‘Ricardo looks after his own side, of course,’ she said, and sighed at little, ‘but his talent is for book work and selling, and he travels a great deal. Luis is the one I depend on for almost everything now, at the vinedo and the bodega as well. He is very capable. It is a pity that—’ She paused and her eyes suddenly clouded, and Chloe wondered how much she knew of Luis’s drinking habits. She would have imagined they would make him less than dependable, but apparently not.
‘But I have talked enough,’ the old lady said. ‘They tell me I must not tire myself. Tell me about the house that Benedicto has bought for you in England, my dear. It was good luck, that the house where you had lived as a child was for sale just as you and Benedicto were looking for somewhere to live.’
Chloe almost laughed aloud at this wildly inaccurate remark; Benedict had evidently been to some pains to twist the facts for his grandmother’s consumption. But she composed herself and began to describe Woodcotes in detail for Dona Elisa’s entertainment, even including Orlando, the cat—cutting short her description of that superb animal when she remembered that Europeans in general do not have quite the same fondness for pets as the English.
Dona Elisa, however, listened with great interest to everything and when Chloe finally got up to leave, at a signal from the nurse, she said, ‘I shall get better soon and then I shall be able to visit you in your own home. For that pleasure I shall even find bearable your cold, wet country once again.’ She smiled to take the sting out of the words.
Chloe kissed her, thanked her again for the brooch and departed to her own room to admire the exquisite piece of jewellery once more before she tucked it away in a corner of her dressing case, to await Benedict’s decision as to what should be done with it.
He would be back at midday, he had said. She looked at her watch and saw that she had nearly two hours to put in. Pleasantly cool as the old house was, she was far too keyed up by everything that had happened to feel able to sit indoors and wait for him to come in. Wandering downstairs, she encountered Catalina in the tiled hall, dressed in wide-legged scarlet trousers and a white, lacy top.
‘Buenos dias, Catalina,’ Chloe smiled, hoping the girl was in a better mood than she had been yesterday. ‘It was a very pleasant party last evening, I enjoyed it so much and it was good of you to arrange it.’ There was no point in being enemies with this girl, and probably Catalina’s show of dislike and jealousy yesterday had been a fleeting thing. ‘I liked your friend Manuel,’ she added, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it. ‘He is extremely handsome.’
Catalina’s sulky expression changed dramatically. Her eyes glowed, her whole dark face lit up. as she launched into a colourful eulogy of her boy-friend, ending up with the information that at the university he was the top man in his group, the kind of man that the youth of Spain was looking up to to change all the things in the country that they didn’t like, now that democracy had at last come about.
‘Manuel will be a great leader,’ she announced triumphantly, tossing back her long hair, her whole body quivering with pride. ‘I am in love with him.’ She glared at Chloe as if daring her to contradict. ‘Of course,’ she admitted with fine disdain, ‘I thought once that I might marry Benedicto, as Dona Elisa wished me to do. But he is too old for me, too’—her pretty nose twitched with contempt—‘too pasado de moda.’
Chloe mentally translated that as ‘fuddy-duddy’ and nearly burst into giggles, for she couldn’t have thought of anything less applicable to the confident, urbane man she had married.
She thought all this had gone far enough. ‘Benedict has gone out on business,’ she said, adding out of politeness for her hostess, ‘I think I shall go out and stroll around for a little while.’
Catalina shrugged. ‘Do as you please. I, too, go out shortly to meet Manuel. He is arranging a demonstration.’ Recalling the more militant students of her own university days, Chloe thought she got the picture, and didn’t wait for more. She went out into the patio, where she encountered a sturdy individual in black dusty trousers and a whiskery straw hat, who turned out to be Pedro, Marta’s husband, doing nothing in particular, but quite evidently pleased with the idea of starting a long conversation with Chloe about everything under the sun, including her recent marriage and the felicity she was bound to experience with an hidalgo such as Senor Dane.
In the end she had to plead urgent necessity to reach the post office to despatch a telegram. Pedro followed her into the street, pointing out the way in so much detail that she gave up trying to remember it all, but at last she managed to get away, with smiles and mutual compliments, and hurry along until she was out of sight.
Then and only then did she slow down into a stroll, for this was a place for strolling and none of the passers-by seemed in a hurry. Even the occasional horse-drawn carriage clopped by indolently, its occupants obviously tourists, enjoying the sights of Old Seville at their leisure.
She wandered on in the shade, where the perfume of orange blossom, stocks and jasmine mingled together, and every now and again the houses parted to reveal something of interest and beauty: a bewitching small plaza, a church; in one place three huge sunken marble columns appeared in an excavated gap between the houses, their bases standing in water covered with brilliant duckweed. She wondered if Benedict would have the time, while they were here, to tell her about this fascinating place. He must know every inch of it, having spent his boyhood here.
With that thought she became lost in the picture of Benedict as a little boy. Did he go to his first school here? She could see him then, his dark eyes full of mischief, hidden most of the time behind those long lashes; soberly-dressed, carrying himself with the inborn swagger of all Spanish small boys. He had never really grown out of it.
