The Man from the 'Turkish Slave'

by Victor Canning

  ‘Please … this really is serious.’

  ‘This man also was very serious, and very hurried. He could not stop to tell me how he came to be in the water. He must catch the Santos boat. Senhor Landers’—she turned swiftly towards him, her mood changing rapidly so that now she no longer laughed or teased but was imperious, commanding—’you will explain to me at once why I should not go and tell everyone that you are an imposter.’

  ‘If you do that, I shall probably finish up with a knife in my back.’

  ‘On this island.’ She laughed and made a gesture of disbelief.

  ‘It could happen.’

  ‘Why? What is all this mystery?’

  He was silent for a while. Her dark eyes were on him, the night breeze gently lifted her loose black hair and she was looking at him challengingly. There was no way out for him. He had to tell her and he had to trust her.

  ‘I am waiting, senhor.’

  From the house behind them came the low murmur of men’s voices.

  ‘Walk on a bit with me. I don’t want anyone else to hear.’

  He moved deeper into the garden. They stopped under a trellis of young vines whose tendrils were silver wire in the starlight. He told her everything. Going carefully through the story, he omitted nothing, and as he talked he watched her face shadowed by the canopy of leaves above them. Her eyes were still, her face a little solemn, and she heard him through without interruption. As he finished she looked up at him and there was a proud, angry quality in her manner as though deep inside her some loyalty, some cherished concept had been touched.

  ‘Senhor, you give me your word this is true?’

  ‘Yes, everything.’

  She swung round abruptly and her hand went up, pulling at a young vine leaf, the movement expressive of the anger in her. Her back to him, she stared into the night and her voice was charged with hurt pride.

  ‘This is a good island. It is hard to believe that there are such people here … people who would leave a man to drown in the water. We do not want such people here.’ She turned to him and her hand was for a moment on his arm. ‘Senhor, I apologise for what has happened to you—’

  ‘But it’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘You do not understand. It is everything to do with me. There has always been the das Tegas family here. It is our island. We are proud of it. Never have we had trouble like this … Oh, there have been bad things, stealings and even men fighting with knives, and drunkenness, but always over things that could be understood and forgiven.’

  It was not something Peter had expected, but he understood it at once … the hot pride and love of her family for this place.

  ‘Look’—he wanted to calm her down—’don’t take it so much to heart on my account. You’ve done enough for me already. Without you I wouldn’t be here. And all I want from you now is that you should keep my secret.’

  ‘But of course we shall keep it.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My father and I.’

  ‘Do you have to tell him?’

  ‘But of course, senhor. This is his island—’ She broke off suddenly and he knew at once that she had guessed what he was thinking. She went on rapidly, her voice challenging, ‘You are not suggesting, senhor, that my father cannot be trusted; that he might be involved in this affair?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Peter said quickly. To appease her, he added, ‘It’s obvious that he must know.’

  To his surprise, she smiled and then gave a delighted laugh. ‘You did think that, senhor. I could see it on your face. I forgive you, for after what you have been through it was wise to be cautious. But we must tell him. What he will say! He will be so angry! We shall have to handle him very carefully.’

  ‘We’d better wait until the other guests have gone.’

  ‘Of course.’ She moved along the garden path, silent for a while. Then, without looking at him, she said, ‘It was very brave of you to stay here when you could have caught the Bolivar…’ She laughed. ‘Oh, your face when Doctor Jaeger asked you about the boat. And also when I came down the stairs!’ She suddenly went off into peals of laughter.

  ‘Well, I thought I’d never see you again. I imagined you lived on the other side of the island.’

  ‘Now and again I go over for a few days, but it is usually José or Pedro. What did you think when I came down the stairs?’

  ‘I thought you were very beautiful … and you were the last person in the world I wanted to see.’

  Suddenly he felt at home and at ease with her. There was nothing wrong with her, and there was nothing wrong with Quisto. They were two nice people, but he could see that he would have to tread carefully when it came to their feelings about the island, or any matter touching their family honour.

