by Antony Trew
The Lebanese stopped swimming and trod water. ‘Hallo,’ he said looking puzzled, wondering presumably whose face it was behind the goggles. ‘How did you get here?’
‘Cold, isn’t it?’ replied Werner Zolde, moving closer.
‘Sure,’ said Hassan, eyes still puzzled.
Suddenly, deafeningly, the sound of the skimmer’s engine seemed to come from nowhere.
‘Look out!’ shouted Werner Zolde pointing with his schnorkel to the Lebanese’s right. ‘Look out!’
Hassan whipped round to see the skimmer coming for him, and in that moment Werner Zolde’s cosh struck. The German grasped the limp figure beneath the armpits as the skimmer stopped alongside and Lejeune leant over the side, stretching out his hands.
‘Quick!’ he called. ‘Get him down between the floats.’
When they had laid Hassan on the bottom boards, Werner Zolde stretched himself out alongside the recumbent Arab, and Lejeune, crouching, his backward stretched arm on the tiller, opened the throttle wide and the skimmer roared and bumped to seaward, making for the south-east at thirty knots—away from the white schooner which had gone about and was now standing out to sea. Werner Zolde looked at his diving watch. The act of snatching Ahmed ben Hassan from the Mediterranean, from cosh to full throttle, had occupied twenty-nine seconds.
The light breeze had fallen away but the schooner was moving faster now, and the wisps of blue smoke trailing astern told why. In the south-east storm clouds were massing, and to the west the sun was setting—soon it would be dusk and already the light on Dada Grande was flashing its warning message.
Chapter Eleven
They came out of the pines above Altomonte into a firebreak, crossed it and worked their way down the hill through bush and undergrowth. Black asked her to go ahead, saying he wouldn’t be a moment. When she’d gone he went into a thicket, opened the fishing bag and took from it the Kodak carton. He removed the shoe and sock from his left foot, and making a bag of his handkerchief put the carton in it, feeling through the linen to take off the lid. He manipulated the handkerchief, holding the bees lightly against his ankle, and agitated it. He heard the bees buzz and felt the sharp pain of their stings. A few minutes later he ran his hand over the ankle, feeling for the stings. He pulled them out, using his nails as pincers, and replaced the sock and shoe. When he stood up the ankle was throbbing and he felt a slight nausea.
He rejoined Manuela and they came clear of the undergrowth and headed for the firebreak which flanked the woods opposite Altomonte. When they reached it they turned south, following it down, the trees on their right and the terraces of figs, olives and lemons on the left.
The light was going fast. ‘We’ll cross the terraces,’ he said. ‘The road’s beyond them.’
They went down to a terrace of olives and made their way along it.
‘Watch your step,’ he called over his shoulder.
‘I’m all right, but don’t go too fast. Your legs are longer than mine.’
The ankle was hurting now, the swelling making the shoe tight. I can’t delay it much longer, he thought, and jumped from the wall to the terrace beneath. In the dusk he could just see her standing above him.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you.’
She took his hands and landed beside him. ‘Do we have to do this often?’
‘A few times more, I expect.’
They walked along the terrace for some distance before he said, ‘Down here. I’ll go first.’ He jumped and fell and said ‘Christ!’
She called out, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Twisted my ankle.’ His voice was strangely, suddenly, hoarse. ‘It’ll be all right in a moment.’
She scrambled down and knelt beside him. ‘Oh, Charles. What’ve you done?’
Her anxiety somehow pleased him. He clenched his teeth and emitted a well modulated groan. ‘My bloody fault,’ he said, propping himself against the wall and breathing heavily.
‘Let me see it.’ She reached towards the ankle. He moved his left foot gingerly and she began to undo the shoe laces.
‘Christ!’ He drew his breath sharply and pushed her hands away. ‘It hurts like hell.’
‘I’m sorry. I was clumsy.’
‘No, you weren’t,’ he said. ‘I’m a coward about pain. Let me take the shoe off.’
The bees had done a good job and taking off the shoe and sock hurt. There was not enough light to see the ankle. She said, ‘Let me feel it. I promise to be gentle.’
She felt it, while he made appropriate noises.
‘It’s swollen,’ she said. ‘And hot.’
‘Throbs like mad.’ He was pleased not to have to lie about that.
‘What are we going to do, Charles?’
‘Not to worry. Just let me rest here for a bit. I’ll be all right.’
‘And if not?’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.’ He tried to change his position and released another small groan.
‘Must be a bad sprain, Charles.’
For some time he sat huddled against the wall, Manuela beside him, the night growing darker and the stars gathering in the sky. Occasionally she would ask if the ankle felt better and he would grunt a noncommittal reply. She offered to go and get assistance.
‘It’s about three kilometres to the main road and another six or seven into San José.’ He added, ‘You can’t go traipsing about the countryside in the dark.’
‘I meant Altomonte. It’s quite close.’
‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all right if I can rest a bit longer. Anyway, you wouldn’t get help there.’
‘Of course I would. He’s not inhuman.’
‘Isn’t he? How d’you know?’
‘Because I’ve spoken to him and I can tell.’
