by MARY HOCKING
He looked as calm and detached as ever until he saw her. Then his eyes opened very wide; at first they were glazed, the eyes of a puppet, unblinking, uncomprehending; then they seemed to focus on her, they became bright and clear as vision sharpened. It took all that remained of her strength to face him; it was as though a tremendous pressure was being exerted behind those staring eyes.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
He did not answer. She leant against the wall, felt sense slipping away and forced out words which no longer had any relevance:
‘Rose told Milo you were coming here, that you had an appointment in the mountains.’
He seemed not to hear. His voice was dry as dust:
‘Why did you do this?’
She stared at him, not knowing the answer. He backed away from her, edging along the wall, his eyes still on her face, until he reached the door. Then he turned and ran into the street.
‘Well, that’s all then,’ she said aloud. ‘That’s all. I can’t do any more.’ She sat down on the stairs and began to cry.
Raoul walked through the village towards the crossroads. To the south was the road leading to Barcelona. To the east, a secondary road led to Poblejo where there was an old monastery, a few farms, and an inn where he was to have met his friend that evening. He took the road to Poblejo, but he walked slowly and when he had gone about half a mile he stopped. It was now impossible for him to keep his appointment; his friend’s safety would be jeopardized if he were to do so. But it was neither pride nor loyalty which made him write an end to things now. The past had overtaken him at last. That dishevelled woman standing in the doorway had brought back the memory of other women whose distracted faces he had long banished from his mind. It was as though they had been resurrected and in their eyes he had seen something from which all save the very essence of compassion had been drained. Hate he could have fed on; compassion was fatal to him.
He sat on the grass and looked back towards the village. In the distance he could see the road from Barcelona along which the police cars would come. He knew that he could no longer go through with the trial, and as he could no longer meet his friend either, he wondered just what course lay open to him.
Chapter Sixteen
When Frangcon did not return, Rose became uneasy. She had meant to stay away from the office, but the thought of being alone in her room all day brooding about the fate of Raoul was too much for her. She decided to go to the office; she might pick up some information there and, at any rate, she would have the protection of her firm’s name which must surely count for something in this tourist-ridden country. On the way she would have breakfast at the Granada.
She heard the telephone ring down in the hall and wondered whether it was James. It was time he got in touch with her. He was usually so tiresomely conscientious, it seemed strange that he should go wandering off at a time like this. She had dressed and was putting one or two things in her handbag when the concierge came to deliver Frangcon’s message. So much had happened recently that Rose could not take in the meaning of it. She puzzled about it as she walked along the street. There was no point in Frangcon going to San Juan de la Cruz because Raoul would have been arrested by now. Had Frangcon misunderstood what Rose had said to her? It was all too confusing. Rose decided that she would go round to James’s hotel after she had had breakfast and leave him to sort it out.
She collected her mail at the desk at the Granada and went up to the dining hall. She did not feel much like food, but the surroundings were comfortable and reassuringly civilized.
There was a letter from her mother which she put to one side. Her mother was probably disturbed because she had had no news of her. There was one other letter. It had been posted in Lisbon three days ago. Rose picked it up, turned it over and read the name of the sender on the back. Then she tore it open eagerly. The Firefly would be putting into Barcelona on 11 June: today, in fact, Derry hoped she would keep the evening free because there was to be a party in the wardroom. She put the letter down slowly. A party on board ship! It was too wonderful to be true. Dinner dress and long, cool drinks, everything clean and shining and magnificently well-organized because they knew how to manage these things. And Derry would know what she ought to do—or if he didn’t, then his Captain would have the answer. The navy might not be quite the power it once was, but it would still be able to teach these dagos a thing or two.
She finished her coffee, picked up her handbag and ran lightly down the stairs to the foyer. She was wondering, as she crossed to the entrance, which dress she would wear this evening, the blue chiffon or the green . . . Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of someone in the lounge. She stopped and turned slowly on her heel. As usual at this time of the morning the lounge was deserted; it had poor natural lighting and the electric light had not been switched on. But it was undoubtedly Milo that she could see; he was glancing at a magazine on one of the occasional tables. His whole attitude was one of casual boredom. She walked across to the doorway, staring at him. She had hoped never to see him again, but bewilderment was stronger than disgust. She whispered:
‘What are you doing?’
Apparently he did not want to see her again, either, because he did not turn round as he answered:
‘Passing the time.’
He dropped the magazine on the table, knocked over an ash tray which he did not bother to pick up, and walked across to one of the showcases. He whistled unpleasantly through his teeth, and pushed his clenched fists into the pockets of his jacket.
‘Passing the time!’ she echoed.
She went down the two steps into the lounge and walked across the deep, soft carpet. Perhaps he did not hear her; he gave no indication of being aware of her presence when she stood beside him, although the muscles bunched around his jaw.’
‘But surely you should be at the police station?’
‘You’re not at your office yet—why should I be at mine?’
‘But Raoul?’
‘Raoul?’
He was still looking at the fans and mantillas displayed in the case. He repeated the name ‘Raoul’ as though he could not recall a man of that name. In fact, he did not look capable of recalling anything; she had never seen him when he looked so coarse and unintelligent. Fear made her voice shrill.’
