Tango

by Alan Judd

  ‘Is London still open?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Could you ask them to stay open because we’ve got something else now?’

  The man glanced at the two clocks on the wall, one set at local and one at London time. ‘They won’t like it.’

  ‘Well, it’s their job. It’s what they’re there for.’

  ‘Is it urgent?’

  ‘It might be.’

  ‘They won’t like it if it isn’t.’ The man resumed his reading of Penthouse.

  William and Nightingale went back upstairs to the corridor leading to the ambassador’s office. The same girl sat reading in the outer room. ‘Are they both still there?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Think so. Door’s closed. I’ve been in the loo.’

  They entered without knocking. The ambassador’s office overlooked the garden. William’s first reaction was that the carpet was smouldering but then he saw that the smoke came from Feather’s cigar. Feather lay full-length on a low sofa. On the floor beside him was a saucer surrounded by ash and cigar butts. The ambassador was sitting at his desk, writing. Feather, who had been speaking, broke off as they entered. His dark liquid eyes traversed the room, then returned to the ambassador.

  ‘— and essentially the stability of the government rests upon the three solid props of the energetic young president’s personal appeal,’ Feather said slowly, while the ambassador wrote to his dictation, ‘on the new economic measures with their emphasis on democratic worker-participation and on the increasing popularity of the new People’s Party through which the president intends to submit himself for election in due course. The government neither needs nor seeks outside assistance beyond the normal framework of international aid. It is in hock to no one.’

  ‘Is that last bit right?’ asked the ambassador tentatively. He gave William a worried smile.

  ‘It’s what London wants to hear. That’s what “right” is.’ Feather’s voice croaked lazily and he pulled on his cigar. ‘They don’t know whether it’s right or not but they want to be able to say it is so that they can tell everybody there’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘But what if it isn’t and it gets out that it isn’t?’

  ‘Then the situation’s changed and it either gets better by itself or it’s too late to do anything about it. Our job – your job – is simply to get on with the powers that be.’

  The ambassador put down his pen, his honest face creased. ‘You’re the brains here. I don’t dispute that. I’ve no experience of diplomacy. But is that really my job?’

  ‘Of course it’s not really, no. Your job is to represent your country’s interests. But no one realises that any more. They think you’re here to get on with people.’

  ‘I’d much rather get on with people.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  The ambassador glanced apologetically at William and Nightingale. ‘London want an assessment.’

  Nightingale nodded sympathetically. ‘I know, Peter. Frightful.’

  Feather flicked ash in the area of the saucer. ‘They don’t want an assessment, they want reassurance.’

  ‘William’s brought a signal from that funny little man,’ said Nightingale.

  The ambassador raised his eyebrows. ‘Thank you, William. Very kind.’

  ‘Very tedious,’ said Feather. ‘Show.’

  Feather read Box’s message rapidly and handed it to Nightingale without a word. Nightingale read it and then dropped it on the desk in front of the ambassador, who read it slowly.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘This contradicts what we’re saying. It says the president is unhappy because he feels he has no power and may already be a virtual prisoner. And there are all these colonels including this chap trained in Cuba who won’t let him out of his sight. It also says that there’s widespread repression and that economic changes are not going to work and are being made only for political reasons. Bit strong, isn’t it?’ He smiled uncomfortably at William.

  Feather stared at his smoke. ‘Doesn’t matter. It’ll reach London long after our assessment and it’ll be yet another example of the funnies being late and wrong.’

  ‘What if it’s right?’ asked William. He was beginning to feel protective of Box.

  ‘If it’s right it’ll be right later, by which time we too shall have reported in similar vein. Things will be different then. Context is all.’

  The ambassador shifted in his chair. ‘But what about this business of repression and the economy? Supposing the foreign press report the same? Then London will want to know why we don’t.’

  ‘Quite,’ said William. He was also beginning to feel protective of the ambassador.

  Feather waved his cigar at the immaculate garden. ‘Can you see any signs of repression and economic failure? There’ll be no problem so long as the funny report gets there later.’

  The ambassador shrugged. ‘Oh, well. We’ll send it later.’

  ‘By which time the president will no doubt have caught something interesting from his whore,’ said Nightingale. ‘Nothing would do more to ensure his popularity than that.’

  ‘Any message back?’ William asked abruptly.

  There was no message. ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ said Nightingale. ‘Lovely to see you.’

  Ricardo was waiting at the office and they set out at once for the factory. William went without lunch, which made him feel virtuous. Ricardo had also acquired virtue in his eyes by having suffered and by being – for the present at least – tirelessly anxious to please. Ricardo’s lips and one eye were swollen and he complained of pains in his back which hurt when he turned. But his gratitude exceeded his complaints.

  ‘You are the saviour of my life. I have told my father. He will meet you.’

  ‘That’s very nice of him but it’s really not necessary. All I did was swing my duffel-coat.’

  ‘Now you are my friend. At first I did not like you.’

  ‘Oh – well, that’s an improvement.’

  ‘Then – I told my father – at first I thought you were all right, you know – not bad, not hot, not cold, just English – but now I can see you are a man.’

