THE YOUNG SPANIARD

by MARY HOCKING

  After that he went out once or twice with Frangcon when he was off duty and she was not seeing James. She was gentle and sympathetic and on the whole he found this rather irritating. But there was something else about her that awakened a response in him. When he was with her he seemed to remember back to a time before the world lost its stability, a halcyon time when one believed that one day one would knock on the right door and be admitted to a world magically transformed, a world where all the questions—‘Who am I?’

  ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘Where can I find happiness?’ would be answered.

  He thought a lot about her because she seemed to belong to this bright, unshadowed world of youth. For several days he allowed himself to live through a fantasy in which they went away together. This pleasant dream state did not last for long.

  It was James who shattered the dream. Rose had to take a party of tourists to a night club in Tossa de Mar. James and Frangcon decided to spend the day there and join the party in the evening and Raoul attached himself to them because the nights on his own were no longer bearable. He arrived at Tossa early in the evening and found James sitting in a deck chair below the balcony of a hotel overlooking the beach. Frangcon was changing for the evening. Raoul had not seen James since the trip to the mountains and he was surprised at the change in his manner.

  ‘Rose not with you?’ he asked, with a rather militant directness, when Raoul strolled up to him.

  ‘Rose and her party will be coming much later. Things don’t come to life in these parts until around midnight.’

  James picked up a pebble and examined it critically as though there was something exceptional about it.

  ‘What do you see in Rose?’ he demanded.

  Raoul thought about this while he watched some fishermen hauling a boat up the beach and a few bathers still splashing in the long shadow cast by the cliff on the water. The sky was gashed with green and orange and further out, beyond the shadow of the cliff, the sea was dark turquoise, patterned with blue and silver where the currents moved.

  ‘Poets talk about deep waters, but the shallows have their own kind of attraction. No depth to plumb, no storms to ride out, no mystery even . . .’

  James threw the pebble out towards the sea; it fell short.

  ‘Never mind the poets. Any seaman will tell you the danger lies in the shallows.’

  ‘Perhaps that is the answer. Rose offers a long, easeful disintegration.’

  ‘So much for Rose.’ James hurled another stone which also fell short. ‘And Frangcon?’

  ‘Frangcon?’

  Raoul closed his eyes. He tried to remember the beach along which he had walked with Frangcon and that other beach where he had dreamt of Greece; but he saw only an olive grove, the leaves still in the unrelenting noonday heat. James, looking at him, was more conscious than ever before of the faint scar that ran down the side of his face. He looked older and more warped than James had ever seen him.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Life is absurd.’ Raoul said.

  James frowned.

  ‘Absurd,’ Rafeul repeated softly. ‘Everything happens back to front. You learn the answers when the questions no longer matter, you find what you want after you have forfeited it.’

  Life had lost its savour there in the olive grove and so he could never enjoy Frangcon. It was all very simple really. For James, however, it was anything but simple. He said testily:

  ‘I’m tired of this spurious air of mystery, these dark hints and this obscure melancholy. Just what is it all about?’

  ‘I don’t think it concerns you.’

  ‘You made it concern me when you goaded me into staying in Barcelona.’

  ‘Perhaps that was a mistake.’

  He glanced at James’s uncompromising profile: undoubtedly it had been a mistake.

  ‘I agree with you,’ James retorted. ‘But it has happened. And I’m tired of fumbling around in the dark, so perhaps you would be good enough . . .’

  Raoul, glancing towards the hotel, was relieved to see Frangcon coming slowly through the lounge, looking fresh and expectant in a new dress.

  ‘Be of good cheer!’ he said. ‘Light dawns—for you, at least.’

  ‘God give me patience!’ James exploded. ‘If I have to listen to much more of this melodramatic nonsense . . .’

  But Raoul had already relieved him of this necessity by getting up and walking away. Frangcon paused and watched him go, surprised and a little hurt that he had not acknowledged her. Then she walked slowly across to the balcony and looked down at James who was still scowling angrily.

  ‘What has been going on here?’ she asked. ‘A nice evening we shall have if you are both going to be moody.’

  She had changed into a wide-skirted frock of pale gold silk which enriched the deep brown of her arms and throat. She had drawn her dark hair back severely and standing beside her on the balcony in the purple dusk of evening James was aware of the broad curve of the cheek-bones and the brightness of the great, dark eyes.

  ‘Let’s go away from here,’ he said.

  She looked at her watch, uncharacteristically conscious of time. ‘To the old town, you mean?’

  ‘To Seville, Granada, Santiago de Compostela . . . anywhere that appeals to you.’

  She laughed. ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘James! You look quite fierce.’ She sat down on one of the canvas seats and patted the one next to it. ‘Now, tell me what this is all about.’ She sounded comforting, as though she was talking to a child.

  He wanted to say that it was about life and death, but the absurdity of it silenced him. After a moment, he said:

  ‘It would be wise to get away now, while we can.’

