by Alan Judd
‘But you believe what I say?’
William hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘And you’re happy to help us?’
‘Yes. But why me? There must be others you could have asked.’
‘You know Carlos. No one else does.’
‘But how did you know?’
Box’s lips parted briefly. ‘Trade secret, really, but I’ll tell you since you’re one of us now. We checked through all the records we could find of anyone who could have known him in England, and then checked them against the list of expatriates who’d registered with the embassy here. Yours was the only name that came up twice. Hope you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all. I was just curious.’
‘You really are happy to help?’
‘Yes.’
Box’s pallor was tinged with a faint blush. ‘My first recruitment since privatisation.’
‘Recruitment?’
‘Yes, I’ve recruited you. That’s what it’s called.’
‘But I’ve only said I’d help you.’
‘Yes, that’s it. That’s recruitment. I get a bonus, you see – so much for a Brit, more for a foreigner. You don’t have the right to any other passport, I suppose?’
‘ ’Fraid not.’
‘Never mind, can’t be helped. Let’s drink to our success.’
Afterwards Box wiped his lips with his handkerchief and leaned forward. ‘What I always say is, supposing there really are Reds under the beds? Are we supposed to stay silent?’
‘Of course not.’
‘But if we do speak we’re accused of saying there are Reds under the beds and no one takes any notice.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘It’s jolly hard to know what’s for the best.’ Box put down his glass and, his elbows on the table, clasped his hands and clenched them until his knuckles showed white and his pale cheeks shook. Then he relaxed and sat back, his palms flat on the table. ‘Always ease mental tension with the physical. Clears the arteries and the mind. Prolongs life. Keeps weight down, too.’
‘Do you think I should try it?’
‘You could try. But we must sort out how you’re going to meet the president. Brandy with your coffee? All on expenses.’
‘Can’t someone from the embassy see him?’
‘No good if it’s official; you can’t bribe a chap in front of his pals. Actually, “subvert” is what we call it now. Bribery has got such a bad name.’
‘How much?’
Box looked at his glass. ‘A million or two. Plus favourable trade deals, that sort of thing. As I said, it’s a big contract.’
The door opened and Theresa entered, behind her Ines and Manuel Herrera. She smiled quickly at William, who was facing them, and turned to a table in the corner. Ines smiled fulsomely, showing nearly all her teeth. Manuel raised his hand.
‘What’s happened?’ Box had his back to them.
William told him. Theresa shook her head as she sat and pushed back her hair with both hands. Her fingers lingered a moment before running through it and leaving it spread over her shoulders.
‘Keep your head still,’ said Box. ‘I’m trying to see their reflections in your glasses. What did you say they do, those women?’
‘They’re singers, I think. They dance and sing.’ Ricardo had added something about that being part of it. ‘I don’t know where.’
‘Herrera’s up to no good.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he’s Herrera. Half-Cuban by birth and all Cuban by training. Also a communist. I checked. He can’t be up to good.’
‘Perhaps he just likes girls.’
‘Of course he likes girls, he’s half-Cuban. They spend their lives liking girls. But it won’t be only that.’
Box stared into William’s left eye. The waiter had gone to the table. Herrera was saying something serious, one hand on the waiter’s arm.
‘Every problem is an opportunity,’ Box continued in an undertone. ‘It’s unfortunate that we’re seen together and Herrera’s probably as unhappy to see us as we are to see him. But no one’s seen my face, so we’re one up. And he’s probably with the girls because the president took an interest in them, so this is your chance to get to know them better and use them to take you to the president.’
It had not occurred to William that he could legitimise getting to know Theresa. It was a thought both appealing and worrying. ‘I’m not sure how I could.’
‘Initiative.’ Box spoke the word as if it were a code. ‘Always have an aim, then you find a way of achieving it. Bit of a boy-scout approach but it serves me well. My aim is to leave here without my face being seen. Yours is not to leave without having had a conversation leading to a further meeting with at least one of the group. I’ll go first. Contact me when you have something to report: Hotel Britannia, room 42, name of Welling.’
He stood, stepped sideways from the table so as not to show his profile and walked quickly through the nearest swing-door, which led to the kitchen. There were raised voices in a mixture of Spanish and German. Box backed out and, still without facing the restaurant, walked smartly down the corridor to the toilets. The waiter, who with his three new customers had been watching the spectacle, hurried into the kitchen. He came out with another man, went to the till and came across to William with the bill. He stood by while William paid.
William had to pass the group on his way to the door.
‘You like German food?’ Ines asked.
‘But your friend does not?’ Manuel held out his hand to be shaken. It was like his face – strong, smooth and confident.
‘Client,’ William said. ‘A prospective client.’
‘Not an obliging one. Is he all right? He seemed to be hurrying.’
Ines laughed. ‘The food does not agree with him?’
‘He said he was going. Perhaps there’s a back way out.’
Manuel pursed his lips. ‘Only the window. A very small window. He must be very determined, your client.’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know him very well.’ William felt he should be doing better. Theresa stared down at her spoon, edging it backwards and forwards with her little finger.
‘I daresay it would be impolite to follow and find out. Unnecessary, perhaps.’ Manuel smiled.
