The World House (5 page)

  She turned a corner and ran straight through the open front door of a house. Her eyes struggled with the sudden gloom, but she saw the old owner well enough, the woman struggling to her feet with a cry as Kesara ran straight past her into the central atrium. With no space for gardens, the townhouses all possessed roof terraces accessed by a set of steps leading from an open central courtyard. It was clear from the chipped tiles along the stairway that the old lady hadn't visited her roof in some while but Kesara didn't have time to worry if it were still structurally sound.

  She emerged into daylight, aware that the cries of the old lady were sure to draw the soldiers. She ran to the edge of the terrace, clamped the pillowcase between her teeth and jumped to the sun terrace of the house next door. The terracotta tiles were baked hot by the sun but she moved quickly enough not to burn her soles. She leaped from one roof to the next, continuing to make her way along the tops of the houses.

  One of the soldiers appeared on the old lady's terrace and shouted in her direction but he was too concerned whether the roof tiles would take his weight to follow her. Glancing over the edge of the building she could see his friend in the street below. She gasped as he unslung his rifle from his shoulder. Surely they wouldn't shoot her for the sake of a chicken? But what was Kesara to know of the Republican state of mind? On the losing end of a civil war, tired and frustrated by heat and lack of supplies, the young soldier was damned if he was going to lose his dinner just because some light-fingered wretch fancied a bite of it.

  The shot clipped the edge of the roof and Kesara yelped as a fragment of tile cut a thin line across her forehead. The shooter's friend began shouting again, though whether it was at her or his fellow soldier Kesara was too scared to tell. Another shot cut its way past her and she ran towards the rear of the roof terrace. The jump across the street was much farther than she would have liked but her fear of being shot was the greater concern and she took to the air with barely a thought. She sailed over the cobbled street, chicken still swinging in its pillowcase as it dangled from her hand. She crashed into the railings of the opposite house's balcony, her knees slamming into the iron bars, her arms hooking over their edge. The chicken popped between her body and the railings, distorting in a spray of yanked bone and compressed meat. A legbone stabbed her in the ribs as she pulled herself on to the balcony and ran across the terrace. She skidded to a halt behind a large potted cactus and peered through its sharp arms at the roof opposite. The other soldier was nowhere to be seen, the angle of the roof having stood between him and her. He couldn't have seen where she'd gone. Unless they chose to search for her house by house, she had given them the slip. The cactus stood in the far corner of the terrace, the rectangular pot affording a well-hidden niche between it and the wall. She settled herself in the gap wanting to get her breath back and give her bruised feet a rest. Suddenly there were footsteps heading towards her, the soles of leather sandals slapping the steps that led up from the house below.

  "I heard something," a voice said, a young man with a strange accent. He spoke the words as if they were uncomfortable in his mouth. A foreigner then. She had heard many different voices in her time at the docks though she couldn't place the countries they were from.

  "We are quite alone," his companion replied in relaxed Valenciano, "but please suit yourself."

  Kesara drew herself tightly into a ball, desperately hoping that she was completely hidden. The foreigner paced across the roof terrace.

  "Likely it was a cat," said the Spaniard. "The city is lousy with them." He laughed and Kesara was reminded of her father by the tobacco hoarseness of the sound. "At least it keeps the rats down, eh?"

  "Maybe." Though the foreigner sounded unconvinced he had stopped pacing and, judging by the sound of his voice, was looking over the balcony at the street below. Kesara wondered if he could see any soldiers.

  "So, my friend," the Spaniard said, though the sneer in his voice made it clear to Kesara that he was no friend at all, "what is it that I can do for you? You have not travelled all the way from America to hunt strays, am I right?"

  So, the stranger was American. Kesara had never met one before; they stayed away at the moment because of the war. They had no desire to see their boats bombed or their goods impounded. Kesara couldn't say she blamed them.

  "I am hunting for a box," he said. "Something that used to belong to my family but was lost, stolen in fact by a rather treacherous woman."

