The Acrobats (8 page)

So he came to Spain, Valencia, where the killing had started in a way and maybe they could explain it.

Yes, there were truths.

The Communists had one and so did the Christians. Even the bourgeois had one and for a long time they did pretty good with it. But you could not paint, not really, so long as men were killing each other so often. There was
the
truth, a shining beauty of a truth, and if he was strong enough he would find it. But until then, until that never day, his centre would be confusion. He would accept what came and act or choose
according to what he knew, for not to act would mean nonliving, which was the lot of the coward.

Toni’s room was small and simply furnished. There was a discoloured yellow square on the wall where in 1937 a portrait of
La Pasionaria
had hung. In 1943 a student had committed suicide in the room by slashing his wrists. The blood had been washed away but where the pool had dried the floor varnish was still rubbed out. Then, for some time, the building had been run as a brothel. When Señor Jorge purchased the establishment only a year ago and had converted it back into a rooming house all the mattresses had had to be aired. The cracked springs were never mended.

I know better than he does what he wants, she thought. For one thing this is not his home and the sadness of Europe is wrong for him. So is politics, Guillermo, and Pepe. His anger against his family and his country comes of love and later on we will go to his land. A man should have a home and a family for without it he is a tramp. We will have a fine home in the mountains. He shall have a room full of books, and I shall sew for our children in the parlour. We shall be happy and have many quarrels. When we die our children shall carry on.

But the new will be strange. Perhaps the people won’t like me?

André had left early. Last night he had been particularly restless in his sleep and twice Toni had had to get up to cover him. He had left a note.

She was in her dressing-gown, moving drowsily about the room, when she heard the knock on the door.

“Pase.”

Kraus entered the room and Toni shivered. Oh, my God, she thought. What if he saw him? What if they met in the hall?

Kraus smiled secretively, trying to affect superiority.

“You mustn’t come here,” Toni said.

The room is full of sleeping smells, she thought.
Our
smells. She walked over to the window and opened it.

“Why?”

Toni wrapped her gown more closely around her body. Underneath she was naked and she felt he knew. She felt nauseous.

“Why mustn’t I come here.”

“You mustn’t,” Toni said. “I forbid it.”

Kraus sat down on the bed. It was still warm and unmade. She was not alone last night, he thought.

“Why?”

“Please, go. Please.”

Kraus felt uneasy. With men – real men – his exploits were sufficient proofs of his power. But although women were reduced to a groaning and passionate avowal of his manhood in bed they resented and even mocked him in the morning. He was afraid of women. It was a question of needs.

“I used to collect stamps,” he said. “I had a beautiful collection. Theresa burned it. She burned it on the day the Bolsheviks entered Germany.”

Toni smiled helplessly. His eyes were hard and grey and vacant. She recognised the mood, and she was afraid.

“Is it true about you and the artist?”

“Who told you?”

“My sister.”

I wonder if she reads my diary, he thought.

His eyes never left her. And in spite of herself she was excited and tingling.

“I love him,” she said quickly.

“He is only a boy.”

Toni wanted to conceal their bed from him. She was suddenly ashamed of her body. She would have liked, that moment, to cover herself to her fingertips. He must not see anything.

“He is no good. He drinks.”

Last night, for the first time, André had made love to her with the lights on. He had studied her body lovingly and all night long he had held her in his arms. “I love you,” he had said. “You are beautiful.” I remember the taste of his sweat.

“You don’t understand, Roger.”

I hate her
, he thought. He held the sheets tightly in his fists. He couldn’t think of anything to say so he said: “He is a friend of the Jew.”

“So am I.”

Roger laughed. His laugh was short, and without humour. “Should I kill the Jews?” he asked.

Toni flushed. “He is not afraid of you.”

“You are wrong. They are always afraid. Even now, when they are in power, they are afraid.”

“Please go. I don’t feel well,” Toni said.

Roger spoke in spurts. He parted with his words grudgingly, as if they were prickly objects stuck in his throat.