‘I liked your car,’ William said to Theresa. ‘Your Dodge, the old one. It was parked near my shop yesterday. You drove off with a great noise.’
She looked up. ‘It always makes a great noise. But not now. No more noise.’
‘It doesn’t go?’
‘Kaput, they would say here.’
The waiter reappeared with plates. On his way back to the kitchen he hesitated, eyeing the toilet. He took a step towards it, hesitated again, then walked determinedly in.
Everyone laughed. William felt easier. Anything out of the ordinary was more acceptable now. ‘Would you like me to have a look at it?’ he asked.
‘You know about engines?’
‘A little.’
‘It’s a very big engine.’
‘They’re easier to work on.’ One of the company drivers in London had told him that.
She looked down and touched her spoon again. ‘If you like. It’s very kind. You don’t need to.’
‘Where is it and when shall I come?’
‘Plaza San Marco. I will meet you there at seven this evening.’ Her tone was definite, as if to conclude the discussion.
The waiter came out of the toilet and walked thoughtfully into the kitchen. They laughed again.
‘I hope you have better luck with cars than with clients, Señor Wooding,’ said Manuel.
Chapter 5
William knew nothing about repairing cars. He knew they had big-ends that went, gaskets that blew, clutches that slipped, brakes that seized, gaps that narrowed or widened, points that corroded; but he didn’t know what to do about any of them. Also, it was his turn to cook and seven was an awkward time. He couldn’t very well start, rush out, repair the car and rush back,
nor did he want to ask Sally to swap nights at the last minute. Nor did he want to lie to her. He spent the afternoon in wretched and futile indecision.
He walked home as usual across the golf course and as he came off the hill towards the sea he saw that Señor Finn was there again, hunched over his fire in the clump of pampas grass. The fire flickered uncertainly and a brisk damp breeze worried the small trees and bushes. The clouds were spitting rain and the sea was leaden and surly.
Señor Finn, bulky in assorted clothes, sat with his elbows on his knees and poked at the fire. The terrier barked once and got half up before subsiding. The cat sat on the upturned boat. William raised his hand in greeting. Señor Finn did the same.
‘Not so good this evening,’ William called.
‘Rain is coming.’ The wind in the pampas grass and the waves beyond made the old man’s voice indistinct.
‘I didn’t see you the other night.’
Señor Finn pointed north along the beach. ‘Fish. Good fish.’
‘I see. Good.’ They grinned and nodded at each other. ‘Buenas noches.’
‘Buenas noches.’
William felt happier during the latter part of his walk. He would tell Sally everything. It was better to be truthful, certainly easier, and lying probably wouldn’t work anyway. He would tell Box afterwards.
Sally seemed neither surprised nor impressed. William was disappointed.
‘Are you sure he’s not having you on?’ she asked. ‘A privatised secret service seems a bit odd. He might be a gangster or the mafia or something.’
‘I was introduced to him at the embassy by Nightingale and Feather.’
‘That could mean anything. And who exactly are these people you know who know the president?’
‘Well, there’s Herrera – and me, of course – and those two women the president talked to in the market and who were in the restaurant today.’
‘But you hardly count. You haven’t seen Carlos since school and you weren’t all that friendly then. Who are these women?’
‘Singers, I think.’
‘Where from?’
‘I don’t know.’
She laughed. ‘You do get yourself into pickles sometimes. Only you would get mixed up with a privatised secret service, a president, a sinister colonel and a chorus. And now you’ve got to mend a car and you don’t know one end from another.’
‘It’s just a way of getting closer to the president.’
‘It might get you as far as his garage.’
She was amused in the way she used to be when they had first known each other. He was glad he had done nothing for which he need feel guilty. Nor would he now. He would enjoy Theresa’s company, certainly, but that was all. Anyway, he wasn’t doing it for that.
‘Might it not be dangerous?’ she asked as he was preparing to go.
‘Oh no, nothing like that.’ The notion of danger hadn’t occured to him.
‘Max Hueffer says that the Russians really are moving in a big way economically and that the government is getting more extreme. People have started disappearing.’
‘Which people?’
‘I don’t know. People who oppose the government.’
‘I wonder if that really is true. The press is fairly free.’
‘Is it?’
‘Well, not much less free than it ever was. People still hold protest demonstrations. There was one at the weekend.’
‘I thought that was a government rally.’
‘Maybe, but anyway . . .’ He was less confident now; he kept thinking of Manuel Herrera. ‘How does Max know all this?’
‘I don’t know. He just seems to know things.’
He searched for the car keys. He would take the company Datsun in case he needed to pull or push the lame Dodge. ‘Perhaps I should take some tools.’
‘Are there any?’
‘I don’t know.’
She found a hammer in one of the kitchen cupboards, a solid piece with a heavy head and claw. He put it in his duffel-coat pocket. ‘Might be better than nothing,’ he said, to encourage himself.
He dithered over leaving. She seemed much better-humoured and he no longer wanted to go. The whole business was an uncomfortable mixture of the serious and the absurd. She kissed him, which she hadn’t done for some time. ‘I won’t be long,’ he said.
