A Necessary Action (17 page)

The preparations did not seem to be either hysterical or panic-stricken, but were carried out with a professional calm which inspired a certain amount of confidence. Pedro Alemany stood up in the bows and supervised the work, only once losing his temper, when a middle-aged woman with grey hair and a shawl round her shoulders cautiously approached the boat. Then he shouted shrilly and uncontrollably and the woman at once hurried back up to the houses. Willi Mohr guessed that she was his wife.

It took less than an hour to get the trawler ready for departure and then it was already a quarter to five. Once or twice Willi Mohr considered going down to help, but he had a feeling that he could not do anything and no one bothered about him. And neither did he understand what they were saying.

So he remained sitting where he was and the trawler backed away from the quay, watched by the cabo and the harbour-master and several other people who had gathered there. He leant his chin on his hand and watched the fishing-boat until it had vanished round the lighthouse. It had begun to rain and the drops broke up the polished surface of the water with small, sharp pinpricks.

Willi Mohr listened to the sound of the engine and after a
while discovered that he could not hear it any longer, but only the light sound of the rain falling and the pulsating in his own body. He got up and went over to start up the camioneta. When he climbed up on to the seat he noticed that the dog had disappeared, but he had hardly driven more than a hundred yards or so along the quay when she caught him up and ran alongside the truck. He did not bother to stop.

At the end of the quay, a winding road ran on along the rocky shore. At first it was smooth and relatively wide, but then it quickly narrowed and became rougher. Willi Mohr drove past a row of square villas, built by summer visitors, now standing empty and closed up, then the houses came to an end and the road ran up the mountainside. He could just see the grey water of the bay between the pine trees on his right. The higher he got the more primitive the road became. The camioneta bounced and rocked, but it was constructed for just this kind of country and the wheels were so high that it could clear even quite large boulders without difficulty. The rain was beating down on to his face and once he nearly drove straight into a couple of civil guard who were cycling towards him.

A couple of minutes later, he passed a woman with her shawl over her head, who had stepped to one side and was standing quite still with her face turned away. He recognized Pedro Alemany’s wife and stopped. He jumped down and pointed at the truck, saying: ‘Please get in.’

But she stared stubbornly in the other direction and when he approached her, she took a step back among the stones. For a few seconds Willi Mohr stood irresolutely with his hand stretched out. Then he shrugged his shoulders and went back to the truck.

By this time, the dog had caught up and was panting exhaustedly, wagging her tail. He picked her up and drove on.

Up on the mountain he met the wind coming whistling straight at him, wild and capricious. He pulled down his hat and peered carefully out from under the brim, but although he slowed down, it was difficult to keep the camioneta on the road. Here he had to drive mostly over smooth rock slabs, where the road was marked with scraped white stones and one or two rusty iron pipes. In the dips they had built up primitive banks of macadam and cement during the summer, but in a number of places these had already
collapsed into shapeless heaps of rubble. The road ended at a deeply eroded ravine, across which lay a few planks of wood and on the other side, the mountain rose in a gentle, smooth slope.

Willi Mohr stopped and got out. He wedged the wheels of the camioneta with stones so that it would not blow away and walked across the primitive wooden bridge, which creaked and shook. Then he struggled on upwards and although the slope gave some lee, the rain whipped into his face. The dog followed him for the first bit, but soon turned back and lay down under the truck.

He was right at the top of the highest point and could feel the merciless force of the storm. It was impossible to stand upright, so he was forced to crouch down and hold on to a rock. Below him the cliff fell almost perpendicularly and far down below he could see the sea heaving in long dark green waves. But the distance made the waves appear astonishingly small and still. The trawler was already quite a way out, heading south-east. It was rolling violently, at intervals the green colour showing below the dirty yellow boarding, and after a while its contours blurred in the rain and swirling foam.

Willi Mohr stayed there, not looking at his watch, so he had no idea how long for. It stopped raining, but the heavy salt wind still seemed full of small, swirling particles of water. His clothes were wet and he began to find it hard to see. He tried lighting a cigarette, but the waxed-paper matches refused to burn. When the box was empty, he threw it away and sat with the unlit cigarette in his mouth until it soaked through and disintegrated.

