Joshua Then and Now (48 page)

Bureau drawers in the master bedroom revealed no photographs of Monique and himself, but film stills had been tacked to the walls everywhere. William S. Hart, Hopalong Cassidy, Randolph Scott, Joel McCrea as Buffalo Bill, Gary Cooper, Wallace Beery, Andy Devine. Another photograph, stuck in the mirror, showed Mueller wearing chaps and spurs, six-guns drawn. There was a hairnet lying on the bureau and a crash diet torn from the pages of
Look
. Tailor’s dummies lined one wall. One wore a gunfighter’s outfit, another a saloon girl’s costume, a third was dressed as a plains Indian. Six-guns in a holster were slung from a bedpost.

The bathroom medicine cabinet yielded vitamin tablets, a powder for the cleansing of dentures, a salve to relieve rectal itch, and a tube of hand lotion.

In the living room, Joshua picked up a batch of records and smashed them against the corner of a table, immediately regretting it. This is childish, he thought, and he stooped to retrieve pieces of the broken lamp base from the floor. Suddenly, he was disturbed by a noise coming from the front of the villa. Voices? A dog? Springing dizzily to his feet, he bolted out of the house, continuing across the garden in a half-crouch, and starting to climb the rocks. He ran – stumbling – rising – running again. He ran and ran. Down the mountainside, across the olive grove. He didn’t stop until he emerged on the road. The bus to Ibiza was approaching. He waved it down and clambered inside. Only then did he realize that his arms were badly scratched and that he was drenched in sweat.

Sometime past midnight, in Ibiza, Juanito caught up with him in the waterfront café. “Come on,” he said.

“Where?”

“Rosita’s.”

“I don’t want to go to Rosita’s. I’ve had enough of that.”

“Come on.”

“I said no. Leave me alone.”

He was careful to be back in San Antonio in time for breakfast at the Casa del Sol, the Freibergs be damned. Otherwise he felt Mueller would certainly be suspicious. But when Mueller finally moseyed onto the terrace in his white linen suit, he didn’t even acknowledge him. He heard no more from Mariano. A week passed before Mueller sat down at his table in Don Pedro’s. “My place was broken into the other day,” he said thickly.

“Oh?”

“Vandals.”

“Did they do much damage?”

“Sufficient. They took things too. My diamond stickpin is gone. So is my camera. They found my traveler’s checks,” and, biting into his ivory cigarette holder, he added, “Eighteen hundred dollars is missing.”

“Why, my dear Dr. Dr.,” Joshua said, “how I’ve underestimated you.”

“Drunken fishermen must have taken it. Fortunately, I’m insured. I have already phoned the American Express in Madrid and warned them that somebody would be passing forged checks.”

“What did they say?”

“Oh, they were very kind. They are sending new checks. Mariano is sending them a copy of his report.”

“Well, well.”

“Have
you
had any trouble?”

“Yes. With hostiles.”

“What?”

“Cheyenne Dog Soldiers. But I managed to run them off my property. Me and my six-guns.”

“Take my advice,” Dr. Dr. Mueller said, rising, “don’t leave any money sitting around.”

Joshua found Freiberg’s brother-in-law, Max, sunning himself on the beach. Prodding him with his foot, he demanded, “Did you change any money for that Nazi in the last few days?”

“What Nazi?”

“Dr. Dr. Mueller.”

“He’s no Nazi,” Max roared, shaking with laughter.

“He’s a wanted man in France,” Joshua charged hotly, “isn’t he?”

“Do you know what that drunkard did in the war?”

Joshua didn’t know.

“He was with a government office in Berlin. He sat on his ass and wrote propaganda. He never got to the front, but eventually it came to him.”

“He was with the army of occupation in France.”

“Writing articles.”

“Why is he wanted in France?”

“Not because of the war,” Max said, disgusted, “but because of something he did in nineteen-fifty. He assaulted a girl in Nice. A whore. I hear he tried to scalp her. You know how he is when he’s drunk. He could have thought he was Chief Crazy Horse.”

“Why are you frightened of him?”

“Frightened? We are not frightened. But he is not without influence here.”

“Did you change any money for him in the last few days?”

Max wasn’t saying.

“Maybe you’re the
putz
, not me. He’s reporting the checks as stolen. He says his villa has been broken into.”

