The Europe That Was (15 page)

Anna signalled to the musicians to stop at the end of the bar and walked into the wings without another glance. The audience clapped feebly. They had not laughed, nor had Anna wept. The tension in that hall was terrific. The mood of exaltation aroused by Isabelita's dancing had never descended, and on to it came the impact of a hysterical woman on the stage and a wild act of comedy at which none could laugh outright. Only Isabelita, insolent and triumphant, neither realizing the supreme effect of her own performance nor heedful of her later cruelty, was insensitive to the storm of suppressed and conflicting emotions that she had raised.

Miguel de Urdiales signalled across to her and to Maruja to meet him in the cabaret. The house emptied. The sweepers began to pass between the tables brushing together the sawdust and cigarette-ends.

Anna was quite calm as she dressed. She was alone in the dressing-room, for the rest of the girls had already gone upstairs. The sweat dripped at intervals from her armpits and ran down her golden sides. It was cold sweat, not the pleasant warm dampness of exercise, and
she vaguely wondered at it. She was not thinking of Isabelita or of her uncompleted berserk mood. Indeed, she was not thinking of anything at all. She gave exaggerated importance to every motion of dressing, and talked to herself aloud in trivial little exclamations. She took particular care over her make-up for the cabaret and was astonished at the brilliance of her eyes and the stillness of her face. She put on a straight white frock that well showed the athletic and lovely lines of her body.

She was remote and calm when she walked into the cabaret. Those few of the customers who had not patronized the music-hall and did not know who she was assumed her to be some frigid and self-sufficient tourist waiting for the husband or friend who at that moment was depositing his hat and coat.

Isabelita and Maruja sat at a table near the door with Miguel de Urdiales and two of his friends. They needed a third woman to complete the party.

‘We must invite her,' said the Conde de Urdiales.

He heaved his tall figure off the low, gaudily upholstered bench. Youth and dignity concealed a slight unsteadiness of the feet. He approached Anna courteously. She bowed and walked silently before him to the table.

‘Sit here,
chica
!' said Isabelita genially and with a little remorseful smile, patting the chair next to her.

Anna thanked her and sat down.

‘A barbarian, the civil governor!' Isabelita went on. ‘But do not mind, Girl! We all admire you and will make you at home. Isn't it so,
caballeros
?'

The three men vied with each other in paying compliments to Anna, who accepted them pleasantly and remotely.

‘I behaved badly,' admitted Isabelita with regal frankness, ‘but it did me no good and it did you no harm. We shall be friends, I know it.'

‘I am sure of it,' replied Anna gravely.

Her mind was still running on trivialities; they occupied it so thoroughly that she had not given a thought to her surroundings. The cold sweat still trickled down her sides. She was able to contemplate Isabelita quite calmly, even to admire, very distantly, as if it belonged to a complete stranger, her superb good nature.

‘And you, little flower'—Isabelita turned to Maruja—‘you say nothing. What is it?'

‘I am afraid,' answered Maruja simply, with a little shiver of her naked shoulders.

‘Que va
! Everybody is sad this evening except me. Let us drink, Miguel!'

Miguel de Urdiales poured her a glass of champagne and then filled the other five glasses. Isabelita drank hers, tilted back her chair, and,
with the air of a merry queen to whom all things must be permitted, propped up her bare legs on the table. They were beautiful so, the blue veins and muscles stretched tight beneath the round knees.

‘Will you dance?' asked the man on the other side of her.

‘Not yet. Let the place wake up a bit.'

To anyone entering at the moment, the cabaret would have seemed fully awake. The high stools at the bar were each supporting a man. The tables were fairly full. The orchestra blared over a cheerful undertone of voices. But Isabelita loved an extravagant communal spirit. She liked to see flowers thrown and much outrageous jesting and the whole house dancing a
jota
in the middle of the floor. She didn't much care for foxtrots, but she enjoyed a solo with the rest of the cabaret playing the chorus around her.

The Conde de Urdiales began to speak German with Anna. She was hardly aware that the language had been changed, for her disjointed thoughts had been running in German. Isabelita's attention was attracted.

‘Speak Christian, Miguel!' she laughed. ‘The good God made it to talk to women in. And Anna speaks so well.'

‘She does indeed,' agreed de Urdiales. ‘She learns amazingly quickly.'

