The White Schooner

by Antony Trew

  ‘Of course they don’t. Nobody does. But life’s not as simple as you make out, Charles. No one is an island to oneself, independent, uninvolved. Every man and woman in this room is part of a complex structure of human relationships.’

  ‘What does that long spiel mean?’

  ‘You know what it means. I’ve known you for about ten days. Before that I wasn’t sitting here in a vacuum.’ She leant forward, tense, emphatic, trying to get through to him. ‘Life goes on you know. I couldn’t hang around just waiting for you to turn up. I was—I am like the rest of them.’ She waved a hand round the room. ‘Involved with other people.’

  ‘Which means your night is spoilt because our friends are watching and will report back.’ He jerked a contemptuous thumb in the direction of Tino Costa’s table.

  She nodded over the rim of her glass and he could see she was troubled. ‘It’s partly that,’ she said. ‘Don’t you see, Charles, I can’t just abandon Kirry. He’s done a lot for me.’

  For a time he was silent, then he said, ‘I think I understand. I just wish your involvement was with another man, and …’

  ‘And what, Charles?’

  ‘And for another reason.’

  She looked at him despairingly. ‘I told you the other day. If you can’t accept me as I am, forget me.’

  ‘D’you want me to?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. Why d’you think I’m here?’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, suddenly cheerful. ‘Let’s get a taxi and go up the hill and give the Mar-Blau a thrash. Know it?’

  ‘Yes. But …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I had thought of an early night.’

  ‘Forget it,’ he said.

  She was silent for some time. Then she sighed again and looking towards Tino Costa and George Madden she spoke in a low voice. ‘Have you heard about Benny?’

  ‘Benny?’ he said with forced obtuseness. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Ahmed ben Hassan. Our friend who was seasick in the steamer coming from Barcelona.’

  ‘Oh, him,’ said Black. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘He’s been drowned.’

  ‘Really. Where and when?’

  ‘A few days ago. Bathing from the rocks below the military hospital. They found his clothes and towel there, but no trace of his body. They think the currents have taken it out to sea.’

  ‘Poor chap,’ said Black heavily. ‘Was he a strong swimmer?’

  ‘Very. He used to swim far out. He was an Olympic swimmer once. Maybe it was his heart or cramp or something. Who knows? Anything can happen in the sea.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Black, shaking his head. ‘Poor chap.’

  The taxi chugged up the hill towards Los Molinos, past the barracks where Todo Por la Patria showed up boldly in the headlights and made Black think how such exhortations meant different things to different people: and why not Todo Por el Pueblo?

  Then an old shed of breeze-blocks and stone loomed up, the white patch on its wall crudely lettered Mar-Blau, Flamenco Night Club, beneath it an arrow. The taxi turned right, following the arrow, and they bumped along the road, climbing and turning. It stopped, they paid it off and went into the Mar-Blau.

  A waiter showed them to a table well back from the floor and took their order. Black found Manuela’s hand and squeezed it.

  ‘Happy?’ she said softly.

  ‘Yes.’ He sighed with content.

  There was a breeze from the sea and the candles on the tables cast flickering shadows. A girl with a guitar and a flowing dress was singing an Andalusian song, stamping her feet, her eyes and teeth flashing defiance at the crimson spotlight. Pergolas surrounded the tables on two sides, a line of Chinese lanterns marked the bar, and to its left a terrace of tables rose to meet the slope of the hill; at its summit, the tiled roof of a finca, a windmill, clumps of cacti and aloes, were silhouetted against the rim of the night sky.

  The girl from Andalusia finished her song, the spotlight switched to mauve and picked out the letters CHE COMBO on a drum in the background, and from the group behind it came the strains of La-La-La to remind the tourists that Spain had won the Eurovision song contest; underlying its cadences, the distant buzz of voices from the tables round the floor sounded like angry bee swarms.

  ‘Like it here?’ asked Black.

  ‘Heaven,’ she said. ‘I adore sitting under the night sky.’

  The music stopped and the waiter came up with a coñac and soda-siphon for Black and a Coke for Manuela. When he’d gone Black said, ‘Know what? I’ve left the stick in the taxi.’

  ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I’ll prop you up.’

  ‘Actually, the ankle’s better. I think I can manage.’

  ‘So I noticed.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything.’

  She leant forward impulsively, laughing. ‘Didn’t want to spoil your act.’

  Black felt the muscles in his stomach contract. ‘My act! What d’you mean?’

  ‘You’re a man, Charles. You made the most of that ankle. Got loads of sympathy.’

  So that was it. His tension drained away. ‘Well, it was bloody sore.’

  ‘I’m sure it was.’

  Ché Combo got going again and the lights went down. Black leant over and kissed her, feeling absurdly romantic yet knowing there could be nothing more than this moment. ‘Come and dance. You’ll have to support me.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ she said and pressed his arm.

  When they got back to the table he called a waiter and ordered more drinks. Later, when he was paying for them, he felt her tug on his sleeve.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Look who’s arrived.’

  ‘Who?’ said Black, counting the change.

  ‘Kirry.’

  The Greek was weaving his way through the tables towards them. His emphatically checked suit, the mauve shirt and orange tie, the magenta silk handkerchief lopping generously from the breast pocket, and the gilt band on the Havana cigar were colourful touches of vulgarity, as familiar to Black as the dark perspiring face; but he thought the Greek’s smile lacked conviction.

  ‘’Allo, there!’ Kyriakou called as he approached. Manuela smiled and murmured a subdued, ‘Hi, Kirry.’

  Black nodded unenthusiastically.

  The Greek leant his hands on their table, his eyes on Manuela. ‘Aha,’ he said. ‘So thees is why you cannot meet Kirry to-night. You tell me. Kirry, I have just dinner with him. Then I make early night.’ He looked at his wrist watch, pushing back the cuff of his coat with an elaborate gesture. ‘An’ now is one o’clock.’

  The Greek was trembling. Maybe drink, Black thought, maybe not. He’s got this girl in his hair. If only he knew. He’s got nothing to worry about.

  Manuela shrank back in her chair, silent, fearful of the scene that was coming.

  Black said, ‘She wanted an early night. I talked her into this.’

  ‘Aha,’ said Kyriakou, hands on hips, cigar clenched firmly in strong white teeth. ‘Is that so?’ He glared at the Englishman.

  A good deal of Black’s caution had evaporated with the coñac, and he found the Greek’s dramatics tedious. ‘Yes, it is,’ he said yawning. ‘So what?’

  Kyriakou’s eyes reflected disbelief that this man could so have insulted him. And then, as the hard fact registered that he had, his eyes clouded and his hand moved towards the soda-siphon. But Black beat him to it and the Greek’s fingers closed on air.

  In the dim light of flickering candles, the combo swinging and throbbing its gay melody, Black, his right hand round the neck of the siphon, sat watching the Greek warily.

  Kyriakou must have had second thoughts for he backed away from the table, puffing and blowing, to stop and stab with his cigar in Black’s direction. ‘You make beeg mistake, my friend, if you think you can take my girl.’

  Trembling with emotion, he gave Black a final glare of hate and stumbled away. But the drama of his exit was spoilt by the bottle of wine he knocked off a nearby
table. Its occupants were dancing, so with a characteristic flourish the Greek peeled a one-hundred peseta note from his wallet and fluttered it down on the table.

  Because he knew he’d nearly been in a fight Black was tense, but the incident was not without humour and he was closer to laughter than anger. Beside him Manuela, pale and silent, shut her eyes, and he could hear her laboured breathing.

  He said, ‘Are you his girl?’

  ‘No.’ She looked at him tearfully. ‘I’m not anybody’s.’

  The taxi rattled down the road into Ibiza. To its right the high walls of the citadel hung like dark screens below the lighted windows of the houses in D’Alt Vila.

  I’m tired and the coñac or the row with Kyriakou or something has given me indigestion, he decided. It would be good to be alone at this moment, to belch, to scratch, to fart, and to have no recollection of the night.

