by Alan Judd
‘Ah yes, the nice old man. He has been re-housed.’
‘Where?’
‘In suitable accommodation provided by the government. It used to be the responsibility of the Church but, happily, the secular authorities now acknowledge their duties.’ Manuel smiled again and stood. ‘I should not worry about it if I were you, Señor Wooding. That hut of his was really very cold and damp and rather insanitary.’
‘But he didn’t want to leave it.’
‘I’m sure he is happier where he is. He appreciates his new place; he has company there.’
‘He’s in prison?’
Mañuel appeared to give all his attention to pulling on his gloves. ‘I wouldn’t call it that.’
‘Who shot his dog?’
Mañuel stopped. He had one glove on and held the hand before him, fingers outstretched. ‘I did. What is it to you? It was only a dog.’
‘Today the dogs,’ said William, recalling Señor Finn’s words.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Tomorrow the people . . . But he was only a tramp, I suppose.’
‘Exactly. Buenas días, Señor Wooding.’
William stared through one of the clean panes of glass as the black Mercedes drove away. He had not started on a new pane since this business with Box, nor had he done any work to speak of. It seemed to make little difference whether or not he tried; success or failure depended, as Manuel had just illustrated, on extraneous factors. Anyway, the company, the factory, London were hard to take seriously any more. Perhaps he never had taken them seriously, not really, and only now was he realising it. His job was no longer the point, if it ever had been.
The fate of Señor Finn was something he couldn’t imagine. But although there was no positive image there was something there all the time, passively present, something that would be sickening to know if he knew it. He kept recalling the lolling, glistening head of the prisoner.
He went downstairs, startling the two girls. Outside, the orange-seller stood with his hands in his pockets. He had not moved during his conversation with the men from the Mercedes and now continued his unstinting stare at the shop door. William was pleased to see that his approach caused consternation.
‘Buenos días, señor,’ he said. The man grunted. ‘You have many oranges?’
‘Sí.’
‘But you do not sell many?’
‘Enough.’
‘I will help you. I will buy all your oranges.’
The man stared.
‘Yes, all. We have sacks in the shop to carry them in. I will pay now.’ He pulled out his wallet. ‘How much?’
‘No, señor, imposible.’
‘Why not?’
‘It is bad for trade.’
‘I will get the girls to fill the sacks.’
The girls enjoyed the job. It was something to do. They filled the sacks and William carried them in while the orange-seller watched in melancholy silence. When they had cleared his stall he took William’s money as if it were a dismissal notice.
Afterwards William sat at his desk and stared again through the cleared panes. The orange-seller remained disconsolately by his empty stall. He had not moved but his posture indicated despondency and confusion. Eventually he looked at his stall, then cautiously back at the shop and then very furtively up at William’s window. Finally, like one joining a funeral procession, he took up the handle of the stall and left.
William was home early that evening. It seemed tactful. Besides, he was very tired and he thought that after an explanation to Sally and a meal he would go to bed. He had still not managed to contact her.
She was not there. The flat was tidy, smelled of polish – Angelica’s work – and was filled with the warmth and light of the late afternoon sun. The wind had dropped and the clouds had broken up, transforming the day. The sea was a flat pale grey, silvered by the sun and reflecting on the ceilings a clear shifting light. He pottered about for some minutes feeling pleasantly unreal, knowing that if he sat he would sleep.
When Sally returned, she greeted him with a smile and a kiss. ‘I was getting worried. I thought you’d either been kidnapped by dancing girls or made president.’ She wore cream and black, always a sign with her of confidence and good humour.
‘I rang several times but you were teaching.’
‘Yes, one of my full days today.’ She flung her handbag on to a chair and headed for the kitchen. ‘I’m very thirsty. Do you want a drink?’
‘Tea, please. Sorry, I should have been making it.’
‘I’ll do it.’
He sat with his eyes closed and let the sun warm his face, listening to the sounds of water, kettle and fridge. He could also hear birds and traffic and, distantly, the sea. It was pleasant to do nothing.
‘Angelica was back today,’ she called.
‘I know. I saw her this morning.’
‘She’s done the ironing. She must have spent hours on these shirts – she’s still not as good as you, though.’
He dozed. Images of Theresa, the sea, the prisoners and coffins galloped in kaleidoscopic succession across his forehead.
‘What’s your secret?’ Sally asked when she came in with the tea.
‘What?’ He opened his eyes.
‘With the ironing. You must give her another lesson, show her what she’s doing wrong.’
‘I can’t. It’s temperament.’
‘But she must have the patience for it. She’s not like me.’
‘It needs passion.’
‘Passion?’ She laughed.
‘Passion for exactitude. You have to like being exact.’
‘I’d never thought of it like that.’
He described what had happened the night before. Relief that she wasn’t angry and pleasure in talking about it revived him. He even mentioned that he had had breakfast with Theresa. She laughed at what he said about the orange-seller, at first refusing to believe him.
‘But that poor dog,’ she said when he had finished.
‘I know.’
‘Max was right. First they shoot the dogs.’
‘So was Señor Finn.’
