Beggarman, Thief (47 page)

SHE LOOKS LIKE THE KIND OF YOUNG WOMAN YOU SEE STANDING AT THE “BARRERA” IN SPANISH NEWSPAPER PHOTOGRAPHS AS MATADORS DEDICATE BULLS TO THEM. SHE DOES NOT LOOK LIKE THE SORT OF GIRL ONE MEETS IN AMERICA WHO DISTRIBUTES PAMPHLETS.

SHE IS LIKE MONIKA IN AT LEAST ONE RESPECT. SHE WILL NEVER MAKE ANY MAN A GOOD WIFE.

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The next day was a bad one for Billy Abbott. Monika came down to the courts with her friend and signed up for a week of instruction, every day at 11:00
A.M.

Billy gave her her first lesson. She was hopeless. He couldn’t say anything to her, as her friend sat watching during the entire forty-five minutes. She addressed Billy as Mr. Abbott and he addressed her as
Señorita
Hitzman. As he tossed balls at her, which more often than not she missed, he thought, I must get her aside somehow and ask her just what she is up to; it can’t be coincidence that brought her to El Faro.

In the afternoon he was very nearly beaten by Carmen. She was in a cranky mood and played ferociously.

Later, in the bar of the hotel, where they were alone, he asked her what was the matter.

“Did you read the paper this morning?”

“No.”

“On the front page there was a picture of one of your admirals being decorated by Franco.”

He shrugged. “That’s what admirals are for,” he said. “Actually, I don’t mind his getting a medal. What I mind is his being here, him and his ships and our air force with its planes. I was in the army a long time and I’m skeptical about how useful we would be if it came to the crunch.”

Carmen glared at him. “What would you like to see happen—the Russians overrun Europe?”

“If they had wanted to overrun Europe,” he said, “they’d have done it by now. We’re in Europe in just enough numbers to annoy the Russians and not in enough to do much about them. If it came to a war, the missiles would do the fighting, not the men on the ground. They’d just be sacrificed on the first day. I was a man on the ground and I wasn’t too happy about it.”

“I certainly am glad,” Carmen said sarcastically, “that I have my own private American military expert to explain the facts of life to me.”

“It’s all for show,” Billy said. He didn’t know why he was arguing with her. Probably because the last set had gone to eight-six. Maybe because he was tired of being lectured on politics by attractive young women. “A base here and there just gives the military boys a chance to flex their muscles and squeeze more money out of Congress so that they can ride around in big cars and live five times better here than they ever could at home.” Then, more to tease her than because he meant what he was saying, he said, “If we took every American soldier out of uniform and sent him home to do some useful work it would be better for everyone concerned—including the Spaniards.”

“The weak and lazy always find excuses for their weakness and laziness,” Carmen said. “Thank God, all Americans aren’t like you.” Her politics were complicated. She hated Franco and hated the Communists and now, it seemed, she hated him, as well as the American admiral. “Being here is moral,” she said. “Letting a man like Franco pin a medal on your chest if you’re an American is immoral. It’s one thing to be ready to defend a country in your own interest, after all; it’s another to help prop up the reputation of a disgusting regime. If I were an American I’d write to Congress, to the State Department, to the president, to the newspapers, protesting. There—you want to do something useful—at least write a letter to the
Herald Tribune.”

“How long do you think I’d last here if that letter was ever published?”

“Twenty-four hours,” Carmen said. “It would be worth it.”

“A boy has to eat, too.”

“Money,” Carmen said disdainfully. “Everything is a question of money for people like you.”

“May I remind you,” Billy said, “that I don’t have a rich father, like some folks I know.”

“That’s a disgraceful thing to say. At least that’s one thing you can say about Spaniards—they don’t measure out their lives in dollars and cents.”

“I see some pretty rich Spaniards around here,” Billy said, “who spend their time making more and more money. Buying up olive groves down here, for example, and turning them into tourist traps. All those big yachts in the harbor aren’t owned by people who’ve taken the vow of poverty.”

“Scum,” Carmen said. “A fraction of the population. Without soul. Doing whatever Franco and his criminals tell them to do just so they can hold on to their
fincas,
their yachts, their mistresses, while the rest of the country starves. I hate Communism but when I see what the ordinary man or woman has to do to feed a family here, I can understand why they’re attracted to it. Out of despair.”

