Sleeping Tiger (6 page)

The Guardia Civil, with concentration, examined Selina's bag.

Had the Señorita felt nothing?

But nothing. Pushing through the crowds, how could she feel anything?

The bag looked as if it had been cut by a razor.

That was it. A razor. A thief with a razor blade.

What was the Señorita's name?

It was Miss Selina Bruce, of London, travelling on a British passport.

And where was Miss Bruce's place of residence, in San Antonio?

It was …
Selina hesitated here, but events had gone beyond hesitation.
Casa Barco, Cala Fuerte.

What colour was the wallet? How much money, exactly? Were the traveller's cheques signed?

Wearily she answered the questions. The clock crawled round to ten, to half past ten and beyond. The worst of her apprehensions had more than been fulfilled. She had lost her suitcase and she had lost her money. And she still had to get to Cala Fuerte.

At last it was over. The Guardia Civil squared off his papers and stood up. Selina thanked him, and shook hands. He looked surprised, but still did not smile.

Together, Selina and Toni crossed the now empty airport building, went out through the glass doors, and stopped, facing each other. Selina held her coat over her arm, for it had begun to get uncomfortably warm, and watched him, waiting for him to make the first move.

He took off his dark glasses.

She said, “I still have to get to Cala Fuerte.”

“You have no money.”

“But you'll get paid, I promise you. When we get to Cala Fuerte … my … father will pay your fare.”

Toni frowned enormously. “Your father? You have a father here? Why didn't you say?”

“It wouldn't have made any difference. We … we couldn't get in touch with him. Could we?”

“Your father
lives
in Cala Fuerte?”

“Yes. At a house called the Casa Barco. I am sure he will be there, and will pay you.” Toni watched her, suspicious and unbelieving. “And you can't just leave me here. I haven't even got my plane ticket back to London.”

He stared into space for a bit, then decided to light a cigarette. He was giving nothing away, and refusing to commit himself.

“You said you'd take me,” Selina went on. “And I'll see that you're paid. I promise.”

His cigarette was lighted. He blew a cloud of smoke into the air, and his black eyes swivelled back to Selina's face. She looked anxious and pale, but also, undoubtedly, well-to-do. The ruined handbag was alligator, and the good shoes matched. The scarf was silk, and both the dress and the coat of expensive wool. Sometimes, as she moved, Toni glimpsed the gold of a thin chain around her neck, and she wore a gold watch. There was, undoubtedly, money around—if not in the handbag, then somewhere. It was only March and there were not yet so many taxi fares that he could afford to turn down a good one. And this girl, this young
Inglesa,
did not look capable of tricking anybody.

He made up his mind. “All right,” he said at last. “We go.”

4

Made beneficent by his own kindness, Toni talked expansively.

“San Antonio, until five years ago, was a very poor island. The communications with Spain were lousy, only a small boat twice a week. But now we have the airport, so that visitors come and in the summer there are a lot of people, and things are getting O.K.”

Selina thought that the first thing that needed to get O.K. was the surface of the roads. The one they were on was unsurfaced and rutted with car tracks, on which the aged Oldsmobile, which was Toni's taxi, rocked and bucketed like a ship at sea. It wound, between low, dry-stone walls, through a countryside squared off into little farmsteads. The ground looked stony and unpromising, the squat buildings had been bleached by the fierce sun to the colour of pale sand. The women, who worked in the fields, wore black skirts to their ankles and black scarves about their heads. The men were in faded blue, ploughing the unresponsive earth, or jolting, in wooden carts, behind a pair of mules. There were flocks of goats, and scrawny chickens, and every mile or so a well, circled by a patient, blinkered horse, and a water-wheel, spilling brimming buckets into the irrigation ditches.

Selina noticed this, and said, “But you had rain last night.”

“That was the first rain for months. We are always short of water. There are no rivers, only springs. The sun is already hot, and the ground dries very fast.”

“We flew through a storm last night, over the Pyrenees.”

