‘This is Abou, is it?’ said Seymour. ‘Leila’s brother?’
‘Yes. And he particularly asked – since he would be going back so soon – if I – we – that is, if you agree – could get on with it.’
‘What is it?’
Hattersley looked at Chantale. ‘I gather he has already spoken to you about it?’
‘What exactly?’
‘His plans for marrying.’
‘Well, in a general way . . .’ said Chantale.
‘Oh? I gather from his note that he had been more particular.’
‘He rather poured his heart out, yes.’
‘Ah!’
Hattersley seemed relieved.
‘He’s rather poured his heart out to me, too,’ he continued. ‘I mean, I don’t know anything about it really.’ He went pink. ‘Never done it myself, I mean. Asked anyone to marry me. Could never quite pluck up courage. And, I suppose, there’s never been anyone –’
‘Has he asked you,’ said Chantale, ‘to act for him?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Hattersley. ‘In a way, he has. And I wouldn’t want to – to let him down.’
‘No, no. Of course not. But I really don’t see where we come in –’
‘He has great respect for you, Miss de Lissac. He says you have made the step. Already bridged the gap. Between Africa and Spain. He thinks they might listen to you.’
‘Me?’ said Chantale, aghast.
‘I told him – in confidence of course – that you were very highly thought of in London. That, of course, was why they chose you to come out here. That, as far as he was concerned, confirmed it. If they accepted you, wouldn’t he accept you?’
‘He?’
‘Señor Vasquez. The father of, well, what he hopes will be the bride. I know Vasquez, of course. We’ve been in a few things together. A good man, a good man for business. He knows me and I know him. We trust each other, you know. That’s very important for business. And I suppose Abou knows about our relationship and that’s why he asked me. Probably seemed like a good idea to him – I know Vasquez, and he knows me. Well, that’s fair enough, and if it was a question of business, I’d be happy to oblige. But marriage! Phew!’
He blew out his cheeks. ‘I think maybe he guessed that was how I would feel, because it was then that he went on to you, Miss de Lissac. Mentioned your name. Said he’d already talked to you about it and that you’d been very kind. Helpful, he said. And understanding. Well, I’m sure that’s true, Miss de Lissac, but, in my experience, that’s not the sort of thing Arabs would usually say about women. So I think he must have been really impressed by you. Understandably, of course. Understandably.
‘So I don’t think he would mind if – I’m sure he wouldn’t, since he’s spoken so warmly of you – and mentioned it in the first place – if I asked you to give me a bit of help.
‘I wondered if we could go round together and see him? Señor Vasquez, I mean. And you, too, old chap. I mean, the more the merrier. Or, no, I don’t mean that, I mean it would lend weight. And Abou would be pleased.
‘And if you could do the talking. Once I’d introduced you, I mean. The fact is, I wouldn’t really know what to say.’
‘I don’t think it is appropriate,’ said Chantale. ‘For us to be active in this. It is the family’s responsibility.’
‘Yes, but he hasn’t got any family here. Apart from Leila, that is, and he says she is angry with him and wouldn’t do it. And, in any case, is it a thing for women? You would know this better than I, Miss de Lissac. But Abou seems to feel that it is a man’s job. Or would be in Africa. To conduct the negotiations, I mean.’
‘Look, I don’t think it is going to get to negotiations. He’ll turn it down flat,’ said Seymour.
‘Yes, but . . .’ Hattersley wriggled. ‘All we can do is put it to him. And then find a way of letting Abou down as gently as possible. And you will do this so much better than I would. I feel that now he has asked me, I’ve got to do it. Have a shot, you know. Although I’m sure you’re right, it’s hopeless. Out of the question. But I’ve known the family for so long, the Lockharts, I mean, that I feel I need to do something. But without you, I’d be lost. I wouldn’t know what to do. Miss de Lissac, would you, could you, please . . .? And you, too, old chap. Because I need some support. By God, I do!’
