‘I don’t think I like you very much tonight. Something’s happened to you, hasn’t it? Something not very nice. Has Ramon laid down a deadline for you becoming a partner?’
He finished his brandy. ‘Carrie, you still have the capacity to amaze me. Who’d imagine that someone so far removed from the more sordid aspects of life would be able to pinpoint them so accurately?’ He looked at his glass, then very casually reached down to his trouser pocket to feel how much money he had left. ‘The next round’s on me,’ she said. He swore silently as he shook his head, but when she looked at him he picked up the glass and went over to the bar.
‘What did Ramon say?’ she asked, as he sat down again.
‘He wants to expand, he wants a partner who can really work and deal with the English-speaking tourists or residents, and he wants both in a hurry so he can plan for the next season. Can I or can’t I find the million and a half? . . . Very soon, I told him. Not to worry. But he’s a good Mallorquin and won’t believe a word until he’s got the pesetas in his hand.’
‘You must let me lend you the half million so that you can persuade a bank to give you the rest.’
‘I told you, forget the idea.’
‘But it’s ridiculous for you to sit back on your pride. . .’
‘You force me to further confessions . . . Despite my previous high-minded refusal of your money, I crept round to two of the local banks and put the proposition to the managers: I find half a million, you lend me a million. Nothing would give us greater pleasure, honoured customer . . . I’ll swear there were tears in their eyes. But money is so very short. All business is difficult and so have I a little security? Say a million pesetas’ worth? I’d have flogged it a long time ago, wouldn’t I? I told ‘em. So very sorry, honoured customer. We’d so have liked to help you . . . Always very polite, you see.’
‘Then maybe a third bank will help, or if not, a fourth. There must be one manager around with imagination.’
‘I doubt it: imagination isn’t a banking characteristic’ He smiled sardonically, mocking himself ‘In any case, I was only stringing them along. I’d never really borrow that half million from you.’
‘Not even when it’s the one chance you’ve always longed for?’
His expression momentarily hardened.
CHAPTER VIII
Alvarez awoke, remembered it was a Sunday, and relaxed.
How to spend the day? If it was fine, a drive up into the mountains where there were no tourists and there remained space and solitude? . . . But, of course! He’d promised to take the two children along to one of the beaches so that they could fly the new kite. He smiled. Children completed a home. If Juana-Maria had lived they would have filled their house with children and then through them they would have lived after death. Perhaps a little of him would live on through his cousin’s two children, even if she wasn’t really a cousin and his relationship to them had become too remote to be readily explained.
He remembered the cauliflower from Ca’n Ritat. He experienced the fierce longing to own land which so often gripped him. One day he would buy some and grow cauliflowers even larger and denser-headed than the one he had been given. Perhaps if he stopped drinking and buying so many presents for the children he could save enough money. But children ought to be given toys and when he drank brandy he could forget Juana-Maria for a little while.
He climbed out of bed, crossed to the window, opened it, and pushed back the shutters. It was a sunny day, warmer than expected because the wind was coming in from the south. He stared over the roofs of the houses, their tiles forming a mosaic of soft pinky-browns, at the hermitage and church on Puig Antonia, now looked after by nuns, and he wondered whether Santa Antonia would listen to his plea to own a little land? He wasn’t certain how a saint saw worldly ambitions, yet felt that his ambition was surely one of which he need not really be ashamed.
Downstairs, his nephew, Juan, was reading a comic. ‘Hullo, Uncle. You promised to take us to the beach today.’
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ said Alvarez, scrumpling Juan’s already untidy hair.
‘Mother said you would probably forget because you’d drunk so much coñac when you said you’d take us.’
‘I am very fond of your mother, but sometimes she does tend to exaggerate. Report back to her that you are quite definitely going to the beach this afternoon.’
‘Why not let’s go this morning? After lunch you’ll sleep and snore and it’s getting dark so early now.’
He sighed. ‘All right. But you’d better understand that I’m making a very great sacrifice on your behalf.’
‘You mean you won’t be able to go boozing at the club?’