“You do not understand … how … how rotten they are,” he said. “Our landlord, a Polish Jew, evicted my parents from their home because … because they couldn’t pay the rent. My father died under the knife of a Jew. It was a simple operation. He was murdered.
They plan to rule the world …”

Theresa had told him about the landlord, but he was certain about the doctor. His name was Bergman.

“Oh, what do I care about the Jews!” Toni said.

“Do you live with him?”

Toni did not reply.

“He is not even a communist. I could respect him if he at least had the courage for that. But, no. He is nothing. A coward.”

Toni laughed shrilly. “It is you who are afraid,” she said.

“Afraid? Afraid of what?”

“Oh, I don’t know!”

“Well, I’ll tell you. It’s their talk. Talk, talk, talk. They make a man dizzy with their talk!”

Toni turned away from him. She found a cigarette on the dresser and lit it. Now he is in his room, she thought. He is painting or looking out of the window and thinking with his forehead all creased up.
I am with him, I’m not here at all
.

“Does he give you money?”

“Why does everyone think they can be filthy with me?”

Kraus moved towards her almost sadly. He took her in his arms and she turned her face away. She felt his hand on her breast. It was a hard hand, not understanding and kind like the hand of André.

“You will never be any better than a whore with him,” he said.

She struggled out of his arms. But when she saw the expression on his face she was sorry.

“I love another man.”

“I love you,” he said with difficulty.

Unwillingly, Toni thought: his love is realer than André’s. She felt panicky. André, more than anything else, feels sorry for all of us without understanding. But Kraus looks up to me, he needs me.

“I am so tired. Tired of politics, tired of killing. You don’t understand what she does to me. Oh, I hate her,” he said passionately, “I could kill her.”

“Roger, I’m sorry. I …”

Roger was pale and his face was rigid. She wished she could love him. It would be better than André.

“They all hate me for what I have done. Chaim, the men in the bars. It’s her fault, she always told me what to do. I would like to be their comrade. I … Do you like skiing?”

His eyes were bright and unseeing. She was no longer frightened and suddenly she pulled his head to her breast. “I have never been skiing,” she said.

“I am good with my hands. We could go to Germany and she would never find us. I could be a carpenter.” He stopped short. “They would put me in jail, they say I killed …”

“Roger, you are a man. Why don’t you leave her?”

Kraus laughed pathetically. “She is so strong. I hate her, but I can’t leave her. Who else would talk to me? Who … You don’t know what it is to be lonely. What if the things I did were wrong, what if the dead really weren’t bad?” He. held her urgently and his grip was as strong as steel. “We could go to South America, to Argentina. I have friends there.”

“Roger, you don’t understand. I love André. You can only be my friend.”

He pushed her away and laughed hoarsely. “I do not want to be your friend!”

“There are other women. You are not a bad man, you will find …”

“I’m going away. I’m going, I’m going!”

“Roger!”

His face was white with anger.

“You women are strong! But I will show you and Theresa and your boy of a lover. I will show you all!”

“Roger, don’t be a child.”

He tried to grab her again. This time viciously, for he was a man injured. But she moved away.

“He is no good. He will be unfaithful to you.”

“If he is unfaithful to me I will see what to do then. But that is my problem.”

“I am a champion athlete. I have won many medals. Don’t you understand, I love you!”

“Oh, Roger, please, I must get dressed now.”

Kraus smiled, lasciviously, and like a boy. “I will sit here while you get dressed. I will sit here and watch.”

She began to sob. “Please …”

“Just now you were more friendly.”

“Yes, but you abuse my friendship.”

Roger stood up. “You are too cheap for me anyway.”

He slammed the door after him.

“Why has he got rat traps on the floor?”

“He was ill for a month when he came here. He hadn’t been eating properly or something like that. He imagines things. Guillermo told me all about him one night. He comes from a very wealthy family.”

“You would think he could afford a better room than this?”

Manuel was sprawled out on the bed and sipping cognac. García had pushed the canvas tablecloth to one side and cleared a seat for himself on the trunk. He was also drinking.

