The Flesh and the Devil (87 page)

         
Mother Salsa owned the shabby lodging-house to which
Placido had directed Juana with a grunted admonition to mention his name. She
had eyed the travellers' dirty and dilapidated clothing, taken due note of
Tristan's wounded leg, and after rapid and visible calculations of the strength
of their need, named an absurd sum as the price of a room. Juana's use of
Placido's name produced a sharp drop in the tariff, but it was still a rate
that would quickly consume all they had; it became obvious there and then that
it would be a matter of urgency to quit Cadiz while they still had the means to
leave.

         
'And it is as well,' Tristan had observed rather grimly,
'that one of us must be left here, if only to safeguard our belongings. This
place is a den of thieves.'

         
Juana had nodded, knowing that Placido must have sent them
to a house where no one would ask questions; a glance at the other denizens
showed that Mother Salsa would accommodate anyone who could pay, and thereafter
take no notice of them. The place was grimy and squalid and smelled as rank as
its owner, whose continual sweating had earned her her nickname; and for the
first day or two Juana had escaped into the streets, with theircuriously
brilliant, sparkling air, with a sense of relief. It was only when her hopes
began to ebb that she ceased to notice the difference between the freshness
outside and the stuffiness within.

         
She had her own reasons, too, for needing a way of escape
so urgently. The first fierce onset of morning sickness seemed to have ebbed
now, so that she could share a room with Tristan without exciting suspicion,
but every day she detected some subtle change in her body; some slight
thickening, some indefinable heaviness that drugged her brain to lethargy while
her body ripened. It was becoming more and more difficult to remain alive to a
sense of danger while the child within her was lulling her blood to drowsy
content.

         
Each day she reminded herself of the dangers that
threatened them, of the near-starvation that was slowing the healing of
Tristan's wound, but the only goad that could drive her out to continue the
search for a vessel was the fear that he might discover her pregnancy while
they were still in Cadiz. By now her concealment had become obsessive, and she
no longer reasoned rationally-she had put all her fears into this one
conviction, that he must not know she carried his child. She would hide the
fact from him as long as she could, and then - then there was a blank. She did
not know what he might say or do, and she dared not guess.

         
For the present, however, her condition was not apparent.
Only she knew how the waistband of the borrowed skirt was beginning to cut into
her flesh, and how much: her ankles pained her while she trudged through the
streets. She said nothing. The compelled inactivity was making Tristan more
silent, withdrawn and dangerous, and when they talked it was of news they had
heard, gossip that she had culled, or of other possible courses of action.
Sometimes Juana felt that they were arguing in circles until she realized that
it was the sound of her voice that he wanted after hours shut up alone like a
caged animal; after that she managed to quell a little of the fear that
assailed her when he sat opposite her staring with the inscrutable green eyes
of a half-wild cat that might lash out or spring, or simply continue to stare.

         
She had taken Placido's advice and bought a pair of shoes -
rough wooden ones such as the poorest people wore — together with a shin and
breeches and a dark brown jerkin for her husband, slightly less ill-fining than
those provided by Enrique and a good deal cleaner. But it was impossible, she
had found, to buy cheap clothing that would fit him; she had been lucky in
finding the garments of a Flemish sailor, who had sold them to pay his
reckoning with Mother Salsa. He had been a tall, rawboned man, and the old
woman had recommended Juana to buy them for Tristan when she learned, by her
own mysterious means, that the girl wanted fresh clothes for her man.

         
'All the same, these northerners,' she bad grunted. 'Too
big to fit in a civilized house or wear a normal man's garments. Still, if you
chose a big man - !'

         
and she had heaved herself off, wheezing and muttering.

         
At least, Juana thought as she set off through the dry on
the third day, it was easy enough to be clean without paying the prohibitive
prices charged by the water-carrier for his wares. A trip to the sea with a
couple of borrowed buckets and the hiring of a tub from Mother Salsa and both
of them were free at last from the hill-dust that had crept into every pore.
The salt in the water had made Tristan wince when he bathed his wound in it,
but Tristan had observed with only a slight edge to his voice that safe, though
it stung, had healing properties. Their lovemaking last night had had a
famished, desperate quality, and Juana wondered whether she had somehow become
his talisman; whether, while he had her to appease his trapped frustration and
slake his appetite, he reasoned that he had not lost the fruit of
 
his revenge.

         
She had unknowingly wandered in a different direction, she
realized, and without noticing had taken a turning which led to more spacious
wharves and high timbered sheds. There was still a tinge of prosperity about
this area and she saw, with a slight quickening of her heart, unmistakable
signs of trading going on. little group of people moved in and out of the sheds
and between the heaped bales on the quayside; whatever was traded there, she
thoughts must be merchandise that did not quickly decay. And if business were
being conducted, here if anywhere someone might know of a ship that was
sailing.

