by Per Wahlöö
He sounded as if he were talking to himself.
“Where do they get their leaflets printed?”
“Here somewhere, God knows where. You see, they don’t need a printing plant, but just set the text by hand and print it on one of those little hand presses—proof presses, I think they’re called. We’ve found and confiscated eight or nine of them, but there are evidently several more around. They’re small and easy to hide.”
“I’m broadcasting at five o’clock.”
“Good. I’ll listen to you.”
“Would you check that the broadcast goes out over the loudspeakers in the workers’ quarter?”
“Of course. I’ll see that the loudspeakers up at the mines are switched on too.”
Manuel Ortega thought for a moment.
“I’ll be giving a more detailed speech tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“Apropos of that, is the telephone working?”
“Only locally.”
“I’ve noticed that. But why not further out?”
“The line is cut somewhere up north. The fault doesn’t seem to have been found yet. The line is evidently cut somewhere near the border anyway, perhaps not even on our side. I’ve sent a cable about it.”
“Could it be due to partisan activities?”
“Possibly.”
The conversation ended. Manuel finished his glass of lemonade, looked out at the deserted square and went in to Danica Rodríguez.
“Reserve broadcasting time for ten tomorrow morning. And inform the Chief of Police that I’ll be making another important speech then. Tell him that the loudspeakers in the workers’ quarter and at the mines are to be switched on.”
She looked questioningly at him.
“Are you thinking of …”
“Yes,” he said, tapping on the pocket containing his wallet.
She smiled and stuck out the tip of her tongue between her teeth.
Mischief, he thought conventionally.
Then he said: “But that’s not enough. Do you think there’s a printer who can be persuaded to do a couple of thousand copies?”
“No,” she said. “Definitely not.”
He looked at her legs and feet. She followed his gaze and smiled. The same smile as day before, narrow and eager and with a glitter behind her half-closed eyelids.
You damned little …
His thoughts were broken off by the telephone and he left her at once. It was Colonel Ruiz, who carried on a long and involved conversation about the transport of the water. He spoke very formally and what he said was almost totally lacking in interest. Manuel asked only one question.
“How many vehicles are working at the moment?”
“Twenty-five. Three army, sixteen requisitioned, and five more private. One being repaired.”
Manuel said “thank you” and replaced the receiver. Behounek had been right as usual.
But then he thought: No, not as usual. Behounek had not been right. Behounek had not been right. Behounek must not be right. Behounek had never been right. In essentials Behounek had never been right.
A short while later Danica Rodríguez came in with a cable which ran: HOW IS CONFERENCE GOING STOP COMPLETE GUARANTEES GIVEN STOP COOPERATE CLOSELY WITH BEHOUNEK ZAFORTEZA.
He threw the paper into a drawer in his desk and went to change his clothes. He noticed that five jars of water were standing in the shower. He was being looked after in spite of everything. When he went back, he thought: This time I won’t be afraid. This thing with the door is a foolish complex which I must get rid of.
But he still automatically thrust his hand under his jacket as he turned the doorknob. The room was hot and white and terrible.
He went to the radio station at half past four. Just as he was on his way out he was stopped by Danica Rodríguez.
“I’ve had an idea,” she said. “I’ve found an old duplicating machine in one of the rooms. I think it’ll work. We could do a couple of thousand copies on it.”
“Tonight?”
“Of course. I’ll get some ink and stencils and paper.”
“Then you’ll be here when I get back.”
“Of course.”
The temperature in the radio station was beyond belief. The technicians were working in shorts and had put wet towels on the backs of their necks. The woman at the controls was sitting with her feet in a bowl of water. The announcer, who had great red heat patches on his face and arms, shook his head and said: “We’re all from the north and haven’t been here long. Most of their own people were wiped out in the rioting in March last year when the right-wingers blew up the old radio station and set fire to it.”
“I didn’t know that. Why did they do it?”
“There were a couple of Communists on the staff here, I think. They fixed up ghost broadcasts for the Liberation Front several times a day. That was before the government crisis and before the Federal Police came here. It seems to have been pure Wild West then.”
“But it’s better now.”
“Yes, it’s fine now. But one never gets used to the heat. This place is faultily built, like everything else in this rotten part of the country. The idiot who planned it forgot the ventilation.”
Manuel looked around the studio. Although the building was brand new, the ceiling had cracked and the plywood had warped in the heat.
“We’ve thrown away the thermometer. If we could actually see how hot it was in here we’d have a stroke. Well, we’re lucky they haven’t television here, with its lights and all that jazz,” he said philosophically.
Manuel Ortega was forced to take off his jacket. He sat at the table with its green felt cloth, dressed in a shirt with the collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up, striped suspenders and a revolver in a shoulder holster.
The anouncer stared incredulously at the Astra.
