Tango (12 page)

‘Who asked you?’

‘The security police.’

‘Did you agree?’

‘Of course. They are the security police.’

‘What have you told them?’

Ricardo smiled. ‘I told them you are in love with Ines.’

‘But that’s not true. Nor is the bit about the company. It just makes a loss, that’s all.’ William paused. He would ask Box about his predecessors in the company.
‘So far as I know.’

Ricardo held up his hand. ‘William, please. We are friends, not children. Of course you are not in love with Ines. That is why I told them. You are in love with Theresa. Everyone knows
that. But please do not pretend about the company. There is no other explanation. Who would go on with such a hopeless business, making such a loss? Not even the British. Someone must be paying for
it.’

A flock of brown goats scattered inches ahead of their speeding bonnet. William, no longer alarmed, sat in thoughtful silence.

The factory and the mill were on the far side of the hills in a fertile plain not yet denuded of trees. They were about a mile apart, both on the bank of a river. The factory
resembled a half-finished building site. The only buildings were open-sided sheds stacked with wood and long corrugated huts with no windows. Instead of gates there was a makeshift barrier of
oil-drums and planks. An ancient Morris van was parked by it and a few yards away some soldiers stood warming themselves around a small fire. They had sub-machine guns slung across their backs and
gazed indifferently as Ricardo spun the Toyota with gratuitous violence to pull up by the van. The ground was churned and holed. Everything looked scruffy, unfinished and uncared-for.

Miguel, the foreman, got out of the van. He was a round man with a balding head, a round face and a rounded shambling gait that made him appear to roll along the ground like a deflated rubber
ball. His handshake and voice were soft, his lips rubbery and mobile. He greeted William with an almost oriental politeness, followed by a minute or two of reminiscence about where and when they
had last met. He came from the interior and his accent was hard for William to follow.

‘It is sad,
señor
,’ he said, indicating the deserted factory.

Lopsided coaches used for bringing the workers from the city stood empty. They looked as if they would never move again. The whole place looked as if it would never work again. ‘How long
do you think the strike will last?’ William asked.

Miguel raised his arms. ‘It is impossible to say,
señor.
A day, a week, a year.’

‘Unless we give them more money,’ said Ricardo.

‘Maybe.’

‘It’s not only money, is it?’ asked William.

‘Not only.’

‘What else?’

‘Also the cold.’ When Miguel smiled his eyes were nearly invisible between the folds of flesh. ‘Yes, the cold. Even when it is not cold.’

‘What else?’ repeated William. ‘Have they made no demands?’

‘They do not want to work.’

‘Is that what they say?’

‘No, but – the union men, it is what they say.’

‘Is that all?’

‘They say they will present demands when they are ready.’

‘Are the workers frightened of the union men?’

‘
Sí, señor.
’

They had been walking slowly towards the barrier. Ricardo vaulted it, cigarette in mouth.

‘We must get rid of the union men,’ he said. ‘I keep telling him. Eh, Miguel?’

Miguel grinned uneasily. His head shrank into his shoulders when he shrugged.

There was a shout from one of the soldiers standing by the fire. He waved to them to go back the way they had come.

‘What do you want?’ Ricardo shouted back.

The soldier shouted again.

Miguel shook his head. ‘We must not go into the factory,
señor
, they do not let us.’

‘What is it to do with the army?’ asked William. He noticed a small encampment of olive-green vehicles and brown tents in a clearing behind the trees.

‘They are not normal soldiers. They are troops of the security police.’

‘And they stop you going into your own factory?’ asked Ricardo.

‘They say they are told to help the union. That is why there are no pickets. They say it is a national question, because we are a foreign firm.’

‘I’ll talk to them,’ said Ricardo. He vaulted back over the barrier and strode towards the soldiers. William wanted to call after him to be tactful but his Spanish deserted
him. Miguel touched his arm.

‘It is not your fault,
señor.
Please tell London there is nothing you can do. It is a political matter, this strike.’

