She ignored that, kept concentrating on Constanza. “I lost my temper—”
“No. Surely not.”
Tavita noted the amusement on his face. “I had every right to lose my temper,” she said stiffly. “It was the fault, of course, of that photographer from the big American magazine. He had her dancing on the beach, bare feet, dressed in floating gauze. His ideas. For the American public, he said. Flamenco? I told her she could take all these tricks over to North Africa where they belong, bare her belly if she wanted to, but never never call that dance flamenco. Yes, as you say, quite a quarrel. And another problem: Constanza will wake up this morning and begin resenting what I said. That is the way she is. And I can’t be there to keep her silent. What will she decide to tell Captain Rodriguez when he comes questioning? Oh, he will come to visit El Fenicio again. This afternoon, perhaps, as soon as everyone is awake—and talkative. Constanza has quick eyes. When I dance, I forget everything except the dancing, the music, but Constanza watches the audience—that is why she will never be a great dancer. She thinks she saw someone up on the balcony of my room. I told her it must have been Jeff. I told her that he had been leaving an invitation with Magdalena—an invitation for me—to join you and Jeff in a late supper. Oh, Jeff and I often do that, you know. It could be the truth.”
Just as the holiday in England could be the truth, Ferrier thought, and probably isn’t. “And was it Jeff on your balcony? Or was it Tomás?”
Her face went white. “Constanza only thought she saw someone. It could have been a shadow or—”
“Then why worry?”
“Because Captain Rodriguez is too interested in last night.”
“Drugs?” Ferrier asked quietly. That was a question that still troubled him.
“Ridiculous!” There was no doubt she found it so. “That was only an excuse he used.”
And again we are retreating from the main problem, Ferrier thought. He brought it back. “In order to search thoroughly? For what, then? For Tomás?”
“But he can’t know about Tomás.” She sounded as if she were persuading herself. “None of us knew about Tomás until he arrived yesterday. Not even Jeff.” She noticed the disbelief in Ferrier’s eyes. “Truly,” she said. “Jeff did not know who he was. I had to give Jeff the signal that there was someone—a refugee—from Cuba—who was upstairs waiting for him.”
“Why?”
“But the refugees always did. Jeff always talked with them, made sure they were what they said they were.”
And learned something about Cuba that wasn’t displayed on guided tours, no doubt. “So he had an interview with Tomás?” Ferrier instinctively touched Jeff’s lighter, which lay deep and safe in his trouser pocket. His anger surfaced. “And what was he thinking of, dragging you and Jaime and all the others into his damned business?”
She was puzzled. “Dragged? It was I who asked for his help. Six years ago. And he gave it to me.”
“You mean you involved him? Not the other way around.”
“Involved?” she repeated in English. She didn’t like that word. She shook her head.
“Look—we were doing fine: you talking in Spanish, I in English. Let’s keep on that way. It is much quicker. What I meant by involved is—”
“I know what it means. But it wasn’t that way. I trusted Jeff. And he trusted me. And so—as true friends—we worked together. It was all so simple at first. It began with my brother. And then, a friend of his came next. And then a cousin of that friend. And then—” She shrugged her shoulders. “They are honest men. Not criminals. They do not come here to make trouble.” That seemed to satisfy her that she had broken no laws, perhaps not even bent a few. Ferrier’s doubts showed on his face. She said pleadingly, “But don’t you see? Someone must help them to make a safe arrival.”
It was a curious phrase, not only in the way she expressed it, but also in the idea that lay behind it. “Couldn’t your police take care of their safe arrival? Or your immigration people?”
“And if you were a refugee, Señor Ferrier, how would you let them know you were coming? In advance?”
He shook his head. His question had been damned stupid, he realised. He had been thinking mostly of the risks Tavita and Jeff had taken.
“You could hardly write to our police and say, ‘Gentlemen, I am leaving Havana, without permission, and will arrive in Málaga at pier Number Three on the eighth of June by the freighter Santa Maria, which will dock at six o’clock in the evening. Please have my papers in order so that I can land. Also, since I am a stranger in Málaga, please make arrangements to meet me so that I will not be kidnapped or knifed to death in a back alley in some drunken brawl.’ You understand how it is, Señor Ferrier?”