Seymour and Chantale took the train to Tarragona. Hattersley, and Abou, would have to wait. There were more important things to do. Like seeing Farraj.
From the outside there was little to distinguish the house from all the others in this prosperous district of Tarragona. It was only when you got inside that you realized that this was an Arab house. The floors were tiled and uncarpeted. The carpets were on the walls, thick Persian ones with intricate geometrical decoration, which took the place of pictures. There were, too, some beautiful Persian vases, standing in niches, but otherwise the rooms contained few objects apart from beautifully worked leather cushions which took the place of chairs.
Seymour and Chantale were led, however, through to a tiny inner courtyard in the middle of which was a fountain, and scattered around the courtyard were orange trees in tubs, filling the courtyard with their sweet scent.
Farraj was sitting beside the fountain reading a book. He rose to his feet when Seymour and Chantale were shown in and bowed courteously.
‘Your name was mentioned,’ said Seymour, ‘as that of one who could help me.’
‘The Book tells us that if help is solicited, it should not be refused,’ said Farraj.
‘It is not asked for lightly,’ said Seymour.
He introduced Chantale as someone who was helping him. Farraj, who had deflected his eyes politely so as not to look at her directly, now registered her presence, again with the slight shock that she had noticed in the other Arab men she had met here. He recovered and bowed courteously.
‘And how can I help you, Señor?’
‘I am inquiring into the circumstances in which someone died. An Englishman. From Gibraltar. His name was Lockhart.’
‘I knew Señor Lockhart.
‘Well, I believe?’
‘Years ago, very well indeed. Of recent years less well. Since our move to Tarragona. We exchanged greetings regularly but seldom met.’
‘What I have to ask now is difficult. For me and perhaps for you.’
Farraj looked at him inquiringly.
‘It concerns your daughter.’
‘Aisha,’ said Farraj: neutrally but, Seymour fancied, guardedly.
‘Who, I understand, is no longer with you?’
‘She returned to Algiers. To get married.’
‘And is she married now?’
‘Happily, yes. To an old friend of mine.’
He looked at Chantale involuntarily. Chantale understood the look and didn’t mind. It wasn’t like the Chief of Police’s looks. This assumed that she was married and noticed only that it was not to an Arab.
She knew that it was improper, as a woman, for her to enter into the conversation herself, but couldn’t resist saying, ‘And are there children?’
She had half expected disapproval, or even reproval. Strangely, however, he seemed to seize on her question with relief.
‘We have indeed been blessed,’ he said. ‘She has two children already!’
‘And both boys?’ said Chantale, somewhat ironically, assuming, from the fact that they were blessed, that they must be boys.
‘One boy, one girl. I know what you are thinking, Señora, and I assure you I would have been nearly as happy if they had both been girls.’
‘This is, perhaps, the great blessing,’ said Chantale.
‘That is what Aisha would have said!’
Talking to Chantale, he seemed to relax.
‘I had feared – she was getting rather old, you see, and showed no inclination to get married. “There is time enough,” she said. But she was nearly thirty! And no one seemed to please her. It didn’t seem to bother her. “It is different here,” she said
, and I think she relished her freedom.’ He shrugged. ‘But there came a time when it became expedient for her to go back to Algeria, and then I was able to arrange marriage for her. With some difficulty,’ he added. ‘Since she was so old and so . . . unbiddable, I was going to say, and that would not be right, because in the end she fell in with my wishes. Independent, shall I say, as young women here, in my experience, seem to be.’ He look at Chantale again. ‘And you, yourself, Señora? Have you children of your own?’
‘Not yet,’ said Chantale, feeling a bit uncomfortable, as if she was committing herself too far.
‘May you also be blessed!’
‘Your daughter left for Algeria shortly after Tragic Week, I gather?’ said Seymour.
‘That is so, yes.’
‘She was not involved in the events of Tragic Week herself?’
