Tango

by Alan Judd

  His escorts nodded to the crowd. The tall man looked at Carlos who looked back at William, smiled and switched into English.

  ‘Actually, I enjoyed my time in England. People were kind to me. I think I was popular, especially with women. You were not always so fat?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t. It’s since coming here.’

  ‘But you were always quite fat.’

  ‘I suppose I was.’

  ‘See you.’

  He spoke the words as if they were chic or daring, and moved on.

  The tall man stopped before William. ‘I am sorry, señor, I did not hear your name.’

  He spoke with courteous deliberation. When William had introduced himself the man shook hands, once, very firmly.

  ‘I am pleased to have met you, Señor Wooding. My name is Manuel Herrera.’

  The presidential party left. Cigars were re-lit, wine poured, conversation began again. A number of people stared at William.

  ‘You know the president?’ asked Ines, wide-eyed.

  ‘We were at school together in England.’

  ‘And he remembers you?’

  ‘So it seems.’ He caught Theresa’s eye. ‘Who was the man, the tall one?’ he asked her across Ines.

  ‘Manuel Herrera.’

  ‘Is he part of the junta – of the government?’

  ‘Yes, he is one of the colonels. But he was trained in Cuba.’

  She spoke slowly, perhaps for his benefit. He wanted to go on talking but quite suddenly they were leaving, their steaks unfinished.

  ‘What do you do?’ he asked hurriedly, addressing both. ‘Where do you work?’

  They hesitated.

  ‘We are singers,’ replied Ines. They both said ‘chau’ and left.

  William went back to his steak. His appetite returned with eating. When he paid, the bald padrón took his money.

  ‘Gracias, señor. And the señoras?’

  ‘Have they not paid?’

  The padrón smiled with his head on one side. ‘Señor, you are far from England.’ He held out his hand.

  Chapter 2

  The office was above the shop and that afternoon William continued his task of cleaning the window-panes. Having sorted out the stock, the filing system, the records and the stores, this was all that was left for him to do when there was no Ricardo, no telephone and no customers. Every five minutes or so he picked up the telephone to see if it had come on again. Meanwhile, by turning his creaking wooden swivel chair – with arms, a definite improvement since in London he had had an uncomfortable modern contraption with no arms – he could reach each of the twelve small panes in the bow window by his desk. He cleaned them with an old shirt he had found in the ‘complaints’ file, scratching with his fingernail at every speck of ingrained grime. Ten panes were now spotless. In the cold sunlight of the street below was a solitary stall laden with hundreds of oranges; by it a huddled figure sipped the inevitable maté from a gourd. No one went and no one came. Farther up the street was the wreck of a 1930s Dodge saloon, rusty and lopsided with one headlight hanging loose like a disgorged eye. Unlike the orange-seller, it had not been there yesterday.

  From downstairs came the sound of the two shopgirls giggling. They often giggled. At first he had thought it was at him, then that it was because Ricardo flirted with them. Now he had concluded that they simply giggled. There was little else to do. It was over fifty years since the London company had set up the English Bookshop with its small paper mill and packaging factory out of town. For most of that time the operation had run quietly into the ground, largely unnoticed by London. The Britons who had been sent to manage it had been either misfits or casualties of the greasy pole that led some to the Board. Several had been re-treads looking for a quiet life.

  None had retired. All had died in harness, usually of heart attacks or strokes brought on, it was said, by too much eating and drinking. Stress was not thought to be a factor, although one had had his final moments in a bordello. Wicks, William’s immediate predecessor, had actually reached retirement age alive but had then refused to retire, refusing also all summonses to return to London. Dixon of Personnel had been sent out to see him but something had gone wrong; Dixon had stayed three weeks instead of three days, had returned in order to resign and get divorced and was now said to be living with a dance-hall girl in La Paz. Wicks had died shortly afterwards in the usual way.

  The Board’s attention had thus been drawn to the operation. Because decline had been gradual, people had become accustomed to the idea of losses that were only now, suddenly, seen to be significant. This coincided with a fashion for restructuring, rationalising and retrenching, and a review of the company’s operations worldwide. At the same time the military take-over had brought in laws forbidding the withdrawal of capital and compelling foreign-owned businesses to employ local people at managerial level. This was a popular move which meant that many younger sons of members of the People’s Party were now possessed of more money and status without having to do anything for it. It was part of what the government called ‘democratic socialism’. The result was that William had to employ managers at the mill and the factory and have Ricardo as his deputy.

  He had been sent out with a simple brief: get a grip of the operation, turn it round and make it pay or it would be wound up, capital transfer difficulties notwithstanding. He had been selected, he was told, because he was a relatively young man still at the point of his career where he could make his name if he wanted; it was his big chance. Afterwards he had discovered from one of the clerks in Personnel that he was the fifth person to have been asked. The previous four had turned it down because it was seen as a dead end, perhaps not only metaphorically. Also, it was far from England and a foreign tongue had to be learned.