‘Ay de mi
!' exclaimed Isabelita with mock sorrow. ‘I wish she would let me teach her to dance!'

The mists very suddenly cleared away from Anna's brain. She was back at the point where she had stopped the orchestra. Hatred and fury overwhelmed her—against Spain and the civil governor, against Isabelita. Above all, against Isabelita. Her fingers caressed the long water goblet in front of her. She turned deliberately to de Urdiales.

‘You see,' she said slowly, ‘I have not the training. You must learn and train and train and learn'—her voice rose to a scream of misery and passion. ‘You must learn to drink and laugh at men and insult women! You must have technique…'

She smashed the goblet so swiftly that not one of them had time to think what it could mean. Then she drew the glass knife with a single powerful cut through vein and muscle across the underside of Isabelita's knees.

The men tried to hold her, but could not. She was away from them, away from the doorkeepers, and out into the street, running, running. She did not know whether they were after her. She was not trying to escape. She ran from the blood. She ran because running stopped her thinking what she had done. Her feet, undirected by herself, took her to the port, and there they found her in the morning exhausted by weeping and asleep upon a pile of crates marked ‘Hamburg'; they sent her on board the ship with them, for Isabelita had said that she would make no charge against her.

SECRET POLICE

He was shabby even for a passenger who had worn for two weeks the same creased suit of semi-tropical clothes down in the immigrant accommodation of the
MS
Patagonia
. He was aware that he had aroused the fury of a large and nationally important shipping line. And his passport was out-of-date.

‘If you would be so good as to accompany me to my office, sir …' the Port Security Officer invited.

Mr Bernard Vasey came willingly enough, accepting a chair and a cigarette in the manner of a man who had a clean conscience and was superbly indifferent to his appearance. He managed it by forcing himself to remember that he was more accustomed to give orders to minor officials than to receive them.

‘My passport is sufficient proof of British nationality,' he said. ‘I am under no obligation to have it stamped merely to land in the United Kingdom.'

The Port Security Officer made no comment except to ask why he had not had his passport renewed by the nearest British Consul to his place of residence.

‘He was seven hundred miles away.'

‘Why did you not attend to it at Pernambuco before you embarked?'

‘Because the
Patagonia
was due to sail.'

‘Would you care to account for the fact that when the
Patagonia
called at Vigo you endeavoured to remain in Spain illegally?'

‘Any complaint from General Franco?'

‘After you had paid your fare at Pernambuco you had little or no money left. Yet when you were forcibly escorted on board by Vigo police it would appear that you had acquired a considerable sum.'

‘I won it at cards.'

Bernard Vasey was conscious that his answer sounded weak. He felt embarrassed about that card session. He feared that he might be looking guilty and tried to regain the initiative.

‘Inspector, you have undoubtedly been asked to grill me by a very angry shipping line,' he said, slightly raising his heavy eyebrows, ‘I question whether you are not exceeding your duty. And in any case you will not uncover any criminal activities.'

‘Your third-class cabin was filled with flowers, bottles of wine and other articles of value,' continued the Security Officer, unmoved.

‘I declared them.'

‘Where did they come from?'

‘From friends.'

That seemed to shut him up. There was, after all, no reason why a poor third-class passenger should not have rich friends. What about students? But now this obstinate official, after drawing a blank with his nonsense about money, was off again.

‘I see from your passport that you were in Cuba shortly before the revolution.'

‘I was. A holiday. Why not?'

‘Your political sympathies are left-wing?'

‘My political sympathies vary, Inspector. From a business point of view I like to be on the winning side. On the other hand, the sight of desperate poverty does occasionally … Oh Lord, I see! Cuba! Has something been passed to you by our consul in Vigo?'

‘I cannot disclose sources of information, sir.'

Mr Vasey was at last perturbed. He had not returned to his own country for some years. To judge by newspaper reports—though he told himself that they always exaggerated—it was less free and easy than it had been. Possibly there were ways in which officials could make themselves quietly unpleasant to suspected communists. He was confident that he could remake a satisfactory future for himself, but perhaps not easily with a question mark against his name.

‘I shall have to explain,' he said. ‘I'm afraid I didn't think it essential. To start from the beginning: having been offered a free air passage from up country to Pernambuco …'

‘By whom?'