  But Manuela is next to me. I can hear her sigh. She is worrying, so I hold her hand. She is thinking about tomorrow and the day after and all the other days because she’s got herself hooked by this dope-peddling bastard who fixes her ‘trips’ or whatever they call them. And she is basically a nice girl. Much nicer than I am. But she is trying to escape from something and she never will because she’s not tough enough. I think she’s in love with me, if there is such a thing, and I suppose I am with her, if there is such a thing. But nothing can be done about it and I no longer really have any excuse for messing about with her. I’d like to be a Kagan; serious, unbending, so committed that there are no margins for lapses, so dedicated that even humour is eschewed, let alone thoughts about women and sex and one’s future; so consecrated that the mind is not deflected from its houndlike pursuit of the objective by trivialities like beautiful sunsets, the flight of geese, or seas breaking on rocky headlands. And I am tight, and that’s why these thoughts go tumbling inconsequentially through my mind. But to-morrow I will shed this frivolous mood, I will pick up my resolve where I dropped it, and I shall leave this island with what I’ve come for or bloody well die in the attempt. And that I mean, so held me God, and that I swear in the name of my forefathers. But all the same I hope I don’t—die, I mean; or even find myself stuck in some foul smelling gaol.

  And what is that you are saying, my little Manuela?

  ‘Ah, here we are. Of course. How stupid of me.’

  The taxi had stopped in Calle Mayor. He paid it off and saw from his watch that it was almost three o’clock. The calle was deserted and dark but for the dim glow of on occasional street lamp. The night air carried the stench of drains. He took her arm and they went up the steps and along a lane, turned right into another, then left, and came at last to the narrow alley high up on which crouched the tired old house where she lived.

  The lane was steep and at the top he could see sky—and that was their first mistake—for he saw them coming out of a doorway, two of them, about fifty yards ahead, dark shapes blocking the stars, moving towards him.

  The big man reached him first—and this disregard of Clausewitz’s principle of concentration was their second mistake—for, as he lunged, Black stepped aside and kicked the Cypriot’s genitals hard and accurately. Tino Costa doubled up and screamed, and Black slipped behind him and with the edge of a stiff palm chopped at the back of his neck.

  These two movements occupied perhaps three seconds. It took about two and a half more to raise the Cypriot’s right forearm and fracture it across his knee. That left Kyriakou, and to him the Englishman was kinder, administering only the kick in the crutch, an area to which he felt far from well disposed. Then, largely for aesthetic reasons, he lifted the fallen Greek’s head in the crook of his arm and gave it two black eyes.

  Manuela was pulling at him, crying, begging him to leave them alone, hissing that the police would be along at any moment for windows above them were opening, lights were coming on, and querulous voices were being raised.

  Black said, ‘Not to worry. I’m coming.’

  Tino Costa was groaning. Black felt the Cypriot’s heart beat and found it satisfactory. Kyriakou was sitting in the gutter, head in hands, sobbing quietly.

  Black knelt down and said something. The Greek looked up, his face haggard in the dim light spilling down from a high window. ‘Okay,’ he said brokenly. ‘Okay.’

  Black said, ‘Remember. It’s that—or else.’

  Kyriakou nodded emphatically. ‘Okay. Leave me,’ he sobbed. ‘Just leave me.’

  Black patted him on the head. ‘Good boy,’ he said. ‘You put up a great fight.’

  He took Manuela’s arm and ran her up the lane clear of the window lights. They came out into the calle above and he hurried her along alleys and streets, twisting and turning, working their way down until they came to the fish market.

  The lights there were on and women were busy cleaning and cutting fish from the early morning catch, so they steered off into Calle Antonio Palau and started back towards the church. There they stopped, leaning against the stone wall recovering their breath, their faces pallid in the light of a street lamp.

  They had not spoken since the run from the alley.

  ‘You all right?’ he panted.

  ‘God! It was horrible.’ She was breathing deeply. She’s not fit, he thought. It’s that bloody muck.

  ‘It was horrible, Charles.’ Her eyes were frightened. ‘I didn’t know you were like that.’