‘Have you talked to the workers yourself?’

‘Some of them, some, but in private. They want more money, of course, but they do not want to strike.’

‘Why do they obey, then?’

Miguel turned his round head from side to side, smiling and looking down. ‘They have families,
señor.
’

‘But surely their families are hurt by their being on strike?’

‘Not hurt. They suffer, that is all. It is better.’

William waited but Miguel did not look up again. ‘You have family also, Miguel?’

Miguel nodded.

Ricardo was still with the soldiers. It seemed a good-humoured negotiation. There was laughter and he handed round cigarettes. When he came back he grinned resignedly.

‘No good. They are friendly but it is not possible. They are acting on orders of the Party.’

‘Party?’

‘The People’s Party. There is a political officer who visits the camp. He tells them what to do.’

Miguel, looking even more like a crumpled ball, walked back with them towards the car. ‘I will let you know everything I hear,
señor
,’ he said as they shook hands
again. ‘Please tell London it is not your fault. They must not blame you.’

Ricardo put his hand on Miguel’s shoulder. ‘Nor yours, Miguel. They will not blame you, either.’

‘
Gracias, señor.
’

They took off for the mill at Ricardo’s normal speed.

‘I feel sorry for Miguel,’ said William.

‘No need. It was he who told the workers to strike.’

‘Are you sure?’

Ricardo looked pleased with himself. ‘The soldiers told me. It is a sad fact about my countrymen, William, that most of them will do anything for a cigarette.’

‘Perhaps Miguel had no choice.’

‘He could have refused.’

‘He has family.’

‘I have family, you have family, but it does not stop us fighting back, eh? Together we struggle, divided we relapse – you have the same in English?’ Ricardo laughed.
‘The security police will expect a report from me on our visit. They will get reports from Miguel and from the soldiers. But I will make a top secret one. I will say that you are afraid that
because of the strike you will lose your job because London cannot understand. They will believe that.’

‘They may be right.’

It was William’s turn to cook, to make up for the previous night out. He grilled two trout – Sally’s vegetarianism did not extend to fish – with
mushrooms, potatoes and spinach. While he was cooking she continued a long letter to a girl-friend in London. She had started it three days previously and there were now, he noticed as he laid the
table, eleven pages of her large circular handwriting. She seemed engrossed, so he said nothing until they sat down to eat.

‘How’s the job going?’ he asked.

‘All right.’

‘Only all right?’

‘No, really all right. Good. Harder work than before but more interesting.’

‘And what about this chap, this American’ – tiredness threatened to overwhelm him and he groped in vain for the name – ‘your boss.’

‘Max.’

‘Yes, Max. How do you get on with him?’

‘All right.’ She ate with relish, which pleased him. During the last month or two she had seemed listless.

‘Have you seen your friend
Señor
Finn recently?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I saw him today. He was eating something very like what we’re eating.’

‘Is he well?’

‘Flourishing, by the looks of him. Becoming more talkative. In fact, he told me something rather disturbing, if it’s true. I noticed his dog was tied up, which it never usually is,
and asked why. He said they’re rounding up the strays in the city and shooting them.’

‘That’s right, it was on the news.’

‘Seems a bit extreme. There aren’t that many.’

‘Max says it’ll be the people next.’

William rested his knife and fork on the plate. ‘That’s what
Señor
Finn said. “Today the dogs,
señor
,” he said, “tomorrow the
people.” ’

‘Max says communist countries often do it when they’re heading for a purge. It’s one of the first signs of clamp-down. He was in Peking when they did it there.’

‘But this isn’t a communist country.’

‘It’s becoming one, according to Max.’

William picked up his knife and fork. ‘Maybe.’

They continued talking over coffee. He told her in greater detail about the events at Maria’s and their aftermath, including his visit to Box and the embassy. He found he could mention
Theresa without any spasm of guilt. This was partly because the whole thing – Theresa, Box, Carlos, the embassy, Maria’s – sounded so unreal when he talked about it. It was as if
bits of his life didn’t connect with each other. Also, a recitation of events without an account of his own feelings contained nothing to feel guilty about. Sally seemed amused but not
particularly curious.

