Bones of the Buried

by David Roberts

  At first, Verity found the play hard to follow and wondered what the Spanish in the audience would make of it. It seemed to abound in word play; Elizabethan puns, inexplicable jokes which must have been highly topical when they were penned, displaying what Maurice called Shakespeare’s drunken delight in the sound of words. He explained Shakespeare was exhibiting his skill with ‘wit’ as a fencer might dazzle onlookers with his foil. But this wit, which had once been the height of fashion, had over time become almost unintelligible. On the other hand, the preening and flirting in which the characters indulged was very Spanish. Verity had watched young men strolling along the Gran Vía flaunting their sexuality in just this way. And the sense of honour, which now seemed antiquated to a young British girl, made perfect sense to the Spanish.

  Verity sat at the back of the room and prepared to be bored but, in fact, she was soon engrossed in what was happening on stage. She was impressed by Tate’s direction. He had thrown off the feeble air of a provincial aesthete and assumed control of what could easily have been chaos. He not only knew the play through and through but also seemed to know exactly what it was about and how it should be played. He was lucid and patient but quite ruthless in getting what he wanted. It was a new Maurice, as far as Verity was concerned, and she found herself thinking that this was a man who could commit murder if it were essential to his gaining a particular end.

  She was much taken with the character of the braggart Armado – the so-called ‘fantastical Spaniard’ – an absurd, clownish figure made more appealing by Shakespeare softening his absurdity with a vein of melancholy. She could not decide whether the Spanish in the audience would be offended or whether they would see in Armado a prefiguring of Cervantes’ Don Quixote. Armado – ‘his humour lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous . . .’ – was most amusingly played by, of all people, Maurice’s friend Agustín, the pianist at Chicote’s. Verity thought he was so good that he should take up acting professionally.

  Armado and some of the other clownish characters were performing a play for the ‘great ones’ who were mocking their efforts unmercifully. Verity was laughing at their antics when suddenly she was arrested by some lines of Armado’s in which he upbraided his betters for jeering at his efforts to portray the Greek warrior, Hector. If they mock him, he says, they mock Hector and ‘the sweet warman is dead and rotten’.

  ‘Diga me, Maurizio,’ said Agustín, coming out of character, ‘what does it mean when I say, “beat not the bones of the buried. When he breathed he was a man”?’

  ‘It’s another way of saying, speak well of the dead and respect the chap because he was once a living, breathing man like you and me,’ Maurice explained.

  It made Verity think. Three men were dead: Hoden, Tilney and Thayer. They had all in some way offended someone. And there was a dead child: dead and rotten these eighteen years.

  ‘Maurice,’ said Verity, during the break for ‘tea and recriminations’, as Hester termed it, ‘you were wonderful. I had no idea you would be such a good director. I’m impressed.’

  Maurice blushed with pleasure and immediately reverted to being the effete ‘man of letters’ which so irritated her.

  ‘I’m glad you like it, my dear. José, now – isn’t he gorgeous?’

  ‘He’s a very good actor.’

  ‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’ Maurice said with feeling.

  ‘And Agustín, he’s so good as Armado. Like Don Quixote, I thought.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said, seeming surprised at her perspicacity.

  ‘I was struck by the phrase he asked you about.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘ “The bones are buried”, that bit. I was thinking about Tilney.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake why, child? You think he was a “sweet warman”?’

  ‘Not quite but . . .’

  ‘He was a piece of garbage – nothing more,’ Maurice said with cold contempt. ‘It was the best thing that could have happened – him being shot like a mad dog.’

  The vehemence of his words rendered Verity speechless and Maurice, seeing her expression, quickly corrected himself. ‘I don’t know why I said that, my dear, forgive me. The play . . . I was thinking of the play, but he was a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘Because of his politics?’

  ‘Oh no, what do I care about his politics? He could have believed in . . . in Hector for all I cared. But he was – forgive me, dear, but I must say it – a complete and utter bastard. He tried to blackmail me once.’

