Tango

by Alan Judd

  ‘Would he want that?’

  ‘No. But our planning should be guided by what we want, not by what he wants. Question is, whether I should be there too. Would that make too big a party, do you think?’

  ‘It might be rather a surprise for him.’

  The elderly waiter reappeared with full bowls of soup in his trembling hands. He left some on the tablecloth and some on William’s trousers.

  ‘Did we order this?’ asked Box.

  ‘I don’t think there’s a menu.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Meat soup.’

  ‘Is that common here?’

  ‘Universal.’

  It was hot and thick. Box dipped his bread in it. William dipped bread in his wine, remembering the incident in the covered market. He hoped it might mean he would see her.

  The waiter shuffled over again and muttered, ‘Disculpen la molestia, señores.’ He took away the soups and gave them to two of the men at the other table. William and Box were left holding their spoons.

  ‘What was that for?’ asked Box.

  ‘I’ve never known it happen before.’

  The waiter reappeared with two more soups which he put before them and shuffled away again.

  ‘If we keep these to the end we’ll have had more than our share,’ whispered Box. ‘I’d had about a quarter of that other chap’s.’

  The soup was followed by steak, chips, tomatoes and mushrooms, with a little offal. Box’s eyes widened.

  ‘You didn’t order this specially, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not bad, is it?’

  Another bottle of the nameless red wine appeared. ‘How much do you think this stuff costs?’ Box asked.

  ‘About the same as the Telegraph in England.’

  ‘Not bad.’

  Between mouthfuls of steak Box said that the ‘blowing’ of William added urgency to everything. Fortunately, he had found an ‘SH’ – Safe Hole – in which to hide the EE(C) kit. The danger was that, since it seemed to be an open secret that William was a British spy – through no fault of William’s or the company’s – a watch on William might lead to him, Box, hence to the EEC kit. It was more than his life was worth to have that compromised to the enemy. A further urgency was that the country appeared to be slipping ever deeper into the morass of Marxism-Leninism and, if the president had even half a mind to stop it, he should be helped to do so now. They should find a way to talk frankly to him that night.

  ‘I don’t imagine he’d welcome that,’ said William. ‘After all, he’s – you know—’

  ‘Not during, no. Before or afterwards. Not sure which would be better. He might be inclined to agree to all sorts of things in the heat of anticipation but he might on the other hand be irritated and impatient. Afterwards he might be relaxed and persuadable or, having got what he wanted, indifferent and dismissive. All animals are sad after coition, Aristotle said. He might even have us arrested if he’s very sad. Touch and go, you see.’

  William did not want to think about it. He looked down at his Telegraph, where his interest was caught by a front-page announcment of an inside feature on South American economic problems and their political ramifications. He stopped eating and opened the paper.

  ‘What I’m really looking forward to,’ said Box, this time not waiting until he had finished his mouthful, ‘is the reaction in London when we convince them that this place really is going to the dogs.’

  ‘They don’t need convincing. It’s all in the paper here. That’s just what it says. Look.’ The feature predicted economic stagnation under a rigid socialist framework.

  Box shook his head when he had finished reading. ‘Unfortunate, yes, but not too serious. Real-world stuff, you see. Journalism. No interest in Whitehall. Unless there’s a scandal.’

  ‘But they must be worried, mustn’t they? Otherwise they wouldn’t have sent you. So they’ll take this seriously.’

  ‘But the government didn’t send me, the company did. This is the good side of privatisation – awareness of market forces. Cobalt, remember? The government is a little uneasy but that’s all. It’s up to us to convince them that they’ve got every reason to be, and more. The opposition is this embassy and the Foreign Office. They don’t want the government ever to be uneasy. They want them always to think everything’s all right because they think that keeping things all right is their responsibility.’ Box speared his last chip. ‘They’re wrong, of course, and they are the second most important reason for British decline in international standing since 1919.’

  ‘What’s the first?’

