A dead man of Barcelona

Chapter Eleven

Seymour noticed that some of the street names had been freshly painted out and other names substituted in their places. Often the change seemed insignificant: avinguda for avenida, passeig for paseo, carrer for calle — all basic names for thoroughfares, avenue, passage, street. But the changes were significant, all right. They were from Castilian, the usual, official, language of Spain, to Catalan. It was an attempt to assert Catalonia against Spain, another Tragic Week, as it were, only this time without bloodshed. The Catalonians had been defeated but they had not gone away.

Some of the names had been painted over again and the original, Spanish, name restored. But that wouldn’t work. The language of the ordinary man here was Catalan. The fishermen spoke Catalan not Spanish, the language in the cafes was Catalan. Even the cabezudos spoke Catalan.

It was the Catalans throughout who had helped him. It was their effort at remembrance with the coffins in the church that had brought Lockhart to England’s attention. Ricardo, throughout, had been on his side. And so, in their curious, elliptical way, had been the cabezudos. It was they, for instance, who had put him on to the smuggling. It was as if the whole underground side of Barcelona had been anxious that he should not miss the point about Lockhart. Lockhart, they were saying, was a Catalonian at heart. There are no Catalonian Nationalists in Spain, the authorities kept telling him. Well, that was plainly wrong, for Lockhart was one.

And that was why he had been killed, that was what they were all saying. They were anxious that he should get the message.

And, of course, the corresponding message was that it was someone who was opposed to the Catalonians who had killed him. Like the Spanish Government or its agents.

But Seymour was not so sure about that. That was clearly the message he was intended to get; but was it the right one? For one thing, if Lockhart had been a Catalonian Nationalist, he had been other things as well: an anarchist, or certainly an anarchist sympathizer. Seymour had no reason to think that his sympathies were not genuine. It was just that they didn’t seem to be exclusive. He had had sympathy for all the underground causes.

As they were walking along they met the Chief of Police, also taking the air. He had a lady on his arm.

He detached his arm and bowed low. ‘Senor, Senorita! Allow me to introduce-’

‘Don’t make such a fuss about it, Alonzo,’ interrupted the lady.

‘-Constanza,’ finished the Chief hurriedly. ‘My wife.’

‘A pleasure to meet you, Senora,’ said Seymour.

‘I like to meet everyone my husband is working with,’ said the Senora. ‘That way I can keep my eye on them. And him.’ She caught proper sight of Chantale. ‘And sometimes it is a good idea,’ she said severely.

‘Constanza-’ murmured the Chief deprecatingly.

‘Mademoiselle de Lissac,’ said Seymour.

‘French?’

‘Moroccan,’ said Chantale firmly.

‘Ah! You are very pretty, Mademoiselle. I am not surprised my husband has said nothing about you.’

‘Constanza-’

‘But, Senora,’ said Seymour, ‘he has said a great deal about you.’

Constanza laughed.

‘I try to loom large,’ she admitted. She turned to Chantale. ‘Are you going to be here for long, Mademoiselle?’

‘Probably not,’ said Chantale.

‘That is just as well.’ She turned her attention back to Seymour. ‘Does that mean you have found out who killed Lockhart?’ she demanded.

‘Quite possibly,’ said Seymour.

‘Ah!’ said Constanza. ‘That is something my husband never did.’

The Chief shrugged.

‘It was just one thing among many on my desk,’ he said.

‘Ah! Your desk!’ said Constanza. ‘Many things finish up on your desk. Finish up and then never move again!’

‘You are too hard, Constanza-’

‘Did you know Lockhart, Mademoiselle?’ Constanza asked Chantale.

‘Not personally,’ admitted Chantale.

‘Well, that is a relief!’ said Constanza. ‘He seemed to know most of the attractive young women around here. Personally.’

‘Including you, Senora?’ asked Seymour.

‘Including me, certainly. In fact, I knew him better than most.’

‘That is quite a claim, Senora,’ said Seymour.

