shut and forced his conscious mind to submerge.
So that it was Rose who, of the rather weary party, was up first. She washed very thoroughly, standing naked in front of the cracked wash basin; she spent some time applying talcum powder and toilet water; but it took her no time at all to dress. She had been friendly at one time with a girl who maintained that underclothes only made for difficulties, and this had struck her as a very sophisticated attitude which she had at once adopted. When she had slipped into the slim white skirt and buttoned up the flowered shirt, she flicked a comb through her hair, back-combed to give the right cloudy effect, and put a dab of powder on the slightly tip-tilted nose. Then she hurriedly emptied the ash-trays, drew back the shutters and opened the windows. She wished that Raoul would not smoke; one could never tell how Spaniards might react to affairs of this kind and she did not want the trouble of looking for another apartment. Also, while she liked to be thought daring, she was rather afraid of real disapproval.
She made coffee and thought about the day ahead. Perhaps she could have a quick lunch with Frangcon before she went on duty. She had forgotten how tiring Frangcon had been last night and now looked forward eagerly to being alone with her so that they could talk about men. It was not nearly such fun having a man if there was no one to talk to about it. And Frangcon was always interested, and so different that it gave a certain spice to their discussions.
She decided that she would go to Frangcon’s hotel and fix up with her about lunch. On the way, she went into the Granada to see if there were any letters from her mother who did not know that she had an apartment.
There were no letters. But there was Milo Pacheco, leaning against the reception desk, the pouches beneath his eyes heavier, the furrows in his face making him look like a rather sad mastiff. He took the cigarette out of his mouth when she turned away from the desk, and said:
‘How’s my little girl today?’
He had called her his little girl for a long time, but had never done any more about it and she had sometimes wondered whether he was not much interested.
‘Your little girl,’ she told him, ‘is fine.’
She turned away and went towards the door, not moving very quickly, so that he caught her up by one of the heavy columns in the foyer. He put his arm round her waist, saying in a fatherly tone:
‘I’m glad to hear that, my dear.’
The exploring fingers were not fatherly and Rose, who was always a little frightened in the beginning and more than a little frightened of Milo, pulled away from him. But she only inched further round the pillar, so that they were masked from the desk and the entrance.
‘You have a new boy friend,’ he said.
‘My cousin. I don’t have a new boy friend every week, Milo.’
‘But Raoul has lasted quite a time, eh?’ His arm was round her waist again, the hand travelled up and rested against her breast. ‘Very nice for him; and convenient, too. I envy him. I have always wanted to have a girl friend in the travel business.’ The fingers lightly smoothed the rounded curve of her breast. ‘Who knows when it might come in useful?’
The colour whipped into her face and then went, leaving it very pale.
‘I don’t know what you mean by that.’
He noted the straining of her breasts beneath the thin shirt. Something stronger than concern at his words was disturbing her. Well, perhaps it might be easier to play it that way. He held her tighter, pressing his thighs against her, and felt the little tremors that agitated her body. He put his lips against her ear and whispered.
‘I don’t understand. You forget, Milo, I’m still learning Spanish.’
He chuckled and released her, then followed her out into the street. She rubbed the palm of her hand down the side of her thigh and flicked her tongue over her lips. He found her youth rather depressing; her innocence did not move him—she was the type who would always be innocent because she lacked the resources to learn from experience.
‘What a bad man you are, Milo,’ she rebuked him. ‘You’ve quite spoilt my morning.’
What she lacked in depth she would, it seemed, make up for in technical proficiency. As he walked with her he noticed how her confidence grew. She was coping with him much better when they reached the square in which Frangcon’s hotel was situated. From now on he could have her any time he chose to exert a little pressure.
‘I have to see my friend,’ she said, and then, casually, as she searched for a comb in her bag, ‘We’re making up a party for this evening.’
‘I’ll join you.’
She raised her arm to comb back her hair and to display for his admiration the line of her slim body.
‘I don’t know about that. Raoul might object.’
‘Why should he object? After all, I have never done him any harm.’
‘Nevertheless, he doesn’t like you.’
‘A pity. So I’m not to join you this evening?’
‘You must make your own mind up about that. I shan’t say one way or the other.’
She would never say ‘no’; he doubted whether she really knew how to say ‘yes’, either. He watched her as she went into the hotel; a neat enough little body, but not generous, small breasts and no hips, just like all English women. He looked at his watch; it was a quarter past nine, early, but he decided that he would go to his office to see whether anything interesting had turned up.
It was at about this time that James at last roused himself. His room overlooked a well which was covered by a glass roof so that the window was merely decorative. He awoke half-suffocated in the airless room and feeling obscurely depressed. He comforted himself with the thought that he would soon be in Seville. Realization came slowly, seeming to spread from the pit of his stomach as he crouched over the wash basin. The water did not run properly, although the pipes hissed and shuddered. While he cursed the pipes and cuffed the tap with his hand, the sickness welled up within him and spewed out hatreds that he had not known existed. He hated his fellow human beings. More specifically, he hated his mother, his brother and sisters for whom he had worked so hard. He even hated his father who most certainly had not wanted cancer; he hated him for dying and bequeathing to him the burden of family responsibility, condemning him to the legal business in Glasgow which had kept him so busy that he had not had time to think what he wanted to do with his life until it seemed too late to make a fresh start.
For a few moments while he washed and dressed the little crack in the barrier of his self-control let out some very unpleasant thoughts. It did not last long. He had been brought up to control feeling, had watched with admiration his mother as she put emotion to one side at the crises of their lives. Nevertheless, he was shaken. It was surely out of all prop
ortion for such thoughts to come to his mind simply because he had sacrificed the chance of going to Seville. He sat by the window in the dining room, eating a rather sweet, greasy croissant, and trying to rationalize the unpleasant offerings of his subconscious. It was important to come to terms with them. Unfortunately, they were about as indigestible as the croissant and it was something of a relief when Frangcon appeared on the far side of the square. He watched her walk across to the plane tree, pause for a moment to look round the square in an attitude of wonder which might have been appropriate if she had been in St Mark’s, and then come slowly towards the hotel.
The waiter, attired in shirt sleeves, patched black trousers and carpet slippers, showed her into the dining room and pointed unnecessarily to James who was the only person in the room.
‘Now don’t say this is quaint!’ James warned her, and was surprised at the easy familiarity of his tone.
She did not seem in the least surprised, but smiled and sat down beside him. She wore a yellow linen dress that showed the creases where it had been folded in her case and, perhaps in honour of Spain, she had switched her hair up with two combs.
‘Rose told me that you were staying here,’ she explained. ‘She asked me to say that she had planned something for this evening.’
‘I don’t know that I want to go out this evening,’ he said ungraciously. ‘I thought last night was appalling. The undercurrents were so strong I felt in danger of being swept away by them!’
‘Probably it is rather embarrassing for Rose and Raoul to have us here just now.’
‘Then what is the point of our going out and embarrassing ourselves again tonight?’
‘I think Rose feels she ought to organize something for you.’
So this was the result of his decision to stay in Barcelona: he was to be organized by Rose. Undoubtedly a part of the plan was that he should spend the day with Frangcon. He suggested lunch with as good a grace as he could. She thanked him, but said that she had made other arrangements. He was not as relieved as he might have been.
