Seagulls in My Soup (5 page)

“What happened?” he asked.

“He's got a touch of tummy troubles. You know, all foreigners, all the tourists, get that . . .”

“Ah, si, estómago malo,”
murmured José. “What a pity.”

It was after dusk when at last, escorted by José's whole family, I staggered back to
Cresswell,
the waiting ministrations of Sissie, and the welcoming wags of Nelson's tail.

Run our David to Lluyncelyn,

Fetch our Mati to the piggie,

But our Mati told us quickly,

That the black pig it was dying.

Chorus:
Oh, our hearts are very sore,

Oh, our hearts are very sore,

Oh, our hearts are very heavy,

As we bury the black pig.

“Mochyn Du” (The Black Pig)

“Mochyn Du”
was a capstan and anchor-heaving chantey, very popular on Cape Homers with Welsh crews. “Burying the black pig” mostly alluded to settling a debt or getting rid of a hang-over. The translation is mine.

“Posh place,” I commented to Tony the Specs as we trotted up the wide front steps of the La Princesa Hotel in Málaga. An immaculate doorman, through some remarkable articulation of his right elbow, managed to both salute and hold out his hand at the same time. In fact he swiveled the arm so fast and violently that one of his white gloves fell out of his epaulette; so, while he, flustered, bent to pick up the glove, Tony and I sped past him without paying any extortion.

It was still fairly warm in Málaga, and Tony was clad in a tropical suit, of which we were both proud. It was light gray, shot with black streaks of silk. He wore a pale pink shirt open at the neck, a Panama hat, tilted toward the back of his head to compensate for his stoop, and a pair of pimp's pumps—at least that's what they looked like to me. They were white calf, with a sort of straw-colored basket-weave over the instep, and were so new that they squeaked as he walked. I had my best rig on too—it's only courtesy, after all, when you're applying for a paid position. I wore my number-one corduroy pants, which had no more than three paint spots on them; my brick-colored cotton Breton fishing smock, a tee-shirt, and my best deck shoes.

“Yes,” said Tony, peering around him in the hotel reception hall, all of marble and gold trim. “Yes, old chap, a bit like the Gritti Palace in Venice.”

“Oh?”

Shiner Wright was one of that remarkable breed—an Australian wheeler-dealer. I had met him some months before, when I had delivered a thirty-foot sloop for him from Genoa, where she had been built, to the island of Menorca, where Shiner was involved in a real estate deal. Since then he had arranged a couple of delivery jobs for me, and, although he was an aggressive materialist, I liked and respected him. He always treated me fair and square.

Shiner had told me that before he came to the Mediterranean he had been engaged in apartment-letting in London for several years and had, by the age of thirty-six, already made his first million pounds. He was the kind of man that most people like instinctively. He was not exactly good-looking by cornflake-packet standards; he was too stocky for that, and his auburn hair and brown eyes somehow did not seem to belong together. But he had about him a self-assurance; he always looked as if he
belonged
wherever he was, and that seemed to put other people, especially young folk, immediately at their ease with him.

I do not think he derived all his self-assurance from the money he had made. He had been born of a very poor family in the slums of Sydney. I think his assurance stemmed from the fact that he believed that everything was possible, given the guts and the will.

We were very much birds of a feather, Shiner and I, even though it would revolt my Celtic soul, then, now, and always, to receive
rent
—and even more to
pay
it. Shiner was one of the most positive men I have ever met, and also one of the most
integral.
As young Americans would so delightfully put it, “he had his shit together.”

It was small surprise to me, when Tony the Specs and I enquired at the reception desk, to find a message for us to go straight up to the “Royal Suite,” which was a penthouse apartment, completely self-contained, with its own kitchen and bar and staff, right up on top of the hotel roof.

We were soon whisked up in the elevator by a small, dark porter, who was suitably awed at Tony the Specs (who must have looked more like a Professor of Economics than a delivery mate) and puzzled by my appearance—so much that he attempted a conspiratorial wink at me behind Tony's back as he grasped the chrome handles of the double doors to the suite. Then the doors slid apart and I saw Shiner, as well-dressed and prosperous-looking as ever.

Shiner was sitting, or rather reclining, in a deep leather sofa. He was wearing a light blue suit, and his beige tie displayed a pin with a pearl almost as big as a Yankee quarter and almost as bright as Shiner's sudden smile as the doors silently slid shut behind us. He held up his hand and stared at the banknote he grasped in it. “Yeah, Tristan, me old mate—come in, cobber,” he said in his twangy Aussie drawl. “You and your oppo sit down. I won't be a tick.”