As Manuel waited for the red light, he looked at López and felt utterly foolish.
The light went on and he began to read. It was all over in two minutes.
“That sounded fine,” said the announcer nonchalantly. “Though we’ll adjust your s’s down a little next time. In fact, we can do your new recording direct and take a bit of time over it and then we’ll know once and for all what adjustments are needed for your voice. Then we’ll put that tape out over the air every hour.”
The man was obviously quite indifferent to the political implications and hardly conscious of the seriousness of the situation.
“That’s good,” said Manuel Ortega to himself. “He’ll do.”
When he got back to the Governor’s Palace, he asked Danica Rodríguez: “Did you hear the broadcast?”
“Yes. The guarantees are still not good enough.”
His announcement had been very simple. He had said that the government had assigned to him the task of arranging a meeting of reconciliation between the Citizens’ Guard and the Liberation Front, and that complete guarantees were being assured for the delegates’ personal safety. Finally, he had urged the two parties to make themselves known through authorized messengers.
“Well, we’ll see,” he said.
Danica Rodríguez did not reply. She had gotten paper, stencils, and tubes of ink. The materials were all lying on her desk, and at the side stood the duplicating machine, a dusty old-fashioned model which no one seemed to have used for the last ten years.
A moment later she said: “It doesn’t work properly.”
She had typed a few sentences on a stencil to try it out. The result was scarcely encouraging.
Manuel Ortega looked dejectedly at the machine. He was not mechanical-minded and felt nonplused. As if that were not enough, the woman shook her head and said: “I’m no good at all with mechanical things.”
He turned the machine again, looked at the unreadable script, and crumpled up the paper.
“Damn,” she said.
“Excuse me.”
They both jumped, and Manuel thrust his hand under his jacket.
It was L
ópez who had spoken.
“Excuse me,” he said again. “When I worked in the aliens’ department we had a machine just like that.”
They stared at him. He was sitting as usual by the wall with his hands on his knees.
“I was convalescing then,” he added. “Shot in the foot.”
“Then perhaps you can help?”
“It’s possible,” said López.
Ten minutes later the machine was working, but after a hundred or so copies the first stencil tore. Manuel stood by the wall and looked on while she typed another. She worked swiftly, apparently enthusiastic and happy, and her breasts moved beneath her dress. She had a spot of ink on her temple, and when she raised her hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead, the ink was rubbed into a long black streak.
She brushed by quite close to him, softly and supplely. Like an animal. She fixed the stencil and adjusted the paper. She brushed past him again. When she came back, he put out his hand and held her arm.
“Danica.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes were large and dark gray and questioning. At first. Then she nodded and put the pile of paper down.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m coming.”
He held her by the arm and led her through the other room, across the corridor, unlocked the door, and went in.
He did not think. Not about López. Nor about Behounek. Nor about anyone. Or anything.
He turned on the light.
She looked at him seriously and pushed aside the hair on her forehead with her wrist.
“Yes,” she said.
He took her by the shoulders and kissed her. Her lips were thin and soft and alive. Slowly she moved her head and opened her mouth. He felt her tongue. She was with him, next to him. Her body soft, melting against his.
Then they let go. He took off his jacket and shoes and unfastened the gun.
She unfastened the top two buttons of her dress and then stopped.
He reached over and unfastened the third. The fourth. He pulled the dress down over her shoulders. Touched her naked breasts. Looked at them. Small and well formed. The mark had almost vanished now, only a faint blue shadow. Her nipples were dark brown and hard.
He began to take off his shirt.
She looked at him. Suddenly she said: “Hell. No. It’s no good.”
He was utterly dismayed.
“Why not?”
“The usual. How could I forget?”
He stared at her.
“It’s no good. It’s not good for me. Hurts.”
She seemed just as dismayed as he.
“It sounds quite crazy,” she said, “but I really had forgotten.”
“But later?”
“What do you mean, later?”
“Well, when it’s over. Then?”
“Of course. At once.”
“Sure?”
She laughed and put two fingers against his mouth.
“I swear,” she said.
He laughed too.
“You realize, I really do want to,” she said.
“Undress.”
She gave him a questioning gray look.
“I’ll give you a shower. There’s lots of water in there.”
He pulled down the zipper of her dress.
She was wearing only two garments apart from her sandals and was ready before he was. They looked at each other.
“You’re naked,” she said.
“So are you.”
“You’re awfully hairy.”
“So are you.”
“Only there,” she said.
She drew her fingertips through the close black hair.
Above the hairline was a circular bruise.
She stood in the shower, at first with her hands on her knees. He slowly poured two jars of water over her.
“My hair too,” she said.
Then it was his turn. He shivered and thought that the water could not have been all that cold.
They dried themselves and went into the bedroom. She lay down on the bed and looked at him as he shut the door and came back.