  ‘Blackmail?’

  ‘Yes, he said if I didn’t do . . . some dirty political thing for him, he would tell everyone I was queer.’

  ‘Queer? Homosexual? But that’s ridiculous. You’re married . . . with a daughter.’

  Maurice looked at her oddly and seemed about to say something, but changed his mind at the last moment.

  ‘So what did you do?’ Verity prompted.

  ‘I told him to go to hell, of course. I said the Spanish – in spite of all the Catholic stuff – were a surprisingly broadminded lot and had a different sense of honour to him. In fact, I think I said – I certainly meant to – that he had no idea what the word “honour” meant.’

  ‘Gosh! Was that the end of it?’

  ‘No, the pool of vomit – excuse my French, dear – said he would tell the people back home and ruin my career, blast him.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘No, he died. Or, at least, we thought he had died. But of course he wasn’t dead – not then anyway.’

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘I would like to have done,’ Maurice said with evident sincerity, ‘but, as it happened, I didn’t – either time.’

  ‘You went back to England a couple of weeks ago, didn’t you? Not bad news, I hope?’

  ‘As a matter of fact my mother was ill. They thought she might die.’

  ‘But she was all right?’

  ‘She pulled through – unfortunately.’

  ‘Unfortunately?’

  ‘She’s not been in her right mind for years. I hoped she might fade away peacefully.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘She’s a Catholic and she’s in a Catholic home. Maggie, my daughter, has to live with her aunt and I’m afraid she doesn’t like it. I told you my wife died when Maggie was only a baby. The people who look after my mother are very good but, as Catholics, they are morally bound to keep someone alive – bring them back from the dead – when it might be more merciful . . . She had pneumonia during the winter . . . She should have passed away but . . . I’m . . .’

  Verity saw that he was in tears and she upbraided herself for being callous. She put a hand on his arm and squeezed it gently. ‘Please forgive me, Maurice. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not your fault,’ he said, pulling out a grubby handkerchief and mopping his eyes. ‘My mother’s the only woman I’ve ever truly loved and I hate myself for wanting her to die.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. You just want her to be at peace.’

  Maurice looked at her gratefully and smiled wanly.

  When, at half-past seven, they were strolling back to the apartment in the warm, sweet-smelling air of early summer, Verity, emboldened by the semi-darkness and by Hester’s unshockability as far as sex was concerned, said, ‘You seem to get on very well with José. He’s so beautiful I wondered if you were . . . having an affair.’

  To Verity’s puzzlement, her friend broke into peals of laughter that made others strolling along the Gran Vía look at her and smile in sympathy.

  ‘My dear, sweet, innocent cherub,’ she said when she had at last stopped laughing, ‘José is Maurice’s new boyfriend. Surely you noticed the way the two of them were looking at each other?’

  ‘Boyfriend . . .? Then is he really . . .? Oh God, what a fool I am. But I thought his special friend was Agustín . . .’

  ‘W
ell, of course! Goodness, you are unobservant. Didn’t you pick up “the atmosphere”? I quite thought Agustín would hit Maurice, or at least walk out, but he so loves being in the play . . .’

  Verity felt very foolish. As a journalist, being called unobservant was worse than being biased or corrupt. It meant she was no good at her job and that was the one thing she clung on to – that she was a good journalist. Angry with herself, she became angry at Hester.

  ‘Oh no, that’s disgusting! José’s a real man. I’m sure you’re quite wrong.’

  ‘Wrong, am I?’ said Hester indignantly. ‘Well, I have seen them in bed together.’

  ‘You haven’t!’

  ‘I have. I went to Maurice’s apartment because he said he wanted to give me some notes on my part. He had obviously forgotten I was coming because, when he opened the door, he was in nothing but a silk dressing-gown and behind him, through the bedroom door which was open, I could see José, naked as a baby sprawled across the bed.’