‘It is,’ said Constanza, ‘and perhaps we should start there. Would you care to give me your arm, Senor Seymour, for a little walk along Las Ramblas? And you, Alonzo,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘can walk with Mademoiselle de Lissac. Just walk. I shall be watching you. And keep fifteen yards behind. Exactly. Now, Senor…’

She put her arm through Seymour’s. ‘You think, then, that you have discovered who killed Sam Lockhart?’

‘I am beginning to have an idea of that, yes.’

‘Cautious, cautious! Well, that’s something that Sam certainly never was. But you are beginning to? You think? Well, that is good! It is time somebody found out. The thought that it could go unavenged partly because of my husband’s bungling is intolerable!’

‘You keep a pretty firm hand on your husband, don’t you, Senora?’

‘ Someone has to,’ said Constanza. ‘Otherwise nothing would get done around here.’

‘He has told me about your guidance during Tragic Week.’

‘It caught us out,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t see it coming. And then when it did I nearly let Alonzo become involved in it.’

‘You wanted him to keep out of it, of course. So that you could have a free hand?’

‘It was not so much that, I always see that I have a free hand. I just didn’t want him mucking things up.’

‘You knew that Lockhart was out there, of course.’

‘Of course. And he was another one I would really have preferred to keep out of it. Naturally. I told him so. “Sam,” I said, “for God’s sake, watch what you are doing. With all those tiles flying about, one of them may hit you. And it will probably come from me!” “Don’t worry!” he said. “I shall be all right. I assure you I shall be functioning perfectly when I come to see you this evening. While your husband is sitting in the bar watching the pretty girls go by.”

‘But, of course, he didn’t come to see me. Those imbeciles picked him up, along with everyone else, and put him in prison. “Alonzo,” I said, “your men need a good kick up the backside. Apply yourself usefully for a change.” ’

‘You visited him in prison,’ said Seymour.

She looked at him in surprise.

‘Yes, I did,’ she said. ‘How did you know that?’

‘And talked to him. What did you talk about?’

‘ “Sam,” I said, “this is no place for you. We’ve got to get you out of here.” “I think that would be a good idea,” he said. “But how?” “I’m working on it,” I said. ’

‘And you tried to get him out?’

‘Of course, I did! And would have too, if they had not been so incompetent. I put the fear of God into Alonzo. “Alonzo,” I said, “you have put Lockhart in prison, and you know what will happen now: that dreadful Admiral will send in his warships and apart from blowing you to little bits, it won’t make you very popular with Madrid. Let him out, quick!” Well, he would have let him out…’

‘But,’ said Seymour.

‘Yes.’ She went quiet for a moment. ‘That’s right.’

‘He was killed.’

‘Killed, yes. I never thought they’d catch up with him.’

‘They?’

She made a sweeping gesture. ‘Just about everyone. So it seemed at times. The Government — but they should be discounted on the grounds that they don’t really have the ability to organize the killing of anyone. Although they might do it by accident, of course.’

‘Senora, are you an anarchist, by any chance?’

‘The anarchists, too,’ she continued. ‘Although they, of course, were very keen on him.’

‘Did you know about Nina?’

‘Not at first. Absurdly, I was jealous of her. For a little while I wanted to kill her. As well as him, of course.’

‘And did you?’

‘Nina, no.’

‘And Lockhart?’

She laughed. ‘Is that one of the little details you haven’t quite got straight yet?’

And then she sobered up.

‘Poor Lockhart!’ she said. ‘He didn’t deserve to die. He was the one bright spark around here. Of my life, I may say! He was different from other men. Impossible, of course. But that was why I — we — loved him. Don Quixote born again! The Don Quixote of modern times! Charging around wanting to do good. Like all the other do-gooders. I am not a do-gooder,’ she said.

‘I had rather spotted that.’

