Love, Let Me Not Hunger (35 page)

Mr. Gryder’s office was different from the noisy floor of the Claims Department. It was quiet, deep carpeted, opulently furnished and opulently manned, for Mr. Gryder’s clothes, manner, and distinguished greying hairs bespoke the trustworthy, well-off, and solvent company.

He proffered a warm, moist hand and said, “Mr. Marvel, how do you do? So sorry there have been difficulties and delays, but you know how it is with those foreigners.”

Sam Marvel felt warmed to him like a brother—for the moment, at least—the brotherhood of knowing how it was with “those foreigners.”

“But that’s all settled now and I think you will be pleased.” Mr. Gryder consulted some papers from his basket and said, “We are allowing you the whole of your claim for destruction of material. According to the report of our man in Madrid the fire was total. I am afraid we can offer you only half of your claim for reimbursement for the season’s losses.”

Sam Marvel could not believe his ears. It was on a chance that he had stuck in an estimated figure of his profits on the Spanish tour, certain that it would be disallowed. Full damages on his equipment! Half profits on the tour! Wow!

“But I am sure you will admit,” Mr. Gryder was continuing, “that your estimate is based upon most optimistic attendance, whereas if there were a sudden falling off of crowds for other reasons you would not be able to claim insurance—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Marvel, “that’s all right. That’s fair enough. When do I get paid?”

“If you will come in tomorrow morning and see Mr. Barnes, our cashier, after ten o’clock he will have a cheque ready for you. And perhaps you would just like to sign here, accepting the adjustment.” He proffered a document and a pen.

Sam Marvel was not a drinking man or a person who knew how to laugh and exult and so he went and sat in the lobby of his hotel and read the copy of the
World’s Fair
he had brought with him. All he wanted to do was pass the time until ten o’clock the next morning when he would see that Mr. Barnes and pocket his fat cheque. He turned to the column headed “British Circus Ring Notes” where he read:

We ran into ever-young Joe Peabody of Peabody’s Family Circus at Heysham Head last week. Joe is sixty now but looks forty and sprier than when he was twenty. He tells us that not only is he not thinking of retiring, but on the contrary is considering expanding for next year, in which he was seconded by the ever-charming Ma Peabody. Said Joe: “If you hear of anyone wanting to sell out some stock and equipment cheap, you just let us know and we’ll be Johnny-on-the-spot.” Peabody said he wanted to enlarge his menagerie and his horse acts in particular, and present a bigger show. Good for you, Joe! Go to it, say we, and we’ll let you know if we hear anything. Joe can be contacted at the King’s Arms Hotel in Heysham.

Sam Marvel read the item, re-read it, and read it again. He knew Peabody and his little show. He made money because it was a tight, compact family affair. And now the old fool was talking of expanding. What a chance to unload not only his assets at Chippenham but whatever remained of the menagerie at Zalano! If he made the price right he might even persuade Peabody to go over to Spain and get the stuff out himself.

For now that the insurance was about to be paid, Sam Marvel looked back upon Zalano as something of the past and out of his life. He was neither a bad man nor dishonest, and for a time the situation of those he had left behind in charge had weighed upon his conscience, as had the animals themselves. He knew that he had left them with insufficient funds, but also that it could not be helped, since he had expected each day, each week to be reimbursed, in which case he would have flown to the rescue. Every time he was put off he worried, until he suddenly found he could worry no more. His wife had not thought to tell him of the strange telephone call she had had. As a matter of fact, she had never understood even where it had come from. Two months had gone by. Something must have happened. The animals were either dead or okay. The people had either coped or they had not. Whichever, it was too late to start fretting now.

Instead, he went through the little article once more and then got up and placed a long distance telephone call to Joe Peabody at the King’s Arms Hotel in Heysham, and when it came through went into the box nervously.

“Hallo, Joe Peabody?”

“Yeah, this is Joe.”

“Sam Marvel here.”

“Say, hallo there, Sam. How are you?”

“Fine, fine.”

“How did you make out in Spain, Sam?”

“Okay, okay. Look here, Joe, I just been reading in the
World’s Fair
you’re thinking of expanding.”