  In the darkness, Verity coloured. She decided to change the subject: ‘Maurice says Tilney was trying to blackmail him. Do you think that’s possible?’

  ‘Quite possible,’ said Hester firmly. ‘That man . . . there was something reptilian about him. I hated him.’

  ‘But Rosalía liked him – loved him – and she’s not a fool.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe he was kind to her but he was a cold fish – a bully and a coward. I don’t like saying it, but he deserved to die. I have a feeling Rosalía, bless her, may be a bit of a masochist.’

  ‘But no one likes being hurt.’

  ‘Yes, they do. Some people like to be physically hurt. Haven’t you ever heard that some men go to prostitutes to be beaten with birch rods?’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Verity, horrified. ‘That’s . . . that’s horrible.’

  ‘It’s so common in your country, the French call it the English disease.’

  Verity was, for once, speechless. It seemed she knew nothing about sex after all. She shook her head. She saw herself as broadminded – even immoral. After all, she was the mistress of a married man. It made her feel very cosmopolitan. Edward would probably call her a scarlet woman. She wondered why she should think of Edward at that particular moment. It wasn’t as though she cared how he might view her behaviour. He wasn’t her conscience.

  ‘Some women like to be tortured mentally, or psychologically,’ Hester was saying. ‘But perhaps the worm turned.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, to be truthful, I have always wondered if Rosalía didn’t murder Tilney. I wouldn’t blame her if she had.’

  Verity thought about this. ‘No, I don’t believe she’s capable of murder and I do believe she loved Tilney. I can’t forget her wailing when we discovered his body. In fact, tomorrow I’m going up to the cave with Rosalía to hunt for clues.’

  ‘But why? What could be there now after all this time?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing probably, but I was so shocked when we found the body I didn’t have a chance to look around properly.’

  ‘I think you’re mad, cherub, but don’t let me stop you. But keep a weather ear open. The stab in the back . . .’

  ‘Oh, don’t be absurd, Hetty. Anyway, it’s weather eye.’

  ‘I’m absurd, am I?’ Hester said, pretending to take umbrage. ‘I guess you know best, but don’t blame me if you get pushed off a cliff. I’m going to change and have a wash – then shall we go down to Chicote’s?’

  They all sat round the table laughing, telling stories, happy. Ben Belasco was drinking hard. When he was working well, he almost never drank but, when he had finished a story or even a piece of journalism, he would celebrate by what he called ‘bingeing’. He had finished a story that afternoon while Verity was watching Love’s Labour’s Lost and was in cracking form. He told stories about his childhood in Colorado: how he had been running with a stick in his mouth and had fallen and gouged out his tonsils, how at high school he had taken the part of the playwright Sheridan in a play called Beau Brummel and had felt ‘damn queer’, how he had become a keen boxer and after being knocked out had woken to find a beautiful girl massaging his face with a wet sponge. ‘Gee, was I a humdinger in those days,’ he remembered fondly. And all the time he told stories, he was stroking Verity – her neck, her leg, her thigh – and she knew there would be energetic love-making later that night. It was as if the adrenalin he needed to finish a story then had to be washed out in sex.

  Maurice, too, was in high spirits because rehearsals for the play were going so well and Hester, José and Agustín were infected by his enthusiasm. Even the enigmatic Tom Sutton had deserted his desk for Chicote’s and was unwontedly cheerful. He had thrown off the veneer of world-weariness which he usually wore about him like a mantle and was telling stories of his ambassador’s bêtises with biting sarcasm. The merriment was interrupted by the unexpected appearance of David Griffiths-Jones, grim-faced and exhausted. He smiled thinly at the assembled company, refused Maurice Tate’s offer of a beer and summoned Verity – like the Commendatore in Don Giovanni, Belasco said later – to follow him to a relatively quiet corner of the restaurant.