He turned round once and saw the woman standing about fifty yards away, leaning against the wind, her shawl tightly wound round her body.

About an hour or an hour-and-a-half had gone by when the trawler again appeared in the mist, at first an indistinct blur and then with sharper contours. It had the wind behind it and was not rolling so badly as before. Willi Mohr focused sharply and although his eyes were aching, he could see that the fishing-boat was towing something. A moment later the calamary boat was quite distinguishable, and he got to his feet and had stretched out his neck quite instinctively.

The trawler came nearer and nearer and rounded the point. He
could practically see straight down into it and there were a number of people on deck, but the distance was too great to recognize anyone. The boat vanished under the point and all he could hear was the sound of the engine, weak and uneven, through the storm.

When Willi Mohr turned round, the woman had vanished and he was nearly halfway to the puerto before he passed her. She was walking swiftly, with long strides and her head bowed. This time he did not bother to stop.

Willi Mohr got down to the quay before the trawler. He parked about fifteen yards from the boat’s mooring-place and stayed seated in the truck, his forearms resting on the steering-wheel and his hat on the back of his head. His clothes were wet and his eyes smarted after the long wait on the top of the mountain. Then he heard the engine, weak and halting, through the suppressed roar from the sea, and then the top of the mast grew visible, a slim perpendicular line above the parapet.

The cabo and the harbour-master came out from one of the bars and crossed the concrete. They stood by the edge of the quay and waited. The cabo was searching for something in his jacket and there was a glimpse of an automatic pistol he was carrying under his rain cape.

The trawler rounded the lighthouse and was approaching swiftly, towing the calamary boat, and Pedro Alemany was already visible standing in the bows. At his side stood Santiago, his foot up on the side and one hand on the stay of the bowsprit.

So I’ve made a fool of myself, thought Willi Mohr.

The engine stopped and the trawler slid silently through the water. Before it touched the quayside, Santiago Alemany jumped up on to the bowsprit and then ashore. He fended off the boat from the quay as he fastened the rope round a bollard. Although he must have seen Willi Mohr in the camioneta, he did not once look in his direction.

On board the boat Pedro Alemany, the two civil guards and some of the crew were clearly visible. The others must be below decks. One guard jumped ashore, heavily and clumsily in his big boots, and began to report to the cabo. One of the crew dropped the anchor from the stern. The cabo listened and stroked his
small moustache with the tip of his forefinger. Santiago was talking somewhat subduedly to the harbour-master.

The doors to the cabin steps opened and Ramon’s head and shoulders appeared. He came up on deck, small and bandylegged, and looked for a moment past Willi Mohr. His face was quite expressionless, but down his left cheek he had a long coagulated scratch, running from the corner of his eye right down to his neck.

Some other people had come down to the quay, among them the bearded Finn who had fought in the bar.

The door down to the cabin steps was not opened again.

Someone hauled the calamary boat alongside. Some water was splashing about in the bottom of it, but not much.

The civil guard was still talking to his superior officer. Willi Mohr heard the word
desastre
over and over again. He knew it meant accident.

The cabo looked reluctantly towards the truck, then appeared to summon up his courage and walked over to Willi Mohr. He was poking thoughtfully at his moustache, as if hunting for suitable words.

‘Catastrofe,’ he said. ‘Vuestros amigos …’

He stopped and pointed down into the water with a finger stained yellow with nicotine. Then he made a quick sign of the cross.

He saw that he had succeeded in making himself understood and went on talking, but Willi Mohr no longer understood what he was saying, and indeed was not even listening.

He was looking over the cabo’s shoulder and he saw Ramon Alemany jump down on to the quay. Someone on board handed over a flat basket and when Ramon put it down on the ground, Willi Mohr could see a lot of small red fish and one which was large and greenish. Ramon lit a cigarette and picked up the basket again. The Alemany brothers walked across the quay and their father followed just behind them. Farther up, by the houses, stood the woman with the shawl, crossing herself continuously. When the men reached the house, she embraced them one after another and then all four vanished into an alleyway. Neither Santiago nor Ramon had even glanced at the man in the truck.

