The Man from the 'Turkish Slave'

by Victor Canning

  She nodded her head understandingly. ‘Good man might get a job here, mistah.’

  Peter took a pull at his beer. He was doing well so far. If he could stay here perhaps he should let the man in Sao Paulo know.

  ‘Is there a telephone here?’

  She cocked her eye at him and he could read her thoughts. She was wondering what kind of trouble he had got into in Santos. Then, her face flashing with a huge smile, she reached out and patted his shoulder.

  ‘No telephone here, mistah.’

  ‘But what happens if you have trouble?’

  ‘Ain’t no trouble a telephone can fix.’

  ‘But the policeman here—say he wants to get in touch with the mainland.’

  ‘Ain’t no damn policeman. Don’t you worry yoh head. What for we want policeman or telephone? They don’t fix nothin’.’ She rocked on her hidden heels gently, the great arms folded across her middle. ‘One man sleep with another man’s wife. Can telephone fix that? One man steal another man’s sheep. Can telephone fix that? No, Mistah English, we ain’t got no telephone nor no policeman; we got that Quisto there.’

  She nodded out between the palms. A little donkey, head lowered, its muzzle almost grazing the ground, was trotting towards the café from the direction of the long, low corrugated iron building. On its back was a large man whose feet almost swept the ground. He was reading a newspaper and holding a red umbrella over his head.

  As he passed people in the square they called out to him. He acknowledged the greetings with a wave of the newspaper. A few half-naked children ran behind the donkey, calling some doggerel. The man turned and roared at them cheerfully and they scattered like a flock of sparrows. He watched them go, laughing, and the sound was like the wash of waves over loose pebbles. He wore a large brimmed panama hat, a loose white drill suit, hempen alpagartas on his feet, and an emerald silk cummerbund about his ample waist.

  The donkey stopped at the foot of the bodega steps. The man swung off it and the donkey promptly lay down and rolled over luxuriously in the dust. The man watched it, and said something which made the men at the table away from Peter shout with laughter. The donkey heaved itself to its feet and stood, head bowed, its eyes hypocritically sad, its mousyfawn hide glossy and distended with good living. The man furled his umbrella, mounted the steps and joined the others. Grazia brought him out a drink. She stood talking and Peter saw the man look his way. He turned his head and watched the square. Across its golden dust the sun was now throwing dark blue shadows from the tall houses.

  A couple of weeks, he thought. He might pick up a lot of useful information in that time without any trouble; but if there was any risk it would be stupid to stay. A stranger here would create curiosity, and it could so easily be the wrong kind unless his story held water … No, perhaps it would be wiser to get out on the boat now. Suddenly a rich, firm voice behind him said, ‘Senhor.’

  The man with the cummerbund was standing by his table. He swept off his hat, gave a bow and announced himself, ‘Luiz Conquistadore das Tegas.’

  It was said with such a grand air that Peter, as he rose to his feet, felt he ought to bow. Instead, he held out his hand. It was enveloped in a large, warm paw and pumped vigorously.

  ‘Glad to know you. I’m Landers, Peter Landers.’

  ‘Commere Grazia tells me you are English. Welcome to Portos Marias, senhor. We have a fondness for the English here. Forty years ago I was for a while at Oxford, but—alas—there was something in my temperament which did not please the authorities and I was sent down. Yes, with the ladies and the saloon keepers I was a success, but with the proctors—no. After that I went to the Sorbonne. There, my temperament was understood perfectly.’ He winked and Peter smiled, beginning to like this man. He was well over fifty, had a large, handsome face, the bright brown eyes overshadowed by immense white eyebrows. Into the band of his cummerbund were tucked a knife, a pipe, a silver tobacco-tin, a small notebook and a collection of toothpicks. His face was pink india-rubber, mirroring every mood and his hands and arms moved with the same expressive felicity. But behind the expansiveness Peter could feel the authority in the man and he guessed that if he lost his temper it would probably be like a ship’s boiler bursting.

  ‘May I?’ He sat down and ran a hand over his white hair, which was worn so long that it curled over his ears and the nape of his neck. He shouted over his shoulder and Commere Grazia brought them two glasses of beer. He raised his glass, nodded to Peter over it, and then drained it in one prodigious swallow.