“What do you want to see—another civil war?” Billy said. “Another million dead? Blood running in the streets?”

“If it comes to that,” Carmen said, “it will be your friends, the yacht owners, who will bring it about. Of course I don’t want to see it. What I want to see is decent, orderly change. If you can do it in America, why can’t it be done here?”

“I’m not a student of the Spanish character,” Billy said, “but somewhere I’ve heard that your fellow citizens, when aroused, are likely to be bloodthirsty and cruel and violent.”

“Oh, I’m so tired of talk like that,” Carmen cried. “As though Spain was all bullfights and flagellants and people taking revenge for the honor of their families. How is it that nobody says how cruel and violent the Germans are as a race—after what they did to Europe? Or the French, after Napoleon? And I won’t say anything about what the Americans have done in their time, you poor, useless tennis player.” They were sitting at the hotel bar during this conversation and Carmen contemptuously signed the chit for their drinks. “There. You’ve saved the price of four gin and tonics. Aren’t you glad you came to cruel and violent Spain and became the lackey of the rich here?”

“Maybe,” Billy said, stung, “we ought not to see each other anymore. Find somebody else to play tennis with.”

“You will play tennis with me,” Carmen said, “because you are paid to play tennis with me. Same time tomorrow.” She strode out of the bar, leaving him sitting alone in the big, empty room. God, he thought, and I believed she was wooing me! First Monika with her bombs and now this.

The next morning Monika came to the courts alone. Billy had to admit that she
looked
like a tennis player, small and trim, with good legs, and dressed in a becoming short tennis dress, with a band around her head to keep her neatly set hair in place.

As they walked out onto the court together, Billy said in a low voice, “Monika, what sort of game are you up to?”

“My name is
Señorita
Hitzman,” she said coldly, “Mr. Abbott.”

“If you want the money I took to Paris—and the other—the other part of the package,” Billy said, “I can get it for you. It would take some time, but I could do it …”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Abbott.”

“Oh, come on, now,” he said, irritated. “Mr. Abbott. You didn’t call me Mr. Abbott when we were fucking all afternoon in Brussels.”

“If you go on like this, Mr. Abbott,” she said, “I’ll have to report you to the management for wasting valuable time in conversation instead of doing what you’re supposed to do—which is to teach me how to play tennis.”

“You’ll never learn to play tennis.”

“In that case,” she said calmly, “that will be another failure for you to remember when you grow old. Now, if you please, I would like to start the lesson.”

He sighed, then went to the other side of the court and started lobbing balls onto her racket. She was no better at returning them than she had been the morning before.

When the lesson was over, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Abbott,” and walked off the court.

That afternoon he beat Carmen six-love, six-three, maliciously mixing his game with lobs and dropshots to make her run until she was red in the face. She too walked off the court with one curt phrase: “You played like a eunuch.” She did not invite him to have a drink with her.

Spain, he thought, as he watched her stride toward the hotel, her blond hair flying, is becoming much less agreeable than it used to be.

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Wesley took the train from London to Bath, enjoying looking out the window at the neat green countryside of rural England. After the tensions and uncertainties of America, it had been soothing to walk around London, where he knew no one and no one expected anything of him. He had been having lunch standing up at the bar of a pub when the voice of the barmaid had reminded him of the way Kate spoke. Suddenly he realized how much he had missed her. He finished his sandwich and went to the railroad station and took the first train to Bath. She would be surprised to see him. Pleasantly surprised, he hoped.

When he got to Bath, he gave the address to a taxi driver and sat back and stared curiously at the neat streets and graceful buildings of the town, thinking, This sure has Indianapolis beat.

The taxi stopped in front of a narrow small house, painted white, one of a whole row of similar small houses. He paid the taxi driver and rang the doorbell. A moment later the door opened and a short woman with gray hair, wearing an apron, said, “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Wesley said. “Is Kate home?”

“Who are you, please?”

“Wesley Jordache, ma’am.”

“Well, Good Lord.” The woman smiled widely. She put out her hand and he shook it. It was a callused workingwoman’s hand. “I’ve heard all about you. Come in, come in, boy. I’m Kate’s mother.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Bailey,” Wesley said.