Willi looked at the cabo again. He had fallen silent and
seemed irresolute and unhappy. He looked round for help and waved to the Finn, who hesitantly came up to the camioneta. The Finn spoke a little German.

‘Your friends have been drowned,’ he said.

Willi Mohr nodded.

‘I don’t understand all that well either,’ said the Finn apologetically, ‘but I think he’s saying that both he and a family called something like Ale …’

‘Alemany,’ said the cabo.

‘Yes, that’s right, that they’re sorry about the accident, that is.’

Willi Mohr nodded.

He was still sitting leaning over the wheel, his straw hat on the back of his head.

‘What happened?’ said Willi Mohr.

The cabo talked for a while, trying to explain something with a great deal of gesturing.

‘He says the dinghy—bote is a dinghy, isn’t it?—well, that the dinghy capsized in the storm. Out by some islands somewhere.’

The cabo saluted and went back to the group by the trawler. The Finn stood there hesitantly.

‘What a hellish business,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come back with me for a while? I’ve got some brandy at home. I mean …’

‘No, thank you,’ said Willi Mohr.

He straightened up and jumped down from the truck. Before turning the handle, he said:

‘What time did the wind begin to get up yesterday?’

‘About six, I think …’

The camioneta started first turn. Willi Mohr climbed up and pushed the dog away from the pedals. He nodded to the Finn and drove away.

Dusk fell swiftly and when Willi Mohr arrived at the house in Barrio Son Jofre, it was already dark. He unlocked the door, went in and hunted out the lamp, but when he tried to light it he saw that the paraffin had run out, so he fetched a stub of candle from the kitchen, lit it and slowly walked upstairs, where there was a whole packet of candles. Before he went down again, he
raised the bottle with the candle in it and looked round the room. On the chair by the bed lay Dan’s manuscript and a book he had evidently been reading two nights ago. Siglinde’s green dress and a bra were hanging on a nail in the wall, and below them stood a pair of shoes which looked as if she had just stepped out of them. One or two of Willi’s and Dan’s shirts were hanging over a string by one window, shirts she had washed the day before. They ought to be dry by now. A packet of cotton-wool, Siglinde’s blue bathing-costume, Dan’s swimming trunks, a comb and a hairbrush lay on the window-sill.

Willi Mohr went down again to the ground floor. He lit two candles and put one on the stairs and the other on the floor by the mattress. Then he went out into the kitchen, poured water into the dog bowl and took out the packet of butcher’s offal Siglinde had bought the day before. He chose a few good bits for the dog and patted her absently on the back as she ate. He blew out the candle and put it on the stone bench and then went back into the room.

He stood quite still and looked round.

His latest picture was on the floor by the chair where he usually sat and painted, beside it a bottle of turpentine and the jar of brushes. Just inside the door stood the paraffin can Siglinde had put there before she had left.

The cat came through the hole in the outer door and wove itself round his legs. Then it went out into the dark again.

Willi Mohr went over to the door and kicked the paraffin can as hard as he could. It flew up the stairs and knocked over the candle, then bounced noisily back down into the room again. He picked up the turpentine bottle and flung it with all his strength against the wall. The bottle broke and pieces of glass flew through the air. He rushed across the room and tore one of his canvases off the wall and with a great effort ripped it in two and crumpled up the pieces. He tripped over the metal can, and lifting it up with both hands, he crashed it time and time again against the stone floor. When it was completely buckled and crushed, he threw it away and went over to the little mirror on the wall by the door. Indistinctly, he made out his own sullen, closed face and his swollen, bloodshot eyes. He raised his hand and smashed the mirror with his fist. The candle on the floor
was still burning. He stamped on it and then flung himself down on the mattress.

Willi Mohr lay on his face in the dark, his chest heaving and great jerks convulsing his body.