  ‘Poor stuff, senhor. But it keeps the kidneys flushed. A man is as good as his kidneys, and I have the best pair on Alvaro.’ He reached out and patted Commere Grazia on the behind. ‘Isn’t that true, Commere?’

  ‘Sure, Senhor Quisto—you got good everythings.’ She laughed with him, and then went on, ‘Ah’s tellin’ you, Senhor Quisto, Mistah English here is mighty interested to know if we got policeman in Portos Marias.’

  ‘Policeman?’ Quisto pondered the word, then shook his head. ‘No policeman here, senhor. I am everything: policeman, lawyer, tax-collector.’ Then suddenly his voice changed and he gave Peter a sharp look. ‘ Why? Are you in some trouble?’

  ‘Well…’ Peter hesitated. He rubbed his hand across his chin, feeling the rasp of his stubble and, in that moment, he was aware of the filthy state of his clothes, his bare feet and the derelict figure he must cut. As Grazia and Quisto waited for him to speak, the siren of the Santos steamer blew, echoing around the cliffs and sending up the sea-birds in a noisy crowd. Peter glanced towards the boat. Then, as his eyes came back, he saw a slight smile flicker around Quisto’s lips. There was something about the smile that helped him take the plunge. ‘As a matter of fact… I’m not very keen to go back on the boat just yet.’

  ‘Ain’t no one here to make you go, Mistah English. Ah can fix you up with a room—’

  ‘Wait a minute, Grazia.’ Quisto’s voice cut in sharply. He looked at Peter, his lips pursing. ‘You give me your word you didn’t do anything bad?’

  This was it, thought Peter. He could stay. If these two would accept him, then others would accept him …

  ‘There was nothing really bad. I was ashore with some shipmates having a few drinks and … there was a bit of a fight.’ The sheer difficulty of invention made his voice hesitant, his manner shame-faced. ‘ I thought I ought to make myself scarce for a while. I can go back on the next boat and it will have all blown over.’

  ‘A fight? Was that all?’ Suddenly Quisto roared with laughter. ‘Well, you aren’t the first seaman who’s had to jump the island boat at Santos. Seamen are born to that kind of trouble like a mule to bad-temper … You stay here, senhor. Grazia will look after you.’

  He stood up, chuckling.

  ‘Sure, you stay with me, Mistah English. Ah’s use to havin’ a man in trouble about the place.’ She waddled off to serve the group near the door.

  Peter followed Quisto down the steps of the platform. The Santos boat was giving a last succession of hoots. There was shouting on the jetty. Water began to churn around the steamer’s counter and Peter saw a seaman bent over the stern mooring rope.

  Quisto glanced at him shrewdly. ‘If it was bad trouble—you’d better run for that boat.’

  Peter laughed. ‘ Not me. It was nothing that a couple of weeks here won’t cure.’

  ‘I believe you, senhor.’ The broad face beamed. ‘If I didn’t I would make sure that you were on that boat.’

  He kicked the donkey which had relapsed into the dust. As the beast rose reluctantly to its feet Quisto called warningly, ‘Stand away from El Bobo, senhor. His name means jester—and his idea of a joke is to kick the heart out of anyone stupid enough to get within range of his heels.’ He swung himself on to the animal’s back. ‘Come up to my house this evening and have dinner. It will be good to talk to an Englishman again.’

  ‘Thank you. What time shall I come?’

  ‘Time?’ Quisto stared down at Peter in astonishment.
‘Oh, yes. Time. Let us say seven.’ He kicked his heels into the donkey’s sides and as he rode away, roared, ‘Olé, what a world it is for a donkey! Plenty of food and the right to kick the unwary.’

  The steamer gave a last hoot. A great ragged plume of tawny smoke flared up from its stack and it began to pull away from the jetty. Peter stood there … He had a fortnight, and in that time he would keep his eyes and his ears open. On the Slave he had been outwitted. Here, he must make no mistake. He was going to see this thing through: he was going to get back into the Freestone Line, going to find his self-respect and proper pride.

  He turned back to the bodega and it was then that he remembered something which he had overlooked. He had forgotten that there was one person on this island who knew he had come out of the sea: the girl who had rescued him.