“That’s right, that’s right. You got anything? At a good price?”

“Listen, how’d you like to buy me out?”

“What! Are you kidding? Buy you out? I couldn’t afford it.”

“I’ll make the price right, Joe. It’ll put you right up there with the Chipperfields and Billy Smart. Lock, stock, and barrel.”

“Are you kidding! You mean the name, too?”

“Yes, yes! Why don’t we meet and have a talk?”

“Where are you calling from, Sam?”

“Birmingham.”

“I’ll come up tomorrow.”

“No, wait a minute, Joe. I got another idea. Meet me in Newcastle. The Queen’s Hotel.”

“Newcastle? What’s the idea? Birmingham’s nearer.”

Marvel replied merely, “Do you want to talk, boy?” An idea was swelling within his head.

“You’re the boss, Sam. Newcastle, day after tomorrow, the Queen’s Hotel. I’ll be there.”

Sam Marvel hung up, and for the first time in a long, long while there was a smile to break the grim line of his mouth. He’d be there too. The insurance cheque would be in his wallet.

C H A P T E R
2 4

T
he sudden death of Janos one night was bruited about the
finca,
whispered through the barns and workshops, passed along to the men working in the fields, and finally confirmed by the dolorous tolling of the bell of the little private chapel. But news of it did not reach Mr. Albert until late that morning because he did not understand the language. Yet he was aware from the bell’s tolling that there had been a death, and he went about his work uneasily as the rumors and whispers circulated about him, until finally the name of Janos was heard too often. Filled with foreboding, he rang timidly at the door of the villa and asked to see the major-domo.

Don Francisco appeared, looking as always grave and reserved.

“Excuse me,” stammered Mr. Albert, “—I oughtn’t to be here—but I heard—has something happened?—Can you tell me?—The bell—and they’re talking about Janos.”

“Yes,” said Don Francisco, “it is true. Janos died suddenly during the night.”

“Oh Gaw!” said Mr. Albert, and was swept by a wave of sorrow and shock. “Oh Gaw,” he repeated, “the poor little fellow. What happened?”

“Apoplexy,” said Don Francisco. “Dr. Calderon has been here this morning and given the death certificate.”

Mr. Albert repeated after him, “Apoplexy?”

“What is surprising about that,” Don Francisco said with some asperity, “after the way he had been stuffing himself?”

Mr. Albert was astonished at the sudden sharpness of tone employed by one who was always calm and courteous. Perhaps the sudden tragedy had shaken Don Francisco too, for there were some beads of sweat at his brow and temples.

“Can I see him?” Mr. Albert asked.

The major-domo said, “Wait here. I will enquire.” And he went away across the patio and up the stairs.

In the dark and quiet of the night! Apoplexy! What was apoplexy? No more Janos! His dogs ought to he howling,
Mr. Albert thought.
They’ll miss him. I shall have to be a father to them. Poor dogs. Poor little Janos! Do you die happy when you eat yourself to death?

Without being aware, his steps had wandered along the side of the patio to the doors of the drawing room which stood open, for a maid was cleaning within. And as he stood looking once again at the monstrous portrait of the glandular girl, swollen within her white satin gown in her awe-inspiring jewellery, waiting to be presented to some king or queen, he had a moment’s horrid fantasy: that of the squat, ugly face of Janos peering out from beneath the folds of the dress. And for an instant he thought he must be mad until he remembered that incident of the little dwarf crawling out from under the tablecloth, weeping.
What did human beings do to one another? Perhaps best, then, that it was apoplexy, whatever that was, and sudden darkness.

There were footsteps. Mr. Albert turned to see Don Francisco there as though he had known where he would be.

“You may see him. Come.”

They proceeded to the small room where Janos lay upon the bed, his small, pudgy hands folded over the red and white frill of the clown’s costume that he wore. There were candles burning at his head and feet. The chaplain of the Marquesa was not there, but in his stead the young acolyte, the student priest who over the summer assisted at Mass. He was a tall, pale, intense young man with a hook nose and deep-set eyes. He was mumbling prayers for the dead.