  ‘What is it?’ Verity asked, when she had disentangled herself from Belasco and joined him on a banquette out of sight of the party. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ David said coldly. ‘I haven’t got much time, so listen carefully. Our informants tell us that General Franco and his cronies are planning to mutiny and, unless we can nip it in the bud, God knows where it will end.’

  ‘Mutiny! You mean rebellion? But Franco’s still in Morocco, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but the tentacles of conspiracy are spread widely. I am off to Casablanca first thing tomorrow to see what I can do to frustrate them. But before I go, I wanted to warn you to be ready.’

  ‘Ready for what?’ Verity asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet but, when you get a message from me, you must come immediately. I shall want you to begin the war of words. We have to put our side of the story and capture public opinion in England and America. Only then can we put enough pressure on the British and French governments to declare their support for us openly.’

  ‘Won’t they do that anyway?’

  ‘Don’t be naive, Verity. The British government is virtually Fascist. It will do everything it can to prevent itself getting drawn into a civil war on the side of the left. All it needs to do is nothing and the Republic will fall. Only public opinion can persuade Baldwin to live up to his obligations. But you know all that. That’s where your friend Belasco will come in useful. You have to bring him with you wherever I send you and make him report what we want him to report. His name carries great weight in Washington and New York.’

  ‘But I can’t make him do anything.’

  ‘Don’t be a little fool. This is your job, this is why you’re here. That’s why I haven’t minded you disporting yourself with that creature.’

  ‘Ben?’

  ‘Yes,’ David said bitterly. ‘You don’t think I would have stood for it otherwise?’

  ‘Are you jealous?’ Verity asked.

  ‘Not at all. Why should I be? But just remember that you are not in Spain on holiday but to do a job of work.’

  ‘Yes, I’m a foreign correspondent.’

  ‘Stop play-acting, Verity,’ he said scathingly. ‘You’re not a child, even if you behave like one sometimes. Your one reason for being here is to serve the Party. Discipline – I have told you before – discipline. The Party demands it.’

  ‘And by discipline you mean I must do what you say?’

  ‘That is correct, at least for the moment. You take orders from me or some other senior Party member.’

  Verity held back tears with difficulty. She was being bullied and she hated it – she hated David, she hated the Party, but wasn’t he right? Wasn’t that why she was here?

  ‘Look,’ David said, making an effort to appear less dictatorial, ‘we’ve obtained a copy o
f this.’ He pushed a paper into her hands. ‘How good’s your Spanish? Can you read?’

  ‘Yes.’ She scanned the paper. ‘It’s from General Mola.’

  ‘Yes, he’s one of the ringleaders.’

  ‘ “The situation in Spain is becoming more critical with every day that passes,” ’ she read. ‘ “Anarchy reigns in most of her villages and the government presides over . . .” What’s this word?’

  ‘Tumults.’

  ‘ “Tumults. The Motherland is being torn apart . . . the masses are being hoaxed by Soviet agents who veil the bloody reality of a regime that has already sacrificed twenty-five million lives . . .” What does it mean?’

  ‘It means we are almost at war. We will be in a matter of weeks.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do now?’

  ‘Nothing, just wait. I will give you a signal and tell you what needs to be said.’

  Verity wasn’t certain that she wanted to be told what to say but she was frightened. She suddenly felt very small, a minnow in an ocean full of sharp-toothed fish who would use her and toss her aside without a moment’s consideration when she had served her purpose. She suddenly wished she had Edward Corinth beside her. Thinking of him made her think of the murders he was investigating – that they were investigating together.

  ‘Do you know yet who killed Godfrey Tilney?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘Tilney? For God’s sake, what does that matter now? He was a Trotskyist, a traitor. What does it matter who killed him?’

  ‘But was it you?’ she persisted.

  ‘I was in prison, remember.’ He looked at her with cold eyes. ‘Who’s put you up to this? Is it that streak of idiocy, Corinth?’