  Chapter Three

  Grazia gave him a meal in her kitchen. As he ate she fussed around, talking to him.

  ‘Is Portos Marias the only village on the island?’ he asked. He was worried about the girl who had pulled him from the sea.

  ‘The only one.’

  ‘There are no other houses on the island?’

  ‘No, ’ceptin’ a few huts over the other side. They’s foh the shepherds. They stays over there weeks at a time.’

  And that, he thought to himself, was what he hoped the girl would do: stay over there. It was a risk he had to take.

  When he had eaten, she took him into her store-room. It was long with small, iron-barred windows and around the walls merchandise and crates were piled high. He found that she was ships’ chandler and general store-keeper for the island. She had everything, clothing, tools, paints and canned goods. She fitted him up with shirts, a linen suit and a pair of blue canvas shoes … and all he could need. When he took out his wallet to pay she gave one look at the crumpled, still damp notes and waved them away.

  ‘Some time later, Mistah English. We fix that up. Just now, you look all-in. You got to get yohself some sleep.’

  She showed him up to a low, simply-furnished attic looking out over the square. There was an iron bed, a wash-hand stand, a cracked mirror, a couple of chairs and a religious almanack behind the door. It was hot in the room from the sun striking down upon the great square outside. As soon as she was gone, Peter stripped off his shirt and flung himself on the bed. He slept like a log for three hours.

  He was awakened by Grazia shaking him.

  ‘Ah brought you up some tea, Mistah English.’

  He sat up. There was a tray on the table by the bed. Grazia poured him out a cup. As he reached for it, sitting with his torso bare, she saw the handkerchief tied around his arm wound.

  ‘You hurt, senhor?’

  Peter thought quickly.

  ‘It was in the fight. Someone took a dagger to me.’

  Grazia pursed her fat lips and began to peel the handkerchief off his arm. ‘Man—this the kind of trouble you had in Santos then you did good to leave. ’Nother inch one side and it would have been bad for yoh artery.’

  She fetched bandages and sticking-plaster and soon had the wound cleaned and freshly bound. It throbbed a bit, but it was a clean cut and the salt water had done it good.

  As she left him, she said, ‘The girl will be up with some hot water and a razor.’

  Peter went to the window. Outside the palm shadows were lengthening. Some boys were bathing from the sandy strip of beach below the edge of the square. The whole place looked quiet and peaceful. He, too, felt relaxed and refreshed from his sleep.

  The bedroom door opened with a rusty creak of hinges and a girl came into the room carrying a large tin jug. She gave him a little nod and poured hot water into the handbasin. Then she turned and began to make up his bed. He stood by the window, waiting for her to finish.

  She had very straight black hair, cut in a fringe. It dropped short and severe to just above her shoulders. Her cheekbones were high, the mouth and chin rather shallow and, although she was good-looking, there was a suggestion of watchful impassivity about her. She wore a plain black dress, a little short and tight on her, so that she seemed all long brown arms and legs. As she worked he had the feeling that, although she did not seem to be taking much notice of him, she was in fact very much aware of him. Around her neck she wore a thin gold chain with a cross hanging from it and her wrists were hung with cheap bangles and bracelets.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ he asked.

  She turned her head towards him. The edge of a pink tongue flickered round the underside of her lips and for a moment she smiled. The still face was swiftly animated with a bold, provocative glance. ‘Sometimes, senhor…’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Anita.’ She flicked the bedcover taut and then straightened up, brushing the limp hair back from her face.

  ‘Do you live here?’

  She nodded and then moved across the room to him. She bent down and gathered up his filthy shirt. As she stood up she was close to him and her eyes went over his hard, brown torso and then to his face. She stared at him and he had the feeling she was deliberately trying to embarrass him. Suddenly she gave a little chuckle, turned and was gone from the room.

  Peter laughed to himself, and then turned to the business of washing and shaving.

  Some time later, he was ready to go up to Quisto’s house. The linen suit fitted him well. He had slicked down his light brown hair with water. He stood at the window and lit a cigarette from a packet Grazia had brought up with the tea. He whistled gently to himself.

