A Dead Man in Barcelona (11 page)

And, of course, they couldn’t. Sooner or later, and sooner rather than later, Seymour would have to go back to London. And she?

Well, that was the old question, and it was still the question as she sat on the bench. Should she go to London with him? Or should she go back to the place to which her inner strings still pulled her, to Tangier and her mother, and all the little things – the buzz of the bazaars, the fresh smell of mint tea from the cafés, the smells of the horses and donkeys and the strange, musky perfumes of the women, and of the men, too, often – which she was suddenly beginning to miss?

The truth was she was no further on in answering the question than she had been when she arrived. Should she marry Seymour? Well, yes, increasingly she thought she should. She was beginning to recognize – and this, perhaps, was progress – that she couldn’t manage without him. But did that mean that she had to abandon all that was her life and go with him to some cold, dirty place she had no feeling for? Why couldn’t he come to her? But she knew very well why he couldn’t come to her. She had gone through that. And the idea of the halfway house for both of them, which had been at the back of her mind when she had agreed to come to Spain to see him – that wouldn’t work, either. She thought of the expatriate Englishmen they had come across in Gibraltar. Did she want Seymour to become like them? No, she certainly did not!

And what about the Arabs she had met here? They, too, had made that leap from one country to another, looking for a better life. But had they found it? Few of them seemed completely at ease. They clung, or at least the Arabs she had met in Barcelona did, to vestiges of their old life. They remained, she thought, divided souls. But wouldn’t she, if she went to England, be a divided soul, too? And so the debate she was having with herself went on.

Sometimes Nina would spot her on the bench and when the school had closed for the morning she would come across and sit beside her and eat the roll she had for lunch. They would talk. About what happened to Nina during the morning, about the children – but also about Tangier and Morocco and Algeria. Those places to which Nina’s father had devoted so much of his life. Nina seemed hungry to know about that, as if by recapturing something of that she could recapture something of him.

Or, perhaps, understand him better. That was what Nina seemed to need, thought Chantale. She felt that Nina was puzzled by her father and could not understand why he had abandoned her. Especially as he seemed to love her. She clung to that. She was sure he had loved her; why, then, hadn’t he wanted to live with her, as other fathers did, with their children?

Nina was very young, thought Chantale, suddenly feeling very old. What was puzzling Nina was people; what was puzzling her was love.

And Nina was coming to Chantale for enlightenment! To Chantale, who was probably even more perplexed, just at the moment, than she was.

This morning, while they were sitting on the bench, Nina’s mother came across to them.

‘Señorita?’ said her mother, raising her eyebrows.

‘Señorita still,’ said Chantale firmly. ‘Señora Seymour shortly. Perhaps.’

‘It is better so,’ said Nina’s mother.

‘Mother!’ said Nina crossly.

‘It is better so!’ insisted her mother.

‘It is probably better so,’ conceded Chantale. ‘But there are other things to be thought of too.’

Nina’s mother learned across and patted her hand.

‘Of course there are!’ she said. ‘There always are.’

‘It is not always possible to marry,’ said Nina sternly, ‘even if you are truly in love. As you found.’

‘Ah, “truly”,’ said her mother. ‘But how do you know?’

‘Of course you knew!’ said Nina. ‘Surely you knew, Mother?’

‘Oh. Yes. Both times,’ she said drily.

‘You wouldn’t have wished it otherwise, would you?’ asked Nina anxiously.

‘I was a young girl the first time,’ said her mother, ‘and I didn’t know either myself or him. The second time I was confident about both of us. Wrongly.’

‘You weren’t wrong,’ said Nina sturdily. ‘You loved him, and, despite it all, it was worth it.’

‘Maybe,’ said her mother, ‘but I wouldn’t wish it like that for my daughter.’

‘What do you think?, Señorita de Lissac?’ appealed Nina.

Oh, God! thought Chantale. What
do
I think?

‘Yes, what do you think, Señorita?’ asked Nina’s mother.

‘I don’t know,’said Chantale slowly. ‘I don’t know what I think. In all circumstances? But suppose the two are very different? The man and the woman? Perhaps even coming from different countries?’

‘Yes,’ said Nina’s mother curiously. ‘What then?’

‘I think, in the end, I would follow my heart.’

‘Quite right!’ said Nina.

‘Quite wrong!’ said her mother. ‘But –’ she smiled to herself – ‘it’s probably the mistake I would make again.’

‘Mother!’ said Nina, laughing, and throwing her arms around her.

‘Come with me,’ said Ibrahim.

He led Seymour into a back room, where an old Arab woman was sitting on the floor.

‘This is Um Hanafi,’ he said.

‘Greetings, Mother,’ said Seymour courteously, in Arabic.