“The bad weather has been in the Mediterranean for days.”

“Is it always like this in March?”

“No, it can be warm in March.” And, as if to substantiate his words the sun, at that moment, chose to filter through a gap in the clouds and paint everything in a thin golden light. “Over there,” Toni went on, “that is the town of San Antonio. The cathedral on the top of the hill is very old, a fortified cathedral.”

“Fortified?”

“Against attack. From the Phoenicians, and Pirates, and Moors. For centuries the Moors occupied San Antonio.”

The town lay like a frieze against the backdrop of the sea. A hill of white houses, topped by the soaring towers and spires of the cathedral.

“We're not going through San Antonio?”

“No, we are on the road to Cala Fuerte.” After a little, he added, “You've never been to the island? And yet your father lives here?”

Selina watched the slow-moving sails of a windmill. “No. No, I've never been.”

“You will like Cala Fuerte. It is small, but very beautiful. A lot of yachtsmen go there.”

“My father is a yachtsman.” She said it without thinking, but the words caught at her, as though to say a thing, to speak it aloud, makes it real, and true.
My father lives at Cala Fuerte. At a house called the Casa Barco. He is a yachtsman.

The clouds continued to spread and part and the sun drove between them and at last they began to roll out to sea where they lay, sullenly, on the edge of the horizon. The island was bathed in warmth. Selina pushed up the sleeves of her sensible jersey dress and rolled down the window and let the scented dusty wind tear at her hair. They passed through little villages, and gold stone towns, shuttered and quiet. Doors of houses stood open, hung with curtains of chain, and on the pavement old ladies sat, upright in kitchen chairs, talking or watching their little grandchildren, their worn hands busy with embroidery and lace-making.

They came to Curamayor, a sleepy town of creamy houses and narrow streets, and Toni rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and announced that he was feeling thirsty.

Selina, not quite sure what was expected of her, said nothing.

“Some beer would be good,” Toni went on.

“I … I would buy you a beer, but I haven't any money.”

“I will buy a beer,” said Toni. The narrow street opened into a large cobbled square, with a tall church, and shady trees, and some shops. He cruised gently round until he saw a café which met with his approval. “This will do.”

“I … I'll wait for you.”

“You should have something too. Driving is hot and dry. I will give you a drink.” She began to protest, but he only added, “Your father will pay me back.”

She sat in the sunshine at a small iron table. Behind her, inside the bar, Toni was talking to the proprietor. A small gang of children, fresh from school, approached. They were delicious, in blue cotton pinafores and spotless white socks. They all seemed beautiful—the little girls pin-neat with braided dark hair and gold rings in their ears, their limbs olive-gold and perfectly formed, and when they smiled, their teeth showed pointed and white.

They saw Selina watching them, and were convulsed with giggles. Two of the little girls, more forward than the others, stopped in front of her, their grape-dark eyes dancing with fun. She longed to make friends, and on an impulse, opened her bag and took out a propelling pencil, never liked, about three inches long and with a tassel of yellow and blue. She held it out, inviting one of them to take it. At first they were too shy, and then the little one with plaits, tentatively, as though it might bite, removed it from Selina's palm. The other, with a gesture wholly disarming, laid her own hand in Selina's, as though she were bestowing a gift. The hand was chubby and smooth and wore a little gold ring.

Toni came back through the chain curtains with his beer and an orange drink for Selina, and the children took fright, and scattered like pigeons, running and taking the tasselled pencil with them. Enchanted, she watched them go, and Toni said, “The little ones…” with as much pride and affection in his voice as if the children had been his own.

Their journey continued. The character of the island had, by now, completely changed, and the road ran along the base of a range of mountains, while to seaward the fields sloped down in a shallow curve towards a distant misty horizon. They had been on the road nearly three hours when Selina saw the cross, high on a mountain ahead of them, silhouetted against the sky.

“Where is that?” she asked.

“That is the Cross of San Estaban.”

“Just a cross? On top of a mountain?”