  They shook hands for the third time that day. Ricardo was driving his Toyota sports saloon with his usual skilful nonchalance. They were outside the city and heading inland towards the factory. Through the haze caused by the power station and the metal-processing plant William could see the shanties where Theresa lived. The rickety shacks crowded precariously on the hillside, each wooden and corrugated structure supported by the one below. They were festooned with washing. Even through the haze William could see that the hills swarmed with people. He cleaned his glasses, but the haze remained.

  He forced himself to stop thinking of Theresa. ‘Your father is in the army, isn’t he?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, he is already a colonel. But he does not know those people who were there last night. The Russians, the security police and the junta are separate from the rest of the army. They are always with the president and they are very political. They are not popular with the rest of the army. Especially, the Russians and Cubans are not popular.’

  ‘What about the president?’

  ‘No, the president is very popular. He is a patriot. But not the people with him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They are political.’

  ‘Isn’t the president?’

  ‘No, I told you. He is a patriot.’

  It was too subtle a distinction for William’s knowledge of the country. ‘Are there people in the army who are against the government?’

  Ricardo nodded. ‘Many, my father says, but they are frightened. People are disappearing.’

  ‘Who is doing it?’

  ‘No one knows. Probably the security police.’

  There were farms in the hills and on the road an occasional straggle of huts marked a village. There were few trees but a great deal of long grass studded with boulders. Ricardo sped past ponies and carts and small
flocks of sheep or goats. William wished he would slow down but knew it was no use asking. He felt listless now. The countryside, the smell of cigarette ash in the car, the prospect of difficulty at the factory and Ricardo’s friendly but persistent conversation all combined to increase his tiredness. It was like being in the sway of a great wave. He let himself go, trusting that waves passed.

  Ricardo lit another cigarette, flicking the car’s lighter in and out between his two fingers. ‘Also, I can help you in your work.’

  ‘But you do anyway.’ The mutual pretence had become so habitual that William barely noticed it.

  ‘No, your real work.’

  ‘My real work?’

  Ricardo smiled. ‘Of course, you have to be secret. I realise that. I mean your spying.’

  William felt now as if the wave had dumped him on cold wet sand. ‘My spying?’

  ‘William, we are friends. You are an English spy. I know it, everyone knows it. But now I am prepared to help you.’

  Box’s briefings had not extended to this sort of thing. A straightforward accusation he could deny but offers of assistance were another matter; offers from Ricardo another again.

  ‘I can tell you what is going on and maybe help you kill people,’ continued Ricardo.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Ricardo took no notice. ‘The people like the president but they do not like the government. They are frightened of it. We – you and me – should kill the Russians and Cubans and colonels and save the president.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I will not tell anybody.’

  ‘No, you mustn’t.’

  ‘I promised my father: I will tell nobody, I said.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He was very pleased. He told my mother and my sisters and they all congratulated me.’

  They overtook a battered lorry on a blind corner. Ricardo’s pleasure in himself was so complete and unquestioning that he took no notice of silence in others.

  ‘What exactly do people say about me?’ William asked.

  ‘Not very much, not yet, because they know you have not done anything. But we will change that.’

  ‘Why do they think I am a spy?’

  Ricardo frowned. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

  William gave up. ‘Well, of a sort, I suppose. Not a very important one.’

  Ricardo put his hand on William’s shoulder. ‘William, so modest, so English. Everyone knows because of your company. It has been here so many years, it makes no money. Everyone knows it is really British Intelligence that keeps it going and that everyone who comes from London to run it is a British spy.’

  ‘Why is it necessary to put the orange-seller on the pavement opposite to spy on me, if everyone knows already?’

  Ricardo shrugged. ‘I don’t know that he is a spy. Maybe he is in love with one of the girls in the shop. Anyway, he cannot be important. They wouldn’t ask un campesino – a peasant – like him to spy on you alone. That is why they asked me.’

  ‘Who asked you?’

  ‘The security police.’

  ‘Did you agree?’

  ‘Of course. They are the security police.’

  ‘What have you told them?’

  Ricardo smiled. ‘I told them you are in love with Ines.’

  ‘But that’s not true. Nor is the bit about the company. It just makes a loss, that’s all.’ William paused. He would ask Box about his predecessors in the company. ‘So far as I know.’

  Ricardo held up his hand. ‘William, please. We are friends, not children. Of course you are not in love with Ines. That is why I told them. You are in love with Theresa. Everyone knows that. But please do not pretend about the company. There is no other explanation. Who would go on with such a hopeless business, making such a loss? Not even the British. Someone must be paying for it.’

  A flock of brown goats scattered inches ahead of their speeding bonnet. William, no longer alarmed, sat in thoughtful silence.

  The factory and the mill were on the far side of the hills in a fertile plain not yet denuded of trees. They were about a mile apart, both on the bank of a river. The factory resembled a half-finished building site. The only buildings were open-sided sheds stacked with wood and long corrugated huts with no windows. Instead of gates there was a makeshift barrier of oil-drums and planks. An ancient Morris van was parked by it and a few yards away some soldiers stood warming themselves around a small fire. They had sub-machine guns slung across their backs and gazed indifferently as Ricardo spun the Toyota with gratuitous violence to pull up by the van. The ground was churned and holed. Everything looked scruffy, unfinished and uncared-for.