  For William, though, there was the romantic appeal of running a book-shop, something he had always thought he would like even though it wasn’t in Marlborough or Norwich or Harrogate and even though there was a mill and a factory attached. Further, it meant escape from daily humiliation by British Rail, a sentence otherwise destined to last – according to his way of measuring age – from now, Thursday lunch-time, until retirement at Sunday lunch-time, followed by death by Sunday evening. Sally, whose job was teaching English as a foreign language, had been keen on the idea at first but had become less enthusiastic as the time approached. Now that they were there he couldn’t tell whether she was happy or not; she didn’t say much.

  There was a shout from below followed by thundering on the stairs. Ricardo entered with his usual rush, his young face bursting.

  ‘You know the president?’

  It was not often that William could impress or surprise Ricardo. ‘Well, yes, though we haven’t seen much of each other for some years.’

  ‘But he speaks to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Also Manuel Herrera. Already you are a famous man.’

  Ricardo spent so little time at his desk that whenever he sat at it he did so with relish. He would pick up the papers, shuffle them, move them from one tray to another, sign a few, then tip his chair back on its hind legs, put up his feet and talk.

  ‘How’s business?’ He always tried to make it sound like a technical question.

  ‘So-so.’

  ‘You were trying to telephone someone?’

  ‘The factory. Still no dialling tone.’

  ‘Give up. There’s no one there anyway. They’ve all gone home.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’re all striking. Today is cold; they want to go home.’

  William replaced the receiver. ‘How did you know I had seen the president?’

  ‘Everything in the market is public. That is why he goes there. He wishes his people to see him.’

  William wanted to talk about Theresa and Ines, but asked instead about Manuel Herrera.

  ‘He’s from an old family, he has great influence with the president. The other colonels, they don’t like him so much, but for the president he is a
good friend because he knows the Cubans. The Cubans have strong military. Also he knows the Russians and they can give help for the economy. But no one knows what the president is really thinking.’

  While he was speaking Ricardo threaded a biro between the fingers of his left hand, straightened his arm and abruptly clenched his fist, breaking the biro. He grinned.

  ‘Also you were with two women?’

  ‘I had lunch with them.’

  ‘Two women are better than one.’

  ‘I didn’t know them before.’ William paused. ‘What do they do?’

  Ricardo shrugged and pursed his lips, affecting a connoisseur’s disinterest. ‘They live as all women would live if they could. They dance and they sing. They are comfortable.’

  ‘Dance and sing?’

  ‘Of course, it’s part of it. Ines’s father makes clothes but he was put in prison by the old government. He killed a man with the scissors for the cloth. Ines was very bitter against the old government and now she likes the president, but her father is still in prison.’

  William didn’t like Ricardo knowing the girls. ‘What’s happened at the factory? Why are they on strike? It can’t simply be the cold.’

  ‘Nothing has happened. They are fed up. They want more money, less work – what all workers want.’

  ‘What does Miguel say?’ Miguel was the manager.

  ‘Nothing. He is not there. Those two men from the ports have made the workers angry.’

  The two men were union officials. The new government had taken a great interest in the unions and had strengthened them, particularly in the foreign-owned companies. Union members could not be sacked except by their unions.

  Ricardo threw the broken pieces of his pen like darts into the wastepaper bin. ‘We must sack those two men.’

  ‘We can’t.’

  ‘Put things in their clothes and cars – stolen things or drugs.’

  ‘No.’

  This method was now the only way to get rid of anyone and was increasingly used, judging by the talk in the Foreign Traders’ Association. William would not contemplate it, but he had no idea what he would do if trouble-makers made the operation unworkable. He felt slightly guilty at not being more ruthless and consoled himself by saying that there was nothing he could do about it. Because of the new laws he had no authority over the factory or the mill, although as far as headquarters in London was concerned he was still responsible. They refused to understand.

  ‘That’s where you’ve been, is it – the factory?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Ricardo stood, stretched and looked at his fingertips.

  There was nothing to be gained by confronting him with his lie. He hardly ever went to the factory or the mill and had no doubt got his information from someone in the town; but demonstration of a falsehood only increased the fervour with which Ricardo asserted it. It was easier to get him to contradict himself later, provided the contradiction was not pointed out.

  Ricardo lingered by the door. He obviously wanted to go but was probably uncomfortable at having only just arrived, and so thought of something to say instead.

  ‘There have been no customers in the shop today?’

  ‘There were two this morning.’

  ‘Did they buy any books?’

  ‘One bought some paper.’

  ‘There were more customers when Señor Wicks was here.’

  William was sensitive about this. He had no adequate explanation.

  ‘But then it was called the English Bookshop; everyone knew it. Britbooks is not the same.’ He had not forgiven the company for forcing that upon him, nor for the envelopes, the coloured wrapping, the knick-knacks, the toys and ‘gifts’ that they called diversification.

  ‘It was because of the pornography. Señor Wicks was famous for that. It was a very big secret; everyone knew and they all came to the shop.’

  ‘Pornography? Here?’

  ‘Of course.’ Ricardo raised his slender eyebrows. ‘He kept it in boxes behind your desk. It was free to anyone who bought a novel. There were many customers.’

  William was sure they didn’t know that in London. ‘We’re not selling pornography.’