  ‘Is there going to be an earthquake or something?’

  He supposed he could not blame her. He sounded as melodramatic as Raoul: the tone of voice seemed to be catching. He took her hand and led her down to the sand. There were not many people about. The boats had by now evacuated the day trippers and the long-staying tourists were incarcerated in their hotels. A cool breeze was blowing off the sea and they walked along the beach alone. He said more quietly:

  ‘Frangcon, you can’t be quite unaware of the atmosphere here.’

  She made no reply, but as she looked at him her eyes darkened and lost their customary sparkle.

  ‘We can’t stay on the outside of this for ever,’ he went on. ‘Something will happen sooner or later which will involve us.’

  She said gently, ‘But if we are talking like this, it has already happened.’

  ‘Perhaps. But it’s still a mystery. Let’s get away while it remains so.’

  ‘The actual circumstances may be mysterious,’ she said calmly, ‘but the feeling is clear enough.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Someone is in trouble and needs help.’

  ‘Which you propose to dispense. Is that it?’

  She winced at the sharpness of his tone, but made no reply.

  ‘You would be very ill-advised to do that. This is something of which you have no understanding.’

  ‘I always try very hard to understand other people.’

  ‘You don’t. You simply judge everyone’s reactions according to your own.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that? My reactions are fairly normal.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t get involved with people who aren’t normal. It could be dangerous.’

  ‘In what way dangerous?’

  ‘One makes mistakes. You don’t know . . .’

  ‘It isn’t a question of knowing. It’s a question of feeling. You feel someone else’s need . . .’

  ‘And meet it in the way you think it should be met, which may be quite wrong for them.’

  ‘It can’t be wrong to help another human being; it can never be wrong . . .’

  ‘But suppose they are so different from you that you have no real idea of what it is that they need, suppose . . .’

&
nbsp; She shouted suddenly:

  ‘Suppose that someone signalled from the sea out there that they were drowning? Would you stand here arguing?’

  ‘You’re talking about an entirely different kind of situation.’

  ‘But would you? Would you?’

  ‘No, of course not. But it’s an absurd analogy.’

  ‘Then I’m absurd.’

  She turned away and began to walk very fast along the beach, back towards the hotel. He came after her protesting:

  ‘For goodness’ sake don’t get so worked up.’

  ‘Me, worked up!’

  ‘I just wanted to make a point, that was all. Why can’t you ever discuss things rationally?’

  ‘Because I’m absurd. And I always will be, and I’m glad that I will be.’

  She hurried on, her head turned away from him.

  ‘Frangcon,’ he said desperately. ‘You must go away from Raoul. Can’t you see that? We must both get away before it’s too late.’

  ‘Don’t shout at me.’

  He caught her arm and pulled her towards him; then he saw that she was crying.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked in dismay.

  ‘You keep nagging at me because I’m slow and I don’t think in your precise, legalistic way and because I believe in people and want to help them . . .’ The words tumbled out and her clenched hands flayed the air, making gestures as meaningless and undisciplined as her words. ‘I’m tired of being lectured and criticized and having the things I believe in ridiculed.’

  ‘I’ve never ridiculed you, never!’

  But she went on storming at him and suddenly he began to shout accusations as wild and incoherent as hers. He said that Raoul was sick and Frangcon said that one ought to help the sick. ‘Not when it’s the plague,’ he shouted. ‘You wall them off then; wall them off and leave them alone.’

  When he recovered himself it was he who was alone. He watched her running across the sand towards the hotel without attempting to stop her. It would be disastrous to carry this any further at the moment. He turned away from the hotel with its brightly lit façade and walked for a few minutes by the water’s edge.

  Gradually, he became aware of sadness beneath the superficial anger. He told himself that this was simply the usual reaction after indulging one’s emotions. He was not really worried about his relationship with Frangcon: time was on their side. Yet the waves receding from the beach, leaving an expanse of dull, muddied sand, spoke of time running out, of magic slipping away on the ebb tide. Ridiculous, romantic. The Mediterranean didn’t even have proper tides. But the chill shiver of fear was not romantic. He turned and went quickly towards the hotel. It was no use running away from the mystery that was Raoul. ‘I must find out what it is all about,’ he thought. ‘Otherwise Frangcon and I will never be at peace with each another.’

  The hotel, at least, was not romantic, with its coloured lights, impeccable white-washed walls, doors and shutters picked out in midnight blue. The commissionaire was in midnight blue, too, only he had a crimson cummerbund by way of contrast. James passed through the foyer, guided towards the cabaret by the sound of dance music. The decor here was in Moorish style; a courtyard with galleries and white columns draped with flowers, more flowers over the balcony railings; above one could see the stars and a sickle moon. It was as artificially contrived a set-piece of Seville as any Hollywood producer could have devised, only the Hollywood producer would have taken trouble to get hold of authentic extras. The people on the dance floor were mostly German or English; the few Spaniards were wealthy and elegant, nothing of the gypsy about them, and the only girl with a flower in her hair was American. The band was playing a South American selection, couples were executing the steps with precision, the same steps over and over again; with the exception of a very drunk German in the arms of a predatory blonde, no one was laughing.

