‘Well, what are we going to do with it, now we have it?’ asked Quisto. ‘The boats are not in, so clearly it did not go out with them last night.’
‘Do you recognise the dog?’ Peter asked them.
Tereza shook her head.
‘I have seen it about,’ said Quisto. ‘But there are so many dogs on this island—we have four ourselves—who can tell their owners?’
‘It may have no owner,’ said Tereza. ‘But somebody must know about it.’
Peter ran his hand over the dog’s head. ‘Put it down, and we’ll follow it. Maybe it will go home and we can learn something that way. If not we’ll have to go down to the boats when they come in and make some enquiries.’
Tereza looked at him and smiled. ‘But discreetly …’
He laughed. ‘Yes, discreetly.’
Tereza put the dog on the ground. It stared up at them for a moment as though puzzled by their interest, and then trotted away across the square. They followed it. It stopped at the foot of a flight of steep stone steps running up between the houses fronting the square, waited for them to catch up with it and then began to make its way up the steps.
‘Come on.’ Peter took Tereza’s arm. ‘After it.’
From behind them came Quisto’s voice, ‘El Bobo cannot manage the steps with my weight, and at my age I cannot trot after dogs on foot. I shall see you later. Discretion!’ The last word was boomed after them.
Peter laughed and glanced at Tereza. She smiled back at him.
‘You must forgive us,’ she said, ‘ but nothing like this has ever happened before to us. We shall try to behave properly.’
‘We’re all in the same boat. Nothing like this ever happened to me, either.’
The dog led them a dance.
At the top of the steps it stopped and passed the time of day with two other dogs. It then went along a street parallel with the square and into a courtyard where it sniffed fastidiously around a garbage box. A youth of about sixteen was working at a carpenter’s bench in the yard. Tereza leaned over the wall and asked him if it was his dog.
‘No, Senhorita Tereza.’
From the courtyard it came out and harried a cat which escaped through an open window into a house. A woman put out her head and cursed the dog. Tereza made enquiries from her but she, too, did not know the dog.
Wherever they went Tereza, after a few moments’ talk, made her enquiries.
‘I am being discreet?’ she asked Peter, her mood now light and friendly.
‘Absolutely.’
And from the way people spoke to her he could see, too, that she was treated with great respect. She was Quisto’s daughter.
The dog went down through the town and turned into the street which held the church. It went up the great wide steps and lay stretched out in the sun, enjoying itself and snapping lazily at the flies that worried around its muzzle. Peter and Tereza waited for it to move on. The portico of the church was supported with great marble pillars and on top of the pediment was a large statue of the Madonna, a blaze of pinks, golds and blues in the brilliant sunlight. The great wooden doors were open and Peter could see the body of the church running back into the hillside. Tereza told him that it had been made from a natural cave. The only light inside came from the candles burning before the altar and the sunlight streaming through the open doors. As they turned back from the doors Father Gordano, the only priest on the island, came across from the schoolyard which was next to the church. He was a thin, stooped man with large, friendly eyes.
Tereza introduced Peter to him and then, after they had talked a little, she asked him about the dog.
‘I am not sure, my child, but I think it belongs to Senhor Lesset. Sometimes I have seen him walking with it. He is a great lover of animals.’
The bell in the schoolyard rang and the voices of the playing children were suddenly hushed. With an apology the priest hurried back to his charges. As he went the dog sat up, stretched and then trotted away up the street. Peter and Tereza followed.
‘How could it be Lesset’s dog?’ he asked. ‘Does he ever go out fishing?’
‘No, not with the fleet. For his research work he has a small motor-boat.’
Peter was silent. Lesset might be the organiser behind the fishermen.
At the head of the street a freshet of water spouted from the cliff into a wide stone trough. Gathered around the trough was a group of women washing clothes. Their arms and legs were bare and their wide skirts were tucked up. They looked up from their work and shouted jokingly to Tereza as she passed. She called back to them, and their laughter echoed between the houses. Peter wanted to know what the joke was but Tereza refused to tell him.