  ‘Economic performance. Companies like yours – don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ve never thought.’

  ‘Time you did.’

  Coffees and brandies arrived with most of the coffee still in the cups. The brandy bottle was left on the table. Box drank several glasses quite quickly. He crossed one leg over the other and pulled out a couple of cigars from his breast pocket. ‘You don’t, do you?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Nice place, this. Comfy.’ Box struck the match on the heel of his shoe. When his cigar was lit he tapped the heel with his forefinger. ‘Got my shoe.’

  William looked. It seemed an ordinary black shoe, probably better quality than most, perhaps even what was called an Oxford. ‘Yes, very nice.’

  ‘Special.’

  ‘Yes. Good quality.’

  Box glanced round to see that the four men were not looking, then leaned forward. ‘Just in case. Never know what you might find.’ He gripped the heel with his hand and twisted. The heel, hinged at the back, opened to reveal a hollow space. ‘For microfilm.’

  William was impressed. ‘Ideal.’

  ‘Or messages.’

  ‘Or’ – William tried to think of other things spies might carry – ‘money or bullets.’

  Box snapped the heel shut. ‘Not if they rattle.’ He poured more brandy.

  For some minutes there had been a change in the sounds from the next room. The voices had stopped and the piano continued, but differently. The same note was being repeated, softly, slowly, without variation. It sounded as if it were building up to something.

  Box seemed not to have noticed. ‘This SH I’ve found for the EEC is damn good. Bet you can’t guess.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Try.’

  William wanted to listen to the piano. ‘I don’t know. In the hotel kitchens?’

  ‘No. Try again.’

  ‘In the sea?’

  ‘No. Not a bad idea, though. Plenty of room. But it has one big disadvantage. What do you think that is?’

  ‘It’s wet.’

  Box shook his head. ‘Tides. Chaps have been caught out no end of times. Drop something in on the end of a rope in the dead of night and next morning there it is on the beach for all to see. Or you go and bury something in the sand one day and come back to find it covered by full fathom five the next. Difficult. Come on, one more guess. You’ve got to have three.’

  The same soft note continued inexorably. It was surely leading to something. If it went on like that everyone would be driven mad.

  ‘Come on,’ said Box.

  ‘You’ve buried it.’

  Box exhaled a plume of smoke at the ceiling. ‘Very close. Buried, yes, but not quite in the normal way. Buried in a wall. Have you been in the big cemetery near the cathedral?’

  William knew where it was. A high wall, perhaps forty feet high, surrounded it. ‘No.’

  ‘Go this afternoon. Look for grave number 1066: name of Bustillo. I haven’t actually moved the kit in yet and I shall want your help when I do. There should be room for both of us.’

  He topped up their glasses. He was drinking much faster than William and his colourless eyes had acquired a dull shine. ‘In emergencies,’ he added.

  ‘What?’

  ‘In emergencies. Room for us too in emergencies. If we wanted. Guinness never came.’

  William was bar
ely listening. Slowly at first, then with increasing confidence, the theme had grown. Despite its familiarity it was still a while before he recognised it as ‘Lili Marlene’. It was played very tentatively, as if the pianist were feeling his way. It was exquisitely nostalgic.

  William stood. ‘I’m off to see what’s going on.’

  ‘Something going on?’ Box looked about him. ‘Is it the Guinness?’

  ‘Won’t be a minute.’

  Seven or eight people were grouped around the piano in the dancing room. It stood on the floor to one side of the stage. Two of the people were army officers in uniform, one was a waiter and the rest were girls, Ines among them. She smiled and waved both arms at William, beckoning him over.

  Theresa was playing the piano. It was clear that she had to concentrate and that the effort was absorbing. The normally vivid beauty of her features was softened as she gave herself to the music. She seemed unselfconscious, unaware, beyond herself. William felt at that moment that he loved her so dearly that for the rest of his life nothing he could say or do would express it.

