THE YOUNG SPANIARD

by MARY HOCKING

‘I doubt if Raoul interpreted your remark that way.’

  ‘Really?’ They had come to a place where the archway of trees parted; above, they could see the path still winding upwards; they had a glimpse of Rose with Frangcon behind her, there was no sign of Raoul. Milo said placidly: ‘It looks as though you’re right.’

  They went on in silence until they reached a point where the bushes and trees grew less thickly so that the track seemed to lead into a bright blue void. Here Frangcon was waiting for them. She looked dishevelled and upset.

  ‘Why did we have to come here?’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to. I told Rose I didn’t want to.’

  Rose was calling from above and looking up they saw her on a path that looked incredibly insecure, almost overhanging them.

  ‘I’m not going up there,’ Frangcon said.

  ‘You can’t go back now,’ James told her.

  He suspected that she resented being forced to expend her energy on something she did not enjoy. He took her arm and propelled her along the path, not noticing the way she averted her eyes from the edge. Milo said:

  ‘Cheer up! In another hour we shall be at the top of the ridge.’

  The path was not as bad as it had looked; the bushes and trees were soon thick again. Frangcon relaxed a little, although she walked silently beside James.

  ‘When we get to the top of the ridge we can have lunch,’ Rose said encouragingly when they joined her. ‘And the view will be wonderful.’

  The trees were thinning now and the view when they finally reached the top of the ridge was certainly good, if a little unexpected. They had imagined, while they walked through the twisting tunnel of trees, that they were making their way into the heart of the mountains. In fact, they had been circling one peak which hung like a great nimbus cloud over country which, at this distance, seemed flat and gentle. Now that they had come out above the line of the trees they saw the land stretching away far below, fields of blue and gold patterned with little tree-covered hills like tufted pin-heads. It was so far away that it seemed as unrelated to them as a landscape seen from an aircraft. Above, the mountain peaks humped together like a group of stone figures.

  They stood staring across the plain. Raoul was already there, hunched on a boulder.

  ‘You couldn’t possibly have done this in an hour,’ he said accusingly to Milo.

  ‘An hour! Did I say that?’ Milo clicked his tongue and shook his head sadly. ‘One gets carried away. No, I certainly didn’t do it in an hour—two, more like it.’

  Raoul sucked his breath in and turned his head away.

  Rose unpacked the food; her hands were hot and shaking and it took her a long time. James tried to pick out features in the valley from Milo’s map. He must have been more exhausted than he had realized because the blood was pulsing so strongly behind his eyes that the valley seemed covered in a red haze. Frangcon said that she was no good at maps and she clambered away into the shade of the last scrawny trees. She was very subdued again. Raoul continued to sit on the boulder; he looked up at the mountains blankly, without enjoyment, fear or calculation; the sun was very hot on his back. Milo found a place in the shade and went to sleep.

  Rose handed James a hunk of bread and some meat strongly flavoured with garlic. It made him feel sick, but he ate it because he was feeling shaky and preferred to put this down to hunger rather than exhaustion. Rose was excited; she kept saying how wonderful she felt and that she could go on for hours.

  ‘That is just what you will have to do,’ James pointed out.

  She uncorked a bottle of white wine, tasted it and made a face. ‘It’s warm and quite horrid.’ She held out the bottle to James.

  Milo, James noticed, had drunk surprisingly little. James decided that his example might be the best to follow, so he refused Rose’s offer.

  ‘Can you imagine Milo in the days of his glory?’ Rose murmured. ‘He probably had a nasty stubbly beard and looked like a Spanish Humphrey Bogart.’

  Raoul turned and glanced at Milo. ‘I wonder if he slept so much then?’ His voice was bitter.

  ‘From what I’ve heard, he slept with all the village girls.’ Rose lay back, wriggling her shoulders where the sharp stones scratched her. ‘I’m told that these places are populated with people with Milo’s features.’