  "Are they not all treacherous, señor?" The Spaniard laughed. "I have never trusted one my whole life. It is her you wish me to find?"

  "No, she lost it almost as soon as she laid her hands on it."

  "Treacherous and clumsy, eh? A terrible combination."

  "She is of no importance, I traced the box here. It was recently sold to a local gentleman, Jésus Garcia."

  "Garcia? You know who he is?"

  "One of your rather self-important Republicans, why?"

  "I don't want you thinking your request will be cheap." Again the Spaniard laughed. "If you wish me to retrieve something from Garcia then there will need to be… what is it you Americans call it? Danger pay?"

  "You will be extremely well paid if you can bring me the box. Don't concern yourself with that." There was the rustling of paper and for a moment Kesara imagined money changing hands. Then the American spoke again: "This is a sketch of the box in question. As you can see it is nothing special, a small, rectangular wooden box. The wood is light in colour, decorated in Chinese characters. Its value lies purely in its personal connection with my family – it was stolen from us and we wish it back. We are very wealthy, Señor Jimenez. These things are not problematical to us."

  Jimenez made a noise that was not quite a laugh and not quite a cough, the sort of noise an unpleasant man might make after seeing a stray dog run over. "Please, señor, there is no need for this… theatre. The object is of extreme value otherwise you would not be calling on me to retrieve it for you. I care not, it is all business to me. I will retrieve this box and I will give it to you; that is the service you are requesting and it is one I shall deliver, for a suitably high price."

  "You will forgive my caution, Jimenez. I have done business with many thieves and it is always best to be cautious. You are quite right that the box is of value and that I merely sought to dissuade you from setting your own sights on it as a prize. A mistake. Let us clarify our business: you will steal the box and you will deliver it to me. For this I will pay you five thousand American dollars. If you attempt to keep the box, or sell it to another client, I will use that money to ensure you die painfully at the hands of the best cutthroats it can afford."

  This time Jimenez did laugh. "For five thousand you could employ Franco himself, I think!" His tone lost its humour. "Enough of this. I will not be threatened in my own house. The box will be yours and there is no more to be said on the matter."

  The American gave a small grunt and there was another rustling of paper. "A thousand upfront, no more. That should cover a down-payment on the hiring of house-breakers. We will meet tonight, by my boat. Shall we say midnight?" With that he moved past Kesara's hiding place and back down the stairs. She caught a glimpse of him; he was younger than she had imagined, his face soft and pudgy, reddening above the lapels of his linen suit, the oil dripping from his hair to mix with sweat on his forehead. "I'll see my own way out."

  A few moments later and the sound of the front door closing signalled the American's departure. There was the striking of a match and the creeping odour of cigar smoke. "I do not like you, American," Jimenez muttered. "A man should not be insulted in his own house. But I will fetch you your box and then spend your money. Just mark that you do not offend me further with your tongue or likely I will cut it from your mouth."

  He moved past Kesara's hiding place and, shortly after, followed the American on to the street. Kesara was alone.

  She climbed out from behind the cactus, lifting her grease-stained blouse from where it had stuck to the skin of her belly. Five thousand dollars? That sort of money was impossible to imagine! Think of what she could do with such a fortune. She looked into the pillowcase and screwed up her nose at the mangled mess of flesh and bone inside. Five thousand dollars could buy a house filled with chickens; she would eat them until she was sick if she so wished. She pulled out a soft piece of breast meat and chewed it on while imagining the sort of house she might buy. The meat was good, but not worth being shot at. Five thousand dollars? Now
that
was worth taking risks for.