Max laughed. His belly shook.

“What’s so funny?”

“Who would have suspected Mueller of having a
yiddishe kop?”

“I’ll kill you,” Joshua said, grabbing him. “Honest to God, I’ll kill you one of these days.”

Max broke free of him. “I’m O.K. If I changed any money for Mueller at the unofficial rate, the check would be in Geneva by now. But what about you? Are you O.K.?”

Mariano was waiting for him at his place.

“Where do you get your money?” he asked abruptly.

“I earn it.”

“Perhaps by writing reports for your government.” Incredibly enough, Mariano was suggesting he might be a spy. “We have a big military station here. You have been seen observing the soldiers from the hilltop more than once.”

“With their pathetic wooden tank and rifles firing blanks.”

“You have made a statement in the presence of three army officers that you were spying on them.”

“We were drinking together. I was joking.”

“That’s not what they say.”

“They’re lying.”

“They are officers.”

“Fuck you, Mariano.”

“You are the one who is lying, just as you lied about the fornications on the beach until I told you that I had proof.”

“That was different.”

“Mueller has been robbed of eighteen hundred dollars in traveler’s checks.”

“He’s lying.”

“Everybody is lying but you.”

“Oh, what’s the use? Come to the point, Mariano.”

“You are nobody, but Dr. Dr. Mueller is a celebrated author in his own country. Gus McCabe, the western writer. He also has admirers in high places in Madrid. He says you are an anarchist with your own concubine here, and that you robbed his villa. The officers have also signed a statement. Because you are so young, I would like to help. If you leave Spain of your own accord within forty-eight hours, the complaint will stop with me and you will be able to enter this country freely again.”

“Hold it, Mariano. Stop right there. I want to know if it was the fucking Freibergs who told you that Monique and I could be found nude on their beach?”

“A complaint has also been filed against the Freibergs. It seems their wiring has not been installed according to strict government regulations. It may be necessary to shut down the Casa del Sol.”

“God damn him, what does he want from the Freibergs? They had nothing to do with me. I can testify to that.”

“I did not say he filed the complaint. But if their wiring is faulty, there is nothing you can do.”

“You’re a snake, Mariano. You really are.”

“You do not seem to understand that if you don’t leave here within forty-eight hours, you will have to face certain charges. You will go to prison, most likely”

Run, Joshua, run.

But he had no money. Certainly not enough to get him to Paris. With Juanito’s help, he sold his portable typewriter. Whatever clothes he wasn’t wearing. He met with Monique, they agreed to get together in Nice in two weeks’ time, and then he hurried to the Casa del Sol, running all the way. “I must see the Freibergs immediately,” he told the desk clerk.

But they weren’t there. They were in Palma, consulting a lawyer.

“How long will they be gone?”

“Three days, maybe four.”

“What about Max?”

“He’s with them.”

Joshua scribbled a note, left it for them, and then he booked passage on the
Jaime II
, sailing for Valencia the same evening. Juanito carried two cases of fresh fish on board for the captain, assuring Joshua of a cabin for the crossing.

Standing on the deck, waiting for the ship to pull out, he could see Dr. Dr. Mueller with a party of giggly American ladies at the café on the waterfront. It was a Wednesday. Mueller, he imagined, had taken them to the cockfights. The ladies would have been outraged, aroused, and they would have taken many photographs. Dr. Dr. Mueller would have made his set pronouncement. “The Spaniards,” he would have said, “are not as sophisticated as we are. They are born to cruelty.”

Dr. Dr. Mueller pointed him out to one of the ladies and whispered something in her ear. She laughed. Joshua turned away from the railing and walked slowly, he hoped, to starboard.

Run, Joshua, run. You’re not a man, but a mouse.