‘The young of today are far too smart for their own good.’
Juan laughed and at that moment the telephone rang. ‘It’ll be for your mother,’ said Alvarez hopefully.
He was wrong. ‘The Institute of Forensic Anatomy has rung through, Enrique,’ said the Guard. ‘The English señor died from eating a poisonous fungus called Amanita Mallorquinas?
‘I suppose that means it was a llargsomi?’
‘I wouldn’t know about that. Superior Chief Salas says that you’re to investigate very carefully how the Englishman came to eat a poisonous fungus and to take whatever steps are necessary to see it doesn’t happen again.’
‘Well, it won’t happen again to him, will it? . . . Why in the hell is Salas getting in on the act?’
‘The captain rang him to make a full report because it is a matter of public urgency.’
‘The captain’s a stupid bastard.’
Juan laughed and Alvarez looked at him through the opened doorway and shook his fist, daring him to tell his mother what he had said.
‘I’m not arguing with you over that, Enrique . . . Have a happy working Sunday.’
Alvarez replaced the receiver. If the captain had minded his own business, nothing need have been done until tomorrow. But thanks to that interfering idiot, he was now going to have to spend Sunday trying to discover how an Englishman could have eaten a llargsomi when Orozco and Matilde swore blind that in the kitchen there had been only esclatasangs.
He crossed the sitting-room and went through into the kitchen. ‘Juan, that was a call telling me I’ve got to work today. So the trip to the beach is off unless I can wrap up everything before the afternoon.’
After breakfast he drove into the square, which for the morning was ringed by ‘No Entry’ signs, and parked by the steps.
The raised part of the square was a mass of people and stalls selling all the vegetables in season, and some imported from the Peninsula or the Canary Islands which were out of season, nuts, cheese, eggs, dried herbs, and bedding-out plants. He pushed his way through the crowd to the church, against the wall of which was a barrow selling sweets. He chose several packets of the more sickly-looking kind which he knew his nephew and niece liked, then walked past the cafe - this one was patronized far more by the locals than the one on the south-east side of the square - and along to a toy shop where he spent quite a long time deciding which two toys to buy. That done, he returned to the Club Llueso and had two brandies.
He drove out of town and along the Puerto road to the islands and there cut up past the new football ground to the camino and Ca’n Ritat.
Matilde was in the kitchen, washing down the tiled floor which was spotless. She was clearly glad to have someone to talk to and she offered him a coffee.
He sat at the table set close to the far wall and while she made the coffee he stared at all the electrical equipment and wondered what it could do that an efficient wife couldn’t. And what happened when there was a power cut?
She poured out two large cupfuls of coffee and put one in front of him, together with milk in a plastic bottle and sugar in a bowl. C I can’t get used to it,’ she said, as she sat. ‘I mean, not having to get his breakfast and find out what he wants for lunch and all that sort of thing.’
‘Have you any idea what’s goi
ng to happen here?’
She shook her head.
‘Are you sorry this job will come to an end?’
She pursed her lips. ‘Luis will be. But I didn’t like the way the señor entertained.’
‘Because it made your work so hard?’
‘Not that. Hard work’s never worried me.’
‘Then it was all the women he had along?’
‘That’s right.’
‘It must have been upsetting for someone like you, señora, but the English have very different standards from us.’
‘How can women behave like that? And some of them were even married!’ She spoke with genuine amazement. She knew only virtuous women who honoured their marriages.
He stirred sugar into his coffee and drank. ‘Did he ever have his family along: you know, parents, brothers, and sisters?’
‘Never once, not all the time we worked here.’
‘Which is how long?’
‘Just about three years.’
The English seemed to take their family ties about as seriously as their marriage vows. ‘All in all, would you have called it a good job?’
‘I suppose it wasn’t too bad. We had Monday afternoon and evenings off and one week-end in four. And if one or other of us wanted an extra day, he usually gave it to us unless he was in a mood. You could find worse jobs and that’s a fact. Except for all the women. He was a . . . But he’s dead now, God rest his soul.’
