Message From Malaga (13 page)

“Go, go!” Her hand waved him on.

When he came back with the clothes, the study door was closed, and they could start climbing the staircase without being seen.

So we are friends, this morning, Ferrier thought, as he felt the gentle touch of Tavita’s hand, saw the warm smile on her lips.

“I am glad,” she said simply.

“So am I,” he admitted, lost in the depths of those large dark beautiful eyes. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“Oh?” She frowned, began walking toward the study. “Oh, yes,” she said, pinning down his allusion. “I asked for your help.”

“Magdalena asked me to stay and talk with you, but—frankly—I thought Jeff was in more need of help at the time.”

“That was the way it seemed,” she said.

Ferrier felt that she had somehow managed to agree and yet disagree with him. “What was the problem?”

“I managed,” she said vaguely. “How is Jeff? I telephoned the hospital this morning, but they said he couldn’t have any visitors.”

“Not until this evening. Perhaps not even then, if Dr. Medina
has his way. He likes to lay down the law.”

She was puzzled. “Does he? You met him?”

“At the hospital last night. Or, rather, early this morning.”

“He went to see Jeff at
that
hour?” The warm smile came back to her face. “Then that proves he is a good doctor. Magdalena is devoted to him, Jeff sent her to Dr. Medina some years ago when she was ill and he cured her completely.”

And you, thought Ferrier, are highly nervous at this moment; why else all this concentration on Magdalena or Medina? Anything perhaps except her own problem. If it was Tomás, then she had only half-way managed with him: he might be safely out of El Fenicio, but he was now stuck upstairs in the attic here. Was that what was troubling her underneath all that calm, cool surface?

“Yes,” she was saying as they entered the study, “old Medina is a wonderful doctor.”

“Old?” Ferrier was slightly startled. “He’s about my age.” And possibly about your age, too, my proud beauty, although it would be too ungallant to mention that. It was part of her astonishing attractiveness, though; she didn’t pretend, in either dress or manner, to be tremulous eighteen or confident twenty-four, and yet she was young, age unguessable.

“Oh,” she said, “then it was Medina’s nephew—he must have taken Magdalena’s call.” She shrugged off her mistake. “I agree with you. He is a little—officious? But it was thoughtful of him to go to the hospital so quickly. Would you close the door? A little more privacy.” She glanced back at the staircase, where Concepción hovered. “He is helping his uncle in his practice. He came here about two years ago.”

I’m sure we don’t need privacy to talk about Medina, Ferrier
thought. Could this woman, who looked so calm and relaxed, really be nervous? “Is he Jeff’s doctor?”

“Did he say that?” She laughed softly. “He would, of course. It is a strange thing—” She paused, perhaps choosing her words carefully. “Jeff finds him amusing. He gives interesting parties where you can meet so many different kinds of people.”

“Do you go to these parties?”

She shook her head. “I do not find them interesting. I am—I am not political.” Her voice became bitter. “I hate all politics. That is why it is so difficult to—” Again she broke off, looked at the safely closed door, hesitated, sighed.

“I have a better idea for privacy. Why don’t we drive along the coast or back into the hills? Visit Ronda? We could find some
parador
where we could have lunch and—”

“I can’t. I am sorry.” The words were abrupt. She added gently, “I am truly sorry. I would love to spend the day with you. But I must return to Granada.”

“So soon?” He managed to hide his disappointment, but not his surprise. Yet he ought to have expected something like this: she hadn’t even sat down. She had dropped her bag and gloves on a corner of Jeff’s large desk, leaned against it with one hand, her body half turned toward him, her face slightly inclined as she studied him. Behind her smooth head, there were brightly covered books in dark wood bookshelves against white walls. There were no curtains on the windows, only the tall shutters half drawn that sent wavering lines of sunlight over the bare tiled floor. It was a man’s room, austere and practical, a strange setting for this elegant woman, who looked—stranger still—as if she was completely at home in it. He was the intruder here, not Tavita.

“Yes. Too soon.” She hesitated, then began to speak slowly,
choosing her words carefully. “There is much business to be done. Next week, we prepare to leave for London.” Now the words began to spill out quickly. “I have danced there several times. And so I have many friends in England. This time, it is for a holiday. There is much to plan; I cannot leave without arranging everything at El Fenicio, and in Seville, where I also dance. So—you see?”

