THE YOUNG SPANIARD

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘You work too hard,’ he told her mockingly. The colour flooded her face. She leant forward and spat at him:

  ‘I hate you!’

  She looked, James thought, astonishingly vicious; but then Raoul had probably chosen an unfortunate moment to needle her. Perhaps he thought this himself, because he did not seem particularly perturbed.

  ‘What time does your coach go?’ James asked her.

  She accepted the diversion gratefully.

  ‘Not yet! We haven’t seen the end of the cabaret yet. There is still Miguel de Grippa. He is really very good, you know.’

  ‘Even more glossy than that last fellow? A proper Rudolph Valentino?’

  ‘How dated you are! Cecil B. de Mille and now Rudolph Valentino!’

  The next turn was a guitarist who sang several French songs and then a number that sounded to James like the howling of a dog in pain and which was greeted with wild applause. Inevitably, there was an encore.

  ‘I think I can do without Miguel de Grippa after that,’ James said.

  They were still arguing with him when the lights went out except for one spotlight. At first, James thought that there was no one there. There was no music either. The silence was rather disconcerting. Then James saw a man standing to one side, immensely tall and thin, in a dark suit cut narrowly to the figure but looking rather homespun—even at this distance one could see that it was soiled and worn. He looked a country lad, awkwardly attired in his Sunday clothes. And the face, young, intensely sad, did not belong to the world of the night club. He remained quite still, staring into the darkness of the gallery, and one had the impression of a man alone under a street lamp in a deserted town. James wondered when he would begin, and then he noticed the foot; just the one foot at first, ankle, heel, moving, the rest of the body utterly still. The movement continued, grew more and more agitated while the rest of the body retained its rigidity; the other foot began to move. James’s eyes were riveted on the feet. There was silence among the people in the courtyard, just the growing crescendo of the stamping feet which surely could not increase in volume and yet did increase until the thunder vibrated unbearably in one’s own breast.

  The stamping feet were rigorously controlled, yet the body seemed to long for something that could not be given. The conflict, creeping up the limbs, was unbearable. Passion and control, longing and denial, a wild, surging appeal without barriers and yet contained completely in the movement of the feet. The body pleaded for all that the velvet darkness offered yet would not yield; pleaded, was rejected, yet the feet continued to demand something that life had not the ability to give.

  ‘Like a stallion thrashing about in its stall,’ Raoul muttered, and there was disgust in his voice.

  But it was more than this; this tortured body in which every muscle was controlled by an iron will and yet every yearning was ferociously unleashed awakened one’s own frustrations, inflamed desire. The sweat streamed from the man. James sweated too, felt hope drain from him as desire grew stronger. At the height of the struggle it ended, abruptly, without reconciliation; darkness, the cancellation of silence. Nothing now but a question unresolved.

  The applause, when it came, was tremendous. And the blank, tortured face relaxed into a smile; the man bowed and smiled, his face registering a delight in having given pleasure that was utterly unselfconscious.

  Now the Spanish element in the audience really came to life. Across the room Milo was clapping and shouting and, if James was not mistaken, there were tears running down his face. A chord in James was touched; he had an odd moment of understanding, as though he was experiencing something through Milo. The moment passed and he was sitting there, still clapping, but keeping his enthusiasm within its customary limits. He was, after all, an outsider. He glanced at Raoul. Raoul was outside the experience, too. His face was set, the eyes hooded, the mouth drawn. He reached for a cigarette and said to James:

  ‘What price Rudolph Valentino now?’

  The memory so long held back clicked neatly into place. James remembered that long ago his sister had laughed at him when he had said, ‘It’s something about the shape of the mouth; the way they say the “u” sound seems to shape a Frenchman’s mouth.’

  As the band started up again, he leant forward and said to Raoul:

  ‘You don’t have anything like that in France, do you?’

  Raoul’s hands were steady as he lit the cigarette. After a moment, he said:

  ‘We have other things, of greater value than a gypsy’s stamping.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘His real name is Gaston Trennet,’ Milo said.

  James strolled across to the window and looked out. The view was not inspiring, just the narrow courtyard of the police station, one or two parked cars, doors leading off into buildings that looked as dingy as James imagined those at Bow Street would be. If anything else were needed to tell him that the holiday was over, this depressing sight would have done it. Nevertheless, he went on inspecting the courtyard as though it was of particular interest to him because he wanted time to think. Milo was accommodating. He sat behind his desk, looking through a few papers which did not interest him, and thinking that as soon as he could get rid of James he would go along to El Telón for his first drink of the evening. He had been stuck in his office for longer than usual.

  ‘This has been rather a shock to me, as you can imagine.’

  It had been a great shock, but James managed to sound rather prim about it, as though he had discovered that his clerk was fiddling the books.

  ‘It has?’ Milo obligingly adopted the same tone. He put his papers to one side. ‘I shouldn’t worry if I were you. These things happen all the time.’

  ‘But not to me.’

  ‘But you are not really involved, are you?’ Milo was innocently surprised.

  ‘I think it possible that my cousin may be.’