‘Perhaps He will. I was once told that the English God is very generous . . . Look, we’ve heard today that he definitely died from eating a Uargsomi and I’ve been ordered to find out how it happened. You must have thought about things a lot since yesterday. Are you quite sure you didn’t make a mistake and let a Uargsomi through?’ He motioned with his hand. ‘Don’t get anything wrong. No one’s going to clap you in jail because you made a mistake. It can happen anytime, to anyone.’
‘There was no Uargsomi among the esclatasangs,’ she said forcefully. ‘Señor, I am not a stupid fool. So every time Lopez picks and brings me esclatasangs, which the señor liked so much, I checked every one to make certain there was no Uargsomi, even though Lopez would never pick one by mistake.’ She leaned forward, her expression becoming still more earnest. ‘Señor, I am of this island even though I came from the other end. Could any islander handle esclatasangs and not check that there were no llargsomis among them?’
‘Perhaps there are times, though, when one is not quite so careful because one is in a great hurry, or has a very bad headache . . .’
‘I am not lazy, I did not hurry, I did not have a headache. I tell you, there was no Uargsomi.’
‘But if not, how did the señor come to eat one and die?’
‘I do not know. Perhaps God, to punish his wickedness, changed an esclatasang into a Uargsomi.’
It was a fascinating idea, but one which Alvarez regretfully thought unlikely. ‘I’ll have to find something definite to tell my superior chief, but so far all I’ve learned is that it couldn’t have happened.’ He stood up. ‘Is Orozco, the gardener, here today?’
‘He has all the Sundays off.’ She spoke shortly.
He smiled at her. ‘I believe you absolutely, señora. But my superior chief comes from Madrid and he will believe no one without complete proof, not even himself . . . Thanks for the coffee.’ He went out of the kitchen into the courtyard and she followed him. The dog which had been lying down in the sun in front of its kennel stood up, barked twice, and hopefully wagged its tail. ‘What’s his name?’ asked Alvarez.
‘Cheetah. He was abandoned and when Luis found him his ribs were almost out of the skin. Luis said he should be killed, but I said no, I would make him well. So now look at him! As fat as a pig that’s ready for a matanzas.’
Alvarez crossed the courtyard and patted the dog’s head and fondled his ears. A car came along the dirt track, turned into the drive and then braked to a stop in front of the courtyard. ‘It is the señorita,’ said Matilde in a low voice. ‘She came here on Thursday and saw the señor . . .’ She stopped.
He watched an ungainly woman, a plastic bag in her hand, climb out and come round the bonnet. ‘What did she see the señor doing?’
‘1 cannot say it.’
Caroline got out of the near side and as she stood upright Alvarez stared at her and he fell in love.
Mabel came forward, walking hesitantly. ‘Hullo, Matilde,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I’ve brought some scraps for Cheetah.’ The dog might have understood her because it began to pant and its tail wagged furiously. Mabel opened the bag and spilled the contents on to the flagstones and the dog ate with noisy gusto.
It wasn’t her looks, thought Alvarez with bewilderment, although she was as beautiful as an orange grove at blossom time. It wasn’t that she promised that ripe, earthy experience which twisted a man’s soul - she didn’t. It was because there was an air of simple goodness about her which reminded him with aching intensity of Juana-Maria.
‘When I saw those scraps were left. . .’ Mabel stopped, then resumed speaking very hurriedly. ‘It would have been such a shame to waste them . . . So I thought . . .’ She suddenly sneezed several times.
Caroline spoke lightly, trying to lessen the air of emotion which Mabel had introduced. ‘You’re quite right, Mabel, he really does eat like a vacuum cleaner.’
Matilde, who understood more English than she spoke, said: ‘I feed him good, señorita.’
‘I can see you look after him really well,’ said Caroline quickly. She smiled at Matilde. ‘He’s in wonderful condition. It’s just that some dogs always eat very quickly, even when they’ve only just had a meal. Cheetah is obvously one of those.’