  He turned away from the window, stuffing the packet of cigarettes into his pocket, and his whistle rang pleasantly about the low-ceilinged room. He made his way down to the bodega and out into the cool evening air. One or two people drinking on the platform looked up and he felt a bit self-conscious as he passed by them. He guessed that Grazia had probably told people about him. He forgot them as he strolled across the square to the water’s edge. The sight of the sea made him feel good. Here he was safe and sound. He had had more luck than any man had a right to expect.

  It was difficult not to feel rather pleased with himself. A few hours ago and he had fancied that everything was finishing for him. Now, here he was, safely lodged in Grazia’s house with a convincing story to explain his presence. The first thing he had to do was to find out who owned the white dog and from that identify the boat. After that, he would watch points. Rogers had said no heroics. That was all right, too, because he did not mean to perform any. But a fortnight might bring him many quiet opportunities for increasing his knowledge. The only real danger lay in the girl who had rescued him. She was a peasant girl who lived on the other side of the island. As long as she stayed over there with her sheep he was safe. If she came to Portos Marias before the fortnight was up… Well, he would have to find ways of avoiding her. He wasn’t going to worry about that until he was faced with it. The more he thought about his position, the more confident he felt in his new rôle.

  Quisto had told him to come at seven, but when he got there the place seemed deserted. It was a large blue-and-white painted Spanish-type villa, perched on the cliff above the town. From the foot of the gardens the headland ran out which enclosed the harbor.

  He walked through the gardens and found Quisto sitting in a small belvedere, smoking a cigar. Quisto greeted him warmly, but was obviously surprised that he had come at seven. He was a dignified, impressive figure in an old-fashioned black suit, low-cut waistcoat, and a straining spread of stiffly starched shirt. He took Peter around the gardens, sweeping him along and talking as he went.

  The gardens were luxuriant but neglected. Terrace walls were crumbling, gates were broken and rotted on their hinges. The place was wild, rambling and shabby and gave Quisto no concern at all. From him Peter learned the history of the widely-separated group of small islands of which Alvaro was the only inhabited one.

  In 1810 a shipload of Portuguese emigrants to Brazil had been wrecked on the headland which almost enclosed the small harbour. The surviv
ors had brought ashore their stores, their animals and a great deal of tools and household furniture. Communication being impossible and the island almost never visited, the ship had been presumed lost at sea. Twelve months later they had been discovered by a New England whaler, which had put in to water at the stream which flowed down through Portos Marias. By this time, however, the community had settled down, building houses from the easily-worked tufa rock and living comfortably from its fishing and the increase of the few sheep and goats which had been saved and which flourished on the rich grass and shrubs of the lower slope of the mountain.

  Quisto’s arm pointed towards the mountain at the back of Portos Marias. ‘That is Pae—the father. But he is an old, old father now, no fire left in him. In his young days he was a king among volcanoes. Ha, to be young! To be full of fire, and feel the world in your palm like a walnut shell! To see the women’s heads turn and to watch the jealousy flash in the eyes of their men! Yes, Pae is old, and so in a little while—maybe another twenty years—I shall be, too.’ He roared with laughter, sang a snatch of some romantic song, and then went on with his story.

  The settlers had refused to leave their island. As at this time the possession of the Alvaro group was still in dispute between Brazil, the Argentine and Great Britain, they were not regarded as anyone’s responsibility and they had been left alone. Twenty years later the island passed to Brazil as a result of international arbitration. By this time Portos Marias was well-established.

  ‘Just think, senhor. A few old greybeards round a table made the decision which turned me into a Brazilian instead of a Britisher. Por Deus, that is life—everything hangs on a hair.’

  Still talking away, uncaring whether Peter listened or not, Quisto swept him into the house and conducted him over it. They went up a magnificently carved stairway where every other board was broken or loose. They passed down corridors hung with rows of oil paintings; most of the frames were chipped and some of the canvases hung dog-eared from the corners of the mounts; through corridors, salons, balconies and cool courtyards … It was an enormous place. There were mirrors everywhere, foxed and cracked; from the ceilings hung chandeliers with clumps of their lustres missing, twisting lazily in the draught from broken windows; the doors, gaily painted in floral garlands of blues, reds and yellows, creaked and tottered on their hinges … and yet, for all this dilapidation, there was an air of untidy gaiety and colour, a buoyancy and happiness that ran in a bright motif throughout this villa perched on the hill above Portos Marias.