“No, there is a very big monastery. A closed order.”

The village of San Estaban lay at the foot of the mountain, in the shadow of the monastery. At the crossroads in the centre of the town a sign pointed, at last, to Cala Fuerte, the first that Selina had seen. Toni swung the car down to the right, and the road sloped before them, running downhill through fields of cactus and olive groves and clusters of scented eucalyptus trees. Ahead the coast seemed thickly wooded with pine, but as they drew near, Selina glimpsed the white of scattered houses, and the bright pinks and blues and scarlets of the flower-filled gardens.

“Is this Cala Fuerte?”

“Sí.”

“It doesn't look like the other villages.”

“No, it is a resort. For visitors. Many people have villas here, for the summer, you know? They come in the hot weather from Madrid and Barcelona.”

“I see.”

The pines closed about them, cool shadows and the smell of resin. They passed a farmyard, noisy with chickens, a house or two, a little wine shop, and then the road opened out into a small square, built around a single spreading pine. On one side was a shop, with vegetables piled at the door, and the window filled with rope-soled shoes, camera films, straw hats and postcards. On the other, white-washed to blinding brightness, was a house of Moorish curves and shadows, fronted by a paved terrace, furnished with tables and chairs. Over the door swung a sign, “Cala Fuerte Hotel.”

Toni stopped the taxi beneath the shade of the tree and switched off the engine. Dust settled and it was very quiet.

“We are here,” he said. “This is Cala Fuerte.”

They got out of the car, and the coolness of the sea-breeze was welcome. There were few people about. A woman came out of the shop to gather potatoes out of a basket and put them in a paper bag. Some children played with a dog. A couple of visitors, wearing home-knitted cardigans, and obviously English, sat on the terrace of the hotel and wrote postcards. They looked up and saw Selina, recognized her as a fellow-countrywoman, and hastily averted their eyes.

They went into the hotel, Toni leading the way. Beyond the chain curtain was a bar, very fresh and clean and cool, white-washed, with rugs on the stone floors and a rustic wooden stairway leading to an upper floor. Beneath the stairway another door led to the back of the hotel. A dark girl with a broom was placidly shifting dust from one side of the floor to the other.

She looked up and smiled,
“Buenos días.”

“Dónde está el proprietario?”

The girl laid down her broom.
“Momento,”
she said and disappeared, soft-footed through the door under the stairway. It swung shut behind her. Toni went to hitch himself up on to one of the tall stools at the bar. After a little the door opened again and a man came in. He was small, quite young, bearded, with eyes like a friendly frog. He wore a white shirt and dark, belted trousers and a pair of blue espadrilles.

“Buenos días,”
he said, looking from Toni to Selina, and back again.

She said quickly, “Do you speak English?”

“
Sí,
señorita.”

“I am sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for someone. For Mr. George Dyer.”

“Yes?”

“You know him?”

He smiled and spread his hands. “Of course. You are looking for George? Does he know you are looking for him?”

“No. Should he?”

“Not unless you have told him you are coming.”

Selina said, “It's a surprise,” trying to make it sound like fun.

He seemed intrigued. “Where have you come from?”

“From London. To-day from the airport at San Antonio.” She indicated Toni, who was listening to all this with a sullen expression as if he did not like the command of the situation being taken from his hands. “The taxi-driver brought me.”

“I have not seen George since yesterday. He was on his way to San Antonio.”

“But, I said, we've just come from there.”

“He is probably home by now. I am not certain. I have not seen him return.” He grinned. “We are never sure if his car will make the long journey.”

Toni cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Where can we find him?” he said.

The bearded man shrugged. “If he is in Cala Fuerte he will be at the Casa Barco.”

“How can we find the Casa Barco?” The other frowned, and Toni, sensing his mild disapproval, explained. “We must find Señor Dyer, because otherwise I do not get my taxi fare paid. The Señorita has no money.…”

Selina swallowed. “Yes … yes, I'm afraid this is true. Do you think you could direct us to the Casa Barco?”