  ‘Really?’ Milo clicked his tongue. ‘Aren’t you taking a rather serious view of things? A man doesn’t necessarily confide in every woman that he sleeps with, and Trennet—shall we call him that now?—doesn’t seem to me to be a very confiding sort of person.’

  ‘That’s just the trouble.’

  James paused, waiting for the effect, but Milo merely raised his eyebrows in polite interest and waited. The unblinking blue eyes met James’s without apparent guile.

  ‘You see. Rose is not a particularly intelligent person,’ James went on. ‘She just likes to have a good time and doesn’t enquire too deeply into the meaning of things.’

  ‘One doesn’t at her age,’ Milo agreed.

  ‘What I am really afraid of is that Raoul—Trennet—may have told her just enough to excite her interest without giving her any idea of the seriousness of his position.’

  There was a pause. James said:

  ‘His position is serious, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, I think you might call it serious. Or shall we say, the French Government would consider it to be serious.’

  ‘And the Spanish Government?’

  Milo shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘We have this sort of problem all the time. On the whole we are quite accommodating to people in Trennet’s position.’ Just as James was relaxing, he went on: ‘But, as you know, there is to be a visit shortly by a French minister. Quite a lot hangs upon it— economic developments that are rather important. It might be . . . I could be wrong, of course . . . but it might be that some gesture of solidarity might be thought necessary. And then—who knows? Someone like Trennet might be considered expendable. After all, it wouldn’t hurt the Spanish Government much to hand him over; it would be a useful and inexpensive gesture.’

  ‘That sort of situation had occurred to me,’ James confessed.

  Milo received the confession with a wise inclination of his head.

  ‘In which case, a few questions might be asked. And Rose, who may have been a little indiscreet, might be involved.’

  Milo thought about this, idly playing with a pencil
on his desk.

  ‘A lot would depend on the nature of her indiscretion,’ he suggested.

  ‘Suppose Trennet tried to escape?’

  ‘Then it would be very rash to help him.’ Milo laughed, and went on: ‘But do you really see Rose involving herself in that? It seems to me, from what I know of her, that that would be the moment when she would suddenly discover that she was in fact a very discreet kind of person. The plight of the hunted man would leave her comparatively unmoved, don’t you think?’

  ‘But if . . . just as an example . . . she had already committed her indiscretion and could do nothing about it?’

  Milo put the pencil down. It was just after half-past seven and the verbal cat-and-mouse game had never appealed to him.

  ‘You mean that she might have provided him with a passport and papers which would enable him to get out of the country, provided he could move quicker than we could?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I think much would depend on whether he succeeded. If he were to be caught, all might be forgiven; if he got away, some very awkward questions might be asked.’

  ‘I see.’

  James did another orbit of the room, watched rather wearily by Milo, and came to rest once more at the window. This time the view was a little more interesting. It was getting dark in the courtyard, but he could make out the figure of the Captain crossing the yard. From what he could remember of the rather complicated geography of this part of the building, this was a cul-de-sac; in which case, the Captain would be coming to Milo’s room. James marked time. He had no wish to tackle Milo in the Captain’s presence; and, in any case, it occurred to him that it might be better to continue the conversation later, when he was better briefed, and preferably over a drink in a bar.

  ‘Well, thank you for the information,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to make a few enquiries because naturally I feel a little responsible for my cousin. In fact, that was one of the reasons why I came to Barcelona.’

  ‘Really?’

  Milo did not sound very convinced, so James produced the letter from his aunt.

  There was no one in the courtyard now. The Captain must have made a diversion. Milo handed the letter back. ‘It establishes your credentials, at any rate,’ was his only comment.

  It would have been better to have left things there, but James had to ask:

  ‘What is it that Gaston Trennet is wanted for? Was he mixed up in a student uprising or something?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Then it is just that he has been rather unwise in his expression of his political views?’

  Milo got up, yawned, and switched off the desk-lamp.

  ‘I think it was the way in which his views found expression that bothers them. Our information is that he murdered a pro-Gaullist general in Oran.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘He denies it,’ Milo assured James comfortingly. ‘But he seems to be rather an expendable sort of person. His friends have decided to let him take the credit for that act.’

  Milo moved to the door. But it opened before he reached it and the Captain came in. He went across to Milo’s desk, switched on the light, and sat down. Behind his back, Milo gave James a rather rueful smile. Obviously he knew the man’s habits and James cursed himself for not having mentioned seeing the Captain in the courtyard. Milo said:

  ‘Our friend is worried about the company his cousin keeps. But I have succeeded in laying his fears to rest.’

  The Captain stared at Milo. For some reason he was the one who was the more disturbed of the two; he was sweating and his small eyes shifted from one man to the other, bright with fear. As Milo motioned James to follow him, the Captain began to laugh.

  ‘I know what Milo is like when he tries to reassure anyone. He scares the life out of them.’ He got up and came across to James, his fat face contorted into a roguish grimace. ‘Now, tell me truthfully; he is sending you on much more worried than when you came, isn’t that so?’

  ‘On the contrary . . .’