Afterwards she mentioned the friend to whom she was writing – Jackie, who had remarried and had a baby. William had met Jackie – after several promptings he vaguely recalled a girl
with curly brown hair who giggled – and the story of her first marriage was alternately funny and violent. It ended with her leaving her husband stuck in his car in a snowdrift. She married
the brother of the man who gave her a lift home. Sally told the story, which William assumed had been sent to her in a novel-length letter, with a relish for detail he had not seen in her for some
time. Her account of the baby made him wonder whether she now wanted one herself, though she always said she didn’t. He realised that Jackie was not the girl he was remembering but it was too
late to say so.

She continued talking over the washing-up. It pleased him to hear her talk, no matter what about. Interest in something – anything – was better than the polite disinterest which had
characterised their relations for some time now. When she talked she became animated and was more attractive. It reminded him of when he had first known her, a lively, confident girl whom he could
not at first believe could ever be interested in him. But he had made her laugh and that had helped.

Before going to bed that night he made brief notes of what he wanted to tell Box. He wrote them as a series of one-word reminders on a piece of paper on which he had already made notes about the
next paper-run forecast. He was very tired now, but content. Sally was in bed already and he thought that, despite his tiredness, they might make love that night; it would be the first time for
many months. But she was already asleep.

The envelope was brought to William in his office by one of the girls from the shop. It was plain white, with his name written in a rather flowery script. The girl said it must
have been pushed through the letterbox in the night because it was amongst the other mail but there was no stamp. Afterwards he heard her giggling downstairs and wondered again why it was that
encounters with him always provoked such giggles. Perhaps they giggled about the orange-seller. He was in his usual position. Could Ricardo be right about the man’s infatuation? Possibly, but
it wasn’t incompatible with spying. William wondered which of the two girls might have captivated the man. He was never certain of being able to tell them apart.

He put aside the letter of intent from the Ministry of Information – it was a large order for certification of censorship forms – and opened the white envelope. It was dated the day
before, with no address, and read:

William had to quell his jealousy. He concentrated on an undramatic determination simply to do his duty by Britain and by Box. That at least should provide satisfaction, an
opportunity to be loyal, useful, disinterested. It was necessary to see Box urgently.

He would have to use the telephone procedure Box had described at the hotel. After looking carefully at his watch and re-checking twice, he rang and asked for Mr Kronstadt. The extension was
answered by a harsh, ‘
Ja
?’ William introduced himself in Spanish and said he could not after all see Mr Kronstadt at one o’clock that day. Could they arrange another
time? Box replied in rapid German. William said he was sorry, he did not speak German. There was a pause and then Box replied in convincingly fractured Spanish, with a heavy Teutonic accent, that
he did not understand – could William repeat his message? William did so and there was another pause.

‘You speak English?’ Box asked, with a foreign accent.

William repeated his message in English. Box replied in his best German-accented English that it was okay, they would arrange another time when William was not so busy.

One o’clock in the message meant twelve o’clock. Saying they could not meet that day meant they must. The meeting-place was a newsagent that sold foreign papers within walking
distance of William’s office. It was on a busy junction near the main post office and opposite the national bank, a venerable and grave institution, magnificent in decay. There were a few
tables on the pavement at which people sat reading papers and drinking coffee.

There was no sign of anyone serving when William arrived. There was no sign of Box. William searched for a while and found a
Daily Telegraph
more recent than the last he had received.
The front-page news of the unfavourable balance of trade, a health service financial scandal and a survey of geographical ignorance was at once familiar and distant. He could guess how much it all
seemed to matter in England, at least for the day. Here, people sat, read, drank coffee and talked in the sun. Economies, politics, even so-called communist takeovers were relegated to their proper
places. He turned to the sports pages and read about the outstanding New Zealand touring team.