“You made it quite clear.”
“And did I make you angry?” she asked sadly.
“With myself,” he admitted frankly. I asked for it, he thought, and I certainly got it.
“Then you will help me?”
She had timed that question well. He said guardedly, “If I can.” And here starts my involvement, he thought. No, not quite true. His involvement could be said to have started when he went to see flamenco danced in El Fenicio last night. Everything that had followed had, in its strange way, led him to this answer. He didn’t like it. It wasn’t of his own choosing.
“It is simple. When you see Jeff today, will you please ask him what I should do? Tell him that I have already done what he wanted: I have kept Tomás safe. And I will make sure he is safe—until I hear from Jeff. But he must send someone who is capable of dealing with Tomás. I am not.”
“Why not?”
“Tomás is a refugee, like the others. But he is not like them, either. He does not intend to live in Spain, work here. He cannot. And please—” her hand went up, and she smiled—“no more questions.”
“No?” He was smiling, too. “I’m to help you with some guy and I can’t even ask what his full name is?”
“Tomás is enough. He is already angry that so many people know he is here. He did not plan it that way, but how else could I manage?”
She was no professional, he decided. When she had to rid El Fenicio of Tomás, she had panicked, turned to friends and relatives. As for Tomás—was he really a refugee? Or was he a fugitive? He cannot live in Spain, Tavita had said. Yes, possibly a fugitive, and that much more dangerous. “A pity,” he said gently, “to involve so many. And not from Tomás’ point of view. I’m talking about Jaime and Concepción and old Magdalena. Oh, and wasn’t there a banderillero called Pépé?” And now an idiot called Ian Ferrier, he thought wryly.
“I ask them to do no more for me than I would do for them,” she said, eyes wide, head high. “And they know that.” Then indignation and anger vanished, and her voice softened. “I like your concern, Señor Ferrier. I think I like you very much.”
I wish, he decided, I could stop thinking and feeling what a beautiful woman this is, and keep my mind on the cold hard facts.
“But,” she went on, “what else could I do, last night? Pépé can drive a car, but he did not know the way to this house. Jaime knows the way, but he is too young to drive—he has no licence.”
“Everything has to be kept legal,” he agreed.
“You are laughing at me, again! If you had stayed at El Fenicio, you could have brought Tomás here quite safely—as Jeff would have done. And none of the others would have been involved.” She looked at him severely. And then relented. “No, no, I do not blame you. I was a little angry because you do not take me seriously. I do not blame you any more than I blame Jeff’s fall. If anyone is to blame for all this trouble then it is—” She paused, frowning.
“Tomás?” he suggested.
“Or the man who attacked Jeff. Certainly, if Jeff were here he would deal with everything, and I would have no worries at all.”
“Attacked?”
“That is what Tomás says. He may be wrong. He has so many suspicions. But why should Jeff be attacked? Perhaps the man
—the American with the hair around his face like cobwebs, the one that puzzles Captain Rodriguez so much—perhaps he was trying to reach Tomás upstairs. And Jeff stopped him. That is what Tomás must think, I know. You can see why he is so—so nervous. It was good that you did not speak or move, when you saw him last night.” There was laughter in her eyes, as if she were imagining the scene.
Not my most heroic moment, thought Ferrier. Every time he had remembered it, he had felt not exactly proud of his performance. Sure, he had been tired; sure, he had been thinking of a hundred things; sure, he had been startled. But usually his reflexes were quick. “An attack of paralysis,” he admitted a little sourly as her laughter burst to the surface.
“You fooled the clever Tomás!” she said with open delight.
He felt better, somehow, that she was putting that interpretation on the hidden confrontation. “If you hate him so much, why help him? Why don’t you walk right upstairs to the attic and tell him to clear out?”
The laughter faded. “You do ask difficult questions. But even if I could do that, Jeff would not want it. Yes,” she insisted as she watched his face, “you will find that is true when you talk with Jeff.”