She wore the usual dark gown and headdress and was heavily veiled. Over the top of the veil he could see her eyes. She was blind.

‘Um Hanafi knows everything,’ said Ibrahim. ‘Both here and in Algeria.’

‘Morocco, too?’ asked Seymour.

‘Only the coast,’ said the old woman.

‘But Tangier?’

‘Tangier, yes,’ she nodded.

‘Then you will know the woman I hope to marry. Her name is Chantale, and her mother is from the Fingari family.’

‘I know her mother,’ said the old woman. ‘Her mother is a good woman,’ she said to Ibrahim. ‘And a strong one.’

‘Her daughter is a strong woman, too,’ said Seymour.

Um Hanafi cackled with laughter.

‘Then you will have to be a strong man,’ she said.

‘Then you will have to Seymour laughed too.

Then he said: ‘You know what I want to know. And why I want to know it.’

‘I knew Sam Lockhart,’ the old woman said. ‘I knew him in Algeria. But that was when I could still see.’

‘And this woman,’ said Seymour, ‘the one who brought the poisoned food to the prison, did she know Lockhart, too?’

The old woman hesitated.

‘I did not think she did,’ she said.

‘But you know her?’

‘I think I know her. People have said – there were rumours even at the time. She speaks Spanish, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘She has been here a long time. Ten years by my count. It has made her bold. Bold enough to do what you say she did. But still I am surprised. I did not know she knew Lockhart. Her father did, yes. But not her.’

She laughed again. ‘Her father knew Lockhart too well to trust him anywhere near his womenfolk.’

‘How was it that he knew Lockhart?’ asked Seymour.

‘They did business together. In the old days it was oil. But that was in Algeria. Then he moved to Spain. He settled in Tarragona,’ she said to Ibrahim. ‘That is why you do not know him.’

‘But you think she did not know Lockhart? That puzzles me,’ said Seymour.

‘Yes,’ she said drily, ‘it puzzles me, too. But I think it was because Farraj – Farraj is her father – always kept himself separate. And he kept his family separate, too. “The world is changing,” he said, “and we need to change too. Only not too much.”’ She laughed again. ‘That was Farraj all over. Keep to the old; but try the new also.’

‘Why do you think that she may be the one who went to the prison?’ asked Seymour.

‘She was seen. She was seen in Barcelona. Someone recognized her – they knew the family. They said, “Why is she here?” And they thought, If she is here, she will surely come to see us. But she did not, and they were surprised. So they asked after her. And then another person said they had seen her, too. Near the prison, right by the gate. As if she was going there. And they said, “Surely Farraj could not be there? Because if he is, we must go and see him.” So they asked her, and she said, no, it was not Farraj. It was Lockhart, and she was taking something to him. And they came back and told others, and they said, “Perhaps we should do something.” But then they heard that Lockhart had died. So they put the thought from them. But nevertheless, some of them remembered that they had seen Aisha, and wondered.’

‘I would like to speak to Aisha,’ said Seymour.

‘That will be a hard task. For she is no longer in Spain. Her father sent her back to Algiers.’

‘When did he do that?’

‘Afterwards.’

‘How long afterwards? Immediately afterwards? Or long afterwards?’

‘Immediately after,’ said Um Hanafi.

Chapter Eleven

Seymour noticed that some of the street names had been freshly painted out and other names substituted in their places. Often the change seemed insignificant:
avinguda
for
avenida
,
passéig
for
paseo
,
carrer
for
calle
– all basic names for thoroughfares, avenue, passage, street. But the changes were significant, all right. They were from Castilian, the usual, official, language of Spain, to Catalan. It was an attempt to assert Catalonia against Spain, another Tragic Week, as it were, only this time without bloodshed. The Catalonians had been defeated but they had not gone away.

Some of the names had been painted over again and the original, Spanish, name restored. But that wouldn’t work. The language of the ordinary man here was Catalan. The fishermen spoke Catalan not Spanish, the language in the cafés was Catalan. Even the
cabezudos
spoke Catalan.

It was the Catalans throughout who had helped him. It was their effort at remembrance with the coffins in the church that had brought Lockhart to England’s attention. Ricardo, throughout, had been on his side. And so, in their curious, elliptical way, had been the
cabezudos
. It was they, for instance, who had put him on to the smuggling. It was as if the whole underground side of Barcelona had been anxious that he should not miss the point about Lockhart. Lockhart, they were saying, was a Catalonian at heart. There are no Catalonian Nationalists in Spain, the authorities kept telling him. Well, that was plainly wrong, for Lockhart was one.

And that was why he had been killed, that was what they were all saying. They were anxious that he should get the message.