‘By Brazilian police. Politics, not crime. My God, not what
you
mean by politics! It was just that I was aware of certain disreputable secrets in the private life of our newly elected State Attorney. I had no intention of spilling them, but he couldn't take the risk. You wouldn't take it yourself, Inspector, if you, for example … well, I mean … well, of course such a thing is quite unthinkable.

‘On arrival at Pernambuco I had just enough money to buy my passage home. The voyage dragged, as voyages do when one is unable to use the bar. Fortunately third-class passengers are provided with free wine at meals. An insurance, no doubt, against the scandal of suicide.

‘When the
Patagonia
called at Vigo two days ago, I resented my poverty more than ever. I had an old and precious friend in that city. His true name and responsibilities I shall conceal. Let us call him Don Alonso.'

‘If I am to give any credence to your story, sir, I shall require names and addresses.'

‘Well, you won't get them!' replied Vasey, his spirit momentarily restored by the thought of his old friend.

‘Together with professions and descriptions,' the Port Security Officer went on, ignoring him.

‘I'll be delighted to give you a description if it's any good to you. Eyes brown and generally laughing. Nose classical. Let me see! Yes! About my size. Short upper lip. Mouth thin and mobile. But since you aren't likely to meet him all you need know is that his charm and efficiency have very rightly promoted him to a position where he is below the Lieutenant-Governor of the province but considerably above—if I may say so without offence—the Port Police.

‘Dressed as I was and so obviously destitute I refused to go ashore and call on Alonso. I contented myself with leaning over the rail and unkindly watching the importunities of guides, curio sellers, restaurant runners and taxi drivers as they attacked the first-class passengers.

‘The noble people of Spain, Inspector, despise foreigners in the mass; from such pitiable objects one may extract money without demeaning oneself. But when a foreigner presents himself as an individual he is considered to share the common sorrows of humanity. In remembering that I began to feel ashamed of myself.

‘I saw that all through this morning of melancholy sulking I had been putting pride before friendship. Alonso had never hesitated to call on me in days when he had nothing but a horse of doubtful ownership and the clothes he rode in. That was in Nicaragua. Though an alien, he could not resist dabbling in politics. At the time it seemed to me folly. But when he returned home to Spain his experience proved invaluable.

‘This debate within myself went on far too long before warmth and decency overcame the unsuspected Joneses in my character. I did what little I could to improve my appearance and set out for Alonso's office. Fortunately it was hot enough to carry my coat, and my shirt was clean.

‘Even so, the porter was not impressed and conducted me to a waiting-room where the applicants for government attention were of the humblest. But my card at least was of virginal whiteness. I had some hope that it would reach Alonso's desk. It did. Do you know the Spanish people, Inspector?'

‘No, sir. They give very little trouble.'

‘I only asked so as to know how much I must explain. There's a grain of truth in most of the exaggerations, good or bad, which everyone has heard about them, and I think many of these myths derive
from the splendour with which they give their hearts when they give them at all.

‘Alonso shot out of his office sparkling with exclamations of welcome. He cleared up the affairs of the day with the decision and efficiency of a Spaniard in a hurry, and took me out to lunch. I had wasted too much time in hesitation. It was then two o'clock and the
Patagonia
was due to sail in the early afternoon.

‘From the terrace of our restaurant we could see her clearly—a fine twenty-five thousand tons of speed and luxury moored at the Ocean Quay. At quarter past three her siren roared a warning, and I regretfully pushed back my chair though we had only reached the fish. Alonso told me to sit down and stop fussing. The ship, he said, would not leave till after four. I assumed that he was in a position to know.

‘There was now time to tell him something of my future plans and my sudden and disastrous expulsion from Brazil…'

‘Would you care to repeat those facts to me, sir—very shortly?'

‘I would not, Inspector. To you as an Englishman my story would appear most unlikely, whereas to Alonso it was obviously and instantly true. You are accustomed here to politicians who do not take their profession seriously enough to be corrupt.

‘We had reached the comfortable stage of the cigars when the Agent of the Line joined us in the restaurant. He had been waiting for my friend at his office and had only just discovered his whereabouts. He begged Alonso to intervene with the Chief of Customs who was holding up the
Patagonia
on a serious and complicated charge of inaccuracy in the ship's manifest.

‘Alonso provided him with coffee and a brandy, and asked for details. It appeared that crates of sheet rubber landed at Vigo did not correspond to their proper weight and description. The Customs suspected them of containing arms. They had been shipped from Pernambuco.'

