by Antony Trew
He sighed, shook his head as if in disagreement with his thoughts, and moved to one of the cabinets. Opening it, he selected a record, drew it from its sleeve and, sliding aside the lid of the second cabinet, placed the record on the turntable. He started the player, adjusted it for tone and volume, and returned to the armchair. Then he held a coffee cup under the tap of the percolator, filled it, and drew the stopper from the decanter, holding it beneath his nose for a moment before pouring the brandy in a thin translucent stream.
The room filled with the mosaic of a Debussy prelude, and the old man leant back in the chair, legs outstretched, his head resting on its back, his arms upon its sides. As his muscles relaxed, he felt the tiredness leave his body and his mind emptied. For several minutes he lay still, sublimated, before leaning forward to taste the coffee and liqueur.
The clock on the desk marked the quarter hour with a single chime. It was the signal to begin the tour of the gallery. He followed always an unchanging route, stopping to admire one picture, examining closely another.
At times he would stand before a picture, arms folded across his chest, cigar smoke gathering about his head, lost in the thoughts it evoked.
The clock on the desk chimed eleven soon after he’d left the last picture and gone back to the recess. From the bookcase he took an art catalogue and from the table a copy of The Connoisseur. He switched on a reading lamp, the red shade gleamed and its light suffused the armchair into which he dropped.
At eleven-thirty there was a knock on the door. It was Juan to announce the time, replace the coffee cup, decanter and liqueur glass on the tray and lift it from the table.
His master sighed, struggled out of the chair, returned the catalogue to the bookcase, the magazine to the table, and began a stiff-legged walk to the gallery doors. The servant went out first, the old man switched off the lights, closed the doors, locked them and pocketed the keys.
Then, with Juan following, he crossed the patio, keeping to the left of the pool, and descended the long flight of steps to the main house. Inside, Juan placed the tray on a side table and followed his master across the hall to the sitting-room in the west wing; there he stood at the foot of the stairs, impassive and sentry-like, as the old man went up them. Juan followed, closing the heavy iron gates on the landing against his master who locked them on the inside, their trellised patterns casting weird shadows on his scarred face.
‘Buenas noches, Juan‚’ he called through the gates, and the servant answered, ‘Buenas noches, señor.’
So ended, as always, the ritual of Hendrik Wilhelm van Biljon’s after-dinner visit to the gallery at Altomonte.
Chapter Seven
It was a grey day and from his room in the old town Black looked down on the harbour and saw the wind whip the smoke from the funnels of the steamers at the quays and blow it in rippling swathes across the water to Talamanca, the sea beyond the breakwater tumbling and boiling in distant turmoil.
He grumbled as he put on his socks. His mood needed a fine day, calm with warm sun and blue sea and sky. He pulled on slacks and a heavy woollen jersey, hung a basket over his shoulder, locked the door and went down the stairs. Maria Massa was singing in the kitchen. He stopped and they talked in Spanish. He asked after the children and told her it was time she found a husband, and she laughed toothlessly and said she’d had one and that was enough and a new one would only give her more babies to struggle for and worry about. Silently reproaching the Pope, he reached the lane.
He went along it, turned into Calle Pedro de Tut and carried on past the Plaza de España, the school and seminary, following the sharp turns of Calle General Balanzat into the Avenida del General Franco.
As he passed the glass and picture shop he looked in to see if the dark girl was there. She was. He waved and saw her laugh, but she didn’t wave back.
He felt more cheerful and when he reached the pavé and the descent became steeper he began to whistle Colonel Bogey. His stride lengthened and in his mind he saw Alec Guinness at the head of the tattered battalion.
A group of children playing in the street called to him and he answered and told them to be good and obey their mothers, and when he’d passed they turned to watch him go and then, with a burst of laughter, went on with their games. He followed the cobbled road where it wound through one hundred and eighty degrees towards El Portal de Las Tablas, past La Carbonera, the Bodega D’Alt Vila, the Vitoria Bar, and the Sandal Shop. Each reminded him of something or someone. There were few bars in Ibiza he’d not visited. He turned right, passed through the gate and went down the ramp, turning into Calle Antonio Palau when he reached the market.