The door opened directly on the small living room. On the floor a baby crawled around in a playpen, cooing to itself. “That’s your brother, Wesley,” Mrs. Bailey said. “Leastwise, your half brother. Tom’s his name.”

“I know,” Wesley said. He eyed the baby with interest. “He seems like a nice, healthy kid, doesn’t he?”

“He’s a love,” Mrs. Bailey said. “Happy all the day long. Can I fix you a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you. I’d like to see Kate if she’s home.”

“She’s at work,” Mrs. Bailey said. “You can find her there. It’s the King’s Arms Pub. It’s just a few blocks away. Lord, she’ll be glad to see you. Will you be staying for supper?”

“I’ll see how things work out with Kate. Hey, Tommy,” he said, going over to the playpen, “how’re you doing?”

The baby smiled up at him and made a gurgling sound. Wesley leaned over and put his hand out to the baby, one finger outstretched. The baby sat up, then grabbed the finger and stood up, wobbling, as Wesley gently raised his hand. The baby laughed triumphantly. Wesley was surprised at how strong the little hand felt around his finger. “Tommy,” he said, “you’ve got one powerful grip.”

The baby laughed again, then let go and flopped back on his behind. Wesley looked down at him, a peculiar emotion, one he had never felt before, seizing him, tender and at the same time obscurely anxious. The baby was happy now. Maybe he himself had been happy at that age, too. He wondered how long it would last for his brother. With Kate as his mother, maybe forever.

“Now,” he said to Mrs. Bailey, “if you’ll tell me how to find the pub …”

“Left as you go out of the house,” Mrs. Bailey said, “for three blocks and you’ll see it on the corner.” She opened the front door for him. She stood next to him, barely coming up to his shoulder, her face sweet and plain. “I must tell you, Wesley,” she said soberly, “the time my daughter was with your father was the loveliest. She’ll never forget it. And now would it be too much to ask if I said I’d like one big hug?”

Wesley put his arms around her and hugged her and kissed the top of her head. When she stepped back, he saw her eyes were wet, although she was smiling. “You mustn’t be a stranger,” she said.

“I’ll be back,” Wesley said. “Somebody’ll have to teach him how to play baseball instead of cricket and it might as well be me.”

Mrs. Bailey laughed. “You’re a good boy,” she said. “You’re just as Kate said you were.”

She stood at the open door watching him as he turned down the sunny street.

The King’s Arms was a small pub, paneled in dark wood, with small casks for sherry and port high up behind the bar. It was almost three o’clock, closing time, and there was only one old man seated at a small round table dozing over a pint of bitter. Kate was rinsing glasses and a man in an apron was putting bottles of beer onto shelves as Wesley came in.

He stood at the bar, not saying anything, waiting for Kate to look up from her work. When she did, she said, “What would you like, sir?”

Wesley grinned at her.

“Wesley!” she cried. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Dying of thirst.”

“Would you really like a beer?”

“No. I just want to look at you.”

“I’m a mess,” she said.

“No, you’re not.” She looked very much as he had remembered her, not as brown perhaps, and a little fuller in the face and bosom. “You look beautiful.”

She looked at him solemnly. “It’s not true,” she said, “but it’s nice to hear.”

The clock over the bar struck three and she called, “Time, gentlemen, please.” The old man at the table shook himself awake, drained his glass, stood up and went out.

Kate came out from behind the bar and stopped a few feet from Wesley to examine him. “You’ve become a man,” she said.

“Not exactly,” Wesley said.

Then she kissed him and held him for a moment. “I’m so glad to see you again. How did you know where to find me?”

“I went to your house. Your mother told me.”

“Did you see the baby?”

“Yes,” he said. “Stupendous.”

“He’s not stupendous, but he’ll do.” Wesley could see she was pleased. “Let me throw on a coat and we’ll go for a nice long walk and you’ll tell me everything that’s happened to you.”

As they went out the door she called to the man behind the bar, “See you at six, Ally.”

The man grunted.

“This is a pretty town,” Wesley said, as they strolled in the mild sunshine, her hand lightly on his arm. “It looks like a nice place to live.”