  She did not so much finish the tune as blend it back into the sequence from which it had grown. The others listened in silence as it declined into the softly repeated single note. The repetitions became slower and softer and finally stopped. Everyone clapped and cheered, the applause bursting as if long pent-up. The gentleness and absorption left her face and she smiled. William stood by the door, seeking to retain in his own stillness the impression of hers, until Ines called to him. As he walked over, Theresa looked up and stopped smiling. Her dark eyes were concentrated and intense.

  When he was closer she relaxed and smiled. ‘William, I didn’t see it was you. You were against the light. Have you come to sing for us?’

  ‘I’ve been having lunch.’

  Ines kissed him on the cheek and took his arm. ‘Well, now you must sing. An English song.’

  ‘I don’t think I could. No one knows any any more.’

  Ines’s perfume was strong, by which he concluded it must be cheap since that was what people said about strong perfumes. He liked it, as he had Theresa’s. ‘That was beautiful,’ he said to Theresa.

  ‘Gracias.’

  ‘The English do not sing?’ asked Ines, nudging him with her shoulder.

  ‘Not now. They used to but not now. No one sings in England now.’

  ‘Only at football matches,’ said one of the officers.

  Ines shrugged. ‘They are not songs.’

  The officers were young and pleasant. The whole company smiled as if they had all had quite a lot but not too much to drink. One of the girls started humming ‘Lili Marlene’ again. There was an air of expectation and of reluctance to depart but no one seemed to have any idea what to do next. William was still looking at Theresa who, head down, moved her fingers over the keys in silent rehearsal. She wore a dark skirt and a white shirt, the sleeves buttoned at the wrists. It looked like a man’s shirt and, though clean and pressed, it was frayed at the cuffs and collar. He wondered if she would let him buy her a new one.

  Ines tugged again at his arm. Her big eyes had always the same degree of brightness, the slightly manic brightness of a nervous hostess. ‘William, you must sing for us. You can dance. We have seen you. If you can dance, you can sing. Sing us an English love song.’

  ‘In English,’ said one of the girls. ‘Theresa will accompany you.’ She giggled.

  The door banged. They looked up to see Box standing stiffly.

  ‘Who is that? Is it another Inglés?’ Ines asked.

  ‘A client of mine,’ said William. ‘I was having lunch with him.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  William detached himself from Ines’s grasp. ‘I think perhaps he wants to go home.’

  Box’s stare was fixed and unrecognising. William tried a hopeful smile. While he was still some feet away Box raised one arm. A curious noise came out of him, like the first complaining notes of an old organ long disused. After a few notes it became recognisable as ‘Lili Marlene’, sung in German. Ines and the others clapped. Theresa began a honky-tonk rendering in time with Box’s singing.

  Box walked as he sang. He walked steadily and slowly, describing a curve to the left which brought him back not far from the point where he had begun. He started again, this time in a larger curve. He seemed to be making for the piano but veered continually to the left. Eventually he adopted an angle of start that gave him a far wider curve and brought him to the point where the stage and piano met. He was still singing. The others smilingly made way for him and he came to a halt with one hand resting on top of the piano and the other on the stage beside it. When the song had finished he began again. Theresa began again. Everyone laughed. Without pausing in his singing, Box tensed himself and made to vault on to the stage. One leg was up and the other in the air when his hand slipped. For a moment he seemed caught as if in a newspaper photograph in which readers are asked to guess whether the body was going up or down, though in his case there was no question. He fell with a crash, pushing the piano a foot or two away. There was a gasp and everyone moved to help.

  William did not rush. He worried more about how to explain Box than about what had happened. It was hard to believe that anything that happened to Box could be serious.

  They got him to his feet and propped him against the stage. He looked dazed. ‘Are you all right? Are you broken?’ Ines was asking. One of the girls went for water.

  ‘It’s all right, he’s with me,’ said William. Box’s eyes stared without focus. ‘He’s a client. We were having lunch. I’ll get a car to take him to his hotel.’