Mr. Albert did not know what to do or say since he could not pray but only feel sadness settling in his stomach. His mind kept repeating,
Poor little Janos!
He saw that the dwarfs face was suffused and empurpled, as though some of the eternal darkness into which he had entered had coloured his features.

Mr. Albert remembered that Janos had looked somewhat like that the day he had seen him in the dining room. Perhaps he had had an attack of this apoplexy while eating and because of it had fallen beneath the table. And strange to say, this self-delusion gave Mr. Albert a momentary sense of the most exquisite relief and he felt almost as though he could breathe again.

“He will be buried tomorrow in our private cemetery,” Don Francisco was saying. “He will have the best funeral possible. All work will stop. The Marquesa herself will attend.”

Mr. Albert was pleased that his friend was to be interred with respect. “I should like to go too,” he said.

“Everyone will be there,” said the major-domo and made a movement towards the door. Mr. Albert was glad for this also enabled him to leave.

It was only some time after when he was in the cage of the little, brown, gypsy bear the Marquesa had bought that he thought of Hans, the bear back at the encampment, and from Hans his thoughts turned to circuses, and thence, with an icy pang, he wondered why Janos lying up there with candles burning had been wearing his clown costume. Did he sleep in this or had they dressed him in it after he had been found dead, in deference to his profession? Or what? All of the relief that he had experienced previously drained away and was replaced once more by anxiety.

Then there was the episode at the communal supper table that night when some of the rougher element were discussing the death of the dwarf and, safe in the knowledge that Mr. Albert spoke no Spanish, were indulging in gossip and innuendo. For this he could tell from the expressions on their faces, and there was even some sniggering though it was quickly hushed. But one old fellow from the carpenters shop was not to be quieted, and he went on talking with winks and grimaces using a word which sent them all into a sudden uncontrollable uproar of laughter, and the word sounded to Mr. Albert like
“cascanueces”
It was passed around the long supper table, handed on from one section to another—
“cascanueces—cascanueces”—
and each time setting off further outbursts until one or the more responsible servants at the head of the room rapped on the board jerking his head in the direction of Mr. Albert, whereupon all the laughter was guiltily hushed and it was obvious that the subject had been changed for the name of Janos was no longer heard.

The word and the way it had been bandied about the table upset Mr. Albert again. Its sound offered him no clue. He could not even guess at its meaning but the winks and nudges it had provoked were unpleasant and added a further note of mystery to the sudden death of his friend. Janos had been a maker of mirth. It was not right that he should be laughed at for what he was or for something perhaps that had been done to him, particularly now that he was lying dead.

Mr. Albert remembered suddenly that there was a way of finding out the meaning of the word. Don Francisco would know and would be able to tell him and the next time he saw the major-domo he was on the verge of asking him, but at the last moment did not do so. He realised suddenly that he did not wish to know, that if the half-formed suspicion that had floated into his mind from the nowhere was confirmed it would be too horrible to contemplate.

The funeral of Janos the next morning was all that Don Francisco had promised. The cemetery of Pozoblanco lay a kilometre south of the
finca
and was like the one Mr. Albert had seen that day, which now seemed so many years ago, when first he had walked the road up from Zalano to beg aid of the Marquesa. It consisted of the same walled rectangle filled with the elegant, slender cypress trees. Inside there was a white marble mausoleum in the shape of a Grecian temple to receive the sarcophagi of generations of the Pozoblanco family, and behind it were scattered sometimes headstones, sometimes bits of statuary, to mark the graves of those who served them.

The procession was led by a black hearse drawn by black horses with black plumes and black string fringes. It was followed by the special Rolls-Royce whose body had been rebuilt to accept the bulk of the Marquesa. Then came the limousine assigned to the chaplain and his acolyte, followed by the car of the major-domo. All the others, every man, woman, and child from the
finca,
some hundred, followed on foot, the women as always swathed in their dark shawls, the men with their heads bared.

It was late September. The fire had gone out of the Spanish sun and the sky was dappled with white cotton clouds. The destructive scythe of hail that had ruined the countryside two months ago had just missed this part of La Mancha, and along its edge where they walked the grapes were purpling. Dust rising from the road marked the slow passage of the cortege from the
finca
to the cemetery.