“You’ve a fine body.”
“So have you.”
“I’ve long legs and good feet. Otherwise I’m not much.”
He leaned over the bed and kissed her.
“Sometimes I get an inferiority complex,” she said. “Me, who’s supposed to be so tough and hardened.”
“When?”
“When I see people like that woman today. Silly.”
They looked at each other again.
“Do you want me to do something to you?”
“I can wait,” he said.
“I didn’t ask you what you can do. I asked you what you wanted.”
He lay down beside her and raised his arm.
“No,” she said. “Don’t turn out the light.”
Soon afterward she said: “I’ll lie on your arm.”
He lay still, with her wet hair against his shoulder. Her body was cool and pleasant after the shower. Clean.
He thought: When you are lying down you seem tall and fully grown, but when you are dressed you seem so small. At the same time slender and firm as only boats and certain women can be.
He said: “How many pulls will a stencil stand, by the way?”
“A thousand, but hush. Don’t talk about it. Don’t even think about it. Not now. Think about me. Think about yourself. This is our only chance.”
She pushed her fingers through his hair, and laid her hand flat on his stomach.
“Well,” she said. “Do you want to?”
“Yes.”
She lay still, immobile … After a while she said: “Good?”
He said nothing. He gripped her. Her shoulders. Her breasts. Her stomach. Thrust his fingers through the tight hair. Came nearer.
“You’re a little afraid of me, aren’t you?” he said.
She raised her left leg a little and laid it across his. Knee to knee. Foot to ankle.
“Only a little,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I’m lying on my right arm. It hurts.”
She sat up.
“Can you see me now?” she said.
“Yes.”
“I can see you too.”
He nodded.
“Look then, because I’m going to turn the light out now.”
She knelt up and put out the light. She bent down in the darkness and kissed him with her open mouth. He stroked her lightly from hip to neck with his right hand, feeling her skin. He lay with his hand on her head without holding on to her. She began to move, at first imperceptibly. She slid the tip of her tongue over his lips and chin. His throat and on down his chest.
“You’re fine,” she said.
He took hold of her hips and raised her. She was light and lay astride now, on all fours. Over him. He held her feet firmly. He let go. Slowly he stroked her calf and thigh with his right hand. She moved her knees. More comfortable, she thought, with her heels against his ribs. So open, and he stroked her, his fingertips moving in an elliptical curve. Searching for the sensitive place. Finding it as one finds things in the dark.
“Good?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Really good?”
“Yes,” she said. “Really. You’ll soon see.”
Near to breaking point. Very near. Very very near.
Breathing. Lying still. A long time.
She moved and changed her position in the dark. She put on the light. She half lay, propped on her elbow, looking at him. Stroking his lips with her fingertips.
“It must have been a long time ago for you,” she said.
“Yes, quite a long time.”
“What do you mean by quite?”
He had to think.
“Nine or ten days. But not so long for you?”
“No, not so long ago.”
“How long?”
“Three days ago. No, four.”
“The officer?”
“No.”
<
br /> “Then who?”
“No one you know. He’s called Ramón.”
“Do you know him? Well?”
“Fairly.”
“It wasn’t the first time?”
“Not at all.”
“Was he good, Ramón?”
“I like him. That’s the main thing.”
“Did he make that bruise?”
“Which one?”
“On your stomach.”
“Yes.”
“And the officer?”
“Yes, but that was earlier.”
“Was he good too?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t exactly like him.”
“But you slept with him?”
“Yes.”
“Then it was all wasted then?”
“It’s seldom completely wasted when you sleep with someone.”
“Do you always live like this?”
“More or less. Not always. In spasms. Do you disapprove?”
“Yes. Very much so.”
She lay down, putting her head on his shoulder and her hand on his chest.
“It wasn’t like that before,” she said. “Not in the beginning. But it’s become like that. I’ve become involved twice, seriously you know, and all that. But it didn’t work. Always ended with me hurting those I really liked. So I was scared of getting involved, and to avoid it I began to live like this. Now I don’t think I could get involved again. But I don’t know and that’s why I’ve been hesitant in this case, the Manuel case.”
She said this in an intentionally comical tone of voice and he could not help laughing. Then she said: “That’s what I’m like. What are you like?”
“Little different.”
“Are you unfaithful to your wife?”
“As you see.”
“Often?”
“Now and again, but not often.”
“With a lot of women?”
“No, definitely not with a lot. And I don’t like talking about it.”
“You’re fine,” she said, “anyhow.”
“So are you. How do you feel, though?”
“Awful.”
“What are you scrambling about for?”
“Cigarettes.”
She lay still beside him, smoking. She said: “Do you feel awful too?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing to what we’ll feel the day after tomorrow.”
After a while: “Listen—we must get to work now. Mustn’t fall asleep.”