  James got up and walked rather stiffly across to where Milo lay hunched in the hollow of rock. Milo did not move. Every muscle of his body was relaxed so that he looked like a great rag doll dumped there; the head lolled to one side, the face was almost imbecile, the mouth hanging open and a trickle of saliva running down the jaw. ‘The Tiger of the Mountains!’ And yet, James felt an unexpected respect for the man.

  Raoul was becoming impatient.

  ‘We should be going.’

  Frangcon and Rose protested.

  ‘It’s all very well for you,’ Rose said. ‘You’ve been up here much longer than we have.’

  ‘I’m sick of waiting around.’

  Milo opened his eyes and watched him.

  ‘A little longer. Don’t forget I’m getting old for this kind of thing.’

  They waited.

  At first Raoul was content to prowl around, smiling contemptuously as he collected up the picnic things. Then, when there was nothing else to do, he stood still, as though on sentry duty, his hands clenched, his blank eyes on the mountains. He had climbed up here so fast, exhilarated at the thought of beating Milo on his own ground; now it seemed that whatever initiative had been gained was gradually dwindling away. As the seconds ticked by his body grew more rigid and the sweat gathered on his forehead and began to trickle down his face. Milo sighed and stretched and slept again. Frangcon, who had been watching Raoul, said suddenly:

  ‘Don’t be so impatient! You’re using up as much energy as you’ll need for a good hour’s climbing!’

  He gave her a cold, reflective look and then sat down on a ledge of rock, his hands clenched on his knees. His behaviour surprised James. It was as though, once Raoul had challenged Milo, he had forgotten his existence; he might have been fighting an inanimate object instead on a wily and experienced opponent. Not for the first time, James began to wonder what kind of a man this was.

  ‘What did you do for a living before you took up this travel business?’ he asked Raoul.

  ‘I was a lecturer in a university.’

  James looked surprised and Raoul smiled, a smile that, though brief, was genuine and unexpectedly disarming.

  ‘What university?’ Frangcon asked.

  Raoul shook his head.

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  He made it sound as though it had happened in another life.

  ‘Surely you can remember, though,’ Frangcon persisted.

  But he shook his head; it was finished, something beyond the point of recall. Only the brief smile remained to give a hint that there had been some pleasure there. James tried to imagine him, his gown flowing behind him, books tucked under his arm, the young face alert with an interest that was capable of communication, hopeful and immediate. It was difficult to see him this way, and yet James knew quite suddenly that this was how he should have been. And he knew at the same moment that Raoul would never defeat Milo, there are some situations in which intellectual superiority is not enough.

  Frangcon was saying, ‘You should go back to teaching. It’s much more satisfying.’

  ‘I can’t go back.’

  There was desolation in the dry voice. As though this was a cue for which he had been waiting, Milo stirred and got leisurely to his feet, restoring the atmosphere to normal with some rather tedious instructions about the next phase of the journey.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Raoul flared. ‘We’re not climbing Everest! Let’s get on with it.’

  But Milo persisted with his laborious instructions and in the end Raoul turned and went off up the track without waiting for him to finish. Frangcon, sorry for him, hurried after him. Milo watched them, Raoul straining forward as though determined to sho
w that his earlier display of energy had not exhausted him. Milo let him take the lead.

  ‘Not so fast!’ Frangcon protested. ‘We’ve got the rest of the afternoon to do this in. Tell me about your work. What was your subject?’

  ‘English literature.’

  ‘How could you lecture on English literature? You haven’t any feeling for it.’

  ‘Indeed? Why do you say that? Do you think the glories of the English language are beyond a foreigner’s comprehension?’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about language. I was talking about feeling. Shakespeare, for example . . .’

  ‘But Shakespeare is really very good at times. And much more clever than you give him credit for.’

  ‘Clever!’ She stopped, her hand to her side, breathing with difficulty. For a moment, she allowed her eyes to roam nervously over the mountains and valleys, now at their most colourful in the brilliance of a sun a little on the wane so that purple shadows ate into the green and gold fields.

  ‘Shakespeare was concerned with feeling, with passion, with . . .’

  ‘Which of his plays do you like the most?’

