An Artistic Way to Go

by Roderic Jeffries

  He looked across the kitchen, which was also their dining- and sitting-room. ‘I’m going to see Jorge.’

  Ana nodded. Years of working in the fields in sun and wind had left her with a complexion of leather, a thickset, muscular body, and rheumatism and arthritis.

  ‘He’ll help.’

  ‘If he can.’ She seldom said more than was necessary.

  He went through to the front room and out on to the road that was so narrow that however considerately a car parked, it caused problems to moving vehicles. At the bottom, a flight of stone steps led down at the point where the road turned sharp left. The steps ended almost directly opposite a bar that was popular because it had not been modernized, and it retained the air of shabbiness that deterred any but the most determined foreigner in search of local colour. He spoke to the owner behind the bar. ‘Has Jorge been in?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Give me a coñac.’

  Some minutes later, Barcelo, considerably younger than he, entered, crossed to where he sat on a stool. ‘How are things with you?’

  ‘No worse than usual.’

  Barcelo ordered a drink. ‘Is it right you’re retiring?’

  ‘What bloody fool’s saying that?’

  ‘The story’s not true?’

  ‘What story?’

  ‘The English señor is so angry over you pinching his share of the water that he’s going to court to ask for all the water for the next three years to make up for what he’s lost.’

  ‘Where d’you hear that?’

  ‘It’s only fair.’

  ‘You call it fair, him using it for his garden and pool?’

  ‘If it’s his, he can do what he wants with it.’

  ‘It belongs to the land.’

  ‘It’ll belong to him when the court says. Your old woman won’t have anything to sell in market ’cept a few almonds and figs.’ Barcelo sniggered as he took the glass and bottle of beer he was handed. ‘But I’m a generous kind of a bloke. I’ll find you a job. Even pay you what you’re worth … Ten pesetas an hour.’

  ‘Which is ten more than you’ve ever earned honestly.’ Serra stood, crossed to one of the tables, sat. He saw Barcelo talk to the owner, whereupon both men laughed. Rejoicing at his coming misfortunes. The story had to be nonsense, born of bitter jealousy. Yet … yet the señor had proved himself time and again to be ignorant of the customs of the countryside and if he were egged on by a lawyer whose ambition was to retire richer than the clients he swindled … In his mind, he saw his land deprived of all water; the vegetables withered, the fruit rotting on the ground because the trees could no longer support their crops …

  Amoros entered and ordered a glass of wine. Short and stocky, his character was as phlegmatic as his heavy, lined face suggested. He crossed and sat opposite Serra.

  Serra leaned forward. ‘Barcelo says the English señor is going to ask the court to award him all the water for three years to make up for what he thinks I’ve been having. That can’t be right, can it?’

  Amoros drank.

  ‘Well, can it?’

  ‘Who’s to know what a foreigner’s going to do, especially the likes of him.’ He brought a battered pack of Ducados out of his pocket, lit a cigarette.

  ‘But you’ve heard nothing?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You must have done if it was true?’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  There was a long silence, broken by Serra. ‘You cut off the water earlier.’

  ‘The señor saw it wasn’t running and sent Rosa to tell me to alter the flow. Even followed me to make certain I did that. Don’t trust no one. ’Cept his wife, which shows how stupid he is. She swims in the nude.’

  ‘So you’ve said often enough.’

  ‘If I was younger, it’d make me think hard. Last time, she wasn’t on her own. The man wasn’t in a costume either. Only whilst I was watching, they didn’t do anything,’ he added regretfully.

  ‘Try again.’

  Amoros sniggered. ‘Maybe that’s what she was saying to him.’

  Serra thought for a while, his heavy brow furrowed, his eyes unfocused. ‘Suppose I was to go to the señor and tell him. You steal my water and I’ll tell you something that’ll make you wish you’d never started?’

  ‘He’ll laugh in your face.’

  ‘He’ll stop laughing when I tell him about the señora.’