‘Sometimes our people have a rough sense of humour,’ she said. ‘However, they do not know the dog.’
At the head of the street where it dwindled into a rough pathway leading to the cliff-top and the cultivated patches of ground on the lower, broad slopes of Pae, the dog snarled at the heels of a couple of slow-moving oxen. A boy with the oxen flung a stone at it, and the dog sloped away along the rough cliff foot, following a narrow path. At the end of the path was a long, grey concrete blockhouse.
‘Look!’ Tereza’s hand was on Peter’s arm. ‘It’s going to Senhor Lesset’s place.’
There was a neat little garden in front of the block-house. Plaited straw screens had been set up to protect plants from the sea wind, and there were rows of neatly staked carnations. The dog trotted up the path between two long petunia beds and scratched at the door. Peter and Tereza stood watching. There seemed no doubt about it. This was Lesset’s dog.
The door opened and, before they could turn away, Lesset had seen them. He came out, looking shabby and comfortable in an old shirt and patched trousers, a frayed panama on his head.
‘Ah, so you’ve decided to come up and see my place,’ he called to Peter. ‘Come in.’
They went in. Lesset excused himself for a moment and disappeared into a side room. He came back with a bowl of scraps which he set down by the open door for the dog.
‘Is that your dog?’ Peter asked.
‘Well no, I guess I wouldn’t call it mine.’ Lesset came back towards them. ‘But it pays me a visit sometimes and I feed it. In return it gives me its company on a walk now and then. That’s all we ask of one another. Now let me show you round.’
Set about three walls of the room were sets of aquaria tanks, and there was a large tank isolated on a table in the middle of the room. Near the long window which fronted the harbour, commanding a view down across the tops of the houses, was a bench with a microscope and jars of preserved specimens. There was no doubt of Lesset’s pride in his work. He showed them round and a spate of words was showered over them … Peter only half listened for he was wondering about the dog, and also keeping an eye on it. It was far from certain that it was Lesset’s and it might wander off in a moment to its real home—if it had one. Words poured from Lesset … zooplankton, phytoplankton, pteropod molluscs, pelagic amphipods … The obvious confusion on Peter’s face brought a twinkle into Lesset’s eyes.
‘Take a look at that.’ Lesset adjusted the microscope and stood back. Peter, peering into the eye-piece, saw two or three glassy, transparent objects pulsating and wriggling on the slide. Lesset’s voice went on. ‘That barrel-shaped thing is the discarded house of a tunicate. The tangle of stuff inside is a phronima which has taken up lodgings there. Believe me, the economy of the sea puts us to shame. Nothing is wasted. One day when the earth’s crops wither away—or at least that’s what the Markway Food Corporation of Cincinatti, who pay me, hope—the world will be fed on plankton.’
His bumpy face creased with humour and he winked at Tereza. ‘When that time comes I hope they make a fat profit and I’m not here. Give me a sole meunière or a sole bonne femme, and I’m happy; but plankton cereal for breakfast and plankton steak for dinner—No, sirree! I’d rather take manna on a cloud or a charcoal broil below.’
His head cocked
sideways like some hoary old crow he swept them round the tanks and it was quite clear that his work was his passion. Peter felt a tug at his arm. Tereza’s eyes flicked towards the door. The dog had finished its meal and was sauntering slowly down the garden path. They made an excuse to leave and Lesset followed them out into the garden.
‘The sea is life—you two remember that. We all came from it and it still controls us. Something happens out there and sooner or later we know about it.’ His head tipped towards the distant stretch of blue and silver water. ‘We’ve been having quite a few earth tremors here lately, haven’t we, Tereza? Nothing to do with old Pae up there. It’s out there under the water. Islands pop up and islands pop down, the sea bed alters, the currents switch round and the temperatures change and—before you know it—there’s no food for the seabirds and then—’
‘And then,’ put in Tereza, ‘there’s no guano for Portos Marias.’
Lesset laughed. ‘Smart girl. Senhor Landers, you couldn’t have found a better guide to show you round the place. Or a prettier one.’