  They had to wait about a long time until they could get Quisto alone. Tereza brought him down into the garden to Peter. He came beaming, smoking a last cigar and leaning a little on a silver-topped cane. Wisely she manoeuvred him well out of earshot of the house before she began to tell him Peter’s story. She spoke rapidly and in her own language. Peter knew when she reached the various points, because each one was followed by an explosion from Quisto.

  The first explosion sent heads flying from a clump of flowers as he struck at them with his cane. The second was marked by the glowing parabola of his cigar-end as he hurled it away into the bushes. The third made the studs pop open on his starched front as he turned to Peter, flinging his arms wide and roaring like an angry animal—

  ‘On my island! Por Deus, it is an injustice. Everything that happens here, I know. It is to me that everyone comes for the good things or the bad things, to celebrate a birth or to cheat the government taxes. Why have I not been given a chance to join this smuggling?’

  The old bandit, thought Peter. Then, handling Quisto tactfully, he said, ‘It’s not petty smuggling. They know you wouldn’t approve of this kind of thing.’

  Tereza took her father’s arm. ‘ They tried to murder Senhor Landers. Amongst our people … is it possible?’

  Peter saw the change sweep over Quisto’s face.

  ‘Unforgivable! Of course, that is the reason.’ Quisto began to pace up and down. ‘ It must be stopped. A little smuggling … That is one thing. But murder!’

  He came to a halt beside Peter and put his arm round his shoulder. ‘We shall handle this, senhor. There are good and bad on this island, but do not worry. You are in my hands, senhor. To-morrow, when the fishing-boats come in, we shall see which boat has this dog. After that we shall decide what to do.’

  Peter was a little worried by the use of ‘ we’. He could see that unless he were careful the whole thing might be taken out of his hands. Much as he liked these two, he was not blind to their impetuous, quick-tempered natures. Quisto, given provocation, was quite capable of going roaring down to the jetty to wait for the morning return of the fishing-boats.

  ‘Remember—whatever we do, we mustn’t let anyone suspect that we know anything. We’ve got to get all the information we can to the man at Sao Paulo without scaring any of the birds.’

  ‘It shall be done! Discretion must be our watchword!’ cried Quisto. ‘And now, it is late. To bed! To bed!’

  But as Peter moved away down the garden after saying good night, Tereza came with him, and Quisto, turning to watch them, said speculatively, ‘Senhor Landers?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This reward these men in England have promised you—will it be big?’

  Peter shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose it depends upon how much I find out.’

  Quisto nodded. ‘ Quite so.’ Then, his face breaking into a smile, he went on happily ‘Por Deus—then we must find out everything so that there is plenty to share between the two of us.’

  Before Peter was over his surprise, Tereza’s voice from his side said, firmly, ‘ The three of us. Without me we should never have known Senhor Peter’s secret.’

  ‘The two of us!’ Quisto drew himself up.

 
Peter glanced from one to the other of them. Then, grinning, he said stubbornly, ‘The three of us, Quisto.’

  Going down the path to the gate he heard Quisto go grumbling towards the house. Tereza laughed gently at his side. The sound and the thought of her alongside him, were pleasant. But for her there would not have been this scented night overhung with pale stars, the air troubled now and again with the heavy, soft whirs of blundering moths. He turned as he opened the gate and said to her, ‘I’m sorry if I got you wrong this morning. You did me a good turn and I treated you like a peasant girl. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have…’ He hesitated, feeling suddenly embarrassed.

  Tereza laughed and went on for him, ‘ What? Kissed me and given me money? Why not? I like both.’

  Before he could say or do anything she had reached up and kissed him on the cheek and then was gone into the darkness, leaving an echo of delighted laughter behind her.