‘No, no, no, no! Certainly not!’
‘I wondered if her sympathies had been involved?’
‘Sympathies?’
‘I wondered what had driven her to try and smuggle a present to Lockhart in his cell.’
There was a long silence.
‘You know that, do you?’ said Farraj eventually.
‘Yes.’
Farraj sighed. ‘I was against it. But . . . she was persuaded.’
‘Who by?’
Farraj gave no sign of having heard the question.
‘It was little that she was asked to do. And she remembered Lockhart from the old days. He used to sit her on his knee. As a child,’ he added hurriedly. ‘As a child! “I know you don’t think it right, Farraj,” he used to say to me, “but in Scotland it is right!” And I didn’t mind. She was just a child. But she remembered those days, and she felt sorry for him. And, yes,’ he sighed, ‘I suppose she did feel for those involved in Tragic Week. It was hard not to feel caught up in it. Even I, even I . . .! And you must understand that we had friends in Barcelona. In the docks. I did a lot of business there. And when we heard the dock people were among those being shot down . . . So, yes, perhaps it was not too difficult to persuade her. Her sympathies were, as you say, involved.’
‘But she also had feelings for Lockhart, you said.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And so she would not have known what she was passing in to him?’
‘What was she passing in to him?’
‘What killed him.’
‘She certainly did not know that,’ said Farraj quietly.
‘And you, did you also not know that?’
Farraj looked at him levelly. ‘No. I suspected. Afterwards. When I heard that he had been poisoned. And heard the rumours. But not before, Señor, not before. And if I had, I would not have let her do it.’
‘Why, then, did you hastily send her to Algeria?’
‘Because she told me the little she had done. And I saw at once that she would be implicated. I did not want her to suffer. Who knows, with the Spanish police, what she might have had to undergo? And even if she was released, what she would still have to suffer afterwards? What hope would there be now of marriage? Better to get her out, and, fortunately, I was able to find an old friend who didn’t mind. Who was prepared for my sake to marry her.’
As they were leaving, Seymour said, ‘And you are not going to tell me who persuaded her to do it?’
Farraj shook his head firmly.
‘One does not betray one’s own kind,’ he said.
Back in the hotel, Seymour was sitting in the vestibule waiting for Chantale to come down so that they could go out to dinner. He heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up. It wasn’t Chantale, however, but Nina. She hesitated for a moment and then came over and sat down beside him.
‘My mother will be down in a moment,’ she said, as if this boldness needed explanation.
‘And so I hope, will Chantale,’ said Seymour.
There was a slightly awkward pause. Nina did not seem to invite conversation but he thought that this was awkwardness, shyness, perhaps, rather than hostility.
‘You have had a good day at school?’
‘Every day is a good day at school.’
‘You have found your vocation, clearly.’
‘Yes.’
There was another awkward pause.
‘It is a responsibility,’ said Seymour, ‘and a rather demanding one, I would think. Are there just the two of you?’
She fired up defensively.
‘We can manage,’ she said.
‘I am sure you can. Certainly the teaching. I have seen you, and am most impressed.’
She looked at him suspiciously.
‘No, I mean it. I certainly couldn’t do it.’
‘Men are less good at this sort of thing,’ said Nina forgivingly.
‘And what about the administrative side? Do you have to do that as well?’
‘We have a parents’ committee.’
‘We have a parents’ ‘And that is all?’
‘Anarchists do not believe in unnecessary administration. We are opposed to bureaucracy.’
‘Yes, of course. I was just wondering if you had any support from outside.’
‘We don’t need support from outside.’
‘I was thinking of the chance to share views, pool experience.’
‘Well, that might be wise,’ said Nina, considering. ‘But there aren’t any other anarchist schools near us.’
‘There are anarchists, though?’
‘Oh, yes. It is a growing movement.’
‘And do you have much contact with that wider movement?’
‘We are too busy, really. Perhaps we should.’