‘But it really must be getting serious. Max said that there was a convoy of Russian lorries going into the palace this morning and one of the military airfields is now entirely Russian. He said the Americans are evacuating some of their embassy staff.’
The telephone rang. She got up before he could. ‘It’s Ricardo,’ she said.
Ricardo’s tone was excited and conspiratorial. ‘William?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me.’
‘Yes.’
‘I have a message for you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you listening?’
‘Yes.’
‘The message is from your friend of the night. I have seen her. She says the important visitors are coming tomorrow night. That is all.’
‘Thank you. If you see her tell her I’ll be in touch as soon as possible.’
‘She has gone home. She is not at work. She will come back tomorrow.’
‘Never mind, I’ll see her tomorrow.’
‘It was all right to telephone you?’
‘Yes, you have done well. Thank you.’
‘I have not said who she is. I have not used her name.’
‘No.’
‘Today I spoke to the workers at the factory, and now they have gone back to work.’
William hesitated. ‘I heard they had. That was very good. You did very well.’
Ricardo laughed. ‘You are pleased with your assistant, eh, William?’
‘Very pleased. I could not manage without him.’
‘Tonight I will find a new girl-friend.’
‘Good hunting.’
‘Good hunting for her, too.’ Ricardo laughed again. ‘I will come into the office soon. Maybe I will find you a car.’
‘Good.’
‘Chau, William.’
‘Chau.’ He told Sally he would have to go out again to warn
Box.
‘So this honey-trap is on for tomorrow night?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘But you’re so tired. You don’t have to tell Box now, do you? Especially as we haven’t got a car.’
‘I don’t have to but I’d rather. There won’t be much time tomorrow.’ The news had revived him. ‘Also, I’ve got to find him. I’m only assuming he’s in the grave because the embassy couldn’t get hold of him.’
‘Max says that some of the American embassy people have already secretly been told to leave by the government. It hasn’t been announced. He says they think they’re kicking out the CIA ones, but apparently they’re not. They’ve got it all wrong.’
‘I won’t be very long. I’ll get a taxi.’
She came to the door. ‘So it’s definitely all on for tomorrow? You’ll be exhausted.’
‘It’ll have to be on if that’s when the junta is going. I won’t be long, I really won’t.’
She kissed him again. ‘Make sure you find the right grave. See you later.’
It was still light when he reached the cemetery. The gates were open and people were strolling about. Some were courting couples, others carried flowers. Outside the gates was a stall-holder with a poor and expensive floral selection. William supposed winter was the excuse, then remembered that florists in the city never closed, day or night. It was the custom to present flowers to corpses as soon after death as possible. When the cemetery was shut, the man probably pushed his stall round to the hospital. William bought some stale carnations to make it look more like a graveside visit. He would tell Box the cost so that it could be added to the car; Box would approve of that.
The wooden door of number 1066 looked as they had left it. It was impossible to see in through the grille and it would have seemed odd to peer. Other, presumably genuine, mourners were lingering by the 1030s. There was an old broken flower-pot by the side of the door. William knelt and began scooping earth to fill it.
‘Are you in there?’ he called softly. There was no answer. He glanced round, knocked and called again. ‘Arthur.’ There was scrabbling. ‘Arthur.’
‘What?’
‘It’s me. William.’
‘I know that. What do you want?’
‘I’ve got something to report.’
‘Hang on.’
There was more scuffling. William suspected that Box had been sleeping. Presently he saw a pale patch in the gloom behind the grille.
‘Can you come in?’ asked Box.
‘No.’
‘There’s plenty of room.’
‘There are people watching. I’ll talk while I’m planting the flowers.’
‘What flowers?’
‘The flowers I brought for visiting the grave.’
‘You’d better take them with you when you go. It might look odd, flowers for the family Bustillo suddenly appearing after all these years.’
‘It’ll look odder still if I bring them in, put them in a pot and take them away again.’
‘Point.’
Box was excited when William told him what had happened. There was more scuffling. He would draft a message for London, he said, and take it to the embassy first thing in the morning. William told him about the embassy’s reaction to the last message. Box was furious. They had no right, it was sabotage, he would use the EE(C) and tell London that night. He was worried, though, about Mañuel’s visit. It was good that Mañuel thought he had secured William’s cooperation, but the man was dangerous and had to be watched. That was partly why he, Box, had gone to ground – too many people were getting to know, there was activity now and activity attracted attention. It was inevitable in the run-up phase to an operation. With luck, though, Mañuel would be safely nailed with a floozie the following night. But who was to carry out the arrests? It all needed discussion. The four of them – they two plus Theresa and the president – would have to meet tomorrow. Meanwhile he would get on to London. It was very odd not to have had a reply, essential that they got one by H-hour. The whole thing was pointless without follow-up from London.
‘Stop now. People are coming,’ said William, fiddling with the flower-pot while a family of happy mourners wandered past. The children stared as he tried vainly to make the carnations stand upright. ‘How long can you stay in there?’ he asked when they had gone.
‘Water and rations for three days.’
‘Isn’t it cold?’