He watched them as they went down the hill. He smiled indulgently. They were young and, if he knew the signs …
Half an hour later, still following the dog, Peter and Tereza came down a path near Quisto’s villa to the square. At the jetty they could see the fishing boats which had returned during the morning. There were shouts and cries and the rumble of the little donkey carts. As they reached the square a voice shouted to them from the upper window of one of the houses. An old man was sitting at the window. He wore a night-cap and a red flannel nightgown and smoked a pipe. Tereza shouted back to him and then, as they followed the dog across the square, she said, ‘ That’s Pasquale. He doesn’t know the dog. He broke his leg on the boats two weeks ago. He is old so it does not mend quickly. Luckily he has a son to work for him. It is not good to be old and ill and without anyone.’
The sympathy in her voice warmed Peter.
‘The dog,’ she said suddenly and pointed. It was going purposefully across the square towards the jetty.
‘Come on. Maybe it’s going back to its boat.’
About a dozen boats were tied alongside the jetty. Most of the fish had been unloaded, but the men were working still preparing their craft for the late afternoon when they would go out again. They were hard, brown-skinned men whose great hands moved with a feminine skill at the mending of nets, the stitching of canvas, at the constant tasks which a boat demands, the painting of a scarred plank, the reeving of new and the splicing of old ropes, the tinkering with engines and the washing of decks and fish wells … Thousands of miles from Cornwall it might be, thought Peter, but it was the same labour he had watched in his own village.
As Tereza came on to the jetty she was greeted with affectionate cries by the fishermen. Peter noticed, too, that he was being watched with a great deal of natural curiosity. The dog had halted about half-way down the jetty and was scratching itself in the sun close to the bows of a boat called the Borrisco. There was a man standing on the jetty talking to the three crew in the boat. Peter recognised the man at once as Nimo Dinez. Peter and Tereza stopped alongside him and he nodded, smiling at Peter.
Tereza began to speak to Nimo and Peter realised at once that she was speaking slowly and deliberately so that he should be able to follow. After a while she bent down and fondled the dog.
‘I didn’t know you had a dog, Nimo.’
‘Dog?’ Nimo looked at the animal. ‘He is not mine, Senhorita Tereza. He is a stray. He belongs to nobody.’
As he finished speaking there was a shout and a clatter of hooves from a little further up the jetty. A donkey, laden with two heavy fish panniers, had slipped on the rough slabs of stone and was lying on the ground, weighed down by its panniers and threshing its legs in a hopeless attempt to get to its feet. There was a shout of laughter as a fisherman tried to get its bridle and help it up and was kicked for his pains. As the man hopped cursing away, another man shouldered his way through the knot of men and with a roar of good-humoured abuse at the struggling animal bent down and with a heave of his gorilla-like arms lifted the animal to its feet as though it were a toy.
‘Bravo, Assis!’
The man grinned, delighted at the applause and then smacking the donkey on its rump sent it ambling forward. He followed it shouting kindly insults at the animal.
As he came towards them Peter saw that he was a man in his thirties, but he had the face of a boy, a face the colour of raw tobacco. His eyebrows were thick and formed a ridge across the top of his nose, and his black hair was short and curly. He wore a ragged blue shirt and white canvas trousers stained with grease and paint, and he walked with a thrusting forward swing of his shoulders as though he were forcing his way through an invisible crowd. He stopped as he came abreast of them and gave Tereza a quick smile. Then he turned and began to talk to Nimo.
Peter put out a hand and touched Tereza unobtrusively. He nodded towards the dog. As Assis talked, the dog was moving round and round him, looking up towards him and whining for attention. After a moment Assis looked down at the dog. He made a mock angry gesture at it and the dog lowered its head, crestfallen.
‘Why are you angry with it, Assis?’ asked Tereza.
‘Because, Senhorita Tereza, it is faithless. If you were not a woman, I should say as faithless as a woman.’
‘Is it your dog?’