Bernard Vasey looked at the Port Security Officer and was satisfied by his reaction. His account of the agent's irruption into lunch was quite true except for one detail. The crates had in fact been shipped from Rio. But he had noticed that his interrogator was allowing his attention to wander; it was essential that he should be convinced that every word was worth the hearing. For that reason Vasey deliberately injected the mention of Pernambuco, and was gratified to watch the expressionless face across the desk become even more expressionless.

‘Alonso at once sprang into action, eager as always to help the underdog in any clash with officialdom. He cursed the Customs and said that they were inclined to see bogeys under their beds; their informants were the dregs of the port and notoriously unreliable. He implored the Agent not to be impatient with his country's bureaucracy. It must be allowed to look ridiculous sometimes. That was the
price a business man had to pay for orderly government. He could not intervene, but—since the matter could be said to concern the security of the State—at least he had the power to order the political branch of the police to investigate at once; they would see that the ship was not delayed a moment longer than was necessary to clear up this ridiculous rumour.

‘I was sorry that my friend should be drawn into all this, but it was luck for me. When the Agent had left and Alonso had made a long telephone call to his office, we drove to his delightful bachelor home on the shore of the inner harbour where we passed an hour or more with a swim, cool drinks in the shade and the exclamatory conversation of old friendship. I was no longer anxious when I heard the distant bellowing of the
Patagonia
, for Alonso was in continual touch with her. He said that there might even be time—knowing the Customs—for us to dine before the ship sailed. Anyway, he had asked a few friends out to meet me.

‘Meanwhile his valet had been giving skilled attention to this suit, still spotted by the mildew of the rain forests and the nourishing soup of the
Patagonia
…'

‘You said this friend of yours was about your size, Mr Vasey?'

‘Near enough. Slightly broader shoulders and less backside.'

‘Why did he not lend you a coat of his own for this party?'

‘That, Inspector, would have been an indelicacy. It would have shown that he had noticed and was ashamed.

‘I was about to speak, I believe, of the party. There were two girls and one man. I will describe the man first, distinguishing him by the name of Juan. He had some connection with the family, and was undoubtedly a political boss and Alonso's protector in high places. He must have been in his early fifties and looked it, though at the moment on holiday. He was a formidable fellow, somewhat like a frog—yellow and wrinkled, with bags under his eyes. It was clear that he had often heard of me from Alonso.

‘The girls were charming. When Spanish women get away from mother, Inspector, they are inclined to increase the distance rapidly. Frasquita was a poetess in a small way and descended from everybody who had ever mattered. Her real claims to distinction, however, were delicately physical. Luisa was a secretary in Alonso's office. To the simple taste of a wider public she might have appeared a trifle severe in type. But a tiny waist and high intelligence amply compensated for what I may call her white-collar qualities …'

‘If you would come to the point, Mr Vasey. I am quite ready to assume that there was a mixed party.'

‘I fear my story is still some pleasant hours away from its point, Inspector, but I will pass over them as quickly as I can. Meanwhile let us not forget those twenty-five thousand tons of
Patagonia
, frantically
calling on the British Consul for help, radioing her home port and subject to the inquisitions of what liberals call a police state and authoritarians a benevolent dictatorship. To make matters worse, the
Patagonia
cherished in her luxury suite the Managing Director of the Line, impatient as any other tycoon returning from holiday.

‘In order not to delay the ship, Alonso had cut right through all red tape and simply ordered the dubious crates to be hoisted back on board; they could be unloaded, after giving the customs time for reflection, two weeks later when the
Patagonia
called again at Vigo on her outward voyage to the Americas.

‘I am surprised that the Line did not accept that very reasonable solution. Perhaps it wished to, and couldn't. The Managing Director may have been determined to impress both his wife and his captain by a display of obstinacy. The Customs may have complained that Alonso had no right to order any such thing.

‘However it was, we had another visit from the distracted Agent. Alonso was once more as helpful as a civil servant could be. He waived all formalities and said that of course the crates could be unloaded again if the Agent could rustle up some dock labour to handle them at that late hour. No doubt a foreman and a gang could be found in the taverns. He guaranteed that the Port Authority and the Workers' Syndicate would have no objection. He offered the assistance of his police. Everything possible would be done to help the
Patagonia
out of the mess which those nitwits who called themselves Customs Officers had made.