  ‘Come!’ The Captain gave James’s shoulder a playful push. ‘I know Milo. He is in a hurry to go away and have a drink; he will have been quite brutal to you. Well, we’ll let him go, shall we? You stay and have a talk to me. I know how things can be squared. Milo is all right fighting up in the mountains, but he doesn’t understand how more diplomatic affairs can be managed.’

  It was the most incredibly inept performance James had ever seen; the man’s hand clawed at him, the face was still agitated by fear. Milo said:

  ‘He is having a drink with me.’

  ‘You can have a drink here, there is a bottle in the cupboard . . .’

  ‘But I want my drink brought to me by the chica in El Telón.’

  Milo waited for James. James, however, thought that he might gain some advantage from the Captain in this mood; probably it was true enough that the man knew much more about these things than Milo, who was obviously bored by small intrigues.

  ‘If the Captain would like a word with me, I can’t refuse him,’ James said.

  Milo stared at him; then he turned and opened the door. James thought that he was offended, but when he paused for a parting shot he was laughing. The Captain meanwhile was rummaging in a cupboard from which he had produced a couple of glasses. Milo took advantage of his preoccupation to say softly:

  ‘It will be interesting to see what you learn from this.’ The Captain emerged from the cupboard clutching a bottle to his stomach. ‘I’ll drop in on you later in the evening and you can tell me about it.’

  The door closed and James heard Milo walk away, his steps firm and unhesitating. The Captain was holding out a glass.

  ‘It is dreadful, the heat now, don’t you think?’ He sprawled in Milo’s chair and waved James into the chair opposite. ‘Now! Tell me about this.’

  ‘I think you probably overheard all that was important.’

  James was beginning to enjoy himself; he thought that he would be more than a match for the Captain. One must remember, of course, not to drink too much. The Captain was protesting:

  ‘But it is not important.’ He leant forward and stared at James. ‘You must believe me, it is not important at all. We know how to handle this kind of thing without any trouble to anyone. The only danger is when people who don’t understand meddle. Then there is trouble for everyone, you see?’

  James sipped his drink and regarded the man thoughtfully. It was not at all the reaction that the Captain had wanted. He looked disconcerted, and James thought that this was a good sign. He had never handled such a situation in his life before, but he was certain that his brain was much superior to that of the Captain and that surely was all that mattered. Milo had waited, and by doing so had made James say rather more than he had intended. James decided to try the same tactics on the Captain. After all, one should always be willing to learn from experts. In time, the Captain would show his hand. In this assumption, he was quite correct.

  ‘You should take my advice.’ The Captain was not quite so friendly now. ‘Forget all this. No one that you know has been hurt up to now, have they? And it will continue like that, I promise you. You think I want to stir up a lot of trouble for people, give myself a lot of work, make a lot of enemies? Don’t take any notice of Milo. Milo plays at this thing, and he gets away with it because at times he is very useful when we have something unusual to handle. But this is not unusual. And I do not play at it. It is my job, and I have to do it properly or I get into a lot of trouble.’

  They seemed to be getting rather far from the point, so James decided to bring the conversation back to essentials.

  ‘I think I should want to have a good reason for forgetting.’ He could foresee circumstances in which he might find himself in considerable trouble for being so forgetful. And so, no doubt, could the Captain. No good purpose would be served by letting the Captain think that he was dealing with a fool. The manreuvre appeared to be successful. The Captain gave him a sharp look which was not
without respect. While the Captain revised his impressions, James sipped his drink. The Captain also sipped his drink. A certain rhythm seemed to have been lost. James began to feel that not very much would be gained from this interview after all. The Captain was now looking in front of him with a mournful expression on his face, like a dog whose overtures have been repulsed. He sighed and shook his massive head.

  ‘I only wanted to be helpful.’

  He sounded genuinely regretful and James felt rather uneasy. Perhaps more might have been gained by flattering the man’s vanity. Well, it was too late to change tactics now, that would have to wait for a later meeting. The Captain offered another drink and James did not like to refuse. As the Captain had himself pointed out, there was nothing to be gained by making enemies. The Captain held the bottle over his own glass; only a few drops came out. He sighed, got up and ambled out of the room. After a rather long interval he returned with another bottle.

  They drank together in moody silence. When he had finished James made a show of looking at his watch. The Captain took no notice; he was now quite ludicrously dejected. There seemed to be no point in prolonging the interview.

  ‘I have to meet someone soon,’ James lied.

  The Captain brightened and James decided that he had been waiting to get rid of him, but had not been quite sure how to set about it. He seemed to have lost any desire to reopen the discussion. When James left he was pouring himself another drink.

  James went down the stairs and hesitated at the bottom. It was dark, only a dim light in the corridor which was damp and smelt, predictably, of dust and stale urine. There was a man hovering about outside a porter’s cubby hole. He pointed: ‘That way.’ James thanked him and went out into the open. He realized after a moment or two that he was in the courtyard at the back; perhaps the man had made a mistake, or perhaps there was a short cut leading to the street. He began to walk across the courtyard and was halfway across it when he heard a door open.