‘No. It is a stray. A fishing-dog. It likes to go out with the boats.’ He bent down and picked the dog up, holding its muzzle close to his face. ‘ Faithless! For five nights running it has been out with us, but last night it deserts us and we have bad luck. Go, you rogue!’ He set the dog down and waved it off.
‘It brings luck, then?’ asked Tereza.
‘Who can tell what brings luck, senhorita. All I know is that for five nights we were lucky, but last night, no.’
Assis gave them a wave of his hand and walked away.
Peter could sense the excitement in Tereza. As soon as they could they left Nimo.
He turned to her, seeing her eyes bright, her face eager.
‘Who is this Assis?’ asked Peter.
‘He works with the Pastori brothers, Vasco and Manöel on the Miragem.’ She nodded towards a boat at the far end of the jetty. Then she added, ‘He is also the fiancé of Anita.’
‘Oh…’ Then Peter laughed. ‘I shall have to keep out of his way.’
They stood looking at the Miragem. The two Pastori brothers were aboard and Tereza indicated them quietly. Vasco, who was the elder, was a tall, raw-boned man with a gloomy face made even gloomier by a limp black moustache. Manöel was short, blunt-faced, with a large, loose mouth, from which projected a cigar-stub. His teeth were broken and discoloured.
These were the men, thought Peter, who had left him to drown. They were rough fishermen, hard and self-contained and with an air about them that made their ruthlessness easy to believe. Yes, even with Assis … there was something in that large, boyish face, a suggestion of cruelty …
All his disgust urged him to go up to them, to throw himself upon them and ease the disgust he felt for them in violence. He, as well as they, belonged to the sea, and for him their crime was the ultimate one … He suddenly saw that Tereza was watching him, and he had the feeling that she knew exactly what he was thinking.
She began to tell him about the three men as soon as they were off the jetty. The Pastori brothers and Assis lived together in a house at the top of the town. Assis’ parents had died when he was about fourteen and Quisto had been good to him until he had become old enough to earn his living fishing.
‘Of all the men on the island, it does not surprise me that it should be these. The Pastori brothers keep to themselves, and they are not liked, though they have caused no trouble. Assis is always in trouble. Although he is likeable, he is lazy. He steals and he is always making trouble with women. Now we must tell my father. He will be in the cannery.’ Eagerly she took his arm, moving him towards the long corrugated-iron
building on the far side of the square. ‘You understand, we shall have to be careful with him over this business. We must control him.’
The serious way in which she spoke made him smile. There were times when she talked of her father as though he were a younger brother to be protected and managed.
‘We can handle him between us.’
She was silent for a while. Then she looked up at him and asked: ‘Senhor Landers … why were you given the job in the Turkish Slave? Have you done this kind of work before?’
The question, coming out of the blue, found him unready and disturbed him.
‘Oh … I don’t know…’
Tereza caught his hesitation and uncertainty and knew at once that behind them lay something he was unwilling to reveal. Instinctively, because she liked him and wanted to give him no distress, she said quickly: ‘They must have had great trust in you, Senhor Landers.’
‘Well, somebody had to do it. There were plenty of officers to pick from.’ It sounded lame and he was full of embarrassment.
‘You’re too modest,’ she laughed.
Peter knew then that she was aware of his awkwardness and was covering it. He looked at this girl with a fresh interest and, oddly, into his mind came a memory that way back some man from his family had left the tin mines at Callington and come to South America. Lots of Cornish miners had done that. He’d married a Spanish girl somewhere. Glancing at Tereza, he had a sudden approving feeling for his great-uncle or whoever the man had been.
Chapter Six
They found Quisto at the back of the cannery building up part of the yard wall that had collapsed. He was working alone and leisurely, tapping away with a hammer at the flat stones to shape them. Each time he fitted one he stood back, cigar in mouth, cocked his head at his handiwork admiringly and then removed the cigar and reached out for a wine-skin that hung from the crook of an olive tree that grew at the cliff-foot and refreshed himself. Now and again he flung an insulting remark at Bobo, who was stretched out in the shade of the tree, a cloud of flies buzzing against his muzzle.
The Man from the 'Turkish Slave' Page 7