‘Trennet, then. If you prefer it! You did get him?’
He turned his head and looked down at her, his eyes were bloodshot and rather glassy and he did not seem to register the meaning of her remark. It was surely inconceivable that he should be drunk at this time of the morning? She put out her hand and plucked at his sleeve.
‘Milo, the bus . . . I told you last night . . .’
‘I can’t have been listening.’
‘Not . . . listening . . .’
He swayed a little; he was undoubtedly drunk and his voice was thick.
‘You think I sleep with a woman to get information?’
‘But the Captain said . . .’
‘The Captain!’ He brought one clenched fist down on the thin support of the showcase. ‘Did you think it was the Captain that you were dealing with?’
She stared incredulously at the splintered glass.
‘I’m sorry, Milo.’ The blood had darkened his face and there was no doubt that he was in a great rage. She felt an hysterical desire to giggle and she had to put her hand to her mouth to control herself. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. But tell me, please—what have you done?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ Her lips were trembling uncontrollably; the desire to giggle had gone. ‘But you must have done something. Raoul will get away, and then what will happen to all of us?’
‘Raoul! Raoul! What is Raoul to me? Just because you want to get rid of him do you think you can make use of me?’ He was beginning to shout; she could feel his sour breath on her cheek. ‘And I’ll tell you something else. I didn’t want you; only you forced yourself on me so I thought I ough
t to oblige you.’
She put her hands to her ears.
‘Don’t! Please don’t shout so. People will hear.’
‘That’s what you want, isn’t it? You’ve got a story to tell and you want to be heard. That’s why you came to me, isn’t it? Well, go out in the streets and tell your story to the first policeman you come across, make the same kind of bargain with him that you tried to make with me.’
He turned and stalked out of the lounge, nearly missing his footing on the step. It was very quiet after he had gone. Rose could sense the eager anticipation of the people at the reception desk as they waited for her to appear. She huddled down in one of the chairs and pressed her hands to her face. There was an excited buzz of conversation; then someone came into the lounge and the lights went on. The barman said:
‘What about a drink? Brandy, perhaps?’
When he brought it to her, he said:
‘A bad man to insult, Milo.’
There was no sympathy in his voice; he had never liked her much. Nevertheless, he agreed to get her a taxi. She hurried through the foyer, aware of the curious glances, the lull in conversation as she passed. She gave the taxi-driver the address of James’s hotel. She prayed fervently, as they swerved past a water-cart, that he would be there.
Milo must be mad, of course. She had told him that a criminal was trying to escape and he had done nothing about it. ‘What is Raoul to me?’ he had asked, as though the very mention of Raoul was irrelevant, as though nothing mattered but his own injured pride. Oh God! She must get out of this country; she must get back to a people with some sanity and a proper sense of values. This, at least, James would understand.
James, however, was not a very reassuring sight; his face had a grey look and he had a shocking bruise across his left temple. When she asked him why he had failed to get in touch with her, he answered acidly that he had spent half the night lying on the floor and the other half being mauled about by the more hysterical members of the hotel staff and an incompetent doctor. He was disposed to be sorry for himself until she began her tale.
She told him everything about her encounter with Milo because nothing seemed more important than to share her misery with someone. James heard her out quietly, sitting slumped in a chair, watching her face with a strange, wondering expression in his eyes. When she had finished he said:
‘Tell me, at what stage in the night’s proceedings did you present Milo with the bill?’
‘What a revolting thing to say!’
Suddenly he smiled. He came across to her and took her hand in his.
‘Poor Rose. You really are quite out of your depth, aren’t you?’
Sympathy released the tears. She clung to his hand and sobbed:
‘Oh, James, you won’t desert me, will you? You won’t go rushing off to San Juan de la Cruz?’
‘Why ever should I? Raoul and Milo can work this out between themselves.’
She moistened her lips and said:
‘There’s just one thing I haven’t told you.’
Chapter Seventeen
Fragcon sat in the dining room of the hotel. Meals were served in the open unless the weather was bad, so this room was seldom used. It was airless and dark; it smelt of her uneaten meal, the suppurating pears in a dish on the sideboard, and long-accumulated dust.
A woman came to take the tray away; as she bent forward, her face framed by the dark hair looped behind her ears, Frangcon was reminded of the portraits of Jacqueline Roque she had seen in the Museo de Arte Moderno. The memory was disturbing. She closed her eyes. The oppressive atmosphere of the room seemed to clamp down on her. The smell of the food was still strong; dust had got into her mouth and throat. As she went to sleep, the dust became a part of her dream. She was walking through an empty museum, past huge bales and figures draped in filthy calico; in a corner was a mound of broken statues, the faces crumbling away, dust slavering from the mouths. But the smell was not of dust; the broken statues reeked of rotting flesh. She tried desperately to find a way out, but could only go round and round while the galleries loomed above like dark mountains from whose gashed sides the dust poured on to the obnoxious heap in the corner. At last she came across a woman crouching on the floor; she stumbled forward and put one hand on the hunched shoulder. As the face turned to her, she saw that the bones were thrusting through the tight-stretched skin; the whole face was slowly rent apart as she watched.