T
HE WHISPERS AND INFORMED WARNINGS HAD BEEN
circulating for weeks. Coral stopped fattening on points. It stalled one morning, tottered the next, and on the opening of business at the Montreal Stock Exchange on a dry, sub-zero Wednesday it began to plunge, frenetic investors bailing out. There was no
Gazette
the next Monday, because of a printer’s walkout; they seldom watched the local
TV
news, so the scandal didn’t catch up with them until Tuesday. In the morning, Kevin’s picture was not only on the front page (a stricken but far-from-surprised Pauline absorbing every detail), but also in the business section and, ironically, on the society page again. The headline on the society page ran:

“ ‘Among those enjoying the music of Perry Carman and his Orchestra on Saturday night,’ ” Joshua read aloud, savoring each idiocy, “ ‘were Richard Abbott, Q.C., and Mrs. Abbott, whose gown of pink georgette was worn with a stole of matching ostrich fronds; Mr. Gavin McTeer, and Mrs. McTeer, wearing a halter of black, sequined crepe; Isaac Singer, O.C., and Mrs. Singer, who had a rope of fragrant-smelling freesia around her neck and wore a sheath gown of off-white silk jersey; Mr. Eli Seligson, and Mrs. Seligson, wearing
écru silk; Mr. Jeremy Gursky, and Mrs. Gursky, in a pajama ensemble of fuchsia and green patterned chiffon; Mr. Jack Trimble, and Mrs. Trimble, whose gown of –’ ”

“Oh, stop it. Please, darling.”

“Wait. Here comes the good part. ‘The evening’s highlight was a slick, short performance given by selected members of the ballet company and a group of good-natured men-about-town, ready to draw chuckles at their dancing technique. “Le ballet aquatique égyptien” saw the boys, among them Kevin Hornby, as towel-clad water-bearers, attempting to portray figures on an Egyptian frieze.’ ”

The story in the business section was succinct. An immediate halt had been called to trading in the shares of Coral Trust, this year’s high-flier on the
MSE
, pending an investigation by the Quebec Securities Commission. The story on the front page offered hardly any more details, but was, nevertheless, charged with ominous undertones. The
RCMP
had raided the Stock Exchange Tower offices of Westmount Whizz Kid Kevin Hornby, seizing documents and correspondence. Hornby, outraged, claimed to be totally surprised by the move and pleaded with investors to remain calm. There had been no irregularities at Coral, he maintained, and he welcomed any investigation, which could only vindicate him. Jack Trimble, also on the Coral board, stated that he had complete confidence in his associate, the man in charge of the enterprise, but, on the advice of his lawyers, could not comment at this point in time.

Joshua, who was bound for London on the evening flight and from there to Spain, had already packed. They had taken the children out to dinner the night before and now, as was their habit when he had to make a trip, they went to a small French restaurant they favored for lunch, ordering champagne.

“I wish you were coming with me,” he said.

“And I wish you weren’t going.”

“I have to.”

“I know.”

“I’ve left the envelope in my top right-hand desk drawer.”

A ritual comparatively new with him.
In the event of an airplane crash, I leave everything I own to my wife Pauline
. (Signed)
Joshua Shapiro
. Her eyes filled with angry tears, she said, “I hate your fucking envelope. I don’t want to know about it.”

“But you have to.”

“What will you say to that wretched Mueller after all these years?”

“I wish I knew.”

“I wonder what would have happened if we’d met much earlier. Right here. When I was at McGill.”

The mixed doubles champion. “We would have loathed each other on sight. Nothing would have been possible.”

“Do you ever think that you’ve had enough and wish you were single again?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“And you?”

“I sometimes wonder how the kids have survived this long. All those protruding table corners. The wall plugs. Whooping cough. Measles. But Alex is already growing away from me. Susy will be next. Ten years from now they’ll phone each other to say ‘It’s Sunday,
you
visit Mother this week.’ Have you ever been unfaithful to me?”

“No.”

“But don’t you ever want another woman? Jane, for instance.”

“Certainly not Jane.”

“Who, then?”

“Strangers sometimes. A woman I might pass on the street.”

“And what do you do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“It wouldn’t be very flattering if you were faithful to me only because an affair would be something you couldn’t handle. I once told Jane that you were wonderful in bed.”

“Wouldn’t you say that was somewhat perverse?”

“There are times when I feel that if only you betrayed me, I could draw back a little. I might feel safer.”

“I see,” he said sharply.

“You simply don’t understand how much I’ve got at risk. I can’t imagine my life without you any more.”

“But I’d be equally lost if anything happened to you.”

“It would take time, but you’d adjust.”

“I don’t like the turn this conversation is taking.”

“But we seldom talk about anything any more. We meet in the hall to split duties. You go to Steinberg’s, I’ll take the shirts to Troy. Possibly our life together has come to lack a certain intensity. Oh, now you’re really getting angry.”