He said nothing.
She became anxious. “You will talk with him? You will tell him what I said?”
“I’ll see him for you.”
She relaxed. She seemed to sense his doubts, though, for she said quickly, “I cannot risk getting in touch with Jeff directly. And I cannot risk using the telephone. So you must bring me his answer. To Granada. Will you do that?” She moved away from the window, passed him with a drift of rose fragrance trailing behind her, and went over to Jeff’s desk. She knew in which drawer to find a piece of writing paper and pencil. “Here is my address. It is easy to reach—not far from the Alhambra Palace. You know that hotel?”
“I stayed there two nights ago.”
“You walk south from it, and take the street, almost a country road, that runs along the edge of the high ground. The houses are few and so close to the cliff that their terraces look as if they were going to slip into the ravine. My house is the third, on your left. You will see its name on the iron gate: La Soledad.”
“Solitude?” The name amused him, and so did her running description. She was writing while she talked. He joined her at the desk, looked over her shoulder. The letters were big and bold, but not altogether easy to read. He repeated the words to make sure. “Cuesta de San Cecilio. La Soledad. Vergara.” He glanced at her. “Señorita Vergara?”
“Octavia Vergara. I was the eighth daughter, in a family of fourteen—and the youngest. But Tavita is simpler. And here is my telephone number.” She added that with a flourish.
“I thought you distrusted telephones.”
“Your visit must appear to be—natural. So of course you would call me to let me know you have arrived in Granada. And perhaps ask me to luncheon?” There was a fleeting smile. “But be careful what you say. You are on your way to Madrid, you brought your rented car back to Granada, you would like to see me, possibly give me the latest doctor’s report on Jeff?”
“I need no excuse for seeing you. And will you come to lunch this time?”
“I will say, I’m so sorry; but will you have dinner with me instead? The view from my terrace at night is magnificent.”
“And when did you think this up?” He found it comic. Did she really think she had to spell everything out so clearly, that he couldn’t invent his own telephone calls? “A perfectionist, I see.” He took the piece of paper and folded it.
“You are laughing at me again! But why? What is wrong? It could all be true, couldn’t it?”
Yes, he thought, it could all be true. She liked that phrase. A lie was not altogether a lie if it could be true? He laughed outright.
She went into a sudden small panic. “You are going to help me?”
That sobered him. “Yes. Why else would I have let you tell me all this?” He took out his wallet and slipped the folded sheet of paper inside it.
She gave a sigh of relief, and then a brilliant smile. She put out her hand, touched his arm lightly. “Thank you.” Then she looked at her watch, couldn’t quite read it, asked, “How long have I been with you?”
“About half an hour.”
“What?” She picked up her bag and gloves, hurried to the door. But even these quick movements seemed graceful.
He just managed to get there first and open it for her. “Not quite half an hour,” he reassured her. “What’s the rush?”
They were out in the main room. Concepción was there, standing guard at the hall entrance. Jaime was at the front door. “You are late,” Concepción was saying.
“I know, I know,” Tavita told her impatiently. “Don’t worry. We shall reach Granada before two o’clock if we drive quickly.” She looked at Ferrier. “And miss the heat of the day,” she added for his benefit. She waved a hand to Concepción, nodded reassuringly to Jaime as they passed him. “Goodbye, Señor Ferrier. Give my best wishes to Señor Reid.”
“I’ll see you to the car.” He followed her outside.
“No need,” she said firmly, and held out her hand. “My chauffeur is there to open the door.” The grey-uniformed man, black-visored cap pulled well down on his brow, was indeed waiting. He was rearranging a pile of dress boxes on the front seat to make room for his suitcase.
“Let me walk you down this path,” Ferrier said.
“No need. Please!” Then she noticed the small grey car that had drawn up outside the gateway and was now backing along the street to leave the driveway entrance free. A man got out. “So it begins,” she said softly. She halted. She began talking vivaciously, as if their conversation was so engrossing that she found it difficult to leave. “Your name is strange: Ee-an. Is that how it should be pronounced?”