  ‘Do that and he’ll really like you, won’t he? Like as not, ask the court to have your share of the water for six years.’

  ‘I’m not going to let him have what’s mine for a single day,’ Serra said fiercely.

  Barcelo, who’d been about to leave, paused in the doorway. ‘Don’t forget – ten pesetas.’ He laughed as he went out into the street.

  ‘His father was just as much of a bastard,’ Serra said, indicating the doorway. ‘Fifteen years back I lent him my mule for a morning and he never paid.’

  ‘When he was buried, the undertaker didn’t see the colour of his money for months.’

  ‘So maybe he went down instead of up … Not even a foreigner would steal all the water.’

  ‘You don’t know the señor. The other day he found I was growing some tomatoes behind the bamboos and he shouted as if I’d been screwing his wife. Made me tear out the bushes; wouldn’t even let me pick the ripe ones first,’ Amoros said bitterly.

  ‘He’s bloody mad.’

  ‘Mad or not, it’s his land and his water.’

  Serra swore.

  CHAPTER 5

  Cooper, enjoying the cool of the air-conditioned sitting-room, looked puzzled. ‘Who rang?’

  ‘Ernest White,’ Rachael replied.

  ‘I don’t know anyone by that name.’

  ‘From the way he was talking, he knows you. He’ll be along at twelve.’

  Cooper scratched the crown of his head, then automatically smoothed down his hair that was thinning far more rapidly than he’d admit. ‘Why didn’t you find out exactly who he is and what he wants? He could be that blasted representative of some financial advisory service who’s going around the island, touting for business.’

  ‘He didn’t sound like a salesman.’

  ‘That’s the art of being a salesman.’ He began to tap on the arm of the chair with the fingers of his right hand. ‘Educated?’

  ‘I forgot to ask him if he had a degree.’

  ‘There’s no need to be facetious,’ he said ponderously.

  She silently swore at herself. The last thing she wanted right then was for him to become annoyed and resentful.

  ‘Where was he speaking from?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘And you didn’t ask?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘You are certain he didn’t give you any indication at all of why he wanted to see me?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘You should have told him to phone back later, when I’d returned from the village.’

  ‘Please don’t be so angry, Bunnikins. I try so hard to do the right thing, but I know I don’t always succeed. We can’t all be like you.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ he agreed, his annoyance lessened by the inference that few men were as smart as he.

  ‘Forgive?’

  ‘Try to do better next time.’

  She came forward and kissed him, straightened up. ‘I’m going to nip into the village.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to buy some women’s things.’ The reference embarrassed him, as she’d intended, since this made certain he would not pursue the matter. There were aspects of life he found distasteful, since he was a man of great artistic sensibility, and what he didn’t like, he ignored. ‘And after shopping, I thought I’d just drop in at Muriel’s to say goodbye.’

  ‘But you saw her yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, I know. She was so terribly miserable, though, and I’d like to cheer her up a little if I can. The bank won’t cash her cheques now and so she rang her husba
nd again, but the beastly man won’t help.’

  ‘As I’ve said before, why should he?’

  ‘She only went off with the Italian because he spent all his time with his horses and ignored her.’

  ‘It’s a wife’s duty to honour a husband however he behaves.’

  ‘Isn’t that being rather old-fashioned, Bunnikins?’

  ‘When it comes to duty I am proud to say that I am very old-fashioned.’

  Troglodytic. ‘So it wouldn’t matter how you treated me, I’d never be justified in leaving you?’

  ‘Naturally not.’

  ‘And if I did, you’d refuse to give me a penny if I was in financial trouble?’

  He looked at her, curious yet not suspicious. ‘Have you a particular reason for asking?’

  She moved until she could cradle his head against her. ‘Of course I haven’t. I just like hearing you be so stern and domineering. Didn’t you know women love to be dominated?’

  He loved dominating. He ran his hand up under her skirt and patted her neat bottom.