 

Later, she walked along the mammoth quay at the port, weaving in and out of the gathered workers, sailors and the pendulous swings of the cranes. She needed to decide whether she was really going to steal the box. Once Jimenez had left she had run to the edge of his balcony, meaning to catch sight of the American and, hopefully, follow him to his boat. He stood out in his foreign suit, looking like a character from a movie, not a real person. She marked the street he was walking down before running cautiously through the house – she was sure it was empty but there was no harm in being careful – and heading after him. The soldiers were forgotten in this new excitement, but there was no sign of them as she made her way to the port, keeping a close eye on the American all the way. He wasn't like some of the foreigners she had seen around the city; the ones with money walked slowly everywhere, staring at every new building and church as if they didn't have homes or God where they came from. Perhaps they didn't; she hadn't travelled enough to say. This man kept his eyes low, looking at nothing but the road as he made his way back towards the sea.

  Valencia's port was huge, almost another city in itself; one made of package crates and rope, towering, rusted vessels and a populace of wind blown, cursing men. Away from the commercial area, there was a marina where private vessels could be moored. This was where the American headed. Kesara watched him walk along the small jetty to a pleasure yacht of which her father would certainly have disapproved. Occasionally these pristine vessels would sail past their old home in Moraira and he would spit towards the lapping waves. "Boats like that," he would say, "are overgrown lifeboats, saving people from a sea they have no knowledge of. Be better if the whole lot stayed on dry land and left the water for those of us who know what to do with it."

  Perhaps the American didn't know what to do on the ocean but Kesara was sure he could buy the knowledge of those who did. And what was wrong with that? Given a choice between her father's honest poverty, a life dictated by the ebb of the sea and the flow of cheap brandy, and the life of the American, a life of choices and the money to make them, she knew which she wanted. And what were her chances of a better life living on the street? She felt no shame about sleeping under the stars, savoured every breath of freedom it offered, but she wasn't stupid, she knew that her lot could only get worse. So why not risk it? Here she had been offered a chance to change her life beyond recognition. Maybe the American would even take her away on that "overgrown lifeboat", show her new shorelines and new possibilities.

  But how to go about it?

  All she knew was the current owner's name, Jésus Garcia. She had no interest in the politics of the city; if it didn't affect her belly it was no business of hers. She was aware that the Republican government, forever on the run from the Nationalist forces, had been based here until recently – that was why there were so many soldiers here, to protect these important men and the ships that brought them food and guns. But who was this Garcia? And why was his connection to the government enough to give Jimenez cause for concern? Did any of it really matter? All she needed was his address and then she would see what she would see. She needed help and there was only one place she knew to get it: she would go to see Pablo.

  Pablo was the son of a freighter captain and a couple of years older than Kesara. He rarely sailed with his father – something he moaned about so often that Kesara did anything she could think of to avoid the subject – but would often help on board when the ship was moored. He would scrub the decks, sew nets, all the boring jobs. He wore his bitterness like a heavy jacket; it made him hunch his shoulders and sweat with anger as he worked in the morning sunshine. Kesara didn't trust him – it wasn't personal: she didn't trust anyone – but she recognised a little of herself in him. Perhaps he would one day run away from his father as she had, though she doubted it.

  "It's all right for you," he grumbled as she sat down next to him on the quayside. He was fixing a hole in one of his father's lobster pots, his thin fingers working the wicker automatically as he stared out beyond the ships and cranes to an empty blue sky. "You don't have to work for your food."

  "No," she said with a smile, "I just steal it." Her stomach was uncomfortably full from the chicken she had eaten earlier and she felt a little guilty, not for stealing it but rather for not saving some to offer to Pablo. By the time she had decided to come and see him the bird had been nothing but bones.

  "And proud of it, apparently." He put the basket down and checked along the quayside to make sure his father was nowhere in sight. He pulled a bent cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a match.

  "I'm not proud," she said, "just honest. I don't steal much, just enough to keep me going." The chicken rumbled in her belly as if to accuse her of lying.

  "I'm not bothered really," Pablo admitted with a half smile. "Steal what you like. I've just had a bad morning."

  "Your father?"

  "No, for once, just everything else." Pablo quickly threw his cigarette away and picked up the lobster pot again. Kesara couldn't see anybody watching them but bowed to his sharp senses in the matter.