‘But although he was ridiculous, like the original Don Quixote, I suppose, he made life interesting. And that was the point. When you were with him he lit everything up. And you were part of it. Just for a moment, because that was about all the time he could spare for you before he moved on to the next woman. But it was worth it. Life suddenly shifted to another plane. And it was like that for all of us. All of us! He had that gift. He made life richer, suddenly lifted it up out of the tedious and humdrum — and, God, can life in Barcelona be tedious and humdrum! He was ridiculous, of course. With all his causes. But somehow he made you believe in them. For a bit. Even the Catalan cause! For God’s sake!’

‘You are not a believer in the Catalan cause yourself, then, Senora?’

‘I believed in it for a bit. I would have believed in anything if he had asked me to. Even fairies. But only for a bit. And by the end he himself was having second thoughts about them. There was a nasty incident. A man was killed. Lockhart was very angry. And after that he went quite off them.’

‘When was this, Senora?’

‘It was about the time of Tragic Week. Or just before. “If you feel like that,” I said, “why do you go out on the streets?” “To be fair,” he said. “To be fair.” I ask you! What sort of a reason is that? Where would the world be if fairness came into it? For God’s sake!

‘Anyway, you’re missing the point. The point was that he was romantic. With all those mad enthusiasms of his, that out-of-control idealism. He was a regular Don Quixote, always tilting at windmills. Well, me, I’m normally on the side of windmills. Good, solid things with plenty of money coming out of them.

‘But every so often you get fed up with down-to-earth, solid things. Like my husband. You want to fly up in the air, get away from them. Give romance a chance. Even if you know it will probably end with you falling back to earth with a bump.

‘When you were with Lockhart, you believed that romance had a chance. That perhaps you could escape. That things didn’t have to go on the way they were. You really believed you could fly in the air. You abandoned the windmills and went for Don Quixote. Despite yourself. Despite everything. You felt you had been given a chance of life.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I went for Don Quixote. And now the bastard is dead. Damn him, damn him!’

‘Senora,’ said Seymour, ‘you visited the prison once: did you visit it a second time?’

‘No. I was waiting until I had got things set up for his release.’

‘And you didn’t send someone else instead?’

‘No,’ she said, surprised. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘You didn’t try to send anything in to him? For his comfort? Food, for example?’

‘Food? No.’

Then she suddenly realized. ‘What are you saying? That I tried to poison him?’

‘I wondered if you had used someone else. Another woman. An Arab woman.’

The Chief’s wife drew herself up. ‘Senor Seymour, if I had wished to poison Lockhart, I would have done it myself. I would certainly not have used a dirty Arab woman to do it!’

When they got back to the hotel they found a message from Hattersley. It asked if they would mind dropping in at his office. ‘This afternoon if possible.’ As an afterthought, Hattersley had scribbled on the bottom of the message: ‘It really is rather urgent.’

He had said ‘they’ and so they both went. He seemed relieved to see them.

‘Terribly sorry,’ he apologized. ‘Such short notice! But — but it is rather urgent. His note came only this morning, and he is going back to Algiers next week.’

‘This is Abou, is it?’ said Seymour. ‘Leila’s brother?’

‘Yes. And he particularly asked — since he would be going back so soon — if I — we — that is, if you agree — could get on with it.’

‘What is it?’

Hattersley looked at Chantale. ‘I gather he has already spoken to you about it?’

‘What exactly?’

‘His plans for marrying.’

‘Well, in a general way…’ said Chantale.

‘Oh? I gather from his note that he had been more particular.’

‘He rather poured his heart out, yes.’

‘Ah!’

Hattersley seemed relieved.

‘He’s rather poured his heart out to me, too,’ he continued. ‘I mean, I don’t know anything about it really.’ He went pink. ‘Never done it myself, I mean. Asked anyone to marry me. Could never quite pluck up courage. And, I suppose, there’s never been anyone-’

‘Has he asked you,’ said Chantale, ‘to act for him?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Hattersley. ‘In a way, he has. And I wouldn’t want to — to let him down.’