There was in the air that smell of recently baked bread and freshly ground coffee beans which he could never resist, so he stopped on the corner at the Bar Maravilla and drank coffee and ate ensaimadas and felt refreshed. It was after ten when he reached the post office and joined the lista de correos queue. Two American girls ahead of him talked incessantly and he listened in a casual offhand way, wondering who and what they were. In front of him a young German, tall with flaxen hair and broad leather-jacketed shoulders, shook his head in disbelief when the clerk said there was nothing for him. What was he expecting, wondered Black. Love letter, editorial slip, remittance? That was the most important mail for many on the island. It was difficult to be a drop-out for long if there wasn’t a patron somewhere in the background: a parent, a lover, a mistress, a family firm. It didn’t matter so long as the remittance came. There was no mail for him, so Black went out into the Paseo Vara de Rey, looking uncertainly up and down the street and then set off towards the telegraph office. Beyond it, outside the curio shop, he saw Werner Zolde leaning against the wall reading a letter. As he passed him, the German gave an affirmative nod. Black did not stop, nor did he acknowledge the other man, but he knew his letter had been received, its contents understood, that it would be acted upon expeditiously.
While he shopped he thought about the time-table. It was the twenty-seventh—three more weeks. Now that the time for action was approaching he felt a keying up, an apprehension, heightened by the unexpected presence of Hassan on Ibiza, which he’d not experienced for a long time. He was tired of acting a part and feared that somehow both his health and resolve might weaken if he played it too long. Not only had he to remain physically fit for what lay ahead, but he had to be psychologically tough. And that sort of fitness and toughness was difficult in a soft environment.
After posting the letter to Werner Zolde he had spent a good deal of the previous night studying the plan of Altomonte made from the notes taken in Haupt’s office. The gallery was in the west wing. The lights there had gone on at ten o’clock. Was that a pattern or was it variable? Better to assume it was variable. The thing was to get into the house. It was difficult, probably impossible, to do it alone. He would need assistance. He thought of Manuela. He knew she liked him. Why, he couldn’t imagine. Perhaps she just liked people. She liked Kyriakou and he was a creep if ever there was one. But he was rich, and there were the drugs. If she were hooked, there was the explanation, ugly and uncomplicated. He couldn’t imagine why he felt bitter about that, He tried to laugh it off and knew he wasn’t succeeding and felt diminished. Surely to God he couldn’t allow himself to be influenced by this girl he didn’t know, whose only claim on him was that he had responded reluctantly to a cry for help because a drunken Cypriot had made a pass at her.
But since there was not much time left he would have to see something of her in the next few weeks if he was going to use her. He realised that this was in a sense special pleading, but he intended to be objective and methodical about what had to be done and, as to her, he had no conscience. The means would justify the end. That covered a multitude of sins.
Towards noon he made for the Montesol. As he crossed the paseo he saw her at a table with Kyriakou, Ilse Berch—a young Norwegian artist he’d met before—and a young man, bearded and scruffy, whom he didn’t know. He left the paseo, crossed over b
y the Cine Serra and turned back along the pavement. When he reached the tables outside the Cristal and the Alhambra he slowed down and stopped once or twice to greet people, his senses keyed and alert, his eyes searching ceaselessly for Hassan.
He had chosen a route which would ensure that Manuela saw him as he neared her table. The strategy succeeded. She smiled and when he waved a hand in acknowledgement she called ‘Hi.’ Kyriakou turned, switched on a big smile and said, ‘’Allo there, Charles.’
Nodding to the Greek, Black stopped at the table. ‘Hallo, Ilse. Hallo, Manuela,’ he said.
‘You busy?’ asked Ilse Berch. ‘Writing?’
He patted his bulging basket. ‘Shopping.’
‘You should have a wife.’ Kyriakou winked at the Norwegian girl.
Manuela pointed to the empty chair next to her. ‘Sit down.’