He could see that part of it. He couldn’t quite see why she had chosen this time of the year for a holiday, though, when the tourists were beginning to pile into Spain. Or perhaps she never had to depend on foreign visitors for capacity audiences. “What about Jeff? Aren’t you going over to the hospital?”

“Not today. It is impossible. Jeff will understand.”

“I thought you were very good friends.” It was a mild enough rebuke, but she was hurt.

And angry. Her eyes flashed, her head came up straight as she stared at him. “We are. He is one of my dearest friends. He will understand.” She turned away abruptly, walked over to the window, faced the garden. There was a long silence. “Has Jeff told you about us?”

The directness of the question startled him. “No. Jeff doesn’t talk about his private emotions.”

“Of course not,” she said impatiently. “He is a man. Not a little boy who must make a public parade of his own affairs.”

Good, thought Ferrier; so we agree on that at least. He moved over to the two red leather armchairs that were grouped at the side of the window for a view of the garden, a pleasant arrangement for quiet talk. She did not turn around, but kept her back toward him, her face averted, so that even her profile was hidden from him. “A pity I’m not Japanese,” he tried, “or
else I could stand here for hours admiring the nape of your neck. But I prefer a full-face view. Come on, turn round. Show me that the eyes have it.” Either she didn’t understand him or she preferred to ignore him. How the hell, he thought irritably, can we hope for international understanding when we can’t even find an international sense of humour? All right, all right, it wasn’t much of a joke, but it stopped her tears, didn’t it? No joke is altogether bad if it does that. And we certainly didn’t need privacy to talk about Medina or an unlikely trip to London. “What’s the object?” he asked briskly.

She understood that question at least. She even found it comic, seemingly. Her brief laughter choked on itself. She pivoted round, looked at him. Her eyes were brighter than ever, as if the controlled tears had turned to stars. “Which problem?” she asked bitterly. She broke into Spanish. “The problem that Jeff is not here? The problem that he is needed? The problem of how I send a message to him and get his answer? Or the problem of a man who is in danger and who endangers us all?” The words were pouring out now, quickening with each question. “The problem that everything has gone wrong—not according to
his
plans—and he doubts everything I try to arrange? The problem that he trusts Jeff but not the rest of us—contemptuous, suspicious, angry with everyone?” She caught hold of herself, realising suddenly that even if Ferrier could not understand all she talked about, she had yet said too much. She tried to cover up. “Then there is the problem of Constanza—the dancer who made the performance start so late last night. She was going to dance in bare feet. For true flamenco?” The indignation was real, and beautifully dramatic.

And now, thought Ferrier, she’s on to a problem that is more in her line; she can handle this herself. She often must have gone through variations of the same battle, like the devoted Shakespearean who is directing an Ophelia who wants to do a striptease. We didn’t need privacy for a discussion of Constanza, either, let’s get this talk back where it belongs. To Tomás. “Quite a quarrel,” he said placatingly. He was sticking to English, just to make sure. “But what has it to do with this man who is in danger? He’s the real headache, isn’t he?”

She ignored that, kept concentrating on Constanza. “I lost my temper—”

“No. Surely not.”

Tavita noted the amusement on his face. “I had every right to lose my temper,” she said stiffly. “It was the fault, of course, of that photographer from the big American magazine. He had her dancing on the beach, bare feet, dressed in floating gauze.
His
ideas. For the American public, he said. Flamenco? I told her she could take all these tricks over to North Africa where they belong, bare her belly if she wanted to, but never
never
call that dance flamenco. Yes, as you say, quite a quarrel. And another problem: Constanza will wake up this morning and begin resenting what I said. That is the way she is. And I can’t be there to keep her silent. What will she decide to tell Captain Rodriguez when he comes questioning? Oh, he will come to visit El Fenicio again. This afternoon, perhaps, as soon as everyone is awake—and talkative. Constanza has quick eyes. When I dance, I forget everything except the dancing, the music, but Constanza watches the audience—that is why she will never be a great dancer. She thinks she saw someone up on the balcony of my room. I told her it must have been Jeff. I told
her that he had been leaving an invitation with Magdalena—an invitation for me—to join you and Jeff in a late supper. Oh, Jeff and I often do that, you know. It could be the truth.”