She’d gone out of her way not to hurt Matilde’s feelings by making it clear that they didn’t believe that the dog wasn’t being fed properly, thought Alvarez, yet most English wouldn’t give a damn about what a Mallorquin maid thought. Juana-Maria had always been thinking about other people’s feelings.
‘We’d better go,’ said Mabel. ‘I only wanted to come . . .’ She stopped, clearly far too embarrassed, even ashamed, to continue.
‘Yes, of course.’ Caroline smiled at Matilde and Alvarez. ‘Goodbye, then. I do hope we didn’t disturb you too much.’ She turned and walked to the car and this had the effect of making Mabel do the same. A moment later, they drove off.
‘She’s a very silly woman,’ said Matilde scornfully.
‘What d’you mean?‘snapped Alvarez, before he realized he was in danger of making a fool of himself.
Matilde stared at him in sudden apprehension.
‘I am very sorry, señora, I was talking to myself about something entirely different . . . Now, then, tell me why you think that woman is so silly.’
She looked doubtfully at him, but was quickly reassured by his expression. ‘She was in love with the señor. A woman like her. He just laughed at her. Especially after what happened on Thursday when she saw him . . .’
‘Saw him what?’
‘I cannot say. But he had another woman here.’
‘The other señorita who was here just now?’
‘No. I have never seen her before.’
He was furious with himself for daring to think such a thing could ever have been possible. ‘D’you know who this first woman was?’
‘No, señor. But when he said she was coming to lunch he called her Veronica and said she was on holiday and he wanted to show her what the island was really like. As if it wasn’t obvious what he really wanted! . . . He said to put out the cold meat then to keep out of the way. I am a decent woman, but even so I know what such orders mean. So I put out the meal and told him and returned to the kitchen. I heard a car arrive and it was the juice-less señorita who has just been. She went into the house and soon she began to shout at him and when she came out crying I knew what she must have seen.’
CHAPTER IX
Alvarez stood at the bar and stared at the mirror. He saw a middle-aged man with lined, coarsely f
eatured face, whose eyes were bloodshot and whose hair was beginning to thin. You simple fool, he said to his reflection. You, a failure, a peasant without a single cuarterada of land to call his own, old enough to be her father . . . But her golden image continued to dance in his mind.
‘Give me another,’ he said.
The barman picked up his glass. ‘You look as if you’d lost a few thousand-peseta notes.’
‘There are worse things to lose than them.’
‘Don’t bother to tell me what they are . . . Do you really want another coñac?’
‘Didn’t I ask for one?’
‘All right, all right, keep your hair on.’
When he had looked at her he had seen the quiet moon in the star-studded sky, the sparkling of still seas, the distant mountains framed against a sunset sky. And when she had looked at him, what had she seen? An ugly, time-scarred peasant . . .
‘Here you are, Enrique. Drink it up and for the love of God cheer up or you’ll frighten any other customers away.’
He emptied the glass, but he didn’t cheer up.
On Monday morning Alvarez drove to the small uniformed finca which lay beyond Ca’n Ritat. Here time had almost, if not quite, been defeated and the small-holding was pretty well self-sufficient. The family kept a mule for working the land, a cow for milk and calves, and pigs, sheep, goats, rabbits, chickens, guinea pigs, and pigeons, for eating. They fed the mule on straw, dried field beans, and grass, the cow on grass, straw, and ground algarrobas, the pig on dried figs and anything else that was left over, the sheep and goats were left to graze among the scrub land but were sometimes given some dried field beans, the chickens and pigeons had wheat, barley, or oat tailings, the guinea pigs and rabbits lived on grass. The family grew corn and handed much of it to the miller who gave them tokens which they exchanged at the baker for loaves. They grew three crops each year and after the tomato harvest there were always long strings of air-dried tomatoes everywhere. They harvested the olives, with six-metre bamboos and had them pressed and the oil came green and pungent. They trod their own grapes and made a red wine that was filled with lees. They netted small migratory birds, or caught them with worm-baited snap-traps or on branches covered with bird-lime, and they ate these with a simple pleasure untroubled by any ecological thoughts.
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