  Rose had booked a table near the floor so that they would have a good view of the cabaret. James found her without difficulty. Frangcon was nowhere in sight, but Raoul sat beside Rose, smoking and looking bored.

  Rose was leaning back talking to one of her party at the next table, her clear voice toneless as she gave a brief lecture on the origins of Flamenco dancing, a subject on which she seemed to regard herself as something of an expert. She sounded rather like a youngish schoolmistress talking to the more senior pupils. But her dress belied the effect; a sheath in olive green, patterned with peach and cream flowers, it outlined every twist and turn of her lithe young body. Her red hair was puffed out about her head and beneath it her face looked smaller than ever, white and rather malign, in a sly, elfin way. At a table on the far side of the oval dance floor, Milo was sitting; he was watching Rose and Rose knew it.

  ‘Milo doesn’t look as though he is enjoying himself, does he?’ Raoul said. ‘Perhaps this is a duty visit. One wouldn’t choose the Captain as a companion.’

  Milo’s companion was certainly one of the most unattractive men that James had ever seen, a gross slug of a man, his fat thighs bulging obscenely in the tight uniform.

  ‘Not like the lovable English policemen,’ Raoul murmured. ‘But honest, at least. One wouldn’t be tempted to dismiss the idea of third-degree when confronted by such a man. No false sense of security, no nice, matter-of-fact reasonableness to lull one’s fears. Easier to measure up to him. No quiet brain-washing. Give me a thug, any day.’

  ‘You have experience of this kind of thing?’ James asked.

  ‘What are you two talking about?’ Rose demanded suspiciously.

  ‘The rumba,’ Raoul replied. ‘It is really a very dull dance, don’t you think? It doesn’t seem to lead anywhere; round and round and round like a mathematical equation without a solution—x=y=z=x=y= . . .’

  ‘How silly you are!’

  The music stopped. Frangcon came out of the cloakroom and joined them.

  ‘I’m longing to see the Flamenco dancing, aren’t you?’ she said with rather forced brightness. ‘I haven’t seen any yet in Spain.’

  ‘And you won’t now,’ James said.

  ‘She certainly will!’ Rose was annoyed. ‘He is very well thought of here.’

  ‘About to be signed up by Cecil B. de Mille!’

  ‘Cecil B. de Mille is dead.’

  ‘But his spirit lives on.’

  At this moment the dance floor was raised so that it was slightly above the level of the courtyard floor. The first turn was a ballerina in a frothy pink dress with a lot of sequins on the bodice.

  ‘Why orthodox ballet in Spain?’ James asked, and even Rose had to admit that the ballerina was very poor. The waiter came with drinks and a selection of minute sandwiches. The dance floor was lowered and the band played a quick-step. Raoul danced with Frangcon and Milo came across to claim Rose. After Rose and Milo had circled the floor once or twice, James heard a prim little English voice whisper:

  ‘I’m rather surprised at her, aren’t you?’

  A middle-aged couple in Rose’s party were sitting at the next table, watching Rose as she drifted by. Milo held her very close; his hand pressed hard against the small of her back, rucking up the sheath dress so that it came up above her knees and one could see her soft, rounded thighs. Her eyes were half-closed, her face pale, her lips slightly parted. Milo’s companion was watching them from his table, he was smiling to himself as though anticipating the next move. When the music stopped Rose and Milo drifted into the shadows at the back of the courtyard. Frangcon and Raoul returned to the table. The dance floor was raised again.

  ‘Spain! The real thing!’ Raoul rolled his eyes and laughed as two girls pranced in from the back of the courtyard, arms raised above their heads, castanets clicking frantically; they wore enormous combs in their hair and the scarlet frills of their skirts ruffed out from beneath the tightly encased black hips. A man leapt between them attired in a wide-sleeved white silk blouse and shining black tights. There was a lot of foot stamping and a few Americans shouted ‘Olé!’ The man strutted up first
to one girl, then to the other; the girls whirled about, coquetting, encouraging, rejecting; finally they all stamped their feet furiously and flounced off.

  ‘Does that appeal to you?’ James asked Frangcon.

  ‘Not really. But then I’m not critical—I just came here to enjoy myself.’

  It was the nearest she had ever come to a tart rejoinder. Looking at her, he saw that her face was flushed and her mouth quivering. He was about to apologize for his ill-humour when a young American asked her to dance. Half way through the dance Rose came back; she went round to various members of her party, asking if they were enjoying themselves, not really listening to the answers, talking with a rather feverish animation. Raoul watched her. When she joined them at the table he leant forward and put his fingers on her pulse; she snatched her hand away.