‘No, no. Of course not. But I really don’t see where we come in-’

‘He has great respect for you, Miss de Lissac. He says you have made the step. Already bridged the gap. Between Africa and Spain. He thinks they might listen to you.’

‘Me?’ said Chantale, aghast.

‘I told him — in confidence of course — that you were very highly thought of in London. That, of course, was why they chose you to come out here. That, as far as he was concerned, confirmed it. If they accepted you, wouldn’t he accept you?’

‘He?’

‘Senor Vasquez. The father of, well, what he hopes will be the bride. I know Vasquez, of course. We’ve been in a few things together. A good man, a good man for business. He knows me and I know him. We trust each other, you know. That’s very important for business. And I suppose Abou knows about our relationship and that’s why he asked me. Probably seemed like a good idea to him — I know Vasquez, and he knows me. Well, that’s fair enough, and if it was a question of business, I’d be happy to oblige. But marriage! Phew!’

He blew out his cheeks. ‘I think maybe he guessed that was how I would feel, because it was then that he went on to you, Miss de Lissac. Mentioned your name. Said he’d already talked to you about it and that you’d been very kind. Helpful, he said. And understanding. Well, I’m sure that’s true, Miss de Lissac, but, in my experience, that’s not the sort of thing Arabs would usually say about women. So I think he must have been really impressed by you. Understandably, of course. Understandably.

‘So I don’t think he would mind if — I’m sure he wouldn’t, since he’s spoken so warmly of you — and mentioned it in the first place — if I asked you to give me a bit of help.

‘I wondered if we could go round together and see him? Senor Vasquez, I mean. And you, too, old chap. I mean, the more the merrier. Or, no, I don’t mean that, I mean it would lend weight. And Abou would be pleased.

‘And if you could do the talking. Once I’d introduced you, I mean. The fact is, I wouldn’t really know what to say.’

‘I don’t think it is appropriate,’ said Chantale. ‘For us to be active in this. It is the family’s responsibility.’

‘Yes, but he hasn’t got any family here. Apart from Leila, that is, and he says she is angry with him and wouldn’t do it. And, in any case, is it a thing for women? You would know this better than I, Miss de Lissac. But Abou seems to feel that it is a man’s job. Or would be in Africa. To conduct the negotiations, I mean.’

‘Look, I don’t think it is going to get to negotiations. He’ll turn it down flat,’ said Seymour.

‘Yes, but…’ Hattersley wriggled. ‘All we can do is put it to him. And then find a way of letting Abou down as gently as possible. And you will do this so much better than I would. I feel that now he has asked me, I’ve got to do it. Have a shot, you know. Although I’m sure you’re right, it’s hopeless. Out of the question. But I’ve known the family for so long, the Lockharts, I mean, that I feel I need to do something. But without you, I’d be lost. I wouldn’t know what to do. Miss de Lissac, would you, could you, please…? And you, too, old chap. Because I need some support. By God, I do!’

Seymour and Chantale took the train to Tarragona. Hattersley, and Abou, would have to wait. There were more important things to do. Like seeing Farraj.

From the outside there was little to distinguish the house from all the others in this prosperous district of Tarragona. It was only when you got inside that you realized that this was an Arab house. The floors were tiled and uncarpeted. The carpets were on the walls, thick Persian ones with intricate geometrical decoration, which took the place of pictures. There were, too, some beautiful Persian vases, standing in niches, but otherwise the rooms contained few objects apart from beautifully worked leather cushions which took the place of chairs.

Seymour and Chantale were led, however, through to a tiny inner courtyard in the middle of which was a fountain, and scattered around the courtyard were orange trees in tubs, filling the courtyard with their sweet scent.

Farraj was sitting beside the fountain reading a book. He rose to his feet when Seymour and Chantale were shown in and bowed courteously.

‘Your name was mentioned,’ said Seymour, ‘as that of one who could help me.’

‘The Book tells us that if help is solicited, it should not be refused,’ said Farraj.