He nodded. “Ian. It’s the Gaelic version of John. Not so strange. It’s the same name as your Juan.” The man, he noted, had entered the driveway and was walking briskly toward the house. “Rodriguez?” he asked as he looked away from the neat figure in its light-grey suit.
“He is alone. So there is no trouble. But Gaelic? What is that?”
“The language they speak in the highlands of Scotland. That’s just north of England.”
“I know, I know.”
“Lots of Europeans don’t.”
“It is a place of mountains. That is why they have those peculiar dances.”
“Why?” he asked, interested, almost forgetting Captain Rodriguez, who was now passing Tavita’s car. The chauffeur was arranging packages and boxes. Magdalena’s cracked old voice was shrilling out advice.
“But it is the same wherever you have mountains or rough country. The dancers leap. All their steps are high, light. But down on the plains or where the ground is more—more level, then people dance with a closer step to the earth. They do not need to lift their feet so much.”
“The flatter the ground, the more they shuffle?” he suggested.
“But it is true. Have you not noticed the difference in the dances of your own American Indians? The Jicarilla Apaches leap. The Pueblo Indians beat the earth with each step.”
“Now how do you know about—”
“One August, some years ago, I was in Mexico. And I went up into New Mexico to visit the Gallup Festival. Why not? Many artists from Europe go there to see the Indians at their ceremonial—Oh, Captain Rodriguez! Good morning. Have you met Señor Reid’s friend—Señor Ian Ferrier?” Ferrier returned the captain’s polite bow with a nod of his head. Whom has he come to see? Tavita or me?
The captain answered that question for him by saying, “Are you leaving, too, Señor Ferrier?”
“No.”
“Just listen to Magdalena!” Tavita exclaimed. “She is cross at being kept waiting in the car. Goodbye, Captain Rodriguez. Goodbye, Señor Ferrier,” She held out her hand to him. “I hope we meet again. I wanted to hear more about your astronauts.” To Rodriguez, she said, “Señor Ferrier
comes from Houston. He tracks things in the sky.”
“The machines do that,” Ferrier said. So she and Jeff had talked about him before he arrived. Ridiculously, he was pleased. He released her hand, still feeling the small secret pressure it had given his.
“I know, I know. And all you do is oil the machines.”
That sounded like old Jeff, Ferrier thought. He laughed and said, “That’s about it.” She gave him a dazzling smile that was all his own! She turned away and walked toward the car, paused to call back, “And you will be sure to tell Señor Reid that I am deeply sorry about his accident? Do explain that I must be in Seville tonight, so I must leave this morning to let me break the journey in Granada. I shall go to see him next Friday, when I am back in Málaga.” She waved, and walked on.
Ferrier had been looking at the Mercedes. The chauffeur was now closing the trunk, where he had been rearranging things—a busy fellow, that chauffeur, efficient—and was preparing to come into full view to open the door for Tavita. Are my eyes playing tricks, Ferrier wondered, or is that uniform less crumpled than the one I saw earlier this morning from my bedroom window? Where are those deep creases across the back? Ferrier took a quick step toward the front door. “It’s cooler inside,” he suggested.
Rodriguez was watching Tavita. “It is only a brief visit—”
“That suits me,” said Ferrier. He was already inside the front door, and Rodriguez followed him. “I wanted to see something of the town before lunch at the parador.” He led the way through the hall into the main room. “I’m delighted you speak English. My Spanish is—well, hesitant.” From the driveway outside, they could hear the car being backed slowly toward the street. “But if you prefer to talk in it, I understand most of the flow. It’s the speaking that I find a little baffling.” He turned to face Rodriguez. “I suppose you came to ask about Jeff Reid. The latest reports were that he is resting comfortably—which means, of course, that he is sleeping off the painkillers they pumped into him.” He pointed to a couple of hard chairs. “These look the coolest. Shall we sit over there?” And you are talking too much, he told himself. He relaxed a little when he heard the diminishing sound of Tavita’s car as it travelled away at good speed.
Message From Malaga Page 11