  She moved away slowly, giving him plenty of time to free his hand. ‘I won’t stay a moment longer than’s necessary. You know that all the time I’m away, I’ll be wanting to hurry back to be with you.’ There had been moments in the past when she’d suddenly thought she’d gone too far in pandering to his vanity, but recently she’d decided that that was impossible. She ruffled his hair with her hand, left the sitting-room.

  He wondered whether to bring an end to her friendship with Muriel by forbidding any further intercourse on her part (an unfortunate choice of words, but that escaped him), but decided not to do so. Whilst it was irritating that she should spend an increasing amount of time in Muriel’s company, they had made several contacts as a result of the friendship that were socially of considerable benefit. He nodded. A clever man never reached a decision until he’d assessed all the factors involved and identified where his best interests lay. For the moment, anyway, he’d allow the friendship to continue.

  * * *

  He was watching a satellite television programme about the life and work of Gauguin – full of factual errors and faulty opinions – when Clara stepped into the sitting-room. She spoke in Spanish.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked bad-temperedly. Clara annoyed him, first because she was so stupid she spoke no English, secondly because she was so extraordinarily ugly. But she was a very good cook. It was the Higgs – elusive, choosy about their friends, so rich they paid no tax in any country – who had complimented Rachael on serving the best meal they’d had since they’d dined at the Tour d’Argent. One did not lightly sack a cook capable of pleasing uncrowned royalty.

  She said the same thing over and over again and eventually he interpreted her babble sufficiently to understand that a Señor White had arrived. ‘Show him in.’

  As she left, he rose from the chair and went over to the fireplace, to stand in front of it with hands clasped behind his back. A man in command.

  White entered. ‘’Morning, Oliver.’ His voice was quiet and smooth, his accent light American.

  There was little that riled Cooper more than the modern custom of using Christian names on first acquaintance. Christian names denoted a degree of equality. ‘I understand that you are Mr White?’

  He smiled, showing even white teeth. ‘That’s what my parents told me.’

  ‘We’ve not met before.’

  ‘Correct one hundred per cent.’

  White was well dressed – it was uncommon in the middle of the summer for a man to wear a tie and neatly pressed linen suit – and his manner was pleasant, but there was something about him that Cooper found disturbing. His size? He stood six feet three or four inches tall and his build was in proportion. No, it was something more than mere size. Despite himself, Cooper felt the need to tread softly. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘A gin and tonic, thanks. Mind if I sit?’ He sat. ‘You’ve sure got a nice piece of real estate here.’

  ‘We like it.’ Cooper spoke in tones which, hopefully, would damp any enthusiasm if this man turned out to be some kind of estate agent. There were any number of foreigners on the island who tried to make a living by hook or, far more frequently, by crook. He crossed to the cocktail cabinet and opened the doors, which automatically switched on the interior strip lights. He upended two crystal goblets, poured out the drinks.

  ‘Beautiful island. Kind of place a man dreams of retiring to. I guess you’re retired?’

  The ice bucket was empty. He crossed to the bell push, depressed it.

  Clara entered.

  ‘You’ve forgotten to put out any ice. I’ve told you again and again, I want ice in the bucket all the time. Are you incapable of carrying out the simplest order?’

  She stared at him. ‘Señor?’

  White spoke rapidly in Spanish. She shrugged her shoulders, left.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind?’ White said.

  ‘Of course not,’ Cooper replied stiffly, knowing he had been made to look foolish.

  ‘Learned Spanish when I was at high school. Probably sounds like Portuguese, but it gets me around.’

  ‘Very useful,’ was all Cooper could find to say. ‘You haven’t explained why you’re here.’

  ‘That’s right, I haven’t. Kind of been too busy envying you. I guess you’ve turned life just right. A beautiful wife, a lovely house, someone to do all the work – what more can a man want?’

  Further annoyed by the impudence of the observation, Cooper was about to comment angrily when Clara returned with a silver ice bucket which she handed to him.