‘You sound very much on your own.’
‘Anarchists believe in self-reliance.’
‘Yes, of course. But sometimes ploughing a path of your own can be very lonely.’
‘Esther and I support each other. And we get support from the parents. Perhaps,’ she admitted, ‘not a lot of support. But Esther says that is always the case with parents.’
‘And your father, how did he fit in? Was he part of the wider movement or was he just, well, interested in the school? Because you were?’
‘Well, I think he was generally interested in anarchist education. He was interested in education of all kinds. Perhaps because he thought that, having been to an English public school, he had never had one. But, perhaps, yes, he was particularly interested in what we were doing because it was me.’
‘He didn’t put you in touch with anarchists outside?’
‘No, no. He didn’t really know many anarchists.’
‘You know, that surprises me. What about the fishermen?
Aren’t they anarchists?’
‘Well, they are and they aren’t. They have a lot in common with anarchists, they are against authority, for example, and very self-reliant. But they are not – not very theoretical. Well, you wouldn’t expect it. In fact, my father rather liked that. “They’re practical people,” he used to say. “They just get on with it.” I don’t think he talked much about anarchism with them. They’re not – not the sort of people to have that kind of conversation.’
‘Do you have that kind of conversation with them?’
‘Not really. They’re very conservative. They don’t really talk much to women they don’t know. They don’t talk to anybody much, really.’
‘So your father’s contacts with them were not really anarchist contacts but more a matter of business?’
‘Not just business. He liked them and tried to help them. He gave them money sometimes.’
‘And then, of course, there was the smuggling.’
Nina stood up.
‘Señor Seymour,’ she said, ‘I think you’re fishing for information.’
Chapter Twelve
‘Hmm,’ said Señor Vasquez, ‘I don’t know about this. He’s a nice man, I’m sure. I ran into him occasionally in Gibraltar. I’ve always got on well with him. But I don’t know how Carmen might feel. Or her mother, come to that.’
‘Wel
l, that’s it,’ said Seymour.
‘It’s important how your daughter feels,’ said Chantale.
‘Well, it is. And she’s got a mind of her own. I don’t know, well, how she would take to it. I mean, it’s a fear, isn’t it? Their ways are not our ways – I don’t mean anything by that, Señor,’ he said hastily, turning to Chantale. ‘If they loved each other, that would be enough for me. But there’s always the worry, isn’t there, how things might work out? Marriage is difficult enough anyway without – without complications.’
‘I feel that, certainly,’ said Chantale.
‘Of course, if you knew him better . . .’ said Seymour. ‘The family, that is.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Unfortunately, he’s going back to Algeria in a week.’
‘He is?’ said Señor Vasquez, brightening.
‘I think he was hoping to get some sort of agreement before he departed,’ said Hattersley.
‘Agreement?’
‘Or acknowledgement.’
‘Well . . .’
‘I told him that things could not be rushed,’ said Chantale.
‘No, certainly not,’ said Señor Vasquez. ‘In Spain there is normally a long courtship. That gives the couple a chance to know each other. And, of course, it eases some of the natural doubts of the families.’
‘A wise custom,’ said Seymour. ‘Provided it’s not extended for too long.’
‘Although there are risks in shortening it,’ said Chantale.
Señor Vasquez looked at her gratefully. ‘There are, Señora, there are! On both sides. For both families.’ He hesitated. ‘You are, if I am not mistaken, Señora, from appearance, not unconnected with the family yourself?’
‘Distantly,’ said Chantale. ‘Distantly.’
‘Distance sometimes gives perspective,’ said Señor Vasquez.
‘Of course, you yourself, Señor, I gather, from what you said, know him quite well?’
‘Well, not that well. As well as one knows anyone one meets primarily through business. And business is – well, rather different, isn’t it?’
‘It is. But did you not have an opportunity, while you were over in Gibraltar, of meeting his family? Seeing him in something of a family setting?’
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