  She thought for a moment and then said:

  ‘To read, Antony and Cleopatra.’

  He passed his hand across his forehead which was no longer greasy with sweat, but dry and very hot.

  ‘An odd choice—for you, at least.’

  ‘Why? It’s so full of vitality and splendour, written in the blaze of noon. No shadow, no darkness. And such a wonderful love story . . .’

  ‘Love story! If your lover were dying would you lean over the balcony and say, “I’m so sorry, darling, but I can’t come down and take you in my arms for the last time in case I am made a prisoner”? That is no love story! Tragedy, if you like; a tragedy of a noble man corrupted by a tawdry Egyptian slut.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘You really meant that!’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I mean it? Do come along, Frangcon, and for goodness’ sake don’t crawl along the rock wall like an insect! There’s plenty of room.’

  ‘You sounded as though you hated her personally.’

  He went on, walking with more laboured steps up the path which was steep and rock-strewn; the shadows were beginning to mask the valley and the sky was a deeper blue as the sun moved behind the nearer peaks. Before long, the evening star would come.

  ‘It is the story of the fall of a civilization,’ he said.

  She missed her footing on a loose stone and clutched at a tuft of grass; it came away in her hand. She paid no more attention to him. There was very little vegetation now. Around her all green things seemed to have fallen away; there was nothing but the sky and the rocks. She felt as though she was climbing a gigantic chimney. Her breath was coming fast and she was finding it harder to control the little surges of panic. ‘If it doesn’t get any worse than this, I shall be all right,’ she told herself. ‘As long as there’s something out there the eye can hold on to.’ Aloud, she said: ‘Let’s wait for the others.’

  This time, Raoul did not protest at the delay. He stood watching as James and Rose struggled towards them. James walked like a man whose store of energy was fast running out. Rose trudged beside him, her red hair darkened with sweat and sleeked to her head like a boy’s; her mouth was a little open and her breath hissed unevenly.

  ‘It’s fabulous, isn’t it?’ she greeted Raoul. ‘I’m glad the sun is going down, though. It was a bit hot back there.’ She gulped for air and coughed.

  They all turned to wait for Milo. He was not hurrying, but his step had not lost its rhythm and he looked as though he might conceivably be enjoying himself.

  ‘Nearly half-way!’ he greeted them cheerfully.

  They regarded him with a dismay which he affected not to notice.

  ‘Perhaps we should have a rest?’ Rose suggested.

  He looked at his watch and said pleasantly:

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. Unless you want to scramble about in the dark.’

  Raoul turned on his heel.

  ‘Come on then.’

  He realized at last that Milo had let him set a pace that would break him; but it was too late to stop now. The hammering of his pulse and the dry heat of his body told him that fever was overtaking him. Frangcon, pursued by her own familiar demon, kept pace with him. Together they began to lunge up the slope sending a continuous trickle of small stones in their wake. Above, the mountain wall seemed to taper to a fine point and there was now a gap on both sides. Frangcon was looking down at the ground; she seemed to be looking down most of the time now and occasionally her lips moved, almost as though she was counting each step. Behind them, Milo shouted to Raoul:

  ‘You’ll have to take the path which skirts that ridge ahead of you. I shouldn’t scamper round there if I were you. It’s not the best of places to turn an ankle. Better wait for me.’

  But Raoul went on. Ahead there was a great bulge of rock around which the path ran like a gallery at the top of a very high tower. When they came to the path Raoul found to his relief that it was wider than he had thought; there was room for two people to walk comfortably side by side. Even so, he felt his stomach muscles tighten and the breeze against his cheek was an unpleasant reminder that there was nothing out there but the cool evening air. A little distance from the path James and Rose had stopped and were watching them anxiously. Raoul took Frangcon’s arm and led her forward a few paces. She did not seem to realize what was happening; it was as though she had shut herself away in a little world of her own. He was glad to see that she was still looking down at her feet. When they were a third of the way along the path. Rose called out:

  ‘Bravo! You’re doing splendidly.’

  Immediately, Frangcon glanced to one side.

  ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God . . .’

  She swayed forward and Raoul grasped her shoulders and turned her face to the rock wall. She caught at a ledge and clawed at it, still droning ‘Oh God, oh God . . .’ Raoul was beginning to tremble; he knew that he dared not try to make her move. He saw Rose, her fist pressed against her lips; he hoped she was not going to scream. James started towards them, but Milo thrust him to one side.

  When Milo reached Frangcon he said briskly:

  ‘We can’t stop here. We’ll have a rest at the end of the path.’

  ‘I’m falling,’ Frangcon said.

  ‘Nonsense! With my arm around you like this you can’t possibly fall.’

  ‘I’m falling.’

  ‘All right, you’re falling! But just keep your feet moving. That’s right.’

  ‘I can feel myself falling.’

  ‘Well, we’ll fall a little to the right, then, shall we? That’s the idea.’

  ‘I’m falling, I’m falling, I know I’m falling . . .’

  ‘Carry on then, you’re doing fine. I’ll tell you when we reach the bottom.’

  And so they continued until the path had turned inwards again, sheltered on either side by high rocks. There he settled her on a boulder and she slumped forward, shuddering and sobbing. Raoul produced some brandy; his hands were shaking so much he could hardly keep the bottle steady as he gave it to Frangcon.

  James was shaking, too: but he was angry.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell someone?’ he raged at Frangcon.

  ‘She couldn’t help it,’ Rose said shrilly. ‘You can’t help that kind of thing.’

  ‘It was madness to come up here. She might have been killed.’ He turned on Raoul. ‘The next time you think up an enterprise of this kind don’t involve other people in it.’

  ‘I feel sick,’ Rose said.

  ‘I didn’t want to involve other people. I would much rather have done it without being hampered by a bunch of tourists.’

  Milo turned and walked away, standing at the entrance to the narrow valley of rocks. Below, the trees and far distant fields were misty as though a fine blue gauze threaded here and there with gold was being drawn over them. But on either side the rocks fanned out, tinged w
ith rose and saffron and gold. It was a long time since he had seen the sun set in such barbaric splendour. He put his hand on the rock; it was burning from the heat of the sun but already the breeze was chilling the sweat on his body and soon the night air would tighten the lax muscles and sting the tired eyes. He looked at the crumpled group, noting the pinched, anxious faces.

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ Rose repeated drearily. ‘That beastly wine was a mistake.’

  She crawled away behind a rock. When she came back Raoul found a paper handkerchief in her bag and gave it to her. He looked sick himself and his hands were still shaking. He stared down at them in dismay. Milo spoke.

  ‘When you’re ready, we’ll go on. It’s a long way yet.’

  They looked up at him. He was no longer the amiable clown with the drink in his unsteady hand who joined them in the bar as the darkness came down soft as silk over the plane trees in the rambla. This was a stranger with a thick body and knotted features hard as bronze in the sun’s last rays, the eyes darkened to violet, knowing little of pity. Instinct warned them that it would be dangerous to make a wrong move with this man. They sat looking at him, scarcely daring to flick an eyelid. The wind was getting up; not yet strong, it was enough to brush away the comfortable illusions of the day. Rose remembered stories she had heard about Milo, stories unconnected with games with village girls. Raoul was shaking uncontrollably. James hoped that he would not do anything rash: at this moment, Milo looked by far the more durable of the two. Also, Milo knew the way down, which was no small consideration. The situation was very delicate, it was important to strike the right note, neither hostile nor placatory. While James was examining this delicate situation from all angles, Frangcon came to life.

  ‘Don’t just stand there like that, Milo. Do something! You brought us all up here, now you must get us down again.’

  ‘Frangcon!’ Rose sounded aghast.

  But she took no notice.

  ‘I didn’t want to come. I said I didn’t want to come,’ she stormed at Milo. ‘I don’t like walking; I’ve never liked walking. And I hate heights. It was stupid to drag me up here. And now I can’t go any further, you understand? If I have to go much further I shall just lie down and die and it will be all your fault.’