  Miguel, the foreman, got out of the van. He was a round man with a balding head, a round face and a rounded shambling gait that made him appear to roll along the ground like a deflated rubber ball. His handshake and voice were soft, his lips rubbery and mobile. He greeted William with an almost oriental politeness, followed by a minute or two of reminiscence about where and when they had last met. He came from the interior and his accent was hard for William to follow.

  ‘It is sad, señor,’ he said, indicating the deserted factory.

  Lopsided coaches used for bringing the workers from the city stood empty. They looked as if they would never move again. The whole place looked as if it would never work again. ‘How long do you think the strike will last?’ William asked.

  Miguel raised his arms. ‘It is impossible to say, señor. A day, a week, a year.’

  ‘Unless we give them more money,’ said Ricardo.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘It’s not only money, is it?’ asked William.

  ‘Not only.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Also the cold.’ When Miguel smiled his eyes were nearly invisible between the folds of flesh. ‘Yes, the cold. Even when it is not cold.’

  ‘What else?’ repeated William. ‘Have they made no demands?’

  ‘They do not want to work.’

  ‘Is that what they say?’

  ‘No, but – the union men, it is what they say.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘They say they will present demands when they are ready.’

  ‘Are the workers frightened of the union men?’

  ‘Sí, señor.’

  They had been walking slowly towards the barrier. Ricardo vaulted it, cigarette in mouth.

  ‘We must get rid of the union men,’ he said. ‘I keep telling him. Eh, Miguel?’

  Miguel grinned uneasily. His head shrank into his shoulders when he shrugged.

  There was a shout from one of the soldiers standing by the fire. He waved to them to go back the way they had come.

  ‘What do you want?’ Ricardo shouted back.

  The soldier shouted again.

  Miguel shook his head. ‘We must not go into the factory, señor, they do not let us.’

  ‘What is it to do with the army?’ asked William. He noticed a small encampment of olive-green vehicles and brown tents in a clearing behind the trees.

  ‘They are not normal soldiers. They are troops of the security police.’

  ‘And they stop you going into your own factory?’ asked Ricardo.

  ‘They say they are told to help the union. That is why there are no pickets. They say it is a national question, because we are a foreign firm.’

  ‘I’ll talk to them,’ said Ricardo. He vaulted back over the barrier and strode towards the soldiers. William wanted to call after him to be tactful but his Spanish deserted him. Miguel touched his arm.

  ‘It is not your fault, señor. Please tell London there is nothing you can do. It is a political matter, this strike.’

  ‘Have you talked to the workers yourself?’

  ‘Some of them, some, but in private. They want more money, of course, but they do not want to strike.’

  ‘Why do they obey, then?’

  Miguel turned his round head from side to side, s
miling and looking down. ‘They have families, señor.’

  ‘But surely their families are hurt by their being on strike?’

  ‘Not hurt. They suffer, that is all. It is better.’

  William waited but Miguel did not look up again. ‘You have family also, Miguel?’

  Miguel nodded.

  Ricardo was still with the soldiers. It seemed a good-humoured negotiation. There was laughter and he handed round cigarettes. When he came back he grinned resignedly.

  ‘No good. They are friendly but it is not possible. They are acting on orders of the Party.’

  ‘Party?’

  ‘The People’s Party. There is a political officer who visits the camp. He tells them what to do.’

  Miguel, looking even more like a crumpled ball, walked back with them towards the car. ‘I will let you know everything I hear, señor,’ he said as they shook hands again. ‘Please tell London it is not your fault. They must not blame you.’

  Ricardo put his hand on Miguel’s shoulder. ‘Nor yours, Miguel. They will not blame you, either.’

  ‘Gracias, señor.’

  They took off for the mill at Ricardo’s normal speed.

  ‘I feel sorry for Miguel,’ said William.

  ‘No need. It was he who told the workers to strike.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Ricardo looked pleased with himself. ‘The soldiers told me. It is a sad fact about my countrymen, William, that most of them will do anything for a cigarette.’

  ‘Perhaps Miguel had no choice.’

  ‘He could have refused.’

  ‘He has family.’

  ‘I have family, you have family, but it does not stop us fighting back, eh? Together we struggle, divided we relapse – you have the same in English?’ Ricardo laughed. ‘The security police will expect a report from me on our visit. They will get reports from Miguel and from the soldiers. But I will make a top secret one. I will say that you are afraid that because of the strike you will lose your job because London cannot understand. They will believe that.’

  ‘They may be right.’

  It was William’s turn to cook, to make up for the previous night out. He grilled two trout – Sally’s vegetarianism did not extend to fish – with mushrooms, potatoes and spinach. While he was cooking she continued a long letter to a girl-friend in London. She had started it three days previously and there were now, he noticed as he laid the table, eleven pages of her large circular handwriting. She seemed engrossed, so he said nothing until they sat down to eat.