“They enjoy pretending that they are poor,” Manuel said. “It broadens their education. It is romantic.”

“You shouldn’t talk that way. He is a good friend of Guillermo’s. He has done him many favours. Perhaps he is really poor?”

“Favours? I have had enough of their charity. It stinks!”

“Still, he is a friend …”

“Guillermo is a romantic. Having a foreign artist for a friend appeals to the bourgeois in him.”

“But …”

“You are a boy. You understand nothing. I know the type. They do you favours. They sympathise. The workers suffer
so much. My, my. But as soon as there is a crisis, poof! – they disappear.”

André opened the door and stared blankly at the two strangers. He didn’t know what to think. He smiled weakly.

García jumped up. “We are friends of Guillermo’s,” he said shyly.

“Well then.” André said, grinning broadly now, “I’m glad to have you here. Where’s Guillermo? I’m sorry that I’m late. I went for a walk. I wasn’t expecting him until later in the afternoon.”

“He gave us this address. He said he would be here later. I hope you don’t mind,” García said.

“Why should he mind?” Manuel, still lolling on the bed, said dryly.

“Yes, of course,” André said. “Please sit down.”

“García. My name is García. This is Manuel.”

“My name is Bennett.”

“We know your name. We know all about you. You paint.”

André picked up the bottle of cognac from the floor and poured himself a drink. He was anxious to make a good impression. “Would you like me to refill your glasses?” he said.

García smiled shyly. He was stocky and dark and probably still in his teens. He was dressed shabbily, but his clothes were obviously well taken care of. He spoke Castilian with the clipped accent of a
Mallorquín
. “If you like,” he said.

André filled the glasses.

“Do you like Spain?” García asked.

Manuel laughed. He was a bony man with a hard face and mean eyes. His hair was grey. A long curving scar, probably from a knife wound, ran down his left cheek. André stared at him. Manuel smiled cynically. “It is very ugly, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise that I was …”

“Have you ever been in prison? In one of Franco’s prisons?”

“Do you like Spain?” García asked again – quickly.

“Does he like Spain? Fool! It is cheap. If you are a foreigner, Spain is cheap. The beggars are ugly, I admit, but one gets used to that.”

“Do you think that Guillermo will be here soon?”

“Would you like us to leave? Do we embarrass you?”

“I didn’t say that at all.”

Manuel got off the bed and walked over to the easel. He poked André’s unfinished canvas with his finger. There were no nails on his fingers, just black sores. “Isn’t there anything more important to paint than naked women?”

“I think the woman is very beautiful,” García said timidly.

“What do you know about such things!”

“Let him alone!” André said. “I’m sure he knows just as much about it as you do!”

Manuel smiled contemptuously. “That’s right. What do we know about art? We aren’t gentlemen. We haven’t had an education.”

“Stop twisting my words.”

“Why do you come to Spain at all? Does it amuse you? Do you think our women make good whores? Do you think it is droll to be a young idler while better men than you die in prison?”

“Shuttup!”

Manuel turned to García and shrugged his shoulders ironically. “It disturbs the poor child to hear about such things.” He patted André’s cheek tenderly. “Poor unhappy artist,” he said.

André pushed him away quickly.

The door opened.

“What are you doing here?”

Manuel did not turn around to face Guillermo. Instead he stared at André, his eyes cold with hatred. “Didn’t you tell us to meet you here?”

“I asked you to meet me at Cosmi’s,” Guillermo said. “I said if I was needed you could find me here.”

“Let’s go,” García said, tugging Manuel by the arm.

Manuel didn’t protest. But he stopped at the door and bowed. “Thank you for your excellent cognac, Don André. I’m sorry if we soiled your rug.”

He slammed the door after him.

André washed out a glass and poured Guillermo a drink. He moved about mechanically and in his eyes was the old expression of hurt and confusion. You build and build and build, he thought. Then bango! I should know better. I should. He lit another cigarette and sat down on the window sill. “How are you, Guillermo,” he asked in English. “I haven’t seen you in months.”