And, of course, the corresponding message was that it was someone who was opposed to the Catalonians who had killed him. Like the Spanish Government or its agents.

But Seymour was not so sure about that. That was clearly the message he was intended to get; but was it the right one? For one thing, if Lockhart had been a Catalonian Nationalist, he had been other things as well: an anarchist, or certainly an anarchist sympathizer. Seymour had no reason to think that his sympathies were not genuine. It was just that they didn’t seem to be exclusive. He had had sympathy for
all
the underground causes.

As they were walking along they met the Chief of Police, also taking the air. He had a lady on his arm.

He detached his arm and bowed low. ‘Señor, Señorita! Allow me to introduce –’

‘Don’t make such a fuss about it, Alonzo,’ interrupted the lady.

‘– Constanza,’ finished the Chief hurriedly. ‘My wife.’

‘A pleasure to meet you, Señora,’ said Seymour.

‘I like to meet everyone my husband is working with,’ said the Señora. ‘That way I can keep my eye on them. And him.’ She caught proper sight of Chantale. ‘And sometimes it is a good idea,’ she said severely.

‘Constanza –’murmured the Chief deprecatingly.

‘Mademoiselle de Lissac,’ said Seymour.

‘French?’

‘Moroccan,’ said Chantale firmly.

‘Ah! You are very pretty, Mademoiselle. I am not surprised my husband has said nothing about you.’

‘Constanza –’

‘But, Señora,’ said Seymour, ‘he has said a great deal about
you
.’

Constanza laughed.

‘I try to loom large,’ she admitted. She turned to Chantale. ‘Are you going to be here for long, Señorita?’

‘Probably not,’ said Chantale.

‘That is just as well.’ She turned her attention back to Seymour. ‘Does that mean you have found out who killed Lockhart?’ she demanded.

‘Quite possibly,’ said Seymour.

‘Ah!’ said Constanza. ‘That is something my husband never did.’

The Chief shrugged.

‘It was just one thing among many on my desk,’ he said.

‘Ah! Your desk!’ said Constanza. ‘Many things finish up on your desk. Finish up and then never move again!’

‘You are too hard, Constanza –’

‘Did you know Lockhart, Mademoiselle?’ Constanza asked Chantale.

‘Not personally,’ admitted Chantale.

‘Well, that is a relief!’ said Constanza. ‘He seemed to know most of the attractive young women around here. Personally.’

‘Including you, Señora?’ asked Seymour.

‘Including me, certainly. In fact, I knew him better than most.’

‘That is quite a claim, Señora,’ said Seymour.

‘It is,’ said Constanza, ‘and perhaps we should start there. Would you care to give me your arm, Señor Seymour, for a little walk along Las Ramblas? And you, Alonzo,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘can walk with Señorita de Lissac. Just walk. I shall be watching you. And keep fifteen yards behind. Exactly. Now, Señor . . .’

She put her arm through Seymour’s. ‘You think, then, that you have discovered who killed Sam Lockhart?’

‘I am beginning to have an idea of that, yes.’

‘Cautious, cautious! Well, that’s something that Sam certainly never was. But you are beginning to? You think? Well, that is good! It is time somebody found out. The thought that it could go unavenged partly because of my husband’s bungling is intolerable!’

‘You keep a pretty firm hand on your husband, don’t you, Señora?’

‘
Someone
has to,’ said Constanza. ‘Otherwise nothing would get done around here.’

‘He has told me about your guidance during Tragic Week.’

‘It caught us out,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t see it coming.

And then when it did I nearly let Alonzo become involved in it.’

‘You wanted him to keep out of it, of course. So that you could have a free hand?’

‘It was not so much that, I always see that I have a free hand. I just didn’t want him mucking things up.’

‘You knew that Lockhart was out there, of course.’

‘Of course. And he was another one I would really have preferred to keep out of it. Naturally. I told him so. “Sam,” I said, “for God’s sake, watch what you are doing. With all those tiles flying about, one of them may hit you. And it will probably come from me!” “Don’t worry!” he said. “I shall be all right. I assure you I shall be functioning perfectly when I come to see you this evening. While your husband is sitting in the bar watching the pretty girls go by.”

‘But, of course, he didn’t come to see me. Those imbeciles picked him up, along with everyone else, and put him in prison. “Alonzo,” I said, “your men need a good kick up the backside. Apply yourself usefully for a change.”’

‘You visited him in prison,’ said Seymour.

She looked at him in surprise.

‘Yes, I did,’ she said. ‘How did you know that?’

‘And talked to him. What did you talk about?’

‘“Sam,” I said, “this is no place for you. We’ve got to get you out of here.” “I think that would be a good idea,” he said. “But how?” “I’m working on it,” I said.’

‘And you tried to get him out?’