  Ricardo shrugged. He probably felt he could leave with honour now. ‘I will go the factory again tomorrow and report.’

  ‘You’ll be in late, then?’

  Ricardo looked injured. ‘Not late.’

  ‘Later, I mean.’

  Ricardo grinned. ‘Yes, later. Chau, William.’

  William returned to the unfinished window-cleaning. The small figure with many oranges had not moved. William wondered if he was being prudish in ruling out pornography. Would London regard that as lack of initiative? Would they think pornography an acceptable diversification? But surely one should be able to sell books – novels – without that? Novels were, after all . . . well, they were important. If the time came when we needed pornography to help sell them, then the world had no place for novels any more. Oranges – even oranges – could still be sold on their merits, or so it appeared. Perhaps it would be better to sell oranges. He’d never actually seen the little man make a sale.

  A loud clatter and a cloud of blue smoke announced that the lopsided Dodge up the street was not after all abandoned. It jerked away from the kerb, gear-box crunching, loose headlight banging against the mudguard. As it passed he saw a flash of eyes and a cloud of dark hair – not enough of her to recognise, strictly speaking, but he knew. No one else blazed like that. He felt a surge of confidence. Of course he could make the shop work, the factory and the mill were not a hopeless drain on the whole operation, novels would be sold, he would not be defeated; he would see her again. Things would happen.

  Chapter 3

  A plate slipped in the kitchen and Sally swore. William asked if she wanted a hand. There was a muted negative.

  He was out on the balcony with his binoculars and would have gone in but his presence in the kitchen annoyed her. The room’s narrowness did not well accommodate his width and she became flustered if he hung around when it was her turn to cook. She had so often remarked that he was always in the way wherever he stood that now, metaphorically and literally, he tiptoed around her. It did not help that he was the better cook.

  The rest of the flat was spacious and light. It was on the corner of the building and every window had a view of the sea. There were balconies on either side and from one William could look down into the trees bordering the golf course. Large green parrots lived in them. After six months he had still not tired of watching the birds. They were unnaturally vivid, almost surreal.

  This evening he was using the binoculars to try to see a man he had christened Señor Finn, a tramp who lived a kind of Huckleberry Finn existence amidst clumps of very tall pampas grass just off the beach. He had a shack made of driftwood, a chair, a table, pots and pans hanging on sticks and an old upturned rowing-boat. When William walked home from work, coming off the golf course and along the coast, the elderly Huck would be sitting over his fire, bulky and red-faced, a grey kitten and a scruffy terrier at his feet. Their acquaintance had developed from nodding to waving to bidding good day or good night to – very recently – the exchange of a word or two about the weather. Even the terrier now barked only once and with a kind of gruff familiarity.

  But this night Señor Finn had not been there. His fire was unlit and there was no sign of dog or cat. The boat was in its place. William was uneasy. He liked routine, drawing from it a sustaining strength, and felt obscurely threatened by the old man’s disappearance. There was no need, he told himself, since the precariousness of Señor Finn’s foothold on the beach was probably only apparent and his place in the world, being anywhere, was perhaps more secure than William’s own. Nevertheless, William was sufficiently concerned to spend thirty minutes out on the balcony while Sally cooked. It was better to be out of the way, anyway.

  The sea was brown that night, indicating rain inland. Mud brought down by the great river spread from the estuary fo
r miles along either coast and as far out as could be seen. Corpses of cattle and horses were sometimes washed up on the beach. In the days of civil war they had apparently been outnumbered by the friendless bodies of unburied men. According to Ricardo, it had started happening again but only in ones and twos; and only according to Ricardo.

  The sun slid down beneath the indigo clouds and its rim touched the horizon. The sea reddened as if heated by a furnace. Señor Finn’s hut was now in deep shadow, but as the sun sank William saw something on the beach that might have been firelight. He watched for some minutes in case it was a maverick reflection; but, no, it was definitely firelight.

  The banging of plates on the table indicated supper. Sally had said that morning that she’d do them both a salad, which was partly how he had justified lunching at the covered market, but when she got home she declared for spaghetti bolognese. He said he liked ‘spag bog’, but it had irritated her to hear it called that and she had altered course for mince, potatoes and brussels. Sally’s brussels sprouts were William’s least favourite food. Suspecting that she cooked them so often because they were easy and less likely to trouble her than something equally easy but less familiar, he had maintained through four and a half years of marriage a self-sacrificing silence. Sally, being now a vegetarian, had salad for herself.

  ‘Lovely,’ he said. He could see that the mince was half-cooked but kept silent because it probably represented a generous intention. There was no wine, though. She thought he drank too much, which he did because wine was good and cheap, but he had to have something with the food. He fetched a bottle and a couple of glasses.

  ‘Would you like some?’ She shook her head. The wine bubbled happily into his glass.

  ‘You really do drink too much,’ she said.

  ‘Less than I did.’

  ‘Still too much. You’ll end up with cirrhosis of the liver, like the French.’

  ‘How was work today?’

  ‘I resigned.’ She smiled at his surprise. ‘That is, I told them I’d leave if I didn’t get a move.’