  ‘Nor did they.’ He dusted his trouser legs where he had knelt.

  She shook her head. ‘There will be trouble. Kyriakou is a dangerous man.’

  ‘Oh, bugger Kyriakou,’ he said. ‘What did you expect me to do? Let them sort me out?’

  ‘No. But you needn’t have been so violent.’

  His sudden peal of laughter startled her. ‘You mean I should have defended myself gently?’

  ‘I am frightened, Charles. They will do something.’

  ‘I’m bloody certain they won’t.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  In the distance he saw two patrolling policemen. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Home now. To-morrow I’ll tell you what I whispered in Kirry’s ear. Then you’ll know all is well.’

  ‘Tell me now.’

  ‘No. It’s too late. But you’ve nothing to worry about.’

  ‘For sure?’

  ‘For sure,’ he said, stopping and kissing her, and then taking her hand and hurrying her along so that she had difficulty in keeping up.

  ‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’ she said.

  ‘Instinct.’

  ‘Liar. Tell me.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, thinking that maybe, one day, he’d tell her, but realising that he probably never would because there wasn’t likely to be a one day for them.

  He sat at a table outside the Montesol, waiting. It was a hot day, the sun just past the meridian, and he enjoyed its warm play on his arms and face. How considerate of God, he thought, to switch on that giant radiator, and how splendid that I no longer have to worry about Hassan. Jan and Vara Ludich waved from a table lower down the pavement and he raised his hand in answer, and ordered another coñac. He put on sunglasses and leant back in the chair, content for the moment because it was a fine day and he would be seeing her soon. Idly he examined the edge of his right palm, rubbing it where it had bruised on Tino Costa’s neck. He wondered how the Cypriot was getting on. The arm would still be in a sling. A green-stick fracture, not a clean break. He had been that much considerate. He thought of Kyriakou sobbing in the gutter and felt contrite.

  One should not humiliate such a man. His life was an act and if you jerked away the stage you destroyed him. Looking back on the night he was not proud of it. But how could it have been avoided? And what he’d done to them was probably a pale shadow of what they would have done to him. He wondered about himself. How such violence could be a part of him. It was so out of accord with the rest of his nature, with the things he set store by. Perhaps, its origins lay in the violence which had been done to him?

 
; And yet without those things he would not be sitting there at that moment, he would not be involved in what had brought him to Ibiza, he would not …

  He felt the light touch of fingers on his neck and Manuela said, ‘Am I late?’ There were shadows under her eyes.

  ‘Get a decent sleep?’

  ‘No. I was too worried.’

  The waiter arrived, Black ordered an orange juice for her and another coñac for himself.

  ‘I told you not to worry,’ he said.

  She looked round, leant towards him, lowering her voice. ‘Tell me now. Tell me,’ she said urgently. ‘How do you know it will be all right?’

  ‘Two days ago I wrote to the Jefe de Comisario. I gave the letter to a third person. If anything unpleasant happens to me—or to you—that letter will be delivered. It contains information about Kyriakou’s activities on the island. Information the police would very much like to have.’

  ‘And so?’ she challenged, and he saw her expression hardening.

  ‘Last night I told Kyriakou what I have just told you. He saw the point at once. I think his survival values are of a high order.’

  For some moments she sat chin in hand, staring at the glass in front of her. Then she said, ‘What do you know of his activities?’

  He leant back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head, watching her through dark glasses. ‘Perhaps as much as you do.’

  She was not pleased, he could see that. His Pawn was threatening her Queen. Her move next. The lines at the corners of her mouth had tightened and the warmth had gone from her eyes. ‘I suppose you realise that if your letter reaches the Jefe it will involve others,’ she said.

  ‘It will only reach him, my sweet, if something unpleasant happens to me—or to you. I thought it was rather a good idea, including you.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ she said in a brittle way, gathering up her things and frowning into the distance. But the frown changed to a smile as a shadow fell across the table and a man’s voice, said ‘Bonjour, mam’selle!’ and another’s ‘Guten Tag, Fräulein Valez.’

  It was the men from the Snowgoose.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘It is lovely to see you.’