‘Of course, I did! And would have too, if they had not been so incompetent. I put the fear of God into Alonzo. “Alonzo,” I said, “you have put Lockhart in prison, and you know what will happen now: that dreadful Admiral will send in his warships and apart from blowing you to little bits, it won’t make you very popular with Madrid. Let him out, quick!” Well, he would have let him out . . .’

‘But,’ said Seymour.

‘Yes.’ She went quiet for a moment. ‘That’s right.’

‘Yes.’ She went quiet ‘He was killed.’

‘Killed, yes. I never thought they’d catch up with him.’

‘They?’

She made a sweeping gesture. ‘Just about everyone. So it seemed at times. The Government – but they should be discounted on the grounds that they don’t have really the ability to organize the killing of anyone. Although they might do it by accident, of course.’

‘Señora, are you an anarchist, by any chance?’

‘The anarchists, too,’ she continued. ‘Although they, of course, were very keen on him.’

‘Did you know about Nina?’

‘Not at first. Absurdly, I was jealous of her. For a little while I wanted to kill her. As well as him, of course.’

‘And did you?’

‘Nina, no.’

‘And Lockhart?’

She laughed. ‘Is that one of the little details you haven’t quite got straight yet?’

And then she sobered up.

‘Poor Lockhart!’ she said. ‘He didn’t deserve to die. He was the one bright spark around here. Of my life, I may say! He was different from other men. Impossible, of course. But that was why I – we – loved him. Don Quixote born again! The Don Quixote of modern times! Charging around wanting to do good. Like all the other do-gooders.
I
am not a do-gooder,’ she said.

‘I had rather spotted that.’

‘But although he was ridiculous, like the original Don Quixote, I suppose, he made life interesting. And that was the point. When you were with him he lit everything up. And you were part of it. Just for a moment, because that was about all the time he could spare for you before he moved on to the next woman. But it was worth it. Life suddenly shifted to another plane. And it was like that for all of us. All of us! He had that gift. He made life richer, suddenly lifted it up out of the tedious and humdrum – and, God, can life in Barcelona be tedious and humdrum! He was ridiculous, of course. With all his causes. But somehow he made you believe in them. For a bit. Even the Catalan cause! For God’s sake!’

‘You are not a believer in the Catalan cause yourself, then, Señora?’

‘I believed in it for a bit. I would have believed in anything if he had asked me to. Even fairies. But only for a bit. And by the end he himself was having second thoughts about them. There was a nasty incident. A man was killed. Lockhart was very angry. And after that he went quite off them.’

‘When was this, Señora?’

‘It was about the time of Tragic Week. Or just before. “If you feel like that,” I said, “why do you go out on the streets?” “To be fair,” he said. “To be fair.” I ask you! What sort of a reason is that? Where would the world be if fairness came into it? For God’s sake!

‘Anyway, you’re missing the point. The point was that he was romantic. With all those mad enthusiasms of his, that out-of-control idealism. He was a regular Don Quixote, always tilting at windmills. Well, me, I’m normally on the side of windmills. Good, solid things with plenty of money coming out of them.

‘But every so often you get fed up with down-to-earth, solid things. Like my husband. You want to fly up in the air, get away from them. Give romance a chance. Even if you know it will probably end with you falling back to earth with a bump.

‘When you were with Lockhart, you believed that romance had a chance. That perhaps you could escape. That things didn’t have to go on the way they were. You really believed you could fly in the air. You abandoned the windmills and went for Don Quixote. Despite yourself. Despite everything. You felt you had been given a chance of life.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I went for Don Quixote. And now the bastard is dead. Damn him, damn him!’

‘Señora,’ said Seymour, ‘you visited the prison once: did you visit it a second time?’

‘No. I was waiting until I had got things set up for his release.’

‘And you didn’t send someone else instead?’

‘No,’ she said, surprised. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘You didn’t try to send anything in to him? For his comfort? Food, for example?’

‘Food? No.’

Then she suddenly realized. ‘What are you saying? That I tried to poison him?’

‘I wondered if you had used someone else. Another woman. An Arab woman.’

The Chief’s wife drew herself up. ‘Señor Seymour, if I had wished to poison Lockhart, I would have done it myself. I would certainly not have used a dirty Arab woman to do it!’

When they got back to the hotel they found a message from Hattersley. It asked if they would mind dropping in at his office. ‘This afternoon if possible.’ As an afterthought, Hattersley had scribbled on the bottom of the message. ‘It really is rather urgent.’

He had said ‘they’ and so they both went. He seemed relieved to see them.

‘Terribly sorry,’ he apologized. ‘Such short notice! But – but it is rather urgent. His note came only this morning, and he is going back to Algiers next week.’

‘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!’