As I sat down I looked again at the banknote Shiner was holding. It was a 10,000-peseta note. At that time there were fifty pesetas to the dollar, so the piece of paper Shiner was studying was worth $200. Every few seconds, in the clock-ticking silence of the Royal Suite, Shiner looked up at the person who, with the back of his head showing toward me, was sunk low in a deep armchair facing him.

“I've got five nines,” said Shiner in a low voice. He lifted one eyebrow and grinned at the armchair.

“I do not believe you, Mr. Wright . . . Show me,” said the well-modulated, slightly French-accented voice which rose from the armchair.

It dawned on me, after a second or two, that Shiner and his mysterious guest were playing “spoof,” a variation of “liar's dice,” but played with the numbers on banknotes.

Shiner's grin widened even more as he leaned over and passed the 10,000-peseta note over to his partner. A hand languidly reached from the armchair. The French voice murmured,
“Merde . . . Vous avez de la chance . . . pute alors!”
The hand let the banknote flutter onto the richly carpeted floor, where it settled on top of a pile of other 10,000-peseta notes. I leaned over slightly to look at the pile of money. There must have been at least 150 notes, all of the 10,000-peseta denomination. I made a fast mental reckoning. There was at least $30,000 scattered over the floor between the sofa and the armchair!

Shiner stood up and smoothed down his finely tailored jacket. He strode over to me and shook my hand firmly. “Nice to see you again, old son,” he said, even though he was five years my junior. He greeted Tony, reckoning him up as quick as a gnat's wink. Then he took both our elbows firmly and gently guided us over to the deep leather armchair. There, still lounging deep in luxury, was one of the most classically handsome men I have ever seen.

“Pierre Reynaud,” said Shiner, as the hand that had dropped a small fortune moments before languidly reached for mine.

Reynaud was about thirty-five, or so I reckoned. His hair was curly dark blond, medium length, and it seemed to caress the temples of his finely shaped head. He was slightly sunburned—the smooth, rich sunburn which comes expensively from sitting under the Cinzano sunshades on the patios and verandahs of exclusive hotels. He wore a gold Rolex. His nose was perfectly straight and completely in proportion to the rest of him. His eyes—deep gray-green, were . . . beautiful. With their dark lashes they complemented, even spiced, everything else about him. He stood up in the graceful, sinuous manner of a man who has been everywhere, done everything, and knows everyone who matters.

He was my height, about five feet, ten inches, but his litheness gave him the appearance of being slightly taller. He reminded me of a statue I had seen in some museum or other—Adonis. His mouth was sensual. His immaculate black suit, black shirt, black tie, and black shoes, and the way he padded over to Tony brought to mind a wily tomcat. My second impression was much nearer the truth.
“Sprucer,”
I said to myself, as I watched the way his body moved under the black suit. That body was not merely clothed—it was
decorated.

The only flaws in Reynaud's outer perfection, which I noticed with a slight shock as he reached out to greet me, were the two fingers missing from his right hand, and the hard, dry feel of the hand. It was like grasping the claw of some exotic bird of paradise, and, after glancing at the shocks of beauty in the feathers, wondering about the brain; finding yourself somewhat discomforted—even threatened—by the perfection before your eyes.

Then you decide to keep things simple and coo at the bird—or you ought to. At any rate that's what I, in a flash, decided to do that day in the Royal Suite of the La Princesa Hotel, surrounded by dark Spanish furniture, glancing quickly at the thousand glass pendants of the chandelier gleaming white, blue, and gold over my head, feeling the soft decadence of the Turkish carpet under my grubby deck shoes.
‘A right one we've got here,'
I thought.

A flicker in Reynaud's green-grey eyes told me, in a sliver of a fraction of a millisecond, that he knew I had been studying him.

“Monsieur Reynaud has a boat . . .” said Shiner.

“Oh, call me Pierre . . . We're all friends here,” Reynaud chimed in.

Shiner smiled. “Pierre has a boat which he wants delivered from Algiers to Marseilles.”

This was a surprise, but not unexpected. Tony's mouth opened slightly, but he said nothing.

“A seventy-two-foot powerboat,” continued Shiner. He lit a Sobranie cigarette with a gold lighter in one continuous flow of movement, as we sailors stood silently and as Reynaud studied our faces.
“Aries,”
the Australian said.

“That's her name?” I asked, stupidly.

“Right, cobber.”

“Aries?”

“That's it.”

“Oh.” An image of a ram flashed through my consciousness. “Algiers?”

“Algiers,” Reynaud said, flatly.

I turned to him. “No problems—I mean, permits and all that? There's been quite a bit of fireworks over there lately . . .”