  The waiter went to get a taxi while the two officers looked on in disdainful amusement. Theresa stayed at the piano.

  Box could walk but he was unsteady. He remained passive and silent, his eyes blank. William felt he should go back with him to the hotel but he had also to speak to Theresa about the president. Anyway, Box would doubtless be all right.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked in English.

  Box returned a blank unfocused gaze. ‘Perfectly.’

  Ines put her arm around him, nearly concealing him. ‘You will have a headache but we liked your song.’

  ‘What did she say?’ asked Box.

  William told him.

  ‘What song?’

  William told him.

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  The taxi was prompt. William gave directions to the driver while Box, still a little shaky, was eased into the back by Ines. He clutched William’s arm.

  ‘One thing. 1066.’

  ‘Okay.’ The taxi drove off with Box sitting very upright in the centre of the rear seat.

  ‘Is he also a spy?’ asked Ines as they walked back in.

  ‘A spy? Who?’

  ‘That man, your client.’ She looked serious. ‘He cannot be a very good one. Spies are not supposed to be drunk.’ Her face brightened. ‘Unless he is pretending.’

  William was spared further response by being presented with the bill for the meal. Ines intervened forcefully, causing the old waiter to totter back.

  ‘Estupido – bobo,’ she said sharply. ‘Señor Wooding is a friend of the president.’

  The waiter mumbled his apologies and turned away. Ines stayed to talk to someone else and William went back to the dance room.

  Theresa was sitting alone at the piano. ‘You have a message for me?’

  William hadn’t wanted it to be as businesslike as this, although it was, he had to admit, business. ‘I thought we might go for a walk. Walk and talk.’

  She got up and smoothed her skirt. Ines and the two officers came back into the room.

  ‘I have to go,’ she told Ines.

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Suerte, Theresa. Good luck.’

  ‘No, it’s not yet. We won’t be long.’

  Ines smiled a farewell to William and put her arms through those of the officers. ‘I will sing and we will all play.�
��

  Theresa dressed as if it were seriously cold. She wore a black fur hat and coat which looked expensive, though many women in the city seemed able to afford furs of some sort. She looked askance at William’s jacket and tie. ‘You have no coat?’

  ‘No. It’s all right for me, this weather.’

  ‘Ah, you English.’ She smiled.

  ‘Do you mind if we go to the cemetery?’ he asked. ‘I want to see it.’

  ‘You have never been? It’s very beautiful.’

  The cemetery was behind the cathedral, a nineteenth-century gothic building dominating one of the two main hills on which the city was built. The cemetery was on the side of the hill that sloped towards the sea. Because of its very high walls William had thought for a long time that it was in fact a prison. Even now he was not sure where the gates were.

  They went through streets of small shops and stalls, some of the latter set up right under the cathedral walls. Many of them sold cheap leather goods. Even in that city, where beautiful women abounded, maté drinkers turned to watch Theresa, clutching their gourds and tubes like the brass section of an orchestra.

  ‘What did the president say?’ she asked.

  William took Carlos’s note from his pocket and gave it to her. Box would no doubt have disapproved of his not having destroyed it, but Box’s standpoint was not so strong now.

  She handed back the note. ‘Where should we meet?’

  ‘I thought we’d better discuss that.’

  The breeze pressed some of the black fur of her hat against her cheek. He disciplined himself to be practical. ‘Should I wait for you after I’ve dropped you at the palace, do you think?’

  ‘Not unless the president says so.’ She looked at him, her eyes screwed up slightly against the wind. ‘You are kind.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not that.’

  There was one entrance in the massive cemetery wall, a pair of wrought-iron gates. The arch was about twenty feet thick and at the far end was a smaller pair of gates. The cemetery was like a town in which the architectural fashion was ecclesiastical. It was filled with prodigiously ornate mausolea, some not much smaller than the buildings that housed families where Theresa lived. Well-kept cobbled streets ran between the tombs. People sauntered among them. There were many cats.