Just as the holiday in England could be the truth, Ferrier thought, and probably isn’t. “And was it Jeff on your balcony? Or was it Tomás?”

Her face went white. “Constanza only
thought
she saw someone. It could have been a shadow or—”

“Then why worry?”

“Because Captain Rodriguez is too interested in last night.”

“Drugs?” Ferrier asked quietly. That was a question that still troubled him.

“Ridiculous!” There was no doubt she found it so. “That was only an excuse he used.”

And again we are retreating from the main problem, Ferrier thought. He brought it back. “In order to search thoroughly? For what, then? For
Tomás
?”

“But he can’t know about Tomás.” She sounded as if she were persuading herself. “None of us knew about Tomás until he arrived yesterday. Not even Jeff.” She noticed the disbelief in Ferrier’s eyes. “Truly,” she said. “Jeff did not know who he was. I had to give Jeff the signal that there was someone—a refugee—from Cuba—who was upstairs waiting for him.”

“Why?”

“But the refugees always did. Jeff always talked with them, made sure they were what they said they were.”

And learned something about Cuba that wasn’t displayed on guided tours, no doubt. “So he had an interview with Tomás?” Ferrier instinctively touched Jeff’s lighter, which lay deep and safe in his trouser pocket. His anger surfaced. “And what was
he thinking of, dragging you and Jaime and all the others into his damned business?”

She was puzzled. “Dragged? It was I who asked for his help. Six years ago. And he gave it to me.”

“You mean you involved him? Not the other way around.”

“Involved?” she repeated in English. She didn’t like that word. She shook her head.

“Look—we were doing fine: you talking in Spanish, I in English. Let’s keep on that way. It is much quicker. What I meant by involved is—”

“I know what it means. But it wasn’t that way. I trusted Jeff. And he trusted me. And so—as true friends—we worked together. It was all so simple at first. It began with my brother. And then, a friend of his came next. And then a cousin of that friend. And then—” She shrugged her shoulders. “They are honest men. Not criminals. They do not come here to make trouble.” That seemed to satisfy her that she had broken no laws, perhaps not even bent a few. Ferrier’s doubts showed on his face. She said pleadingly, “But don’t you see? Someone must help them to make a safe arrival.”

It was a curious phrase, not only in the way she expressed it, but also in the idea that lay behind it. “Couldn’t your police take care of their safe arrival? Or your immigration people?”

“And if
you
were a refugee, Señor Ferrier, how would you let them know you were coming? In advance?”

He shook his head. His question had been damned stupid, he realised. He had been thinking mostly of the risks Tavita and Jeff had taken.

“You could hardly write to our police and say, ‘Gentlemen, I am leaving Havana, without permission, and will arrive in
Málaga at pier Number Three on the eighth of June by the freighter
Santa Maria,
which will dock at six o’clock in the evening. Please have my papers in order so that I can land. Also, since I am a stranger in Málaga, please make arrangements to meet me so that I will not be kidnapped or knifed to death in a back alley in some drunken brawl.’ You understand how it is, Señor Ferrier?”

“You made it quite clear.”

“And did I make you angry?” she asked sadly.

“With myself,” he admitted frankly. I asked for it, he thought, and I certainly got it.

“Then you will help me?”

She had timed that question well. He said guardedly, “If I can.” And here starts my involvement, he thought. No, not quite true. His involvement could be said to have started when he went to see flamenco danced in El Fenicio last night. Everything that had followed had, in its strange way, led him to this answer. He didn’t like it. It wasn’t of his own choosing.

“It is simple. When you see Jeff today, will you please ask him what I should do? Tell him that I have already done what he wanted: I have kept Tomás safe. And I will make sure he is safe—until I hear from Jeff. But he must send someone who is capable of dealing with Tomás. I am not.”

“Why not?”

“Tomás is a refugee, like the others. But he is not like them, either. He does not intend to live in Spain, work here. He cannot. And please—” her hand went up, and she smiled—“no more questions.”