Black looked at her, thought how handsome she was, and smiled with a pleasure he made no effort to conceal. Kyriakou pushed himself back in his chair and aimed his cigar at the untidy young man. ‘You know George?’
Black shook his head.
‘George Madden,’ said Kyriakou describing a figure of eight with the cigar. ‘Charles Black.’
Madden said ‘Hi,’ and Black nodded a response, wondering if this pallid-faced, pouchy-eyed young American was one of the Greek’s pushers.
A waiter came to the table.
‘What you like?’ asked Kyriakou.
Black had been long enough on Ibiza to know that one paid for one’s own drinks under these circumstances. He shook his head. ‘Thanks. But I’ll buy my own.’
Kyriakou shrugged his shoulders and with his teeth tilted the cigar. Black ordered a coñac. Manuela was drinking orange juice. Junkies drink soft, a part of his mind nagged. Why the hell shouldn’t she, the other replied.
The conversation became general. Ilse Berch wanted to know how things were in Madrid, and what de Salla’s vernismge had been like. She’d just got back from seeing her parents in Bergen. They still didn’t approve of her way of life.
‘Why worry,’ said Kyriakou. ‘As long as you approve, what the hell.’
Black saw him nudge Manuela. ‘What you say, leetle one?’
‘I don’t say,’ said Manuela.
Kyriakou slapped his thigh. ‘Ha, aha, ha.’
‘Very funny,’ said Black.
The Greek saw that the Englishman was not amused. ‘What’s that?’ he said leaning forward, his white teeth gleaming. ‘You no like, hey?’
Black shook his head. ‘On the contrary. I think you’re very funny.’ He saw Manuela’s eyes signalling him to be careful. When he winked back he realised that the Greek had seen the private exchange and wasn’t pleased.
Adroitly Manuela changed the subject to de Salla’s painting, and that led to a general discussion on art. Black steered it round to the Impressionists and the post- and neo-Impressionists, and the level of discussion rose over the heads of George and the Greek. It was left to Black and the two girls to fight out his thesis that contemporary art owed its greatest debt to those who had first departed from solid form and the subservience of the eye. Then, when the argument was at its height, it shifted suddenly to hilarity and Kyriakou and George Madden came into their own again.
But Black had introduced the subject with a purpose he’d no intention of abandoning. ‘You know,’ he said, frowning as he thought about how to get the thing going. ‘We sit here and talk about these things. Yet I’m prepared to bet that not one of us has seen what is—’ he looked round, pausing for effect. ‘What’s believed to be one of the finest private collections of Impressionists and post-Impressionists in Europe. And it’s here. On Ibiza.’ He thumped the table for emphasis.
‘You mean van Biljon’s?’ said Ilse Berch.
‘Yes.’ He leant forward, challenging one face after another. ‘Have any of you seen it? Any of you?’
None of them had.
‘Nor has anyone else,’ he said.
Manuela watched him curiously over the rim of her glass.
‘Perhaps the pictures don’t exist.’
He shook his head. ‘They exist all right. Most of them are internationally catalogued. In the dealer world they’ve a pretty shrewd idea what he’s got.’
‘Why d’you get so—so, what can I say, hit up?’ Ilse Berch arched her eyebrows.
Black realised that he’d raised his voice and was using his hands. ‘I’m not hit up. I’m …’ he laughed with embarrassment. ‘I’m indignant. I’d give anything to see that collection but I haven’t a hope. Not only does he not show it to anyone, but he hates the guts of art critics. Journalistic or otherwise.’
‘Maybe he’s got something there,’ said Kyriakou.
Black looked at him for a moment, was about to be rude, but changed his mind. ‘There are two art journals badgering me for articles on that collection. They’d pay me a packet if I could send them what they want. Photos, interviews with van Biljon, the lot.’
‘Aha. So that’s it,’ said Kyriakou waving his cigar. ‘Our old friend lolly. So you are a materialist after all. Not an artist.’
‘He’s got to live,’ said George Madden lugubriously. It was his first constructive contribution.
‘Why?’ said Kyriakou. ‘It’s not compulsory.’