Unwisely she let her imagination take her into forbidden areas. She saw children growing up—little boys with Benedict’s dark eyes and curving, secret smiles; little girls with her own long legs and mouse-mink hair, running over the grass at Woodcotes, climbing the trees, paddling in the river at the bottom of the garden.
By the time she managed to pull herself together she was out in the main part of the city, with bustle all around.
She had heard that there were often water shortages in Andalusia, but this morning the streets were still damp from hosing, while bands of corduroyed dustmen were at work, tidying up. Everything looked-dean and sparkling and fresh and Chloe’s spirits began to rise a little. After all, she told herself, she was married to Benedict, and until the moment that the marriage was ended, you could never tell what was going to happen.
She decided that she would make good her story to Pedro about the post office and send a wire to Jan, informing her of their safe arrival. She found the main post office without much trouble. It was huge and cool and cavern-like, and very efficient. ‘Arrived safely super place all well Chloe’ she wrote on the form. Not a very honeymoon-like message, but Jan would understand. Understand, and cross her fingers. Jan would never give up the idea that this marriage was somehow going to flower into a real romance. Chloe was almost tempted to cross her own fingers as she transacted her business at the counter, grateful for Benedict’s forethought in providing her with a handful of notes in Spanish currency.
Leaving the post office she found a shop that sold maps of the city, for tourists, and worked out her way back. She would make for the famous Calle Sierpes—so called because of its narrow, snake-like shape. Here, her guidebook told her, she would find cafes and restaurants, where she could sit at ease and watch the passers-by, which sounded a very good idea.
The Calle Sierpes, when she found it, was all that the guide book promised. Closed to vehicles, it was obviously geared for strolling and lounging. She joined the strollers, thinking how odd it was that nobody here seemed in a hurry. In London they would have been rushing along looking harassed, trying to get somewhere else as quickly as possible. But here things went at a slower pace, in the heat of the sun.
Chloe looked about her with as much int
erest as any tourist. There were numberless cafes, restaurants, clubs. There were newspaper stalls, a boot-black on his stand, apparently doing a thriving trade and carrying on a ceaseless conversation all the time. There was a blind man selling something which, on closer inspection, turned out to be National Lottery tickets.
The heat was beginning to beat down now. Chloe chose a cafe that looked reasonably cool behind its awning and settled down with the long, cold, fruity drink urged upon her by an amiable waiter, to watch the stream of humanity passing by. She tried to decide which were tourists and which country they came from, making a kind of game of it to keep her mind from dwelling on her own mixed-up situation. She consulted her guide book and decided that there would be time to visit just one of the hundreds of places of interest before she had to return to the Casa Serrano and Benedict. The cathedral, perhaps, with its famous Moorish tower, La Giralda. She began to read about it, with fascinated interest.
Then, as she glanced up to the street again, everything went out of her head and it was as if a great hand had clutched her inside. Benedict was standing outside the cafe opposite, his back to her, and Juana was beside him, his arm linked with hers. She was wearing something deep rose-coloured, low-cut and sleeveless, and her hair shone like black satin in the sunlight. He leaned his head close to say something and she nodded, and together they went into the cafe. As they passed inside his arm went round her waist and she turned her head back a little and smiled up at him, her beautiful, slow, dreamy smile.
Hardly knowing what she was doing, Chloe paid for her half-finished drink, shook her head vaguely at the waiter’s worried enquiry as to whether the senora was ill, and plunged out into the street, where she collided with a large woman with a shopping bag, whose outraged remarks followed her down the street.
Some time later—she never knew how long—she found herself sitting on a seat under a tree in what looked like a large park. What she had experienced in the cafe was jealousy, sharp, cutting, hideous. But she put that aside now and what was left was the dismal thought that Benedict had lied to her. They were to be partners, he had said. He had told her the score right from the beginning. Surely, now, he needn’t have told her he was going out to meet Luis on business. Surely he needn’t have acted like some guilty, erring husband. It seemed such a mean little prevarication and it hurt horribly. If she couldn’t go on believing him rather a wonderful man, then she didn’t see how she could go on at all.
It was quiet and peaceful in the park. She would have liked to stay here, to wander along the paths under palms and between orange trees, past bamboo and jasmine, with the sound of water splashing in fountains and the breeze softly scented. But she had to go back and face Benedict.
It took her longer than she had expected and he had returned before her. He was standing outside the gates of the patio, his eyes searching the narrow street, and as soon as he saw her he came to meet her.
‘I was getting quite bothered,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Marta told me you’d gone out hours ago. Everything all right?’
He put out a hand to take her arm and she moved away sharply. He was still lying—of course he hadn’t been bothered about her. Hadn’t he been with Juana?
‘Perfectly all right,’ she said coolly.
He glanced quickly at her, but his voice was crisply cheerful as he said, ‘Good, you must tell me all you’ve seen. But now I propose we go along to the Laurel—Hosteria del Laurel to give it its proper name—and have a snack. Marta is busy superintending the painting of the bedrooms, so I told her we’d eat out. I’ve hired a car and we can drive out to Uncle Ricardo’s place when the sun goes down a bit. It’s going to get much hotter than this soon.’