  When Tereza entered the house it was to find her father standing alone in the long salon. The laughter went from her. The light from the chandelier showed his face, grave and tired. Gone were the exuberance and vigour of spirit and body. He looked up and, for a moment, smiled as she crossed to him. She put a hand on his arm and he caressed her fingers.

  ‘I have seen this coming, Tereza. Even on an island like this you cannot keep the world out. My people have been bad before, but it was always the unruliness of children. Now there is evil with us. For a long time I have smelt it in the air like carrion.’ His voice was heavy with sadness. Tereza drew close to him.

  ‘Only a few people can be doing this. The rest of the island is the same.’

  ‘No, my child. The wickedness of a few is a disease that spreads to others. I have known the world and withdrawn from it. But it reaches out, even here.’

  ‘We shall stop it. Things will be the same again.’

  Quisto looked at her. She was young, his favourite daughter; she was optimistic and full of the unflinching hope of youth. Momentarily he envied her the vigour and confidence she brought to life.

  ‘Yes, we shall stop it.’ He drew himself up, anger reaching through him. ‘This island, these people—they are my life. But when it is all over things will not be the same. That is the lesson age will teach you, my child. Things are never the same. The wind and the rain loosen the rocks on Pae and they fall and the mountain is forever changed. Men sin and are forgiven or punished, but are forever different.’ He stopped abruptly and grinned at her. ‘Go to bed. After midnight I become an old man and fit company only for myself.’

  Tereza kissed him. When she reached the top of the stairs she looked back. He was standing where she had left him. Her heart was suddenly overflowing with a warm, impetuous tenderness for him.

  Chapter Five

  Peter slept late that morning. He was only just awake when the door opened with a creak of hinges and Anita came in. She set a tray on the table by the bed. Roused by the smell of coffee and rolls, Peter sat up.

  ‘Bonas dias, senhorita.’

  Anita stepped back from the bed, her hands behind her, and gave him a smile. She was the kind of girl he understood easily; the kind of girl you could take out for an evening, walk home and leave with a kiss. His kind, he thought; the three-day shore-leave kind who waved goodbye and forgot you.

  When she was gone he drank his coffee, which was excellent, and ate a roll. The morning sun was hot and strong across the foot of the bed, and he was suddenly anxious to be up. He reached out for his wrist-watch, which he had put on the bedside table. It was gone. It had been there just before Anita came in.

  Well, my light-fingered lass, he thought, we’ll have that out when we meet.

  He dressed quickly and went down to look for Anita. The long eating-room of the bodega was empty, but from the kitchen came the sound of Grazia singing. Close to the door of the store-room was another door. He opened it and found himself in a small, enclosed courtyard. Through the arches in one side of the yard he had a glimpse of the square and long headland, rough with shrubs and small trees, sweeping towards the sea, which lay blue and silver under the sun. Anita was in the yard. She had an old tin in one hand and was scattering maize for a group of hens that pecked over the small yellow, cobbles. She raised a bare foot and kicked hard at an arrogant rooster that was getting more than his share of corn. The bird was sent, squawking, against one of the walls and Peter laughed. She turned and grinned at him.

  ‘I want a word with you,’ he said.

  She threw the last of the corn to the birds and then tossed the tin away.

  ‘Senhor?’

  He moved closer to her and held out his hand.

  ‘I’d like my watch back. You understand?’

  She nodded, unconcerned.

  ‘Come on, then. Hand it over.’

  She shook her head, smiling, her eyes challenging and defiant.

  ‘Come on. No nonsense.’ He caught her by the wrist and at once the muscle and bone quivered and it was like holding a young animal, wild and plunging, but somehow not frightened. She raised her arm and bit into his hand. He gave a grunt of pain and released her. She made for the arched entrance to the courtyard, but he moved swiftly and headed her off.

  Laughing, she backed against the wall of the yard until she was almost hidden in the luxuriance of a creeper starred with tiny blue flowers. Peter saw her hands pressed protectingly against a small pocket in her dress and he knew that his watch was there.