‘It’s more than money,’ said Black. ‘No man should keep a collection like that to himself. Those pictures belong to evervone. Just as much as great music and literature. Van Biljon is their temporary custodian. Nothing more. Unless they’re seen by others their existence is meaningless. I don’t know van Biljon, but he must be pathologically selfish.’ He realised that he had raised his voice again, for at the next table the thin man with dark glasses and a christ-beard looked up from the crossword puzzle he was doing. The Englishman remembered having seen him in the ferry steamer a few days before.
Manuela put down her glass with a clatter. ‘I don’t really know van Biljon either, but I think you misunderstand his motives. It is his face. He’s scared of people. He’s a recluse.’
Black waved away her statement with his hands.
‘He could open the gallery to the public occasionally. Hide himself away? They tell me it’s a big house.’
‘All right,’ said Manuela. ‘So he’s a crank. He doesn’t want to meet people. He doesn’t want them at Altomonte. Maybe he values his privacy above everything. Why not if he wants it that way? It’s his life. His house. His pictures.’
Black looked at her in genuine surprise. ‘Don’t you see it as an almost criminal act of selfishness?’
‘No. Not at all.’ She leant forward, stabbing in his direction with her comb. ‘He’s not selfish. They say he is fabulously generous. Especially for anything to do with children. They say he is wonderful with them. You know why?’
Black shook his head, half smiling at her earnestness.
‘Because,’ she went on, ‘children like a person for what he is. They see the scars but they don’t mind. They know what’s behind them. Children and dogs. They can always tell.’
‘Manuela,’ Black said it slowly, breaking the name into syllables, shaking his head in good natured disbelief. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
‘About dogs and children?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Amazing,’ he said.
‘Not at all.’ She wiggled her eyebrows. ‘And anyway you’re not listening to me,’ she added indignantly.
‘How can you say that?’
‘Because you keep looking round as if you’re expecting somebody. Are you?’ she challenged.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m just curious. Half the fun of sitting in front of the Montesol is to watch the characters go by.’ But she was right, and he resolved to be more careful.
Kyriakou jiggled his cigar about in his mouth, hooked his thumbs in his braces, and leant back in his chair.
Ilse Berch said: ‘You’ve met van Biljon haven’t you, Manuela?’
‘Once,’ she said. ‘For about two minutes. At the airport. He dropped his ticket and I picked it up. We spoke a little. He was shy, but he was sweet to me. I think he’s a sad man.’
‘For Chrissake!’ Kyriakou pushed his feet forward and tipped the straw hat over his eyes. ‘You’ll make me cry. Let’s talk about something different.’
Manuela said, ‘Like what?’ Black sensed her irritation.
‘Anything,’ said Kyriakou. ‘Wine. Women … or whatever.’
‘Drugs,’ suggested Black. For an instant the Greek’s facial muscles contracted but he gave no other indication of having heard the remark.
‘There’s only one subject which interests him,’ said Manuela.
‘What’s that?’ Ilse Berch rattled the ice cubes in her empty glass.
‘Mister Kyriakou,’ said Manuela.
The Greek jerked himself and the chair back into an upright position and took the cigar out of his mouth. ‘You wanna be careful what you say, baby.’ The way he looked at her, the menacing voice, made Black believe all he’d heard of him.
Manuela must have realised she’d gone too far. ‘I’m sorry, Kirry,’ she touched his arm. ‘I didn’t mean it. But you were being lousy. I said it to hurt. I’m sorry.’
‘Okay,’ said the Greek giving her a long hard look. ‘I’m glad … for your sake.’
Ilse Berch tried to gloss things over with a change of subject but it didn’t work. The tension between Manuela and Kyriakou, blown up so suddenly, hung in the air like a bad smell. Black decided it was time to leave. He didn’t want to get involved in another fracas like that in the ferry, and he realised that to sit there much longer was tempting fate for it was a high probability that sooner or later Hassan would appear. It was said on Ibiza that if you sat in front of the Montesol long enough you saw everybody you knew go by, and he had every reason to believe it was true. As he walked away he thought of Manuela, and because he was beginning to like her he worried.