  White said something to her and she smiled. Normally, she never smiled. Cooper would have given much to know what White had said, but was damned if he was going to ask. He carried the ice bucket over to the cocktail cabinet, dropped two cubes into each goblet, handed White one goblet, resumed his position in front of the fireplace, even though he had the uneasy impression that he was not cutting the figure he had intended.

  White raised his glass. ‘The best way to get to know a guy is to have a drink with him. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘I can’t say I’ve ever considered the proposition.’

  ‘That’s what I like about you Brits. The dignified way you do everything, most of all, speak … Now, what do we drink to? A long life if it’s a happy one, a short one if it isn’t?’

  The words were inane, but they seemed to Cooper somehow to carry a threat. He struggled to break free from the growing feeling of disquiet. ‘Have you met my wife?’

  ‘I’ve not had the pleasure.’

  ‘From the way you spoke earlier, I assumed you must have done.’

  ‘It’s just that when I’ve seen her around, I’ve said to myself, now there’s the genuine English rose.’

  ‘But if you’ve never met her, how could you know what she looks like?’

  ‘I’ve been watching how things go around here.’

  ‘You’ve … you’ve been doing what?’

  ‘I always like to learn a little about the life of someone I’m asking to repay a debt.’

  ‘I don’t know what the devil you mean by that.’

  ‘I mean, a debt of one million two hundred and fifty grand, plus another hundred grand for expenses and loss of interest.’

  ‘Over a million pesetas…’

  ‘Dollars. Payable within the next forty-eight hours.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘Let’s try and make it easier for you to understand. Remember Campbell?’

  He searched his brain, but found only chaos.

  ‘He visited your shop and told you he was acting for a buyer who wanted a nice picture, or two.’

  Even at such a confused moment, the word ‘shop’ infuriated him. ‘I owned a gallery, not a shop.’

  ‘So where’s the difference? He was buying, you were selling.’

  ‘Obviously, there’s no point in trying to explain.’

  ‘Then leave me to do the talking. Campbell tol
d you that he wanted quality. You suggested something by a Frenchman because in twenty years’ time his work would be worth a whole lot more than was paid. Later on, you sold two paintings for one million two hundred and fifty grand. Now, my principal is asking for his money back. With that extra.’

  Memory finally returned. Some time before he’d sold the gallery, Campbell – an American, which had explained his choice in clothes and his brash manner – had appeared and said he represented a client who looked to art as a means of investment. The artistic side of Cooper’s character had urged him to point out that a painting should be appreciated for its quality, not its financial potential, but his business instincts had been too strong for him to act on so high-minded an urge. He had taken Campbell to lunch at one of his favourite restaurants. Incredibly, the other had chosen to drink Coca-Cola as an apéritif. The wine waiter had only just managed to conceal his contempt. It would, he had said over the prawn mousse, be necessary first to speak to the actual buyer to ascertain what were his interests, since even if he bought because of investment potential, it was best that he should like the work or works. That, Campbell had said, was unnecessary. Just find something that would make a good investment, up to a million dollars; it was immaterial who the artist, period, and subject were. It sounded doubtful. By the time Cooper was eating the apple and passion fruit flan, liberally coated with whipped cinnamon cream, he had angrily decided that he’d been conned into providing a free and expensive meal.

  However, a week later, Campbell had returned. Were the painting or paintings ready? As if art could be bought and sold with the same careless ease as a dozen cases of whisky! But since the other was an American, he had begun to explain that when he received a buying commission he held himself bound in equity as well as contract to conduct the widest possible search in order to identify the best possible buy.

  ‘So get searching,’ Campbell had said.

  He had coughed a couple of times. Since it would appear that he was not to have direct contact with the principal, he would very much appreciate a guarantee that any expenses properly and necessarily incurred in the search would be reimbursed in the unfortunate event of his not being able to locate what was wanted …