Reynaud looked up in slight puzzlement.

Tony piped up. “Tristan means political trouble.”

Reynaud smiled and shook his head. “That's all taken care of.” Then he looked at Tony. “Where are your boats now, Mr. Rankin?”

Quick as a flash, Shiner broke in. “As I mentioned to you, they're in Gibraltar . . .”

Tony's face reddened very slightly.

“Ah, yes, Gibraltar, the famous Rock,” commented Reynaud. “A nice, safe place . . .”

“Yes,” I lied, “We've been there for a couple of weeks now, but Tony's sailing up to Lisbon . . . to winter there.”

Tony nodded as he pursed his lips and reddened even more, peering down at the Turkish carpet.

Shiner said, “Good, then it's settled. What would you like, gentlemen—tea, or a stiffener?”

Tony and Reynaud both said “Tea.” I asked for a stiffener.

“Scotch and soda, right?”

“Black Label, but before we do that I'd like to sort out the details of the delivery.” I looked Reynaud straight in the eye. “First of all, when do we leave for Algiers?”

“Tomorrow at ten in the morning. There's a flight to Oran—only an hour or so. Then we catch a train from there to Algiers. That's a few hours, but we should be in Algiers by nine in the evening. We can stay at a hotel overnight and go on board
Aries
in the morning, to get ready to sail . . .”

“So you're coming with us?”

“Naturally.”

I looked at Shiner. He grinned at me and lifted his scotch and soda, which had been swiftly served by a silent steward. “Here's to
Aries
and a safe passage,” he toasted.

“I'll drink to that as soon as we've got the fee worked out,” I said, quietly.

“Join me for dinner tonight, Pierre?” Shiner asked.

“I must meet with some business colleagues,” said Reynaud.

“Tristan?”

“Never turn down a good scoff,” said I.

“Good. Tony?”

“Pleasure,” said Tony, staring at the banknotes on the floor.

Reynaud was still watching me, studying me.

“What about payment?” I asked him.

“Ah, yes. Let's see . . .” He gestured with the three-fingered hand. “Fifty pesetas to the dollar, right?”

“About that.”

Reynaud thought for a moment, then said, “Fifty thousand pesetas. Is that all right?”

I kept a straight face. “Yes, I think that'll be pretty fair. OK with you, Tony?”

“Certainly,” replied my stooped, bespectacled mate.

I thought to myself, ‘Fifty thousand pesetas—Jesus Christ, I'd sail bloody Franco himself around the Isle of Wight for half that right now!
A thousand dollars
—that will keep us going right through the winter.'

“Good then, that's settled,” said Reynaud. His clothes moved on his body as if they were dancing partners. “I'll see you . . .” (there was a tiny hesitation) “ . . . gentlemen at nine in the morning.” Then he took his leave, trod over the banknotes scattered on the carpet, and slid through the double doors of the Royal Suite.

There was a moment's silence after the Frenchman left, until Shiner clapped me on the shoulder. “Well, mates, what d'ye think of this pad,” he said. He strode over to the wide windows, the length of the room, and swept his arm out over the view of the whole city of Málaga, laid out below like a map.

“Must have cost a bloody packet, Shiner,” I observed.

“Two hundred bucks a day,” he replied, “but it's worth it. If you're doing business with the Frogs or locals, then it pays to have your nest . . .
well-feathered,
my old son.”

He took Tony and me by the arms, led us over the pile of banknotes on the floor, and escorted us through the doorway into the hall.

I turned to Shiner. “What about all that akkers . . . all that money on the floor?”

“Oh, these blokes in this hotel—and the sheilas, too—are as honest as the day is long. They won't touch it.”

“Don't you think it's a bit . . . ostentatious?” asked Tony in a querulous tone as we strode to the elevator.

“Well, I could have put it in the desk, but if they see it there they'd think I don't trust 'em . . . and you know how the Spanish are.” Shiner spoke as if to a pair of schoolboys.

Tony and I took that in silently as the elevator dropped from the Olympian of the Royal Suite down to levels of ordinary mortality.

Shiner did us proud that night. First he showed us our rooms so we could drop our seabags. Both rooms had twin beds. “If you trip over any sheilas . . .” commented Shiner, winking at us. “Only natural, anyway.” Then he treated us to a slap-up nosh—tiny eels, steak, baked potatoes, and fresh whiting, all washed down with the best Amontillado. Afterward, as we sipped Napoleon brandy on the restaurant terrace overlooking the million lights of Málaga and under a hundred thousand stars, I grinned at Shiner. “That French bloke . . . what's his name . . . Pierre . . . seems to be a pretty all-right feller?”