‘Like children and dogs?’
‘Yes.’
He put out his hand in the darkness and touched her. ‘You’re sweet, Manuela. But I prefer to manage without his assistance.’
She put her head against his and he could feel the warmth of her breath. ‘Oh, Charles,’ she said. ‘Why were you so goddam careless?’
The luminous dial of his watch showed it was well after seven. It was time to get things going. ‘I’ll put the sock on,’ he said, ‘and try walking without a shoe.’
When it was on he stood up and tested the foot. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s give it a bash.’
‘Can I help you?’
‘No. If I can’t do it on my own it’s no good. We’ve got quite a way to go.’
He hobbled off, carrying the shoe in one hand, and she followed.
They walked for a few minutes, stopping occasionally, going slower all the time, until he leant against the terrace wall, breathless. ‘It’s no good. I can’t make it.’
‘Then I must go to Altomonte,’ she said with decision. ‘We cannot spend the night here. The ankle must be looked at.’
They argued for some time, but at last he acknowledged there was nothing for it but the finca. He told her to continue along the terrace until she came to the dirt road, then follow it up the hill to the gates of the house. ‘Shouldn’t take you more than half an hour,’ he said.
When she’d gone a few steps, he called out, ‘Better put a stone on the road when you reach it. So that you’ll know which terrace I’m on when you come back.’
Her voice came out of the darkness. ‘Okay. I won’t be long.’
When he could no longer hear her footsteps he stood up and moved about to keep warm. It was dark, there was no moon, but the sky was bright with stars. He could smell the lemon and olive blossoms: and the chirp of crickets, the croaking of frogs and the rapping cry of a nightjar reminded him that he was not alone. It was cold and to keep up his spirits he whistled Colonel Bogey.
Long before she reached the gates the dogs were barking. She rounded a bend in the road and saw faint lights ahead. The iron gates showed up and not long afterwards she was dazzled by a strong light. A man challenged her in
Spanish. Another voice silenced the dogs.
‘I want help.’ She was breathless because she had walked fast and the dogs frightened her. ‘There has been an accident.’ She spoke in Spanish.
‘Wait,’ said the man. She heard the gates being unlocked, then approaching footsteps, and presently he came into the circle of light.
‘Buenos noches, señorita.’ He was a thickset man, swarthy and gnarled and he wore a dark duffel coat. Somehow his face was familiar.
She said, ‘Buenas noches, señor.’
‘What is it, señorita?’
‘My friend has had a fall. His ankle is hurt. He cannot walk.’
The man looked at her uncertainly. ‘Where is he?’
She pointed down the road. ‘About one kilometre. Then along a terrace.’
‘What were you doing on the terraces, señorita?’
‘We had climbed the hill and were coming down.’
He gave her a strange look. ‘It is late to be coming down.’
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘We started a long time ago. When he hurt his ankle we waited while he rested. He tried to walk but could not. I thought of going to San José for help. But this is much closer, so I came here.’
‘What do you wish me to do?’
‘Help me bring him in. He cannot walk. It is impossible that he should spend the night on the terrace.’
The Spaniard told her to wait, and went back through the gates. While she stood awkwardly in the glare of the light, waiting, she heard him talking to the other man. Then he came back. ‘Follow me, señorita.’
She went in through the gates after him. As the spotlight went out arc lights on the terrace came on, and the big house stood out white and massive at the top of a flight of steps.
The other man joined them and with three Alsatians at their heels, growling and snuffling, they went up the steps.
The gnarled man rang the front door bell and almost immediately it was opened by a Spanish woman. She called him ‘Juan’ and his companion ‘Pedro.’ She watched Manuela with dark penetrating eyes, while Juan made his explanations. After some hesitation she said, ‘Come in, señorita.’
Manuela went in with Juan, and the doors were closed leaving Pedro and the Alsatians outside.
They were in a large hall in which Persian and Aubusson carpets lay on white terrazzo floors, between walls panelled in dark mahogany. The furniture was Dutch and French, seventeenth-and eighteenth-century, while most of the pictures were by Dutch and Flemish painters of the same period. It reminded Manuela more of the interior of a French château than anything she’d seen in Spain. A log fire sparkled and spluttered in an open fireplace and the aromatic smell of burning pinewood hung in the air.
The woman pointed to a chair, ‘Sit down, señorita.’ Manuela took the chair but the woman remained standing. ‘What is your name?’
‘Manuela Valez.’
The woman looked puzzled. ‘You are not Spanish.’
‘No. I come from Puerto Rico.’
‘And your friend?’ She said friend with just enough inflection to colour the word.
‘His name is Black. We live in Ibiza.’
‘What are you doing there, seňorita?’
‘I am a painter.’
‘And he?’
Manuela remembered van Biljon’s aversion to art critics. ‘He writes,’ she said.
The Spanish woman looked at her for some time in silence before saying, ‘I will see Señor van Biljon. Please wait.’
‘I do not know if he will remember me,’ Manuela said. ‘We met once at the airport. He dropped his ticket and I picked it up. About two months ago.’
For a moment the Spanish woman’s face softened, then her features set hard. ‘I do not know whether we can help you. He will decide.’
Not long afterwards Manuela saw a tall thin figure come in through the archway on the west side of the hall and walk stiffly towards her. When she’d seen him before he’d been wearing a beret. Now she saw that he had a head of silken hair, more silver than white. Somehow it softened the ugly blemish of the scarred face and the sinister anonymity of the dark glasses.
She stood up, facing him, and he held out his hand. ‘Good evening,’ he said, ‘I believe we have met before.’
‘Yes. At the airport.’ She felt the intense scrutiny of eyes she couldn’t see, and looked away. It was difficult to focus on pieces of black glass which reflected the lights of the room.
‘Techa, my housekeeper,’ he waved in the woman’s direction, ‘tells me you have a friend who’s damaged his foot on the terraces. That he needs help.’
She confirmed this, answering his questions, filling in the detail. He did not ask her to sit down but stood, arms folded, a hand shielding his mouth, eyes on the carpet between them.
‘You say Black is a journalist.’ His head came up and she knew that behind the dark glasses he was watching her closely. ‘What is his first name?’
‘Charles,’ she said.
‘Does he write for art journals?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘You know, I suppose, that he is determined to see my pictures. That he’s been commissioned to do an article about them?’ His voice hardened. ‘And about me?’
‘I know he is interested in the French Impressionists. You are said to have an exceptional collection.’
‘That is an evasive answer.’
‘I’m sorry. It was not meant to be. I’m tired.’
He shook his head emphatically, moving away from her. ‘I don’t have visitors here. Least of all his type. I know of him. I keep myself informed about what goes on in Ibiza.’
I’m making things worse, she thought. Charles has talked too much about those damned pictures, and this old man has heard that, and about his drinking. ‘We are not visitors,’ she said, ‘He’s had an accident. He’s in pain. He cannot walk.’ She had an idea. ‘Can I telephone San José for a taxi?’
He was pacing the hall, hands clasped behind his back, forehead creased. ‘There is no telephone.’
She sighed. ‘He was right. He did not want me to come here.’
‘Then why did you come?’
‘When I saw that he could not walk, I insisted. It was already late.’
Van Biljon looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It showed ten minutes after eight. He stopped pacing and turned to the housekeeper. ‘When do you expect Tomaso?’
‘He has gone to his brother at Portinax, señor. He is staying the night.’
Van Biljon clicked his teeth in annoyance. ‘Her husband has the Land-Rover. Otherwise one of my servants would drive you into San José.’ He began pacing again. ‘Where on the terrace is he?’
She explained as best she could: about a kilometre down the road and something like three hundred metres along the terrace.
Van Biljon turned to the housekeeper. ‘Tell Pedro to take the donkey cart and go with Señorita Valez to the terrace.’ He addressed Manuela. ‘You can bring Black here. Techa will give you what you need for his foot. When it has been attended to we can decide what must be done. Probably Pedro will take you in the cart to San José.’
Manuela wanted to laugh and cry. She had an absurd picture in her mind of riding into San José with Black in the donkey cart, while at the same time she sighed with relief at the prospect of help. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You are kind.’
‘This has been forced upon me.’ He spoke abruptly, turning his back on her. ‘Do not expect me to play host. Techa will look after you.’
She mumbled a faint, ‘Good night,’ in the direction of the retreating figure, and the housekeeper said, ‘Come. We will go.’
It was after nine o’clock when they got Black to Altomonte and helped him from the donkey cart. Techa led them along a passage past the store-rooms and kitchens to a butler’s pantry in the east wing. There was a handbasin with hot and cold water, a stainless steel sink, a dish-warmer, cupboards, chairs and tables.
The housekeeper gave them a first-aid box
, plastic basin and soap and towel. ‘If you want anything else ring this.’ She pointed to the bell push. ‘I will get you something to eat.’ Her manner was severe.
Black was taking off his sock and exposing his ankle in light for the first time. He let out a small groan. The housekeeper looked back from the doorway and saw the swollen discoloured ankle. ‘It looks painful,’ she said.
‘It is,’ he said as she left the room.
Manuela knelt and examined it. ‘It looks horrible. I’ll bathe it in hot water.’
‘You fill the basin and I’ll do it. Better that way. I know what I can take.’
She filled the basin with hot water. He felt it with his toes. ‘It’s too hot.’
‘You’re making a great fuss.’
‘I told you I was a coward.’
She added the cold water and later made him bathe the ankle in cold water immediately after the hot. Then she took a tube of wintergreen from the first-aid outfit and told him to rub some into the swelling. He did, and the ankle felt better. But he insisted she bandage it although she said it was unnecessary.
‘If it doesn’t have support, the bloody thing’ll go again,’ he said.
She bandaged it, and he complained about the pain.
‘You should have a baby,’ she said. ‘Then you could talk of pain.’
‘I prefer not to. Anyway, how do you know?’
‘All women know.’
It was while they were eating the plain meal the housekeeper brought them that they heard the first sounds of the storm. It began with the beating of rain against the windows which soon afterwards rattled in their frames to the gusting of the wind.