         
She moved forward cautiously, knowing that her appearance
would more likely evoke an accusation of attempted theft than the fawning
welcome she would once have taken for granted, her eyes wide and dark with
curiosity. Then was something strangely familiar about this place, something
about the vast square shapes of the rope-bound bales, or perhaps the sweet
smell that filled the air with a hint of grass - was it? - that stirred her
memory. . .

         
Without volition, she found herself inside the nearest
shed. She had almost forgotten her first errand in her quest for the elusive
remembrance that haunted her, and with every step the feeling of familiarity
increased. Inside, the bales were piled one upon the other like great walls.
She remembered thinking, as a child, that she could stand on top of them and
touch the sun. ...

         
Her fingers touched the nearest wool-bale in a brief,
reminiscent caress. That was it; that was why the atmosphere seemed so
familiar, why her feet had brought her here of their own accord. It must have
been a dozen years ago that her father had brought her to see his warehouses in
Cadiz, before Ugo was born, when Miguel had still thought that his eldest
daughter might inherit his property. She had been tiny then, not long able to
toddle, and so hedged and sheltered by her parents' loving pride in her that
she had travelled to the coast and back without ever recognizing that she had
seen the sea. But a building like this one she had remembered, because it had
been her father's

         
Before God, the tight-shut minds of you noble Spaniards!
 
Tristan's voice echoed
contemptuously in her mind, but In this one instance he was wrong; it was not
her nobility but her childishness that had closed her mind to him at first. A
child could believe that a lake was the sea, and remain oblivious to an ocean
that covered the whole horizon because its vastness was beyond an infant's
understanding; just as she had believed that her affection for Jaime del Nueva
was love, and taken so long to comprehend what she felt for the Duque de
Valenzuela's disturbing servant.

         
At first she thought that her memory was playing tricks
when she heard the approaching voices, and for several moments she did not move
because she was so sure that what she heard could not be reality. She
recognized the familiar husky tones of her father's voice as he answered a
stranger's question, but it was not until she heard the soft voice of her
sister Teresa that she realized she was not dreaming; that they were indeed
there, only a little distance away, and approaching down the far side of a wall
of piled-up bales.

         
It was impossible, but it was true. Juana stood perfectly
still, her heart thudding painfully in her breast - they were walking within
twenty paces of her, she had only to call out and run to them and she would be
safe. No more poverty, no more danger. They would accept her back because she
was theirs, of their blood and kind, and because they loved her. It was all so
simple. . . .

         
She did not know what held her motionless, but she
recognized with a stab of surprise that it was panic that sent her back into
the shadows beside the wall to hide herself, her head lowered so that her face
would be concealed by the hood of her cloak. With a curious sense of disbelief
she watched her father walk towards her. He seemed smaller and less impressive
than she remembered from the implacable figure who had raged at her and sent
her away, or perhaps it was that her eyes had become accustomed to Tristan's
great height. But he was as handsome as ever, with his fine grey eyes and
neatly-cropped beard and the thick curling hair that still showed some traces
of brown. He was wearing his best clothes, rich and sombre, and his indulgent
smile for Teresa did not altogether, disguise a new weariness that lined his
face a little deeper.

         
Remorse smote Juana, and in that instant she forgot how he
had raged at her and remembered only the gruff, doting father who had spoiled
her so freely. She was trembling suddenly with the desire to rush forward into
his arms, but something stronger than her conscious will held her back. It was
like some nightmare paralysis holding her frozen and mute when her life
depended on moving, and she felt tears of frustration spring to her eyes. Why,
she wondered,
why
 
would her limbs
not obey her now, when it was so vital?

         
In the same instant she knew the answer with the hard adult
clarity that she had so lately learned. It was because it was more vital that
she should stay hidden, and that her father and sister should pass her by
unknowing; for she was not of their kind and never had been, dearly though they
might love her. She was of Felipe Tristan's kind, and if she went back now,
pretending to be a child again-the docile, dependent child she had never been
except in her own fancy and in their eyes— she would be betraying both him and
herself. And her family, too, she thought with a sudden ache of sadness, for in
some ways her return would hurt them more than her supposed loss had done: now
at least they could remember her as they wished.

         
It had been a selfish longing for the unthinking dependence
of childhood that drove her, as much as love for them; and now she was grateful
for the instinct that had held her still. The way into her father's arms led
back, and her face was set firmly forward.

         
Despite her resolve her throat was aching with unshed tears
as she saw Teresa rise on tiptoe to whisper to her father, as she herself had
been used to do, and saw Miguel bent his head to listen. For the first time she
looked fully at her younger sister and thought that she had never seen Teresa
look so happy; her gentle oval face was radiant, her soft brown eyes brighter
than Juana could remember seeing them. Yet she was dressed in mourning - as
Miguel was, Juana thought, for his best clothes were black, and she had
mistaken their significance. She wondered who at Zuccaro had died: Tia Beatriz
was not there, she noticed abruptly, and she felt a sudden pang
.
 
Poor Tla, who had been parted from her with
such unnecessary cruelty. . .