‘Sleeping-bag. The coffin’s lined.’
‘You get in?’
‘Of course.’
‘What about . . .’
‘Polythene bags for emergencies.’
‘Anything I can bring you?’ He hoped he wouldn’t be asked to dispose of the bags.
‘You can get me a top-up.’ Box’s fingers gripped the grille and the door opened sufficiently for his other hand to appear, proffering his silver hip-flask. ‘Teacher’s if you can find any. Otherwise anything as long as it’s Scotch.’
‘Okay. I may be some time.’
‘Just so long as I know it’s coming.’
There was a bar not far away. The barman wouldn’t sell a bottle of whisky but ill-naturedly agreed to fill the flask with several measures. It was almost dark by then and a man in uniform was about to close the gates.
‘We are closing, señor.’
William held up the flask. ‘For the flowers. One minute. Gracias.’
He knelt at the grave again. There was hardly any danger of being seen now. Box’s hand reached out from impenetrable darkness.
‘Teacher’s?’
‘Bell’s.’
‘I’ve discovered why no answer from London. Bank Holiday.’
‘Sounds more like my head office.’
‘Yes, odd. You’d think they would be working, especially since privatisation. Mind you, they all get BMWs now. Have to go away in them, I suppose.’
William paused before getting to his feet. ‘Did they give you one?’
‘Refused it. I prefer Shanks’s pony. Otherwise taxis. More secure because less traceable provided you change at least once in a journey. Mrs B. has a Metro. See you tomorrow.’
The attendant eyed William suspiciously as he passed through the gates. William raised his empty hands. ‘Los espiritos tienen sed – the spirits are thirsty.’
‘Sí, señor.’ The big gates closed behind him.
Chapter 11
The streets, never very busy even in the rush hour, were unusually empty when William walked to work the next morning. It was sunny and the parrots in the trees below the flat flapped and squawked.
He liked walking along the wide deserted avenues. Perhaps there had been a revolution. If so, it was odd that only he and Sally hadn’t known about it. He had woken late and couldn’t remember her having the radio on before going to work. An old Dodge approached the traffic lights. For a moment he thought it was Theresa’s and, quite ridiculously, his knees began trembling against his trouser-legs. The Dodge cruised through on red.
The shop was shut when he arrived, but that was normal. The orange-seller was not there. This was a small triumph, though William didn’t like to think of having put the man out of business. Perhaps there had been an overnight plague or perhaps there was a curfew – but then there would have been troops and tanks patrolling the streets. Presumably that was how one would know there was a curfew. He couldn’t remember having seen much newsreel coverage of curfews, no doubt because they were not easily filmed. As with the trembling knees, he was suddenly surprised by an intense spasm of home-sickness. He yearned for England, its greenness, its friendliness, its ordinariness, even its shabbiness. Sprawling, dirty London seemed like a comfortable old dressing-gown which he longed to put on again. Things were normal there; it didn’t matter what you did, much, and not at all what you said. He imagined himself showing it all to Theresa.
There was no answer from the factory. He tried a couple of other calls and was thinking that it was past the time for the girls to arrive when his eye fell
on the calendar. It was Síerra Blanca Day, a national holiday named after the country’s only mountain in honour of a war supposedly fought over its possession. In fact, no war had been fought. Soldiers had been despatched but the enemy had failed to find the mountain in the cloudy region inland. It was acclaimed a great victory.
He worked on some papers for a while. It was increasingly difficult to feel that they had anything to do with him. He would have to feel otherwise pretty soon or else find something different. Meanwhile, there was not much he could usefully do – a good day, therefore, for bringing down governments.
He locked the shop and headed for Maria’s. There were a few people about now. He remembered reading that Síerra Blanca Day was celebrated by enormous family meals beginning at lunchtime and lasting well into the evening. There were no processions or parades and the entire population became comatose. The incidence of strokes and heart attacks increased sharply during the days following. This was viewed not with horror but as an appropriate end for people whose appreciation of life was primarily gastronomic.
Theresa’s Dodge was in the same place. To William it was now a lopsided and lovable creature, not, like most mechanical things, an enemy. There were no stalls under the trees in the square. The house looked asleep but as he approached he saw that the door was open. Perhaps, like the florists, Maria’s served a need that had no end.
Inside there was a smell of furniture polish. Sunbeams slanted through the windows on to the floorboards and the battered, comfortable furniture. William felt suddenly and intensely happy, a physical sensation that caused him to remain standing just inside the door, unmoving. It reminded him of something from childhood, but he could not remember what.
‘Ah, Señor Wooding, a welcome surprise.’ El Lizard spoke from the shadow by the bar where he was doing something to the till.
‘A beautiful morning.’
‘It is Síerra Blanca Day. It is always beautiful, but everyone is inside preparing for the feast.’
‘Are you having a feast?’
‘We cater for after the feast. You want Theresa?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘It is very early still. I don’t know if she is available.’
‘No, I mean just to talk, you know?’
‘Ah, to talk.’ El Lizard nodded ponderously. ‘I will send for her. Please go through. I will send brandy.’