Her own horrified cry awakened her. She got up. Her feet were so swollen that she could hardly walk, but the pain was as nothing to her desire to get out of this room. She dragged herself into the hall and out into the street. But in the street it was no better. The dreadful smell; had got into her nostrils and the street was hot as an oven. It was very still, just the dust rising in a yellow cloud and the light stabbing up from the stone-flagged courtyard. She hobbled across to a bench which was shaded by one of the plane trees which lined the street. She sat down, her face blank as that of a person moving in a dream. It was as though she was waiting for a scene in a play to begin, and soon the thing that she was waiting for happened. A group of children came running from the rear of one of the houses; they began to play, crouching over something on the ground. She watched them; she watched them so intently that they began to whisper among themselves: ‘Isn’t that the woman who came down from the mountains?’ They looked at her face, scratched and bruised, at the dark, tangled hair, the torn clothes. Was she mad? They began to dare one another to go and speak to her. At last one of them, more venturesome than the rest, came crawling to within a few feet of her, called something out and scampered away. She did not seem to notice him. Now she was staring over the heads of the children at the long, dusty road. After a while, far in the distance, something moved on the road; a speck which grew to the figure of a man, walking bareheaded. Words came to her mind, an idiotic jingle: ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.’ The figure weaved from side to side as it advanced down the road. She watched. As Raoul came nearer to the hotel, she got up and hobbled across to the children, standing in their midst as he went past them. Then she took one of the very young children in her arms and held him close; he was frightened and showed signs of tears so she began to soothe him, murmuring, ‘I wouldn’t hurt you, pet. I wouldn’t hurt you,’ until he quietened down.
It was three o’clock. The bus to San Juan de la Cruz was leaving Barcelona. It was on time again because it was full. The people in it were mostly country folk returning to farms and villages. The women carried enormous baskets and when they sat down it was almost impossible to see them behind the stacks of parcels and wriggling children. There were one or two old men in blue overalls who smelt strongly of sweat and garlic. James felt an oddity among them. The man next to him had a face hard, brown and wrinkled as a walnut; the eyes were blue, faded and patient. What would the old man think if he knew the purpose of James’s journey?
The bus got up speed on the long, flat road and at the end of it the hills moved nearer. James wondered what he would do when he reached San Juan de la Cruz. He had been very confident when he spoke to Rose.
‘You must go to work and carry on as usual,’ he had told her. ‘Milo won’t tell the Captain now, because when he has calmed down it will be difficult for him to think up a good reason for having kept quiet so long. So it will be necessary to provide him with a second chance. I will do that. But not until I have found Frangcon. As soon as I find her, I will ring police headquarters. I promise you that. But if you do anything in the meantime, then I will tell all I know about your part in this from start to finish. You understand?’
He had managed to sound very ruthless and it had been effective. Now, it seemed absurd. The bus was going through a village, past a farm, the yard fouled with dung, the unkempt outhouses lurching to one side, the walls of the farm itself cracked and crumbling. Why plan? Nothing would ever turn out according to plan in this uncoordinated country. All you could do here was to go on, working your way deeper and deeper int
o the strange, harsh hinterland, hoping that there was a way through. An odd situation for a dry, Scots solicitor to find himself in. Yet in this country, so implacably opposed to law and order, perhaps the oddest thing of all was the idea of one man setting out to trap another whom he did not even dislike, in whose crime he was not personally involved, in order to hand him over to the police. Was he really going to do this thing which might jeopardize his chance of happiness with Frangcon? He looked at the scorched fields giving way to the purple of the mountains: this was not the landscape to search for answers. The one thing that was certain was that he was going to force an encounter with Raoul and that Raoul was dangerous. He should have been afraid. But he had had his baptism of violence and he had discovered that he was not as afraid of physical pain as he had imagined he would be. The knowledge was exhilarating: a little too exhilarating. It had made him confident that he could deal with Raoul, and it had done something else as well. Raoul would be prepared to kill, and James was uneasily aware that if Frangcon was in danger he also would be prepared to kill. His mind regarded the possibility with blank unbelief while his body anticipated it with a hot, throbbing excitement.
When the bus reached San Juan de la Cruz the sun was already sinking behind the great shoulders of the mountains; the valley was green, but fingers of darkness stole down the slopes towards it and the heat pulsed less strongly. The anticlimax of arrival had its usual paralysing effect. James decided, as he waited for the woman in front of him to collect her parcels, that it would be no use talking to Frangcon. What was the use of persuasion when one had lost sight of one’s own purpose?
When he got off the bus he was surprised to see Frangcon sitting in the square surrounded by children. It was the last thing he had expected and instead of being relieved at the homeliness of the scene, he felt disturbed, as though he had taken a wrong turning in time. It seemed to him that she looked older; there was a patient droop to the shoulders, a suggestion of resignation in the line of the body. He went towards the group slowly. She had a child on her knee who was playfully pulling her hair. She did not turn round as James came towards them; but she was aware of his presence, because she said:
