The Spanish Gardener

by A. J. Cronin

  “We are calling upon your worthy father.”

  “But why, Pedro? Oh, tell me, where, is José?”

  The priest had walked on slowly, limping a little, leaning on the old umbrella. Pedro glanced towards him, answered hurriedly:

  “It is not wise that I talk to you, Nicco. It compromises our position. Things are extremely bad. But I pray God they may be better.” Again he looked ahead and added, in a hasty undertone: “Take this, little amigo. Do not say a word.”

  He thrust a screw of paper into the boy’s hot hand, then the next minute had rejoined his companion and was advancing towards the door.

  In a flash Nicholas darted back into the bushes. Crouching unseen, with pounding heart, he opened the paper.

  Dear Nicco,—I hope this may reach you. They have shut me up in the cuartel. Is it not a joke? I can’t say I am crazy about this place. To obtain exercise I am obliged to stand on my head. But it makes little difference. I shall soon be out, and we shall laugh together at whoever has made this great mistake. Should you have the opportunity, please water the new plants. Also it is better if you keep away from Garcia. Be of good cheer, amigo. We shall yet go fishing again. I think it better if you destroy this note.

  Your friend , José.

  Nicholas read the letter three times, then, with glistening eyes, he placed it between his teeth and tore it into tiny shreds which, with a constriction of his throat, he bravely swallowed. Then, peering through the bushes to ascertain if he might come out safely, he saw, with a twinge of pain, that Pedro and the priest had not been admitted to the house. Instead, Garcia had thought fit to keep them standing at the door and now, coldly frowning, the Consul had appeared to interview them on the portico.

  For a moment Nicholas watched the scene, then, conquering his fear, he crept on his hands and knees, scratching them badly but not minding in the least, through the shrubbery until he was near enough to hear.

  “We are sorry to intrude upon you, señor,” Pedro was saying in a tone of such humility it made the boy’s heart bleed. “We know that your time is occupied by affairs of the highest importance.…”

  “I am, indeed, extremely busy,” the Consul snapped.

  “That is what I say, señor. Nevertheless, the matter upon which we venture to approach you is of much importance to us. I myself am a poor and ignorant man. Perhaps I would not dare to come alone. But Father Limaza has been kind enough to promise that he will speak for me.”

  “Pray come to the point.”

  Nicholas could scarcely bear it. Parting the bushes, he made out his father, towering above him, strangely magnified, and Pedro, his withered cheeks quite pale, pressing his hands nervously together, as though in supplication.

  “It is José, señor, my grandson. You are aware that he is in serious trouble.”

  The Consul moved impatiently, with a restive lift of his fleshy chin.

  “Naturally I am aware of it. The matter is out of my hands. Why don’t you go to the police?”

  “Poor people have little influence with the police, señor. But if you, with your high position, were to speak one word …”

  “I have no power to interfere with the course of justice, nor any desire to do so. Your grandson must suffer the consequences of his own act.”

  “But, señor … his act,” Pedro stammered. “That is just what we cannot understand …”

  “José is a good boy, señor.” It was Father Limaza who spoke at last, in a quiet and pacifying tone. “I can assure you of that, and I have known him all his life.”

  Thrilled by these words of intercession, Nicholas, craning his little neck upwards, could just see the spare, bowed figure of José’s champion. Then his heart sank. The old priest, draped in his rusty soutane, spotted in front with food-stains, clutching the ridiculous umbrella, his heavy, solid boots cracked in the uppers and foul with dried mud, seemed a sorry advocate indeed. His simple face, yellow and wrinkled, was marred by a purplish growth that sprang from the corner of his lips and which, by causing him to talk from the other side of his mouth, slurred his speech to the point of absurdity.

  “It was I who baptised him, señor … gave him his first Communion … administered Confirmation.…”

  The triteness of these words, uttered by such a scarecrow, actually infuriated the Consul.

  “Most touching,” he sneered with heavy sarcasm. “You seem to have prepared him admirably for a life of crime.”

  “Of course, we are all sinners.” The old priest took not the least offence, nor did his gentle gaze stir from the Consul’s face. “Yet I cannot conceive that José is a thief.”

  “Then my jewellery has simply vanished into thin air?”

  “It is not impossible, señor. Stranger things have happened under Heaven.”

  “What a pity Heaven permitted the cufflinks to remain in his pocket.”

  “Ah, yes, señor; that is a damaging fact. But José maintains he did not place them there.”

  Harrington Brande smiled with haughty bitterness.

  “He will find it difficult to convince the judge.”

  “No doubt, señor. But we are not his judges.” He paused as though offering himself, and all his humble experience, with supreme simplicity. “ I do not believe that José is guilty. But even if he were … if he had done this bad and stupid thing … would it not be an act of charity to forgive him?”

  “Do you take me for a fool?” Brande answered harshly, moved to unexpected vindictiveness by this old idiot’s attitude. “ The articles he stole from me are extremely valuable. Several things … my sapphire ring … the watch I got from the Swiss Ambassador, to mention only two of them … are quite irreplaceable. Am I to let myself be robbed of these without a word?”

  “Naturally, señor, your loss would be great. But would not the loss of a human soul be greater still? I have told you I know José. If he is sent to prison … he who loves the freedom of the open air … I will not answer for what might come to him … in his bitterness.…”

  “That is no concern of mine.”

  “And again, señor,” persisted the old priest, undeterred, with the gentle conciliation he might have used to persuade a stubborn child. “There are others to consider … weak and defenceless creatures, who, although unquestionably innocent, would, if you do not relent, be plunged into sorrow and want. You are aware that José supports his sisters … and my good friend, Pedro.…”

  “Then your good friend Pedro must now work for himself,” the Consul interrupted cruelly. “ If his purpose in coming here was to perpetuate himself in idleness, I must tell you it has failed.”

  There was an immediate pause. Pedro, with bowed head, a deep flush spreading round his wrinkled neck, mumbled to his companion:

  “What is the use? … Let us go.”

  Father Limaza’s gentle eyes were sombre. He drew himself up, as though summoning a final effort from his very soul.

  “I ask you, señor, for the last time, to be generous. As you expect it from above, do not be parsimonious of mercy to us. Pride is such a poor illusion. Are we not all of us suspended in the will of God? In the name of that God, withdraw your charge against José. If you do not, I fear that grave evil will come of it.”

  “I refuse,” the Consul answered brutally.

  A mortal silence followed. Then, from the old priest, a profound sigh. Nicholas, cowering in the bushes, could bear to gaze no longer. With tightly shut fists pressed against his eyes, he sank down in the dank earth, fighting, fighting to stifle his sobs. Blind and almost senseless, like a bird caught in a snare, he still heard the sharp slam of the door as his father returned to the house. Then, slowly, heavily, as though treading a measure of sadness, of inexorable pain, came the crunch of boots, the dragging of a lame leg, upon the gravel as the two old men retreated down the drive.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Three days later Professor Halevy departed for Paris. In the full flow of his gratitude, the Consul insisted that his friend be spared the
discomforts of the first stage of the journey—Garcia would drive him to Barcelona. As the two stood together in the hall, while the motor purred outside, Brande clasped the psychologist’s hand in a sudden access of emotionalism.

  “My dear Halevy … what can one say in appreciation of your invaluable aid?” He increased the pressure of his fingers. “You have been my support … my standby.…”

  The Professor barely smiled. In the light of morning his slight figure, shrouded by the dark cape, seemed more shrunken than ever, and his grey face, with its sharp-drawn features and blue pouches beneath the eyes, had the look of a hungry rodent.

  “As a scientist I seek no thanks.” His tone was studied; he toyed with the black chain which bound his cape. “ Nevertheless, as your friend, I am gratified that my results should have been so exceptional. In my last two sessions with your son I have observed a definite reduction of the fixation. And when this fellow is out of the way the whole foundation of the complex should crumble and disappear.” He shot a shrewd and stealthy glance at the other. “At the same time … I would ask you to be mindful of your own health.”

  “My health?” Brande repeated in surprise.

  “You have permitted this affair … this Spanish youth … to over-excite you. Your reflexes are exaggerated, your nervous system is on edge.”

  “Oh, come now, dear friend.” The Consul laughed, a trifle loudly.

  “Your affection for me makes you too anxious. I have never felt better in my life.”

  “No doubt. Revenge is a stimulating passion. But it may be dearly bought. Do not let it run away with you. For you … moderation is the only course.” Halevy spoke with acid dryness, and started towards the door. “Ah, well … we shall see you in Paris one of these days.” With an enigmatic, slightly sour smile, that pinched, impossible smile which exposed his pale gums almost in a sneer, he added: “No doubt when your book is published.”

  When the car drove off Brande remained standing upon the portico. In his present mood he would have preferred a more intense leave-taking, but Halevy, unpredictable, could, when he willed it, stifle all sensibility by his sterile and dispassionate detachment. Yet was there not a virtue in such firmness? It seemed so to the Consul at this moment. He had meant to go upstairs to see Nicholas before leaving for the office, but now, with a compression of his lips, he decided against such an overture. After all, it was not his place to break the estrangement—the boy must weaken first and come running back, with open arms and pleading eyes, to him. Straightening his shoulders, he picked up his hat and stick, then set out on foot towards the town.

  The morning was pleasant, the sun had not yet attained its full radiance and the Consul was in the mood for active movement. As he strode along he was conscious, within himself, of a deep, pervading sense of power. A heady distillate seemed flowing in his veins, pulsing through his body, mounting upwards to his brain in warm, dark waves. Behind that grave countenance, that staid composure, there worked a ferment more potent than wine. Like a lover tasting in advance the fulfilment of desire, he knew, and slowly savoured, a strange passion, the bitter-sweet intoxication of his hatred.

  At the Consulate he went directly to his own room. He had no sooner seated himself at his desk when Fernando, the chief Spanish clerk, knocked and entered.

  “Mr. Burton has gone to Porto Alijo, sir. In connection with the cargo of the Eastern Star. He was most anxious to speak with you, sir.”

  “Did he leave a message?”

  “No, sir. He said he would return by five o’clock this evening. He indicated that it was most important.”

  “Important?”

  “Yes, sir.… Mr. Burton seemed much disturbed.”

  “Very well,” said the Consul brusquely. “ He can see me when he gets back.”

  “And another matter, sir.” The young Spaniard hesitated, dropped his full, coffee-coloured eyes. “They telephoned you at nine o’clock from the corte. It is decided that José Santero must go to Barcelona for trial. He will be taken there on Wednesday by the afternoon train.”

  A tingling, electric wave passed along the Consul’s nerves—this, more than anything, was the news he wished to hear. He had feared all along that the case would come before the town police court, where local sentiment might easily sway the magistrate in the prisoner’s favour. But at the High Court in Barcelona it was a different matter. There the judgments were correct and strict, the sentences noticeably severe. With the greatest difficulty, Brande maintained his official air—his voice was slightly unsteady as he answered:

  “Thank you, Fernando. That will be all.”

  When the clerk bowed and went out, the Consul’s indifference left him; he rose impetuously and began to pace the strip of woven matting which ran the length of the narrow room. That dark gratification, burning more fiercely in his breast, would not permit him to be still. The thought of his approaching revenge grew and grew within him, until it suffused his every fibre. With hands locked behind his back, head bent forward, eyes bent staringly upon the floor, he moved to and fro, like a caged animal. He must, of course, be present at the trial to prefer the charges—already the scene in the court-room was vividly before his sight. But more than that, he would travel to Barcelona in the same train as the prisoner, sit near him in the compartment, witness at first hand every moment of his suffering, his shame.…

  There was little work upon the Consul’s desk: a tray of visa documents, some invoices of dutiable merchandise for export, his quarterly report on the commerce of the port; even so, he could not settle to it. The fever of restlessness was rising higher and still higher in his blood. He signed a few certificates, saw briefly two seamen who for the past hour had been waiting upon him to have their papers cleared, then went out early to the Café Chantaco for lunch.

  His normal habit was to eat sparingly at midday, sometimes to have no more than a cup of coffee, but to-day he felt unusually sharp-set. Seated in a corner by the window, he ordered beefsteak, a savoury pimento omelette and some goat’s-milk cheese, then, although he rarely touched liquor during the day, he drank in quick succession three glasses of manzanilla. A group of fishing skippers sat at an adjoining table with the pilot of the port, drinking beer, eating sardines and olives. Their deferential greeting increased his sense of personal authority, of manly physical power. At the back of the bar someone was playing a concertina, a slow Catalan cancion, and the words, imbued with a haunting melody all in the minor key, falling and fading, mingling in his head with the native spirit, aroused and enticed him.

  Lighting a cigar, for a while he made pretence of reading the Voz de Madrid, flicking the greasy pages over the wooden stick. But it was no use. He got up, threw a bill on the table, and left the café. Without purpose, he walked past the deserted, sun-bleached quays quivering in the afternoon glare, the thinly piled barrels emitting a hot odour of oil and resin. A phrase which Halevy had murmured one evening, with a deprecating shrug, kept echoing and re-echoing in his ear.

  “My dear friend … a man of your virility, in the prime of life … assuredly, you surprise me.”

  Quite suddenly, as though driven by an inner force, he pulled down the brim of his hat and turned into the town, to a strange street, deserted at this hour, yet slightly sinister, then through a dark patio, to the arcaded corridor within.…

  It was almost five o’clock when he got back to the Consulate and, with an inscrutable expression on his hard, pale face, went directly to his own room. On his passage through the outer office he observed, from the corner of his eye, that Alvin had already returned. Indeed, the assistant had been awaiting his chief with an expression of more than usual anxiety. He kept straightening his tie, with a characteristic gesture, and from time to time bent down in an effort to slap from his trouser turn-ups a powdering of meal dust picked up in the hold of the Eastern Star.

  Brande sat down heavily in his swivel chair and, fumbling for his handkerchief, wiped the moisture from his brow. With the cambric square still in his
hand he stared straight ahead for several minutes. His physical exhaustion had brought him some respite; nevertheless, he was angry at himself for his senseless adventure, and unaccountably depressed. At last, however, with a shrug he recovered himself, straightened his shoulders, abruptly rang the bell on his desk. Immediately Alvin entered. The Consul, almost wooden in his seat, gazed at his assistant with a queer fixity.

  “Well?” Brande spoke at last. “What is the matter?”

  The Chief’s manner had the effect of increasing young Burton’s agitation.

  “I’m sorry to have to worry you, sir. Really I am. But the fact is, I’ve had a letter from the agency.”

  “What agency?”

  “The domestic agency,” Alvin answered. “Oh, I assure you, sir, I did all I could … wrote to the best place in Madrid. I wanted so much to please you, but I’m not really up to that sort of thing.”

  “Will you have the goodness to explain what on earth you are talking about?”

  Alvin moistened his dry lips.

  “It’s your butler, sir … Garcia … the man I engaged for you. He had the highest references, and now the head of the agency has written me in confidence to say there’s reason to believe these testimonials were forged. He says also that the authorities are looking for a certain man … Rodrigo Espantago is his name … and the agency thinks it may be Garcia. He’s wanted for robbery with violence, and desertion from the Army. He broke out of a criminal mental asylum in Malaga where he was under observation.…”

  Behind the impersonal mask of his authority Brande experienced a sudden, frightening stab. He had expected some petty official difficulty to be brought before him, the kind of legal misgiving which usually plagued Alvin’s scrupulous mind. But this … this was something incredibly, fantastically different.

  “Show me the letter,” he said after a strangely rigid pause.

  When Burton handed him the sheet, he read it through twice, sat for some minutes in heavy, fretful thought, then slowly raised his eyes to the assistant.