The Laurel, however, was blissfully cool and smelt of wine maturing in the cask. On the counter were spread the most wonderful variety of tapas, some of which Chloe recognised as prawns, sardines, lobster claws, chicken livers, as well as ham and sausages. Some she, didn’t recognise at all, and treated with a certain amount of suspicion by avoiding them. Benedict laughed at her caution. He seemed to be in great good humour.
The restaurant was filling up, but they found a table and set their plates down. ‘Now, tell me what you’ve done and seen in your wanderings,’ Benedict said.
‘Oh, nothing much.’ She was vague. ‘I found the post office and sent off a wire to Jan and then I bought a guide book with a plan so that I could find my way back.’ He grinned. ‘Very efficient! And then?’
She improvised wildly. ‘I walked around for a while, and then it was getting very hot, so I found some lovely quiet gardens and sat there for a long time.’ She looked away from him. ‘Did your business with Luis go off all right?’
‘Very satisfactorily. We got through quickly, as a matter of fact, a thing that doesn’t often happen in this country. Luis had to go to meet someone else, so I treated Juana to a coffee.’
‘You ?’ Chloe choked a little and then began to laugh. She couldn’t help it, it really was almost funny, the way he cut the ground neatly from under her feet every time she thought the worst of him.
‘What’s so amusing?’ Across the table she saw the dark brows lift in that arrogant way she was beginning to get used to.
‘N-nothing, only—’
He said slowly, ‘You knew? You saw me with Juana? You were thinking all sorts of nasty thoughts about me, weren’t you?’
She pulled herself together. ‘I felt hurt that you should have told me you were going out on business.’
He grinned. ‘And then you caught me redhanded with a beautiful woman? Just another erring husband—I’ll be working late at the office, darling—was that what you were thinking? Were you laying a neat little trap for me, Chloe?’ His face hardened a fraction.
‘And if I was?’ Her chin lifted. ‘Was that so unnatural? I thought you said we were partners, and partners don’t lie to each other.’ She met his eyes very straight. ‘I made a silly mistake and I’m sorry, Benedict.’
He was looking very oddly at her again, as he had done last night in the bedroom, and she felt her heart begin to race. He said gently, ‘Chloe, my dear, I would never knowingly let you down. I know your opinion of my sex isn’t exactly soaring just now, but try to believe that.’ Absurdly, she felt like bursting into tears. She nodded mutely.
There was quite a long silence while Chloe stared down at the selection of tapas on her plate until they blurred together. Then Benedict said, ‘One day, when there’s time, there are quite a lot of things I want to explain. You’ve been very patient and I’m sure there are questions you want to ask me, but just be patient a little longer, there’s a dear girl.’
His voice was so kind that the little niggling fear of his anger, which always seemed to lurk at the back of her mind, disappeared. She felt at this moment that she could ask him anything.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll be patient. But as we’re partners, just answer me one question—the one I asked you last night. Tell me what tal para cual means. My Spanish doesn’t stretch that far.’
His face changed, became expressionless and the dark eyes that met hers might have been the eyes of a stranger. But a stranger who could see right into her mind. He knew as well as she did why she was asking that question, she was sure of it. He was remembering, just as she was, how he had said to Luis, last night, ‘Take your hands off my wife,’ and Luis had replied mockingly, ‘Tal para cual.’ They stared at each other across the table. Then he shrugged slightly and his mouth twisted. ‘I’ll tell you if you must know. Tal para cual means, roughly, tit for tat, diamond cut diamond, quid pro quo, or any other suitable tag you can think up.’ He watched her face impassively as the implication sank in. ‘Was that what you wanted to know?’ he enquired with an irony that hurt more than his anger would have done.
All around them plates and glasses clinked and clattered, conversation rose, somebody broke into an excited argument, but Chloe heard none of it. At last she said very quietly, ‘Yes, thank you, that’s all I want
ed to know. It says everything, doesn’t it?’
Benedict tossed back his drink and slammed down his glass so sharply that she thought it must shatter. ‘No,’ he said, low and furious, ‘it damn well doesn’t say everything, but it’s all that’s going to be said at this moment. So let’s forget about it, shall we?’
She was shaking inside as Bluebeard’s wife must have been shaking when she peered into the locked, forbidden room. But somehow she managed to look quite calmly into his angry, dark face and say with cool detachment, ‘Whatever you say, Benedict. Now, may I have some more of that delicious wine, please?’
He poured the wine in silence and she felt that she had scored a small point. But the victory gave her no pleasure and she resolved that never again would she be misled by that gentle, almost tender look in Benedict’s eyes. It meant nothing—nothing at all.
Later that afternoon, as Benedict drove the hired Seat along the wide, almost empty road that led to Jerez he seemed to have forgotten the whole incident. Chloe was doing her best to forget it too, by concentrating on the scenery they were passing through, but it didn’t give her much help. After the lushness of Seville the landscape was bare and uninteresting. The earth was dry and arid looking, and the view broken only by the occasional clump of pines, the white-walled farm in the distance, here and there a grove of olive trees, seeming almost to grow out of the rocks themselves. As they went further there were hoardings by the roadside advertising sherry or brandy.
A Very Special Man Page 14