  He walked slowly up to her, rubbing his sore hand. He stopped a couple of feet from her. He stood there, smiling. She was enjoying this, he could see. He jumped suddenly, grabbing her elbows and throwing his weight on her so that she was forced back into the creeper. Tiny blue flowers showered around them. She fought and kicked and he heard her muttering in Portuguese. He didn’t know what she was saying but he guessed that it was uncomplimentary. Holding her with his weight, he slipped his hand into her pocket and took the watch. When he would have stepped back her hands gripped the slack sides of his jacket. Her face was very close to him, the lips half-parted, her skin flushed and warm, the firm, vigorous line of her body moulded against him. Her quick change of mood amused him. He kissed her and she held him with a sudden vigorous passion.

  A voice from behind him said, ‘Good morning, senhor.’

  Anita slipped away from him and he turned to find himself facing Tereza and Quisto. Tereza, in a green skirt and a white blouse, stood just inside the archway. Quisto, astride El Bobo, was on the other side of the archway. One hand held the unfurled red umbrella, and he was smiling.

  Tereza said something rapidly in Portuguese to Anita who, with a wink at Peter, flounced into the bodega.

  Embarrassed, Peter moved forward.

  ‘She stole my watch …’

  Tereza turned away from him, going back to her father and Quisto laughed.

  ‘And naturally, senhor—what better way to get it back?’ Quisto’s shoulders shook as he looked from Peter to Tereza.

  Peter laughed a little uneasily, his eyes on Tereza.

  Quisto gave the umbrella a twirl.

  ‘Forget it, senhor. What is a kiss where Anita is concerned? She expects it as a goat expects to be milked. Come on, we have business with a dog.’

  They left the bodega and walked along the edge of the square, Peter to one side of El Bobo and Tereza on the other. Once or twice he looked across at her, but she avoided his eyes. It was just his luck, he thought, that they should have come along at that moment.

  The sun was warm across the square. At the mouth of the harbour a long swell was lifting slow breakers that shouldered their way ponderously through the narrow entrance. A breeze coming off the sea raised little dust swirls over the square and stirred the dead fronds of the palms. At the moment there was no sign of the fishing fleet. They had decided the previous evening that the best plan of action was to be on the jetty when the fleet came in. They would be able to see then which boat the dog was on.

  Quisto was quite obviously looking forwar
d, to the morning’s work. ‘When we find it, senhor,’ he cautioned, his voice booming indiscreetly into the breeze, ‘we will act carefully. Not a word, not a glance! Just face the morning and the world as though it were the same as any other morning … the same beautiful world. We three have a secret. It must remain ours until the moment to strike comes. And then … Ah!’

  It was at this moment that Peter saw the dog. There was no doubt in his mind whatever. It went trotting across the square ahead of them, its curled tail signalling, its muzzle low to the ground as though it followed some delectable scent.

  ‘That’s it!’ he said. ‘Over there. Look.’ He pointed towards the dog.

  Almost before he had finished speaking, Tereza had left her father’s side and was running. She dodged through a group of children who were playing and swept the dog up into her arms. She came triumphantly back towards Quisto and Peter, her eyes shining.

  ‘You’re sure it’s this one?’ She was holding the dog up to Peter.

  ‘Yes, that’s the one.’ But although he was amused at her enthusiasm, at her sudden change of mood, he was also worried by the exuberance which she and Quisto shared. ‘But for Pete’s sake, you mustn’t do things like that. We don’t want everyone to know that we’re interested in the dog. We’ve got to keep this to ourselves.’

  For a moment he thought she was going to answer him sharply. Then Quisto broke in:

  ‘Senhor Peter is right. Discretion. Remember this is a serious matter, Tereza.’

  ‘There’s no harm done.’ Peter helped her out, but his sympathy was refused by her.

  ‘In future, I shall remember.’ Her voice was cold.