Plaza San Marco was in the old part of the city, not far from his shop, an area of cobbled streets and large faded buildings. The darkness spawned a fine invisible rain and the wind flapped William’s duffel-coat against his legs as he walked from the car, except where the hammer weighed it down. Theresa was already beside her Dodge, holding an umbrella and shivering beneath a long dress and shawl.
‘There is no need, really, we don’t have to do this,’ she said straight away. ‘You can come in.’
‘No, no, it’s quite all right.’
‘Are you an expert with cars?’
‘It depends what’s wrong.’
She smiled. ‘I think you are not an expert.’
High heels made her as tall as him. She stood close while they talked, trying to shield them both with the small umbrella. Her bare arm was across her breast, clutching the shawl.
It was a while before he realised that the chrome handles on each side of the bonnet served instead of a bonnet catch. Propping one side open, he switched on the torch he had brought. The engine looked massive and intractable.
‘I’ll have a look at the other side.’
The second side didn’t seem to open properly and he struggled for a time before realising he had to close the first. From the other side the engine seemed to be mainly metal pipes. ‘Try to start it.’
It gave a groan and expired. ‘Would you like to try?’ she asked.
There was some pleasing awkwardness with the umbrella as she got out to make way for him. Her dress rustled and she wore an arousing perfume – whether cheap or expensive he had no idea, but it was obvious, which was how he liked it. He sat on the leather seats and contemplated the wooden dash-board. The ignition light was on but the key wouldn’t turn.
‘No, no, you press this.’ Her bare arm, which had a few dark hairs on it, reached across him.
He pressed the button marked S but nothing happened. He pulled the button marked C, presumably for choke, and again pressed S, again without result. He remembered his father’s countless old cars. ‘Does it have a starting-handle?’
They found one in the boot. It was heavy and long. He had to get down on his knees in the wet road and struggle to slot it in. ‘Make sure the car’s out of gear.’ He was impressed by how masterful he sounded. He tried to turn the handle. ‘Are you sure it isn’t in gear?’
‘Yes, quite sure.’
He tried again. It felt as if he were trying to rotate the whole car.
‘Shall I help you?’ she called.
‘No, no, it’s all right.’ He paused to regain control of his breathing and then put both hands on the handle, one on top of the other. He had learned from his father to grip with thumb and fingers together rather than opposed in case the handle kicked back on firing. He remembered stories of broken thumbs and wrists. Straining with both hands, he had moved it nearly half a turn when there was a violent cough. He was thrown sideways and left sitting in the road. The handle spun harmlessly in its socket. The car shook and spluttered, relapsed, then heaved itself into life with a great clattering roar as the handle fell out. The back of his right hand started to hurt.
‘William, where are you?’ Theresa called above the noise. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ He wanted to get up elegantly and quickly, but couldn’t before she reached him. Water from her umbrella dripped on to his head.
‘William, your hand. You can’t be all right.’
There was a little blood. He got to his feet protesting that there was nothing wrong. He liked to hear her use his name.
She touched his arm. ‘Come inside and clean it. You must be poisoned.’
�
�No. Okay.’
She led him to a house in the corner of the square. An unlit board outside announced that it was Maria’s Tango Club. Inside it seemed a mixture of club, bar, dance hall and somebody’s house. The worn furnishings had once been good and the rooms were large, each giving on to another. In one was a bar, in another a band, in another tables and food. There were drinkers of most ages, nearly all of whom greeted Theresa as she passed. William followed, feeling uncouth in his duffel-coat and holding his now aching hand as inconspicuously as possible. The glances which fell upon Theresa flipped back on to him like branches that had parted before her. In a hall they passed a huge sofa on which seven or eight colourfully dressed and made-up girls were sitting. They greeted Theresa in an uneven chorus.
She swept through, her shawl fluttering. They went down some stairs, past a noisome lavatory and into a dressing-room strewn with women’s clothes. Three or four women were in various stages of dressing. None paid him any attention except Ines who, bulging through black underwear and stockings, was bent over looking in her handbag. She waved and smiled and said something about his coat which he didn’t understand. The others looked at him. One, a thin woman in a long skin-tight red dress, was putting on lipstick before a mirror encircled by bulbs. She paused with her mouth open and the stick at her lip, regarded him indifferently and carried on.
‘Here, come here,’ called Theresa. She was removing clothes from a pink wash-basin.
Trying to smile in a genial and unembarrassed manner, William picked his way between the garments on the floor. He knocked against a chair on which a tabby cat lay curled up on a skirt.
‘Take off your coat,’ Theresa said.
He did so slowly, hoping neither to make it bloody nor to let his eye be caught by the reflection of the other women in the mirror above the basin.
She took the coat. ‘It’s so heavy.’
‘That’s the hammer.’
‘A hammer? To mend my car?’ She laughed and shook her head. ‘Oh, William.’
Some of the skin was torn and there was a slight swelling; it looked worse than it was. She wanted to bandage it but he said there was no need. When the water made it sting he pretended it didn’t. Ines called loudly to know what had happened. One of the other women said Theresa was stupid to persist with such an absurd car now that she could afford a new one.