‘It is not asked for lightly,’ said Seymour.

He introduced Chantale as someone who was helping him. Farraj, who had deflected his eyes politely so as not to look at her directly, now registered her presence, again with the slight shock that she had noticed in the other Arab men she had met here. He recovered and bowed courteously.

‘And how can I help you, Senor?’

‘I am inquiring into the circumstances in which someone died. An Englishman. From Gibraltar. His name was Lockhart.’

‘I knew Senor Lockhart.’

‘Well, I believe?’

‘Years ago, very well indeed. Of recent years less well. Since our move to Tarragona. We exchanged greetings regularly but seldom met.’

‘What I have to ask now is difficult. For me and perhaps for you.’

Farraj looked at him inquiringly.

‘It concerns your daughter.’

‘Aisha,’ said Farraj: neutrally but, Seymour fancied, guardedly.

‘Who, I understand, is no longer with you?’

‘She returned to Algiers. To get married.’

‘And is she married now?’

‘Happily, yes. To an old friend of mine.’

He looked at Chantale involuntarily. Chantale understood the look and didn’t mind. It wasn’t like the Chief of Police’s looks. This assumed that she was married and noticed only that it was not to an Arab.

She knew that it was improper, as a woman, for her to enter into the conversation herself, but couldn’t resist saying, ‘And are there children?’

She had half expected disapproval, or even reproval. Strangely, however, he seemed to seize on her question with relief.

‘We have indeed been blessed,’ he said. ‘She has two children already!’

‘And both boys?’ said Chantale, somewhat ironically, assuming, from the fact that they were blessed, that they must be boys.

‘One boy, one girl. I know what you are thinking, Senora, and I assure you I would have been nearly as happy if they had both been girls.’

‘This is, perhaps, the great blessing,’ said Chantale.

‘That is what Aisha would have said!’

Talking to Chantale, he seemed to relax.

‘I had feared — she was getting rather old, you see, and showed no inclination to get married. “There is time enough,” she said. But she was nearly thirty! And no one seemed to please her. It didn’t seem to bother her. “It is different here,” she said, and I think she relished her freedom.’ He shrugged. ‘But there came a time when it became expedient for her to go back to Algeria, and then I was able to arrange marriage for her. With some difficulty,’ he added. ‘Since she was so old and so… unbiddable, I was going to say, and that would not be right, because in the end she fell in with my wishes. Independent, shall I say, as young women here, in my experience, seem to be.’ He looked at Chantale again. ‘And you, yourself, Senora? Have you children of your own?’

‘Not yet,’ said Chantale, feeling a bit uncomfortable, as if she was committing herself too far.

‘May you also be blessed!’

‘Your daughter left for Algeria shortly after Tragic Week, I gather?’ said Seymour.

‘That is so, yes.’

‘She was not involved in the events of Tragic Week herself?’

‘No, no, no, no! Certainly not!’

‘I wondered if her sympathies had been involved?’

‘Sympathies?’

‘I wondered what had driven her to try and smuggle a present to Lockhart in his cell.’

There was a long silence.

‘You know that, do you?’ said Farraj eventually.

‘Yes.’

Farraj sighed. ‘I was against it. But… she was persuaded.’

‘Who by?’

Farraj gave no sign of having heard the question.

‘It was little that she was asked to do. And she remembered Lockhart from the old days. He used to sit her on his knee. As a child,’ he added hurriedly. ‘As a child! “I know you don’t think it right, Farraj,” he used to say to me, “but in Scotland it is right!” And I didn’t mind. She was just a child. But she remembered those days, and she felt sorry for him. And, yes,’ he sighed, ‘I suppose she did feel for those involved in Tragic Week. It was hard not to feel caught up in it. Even I, even I…! And you must understand that we had friends in Barcelona. In the docks. I did a lot of business there. And when we heard the dock people were among those being shot down… So, yes, perhaps it was not too difficult to persuade her. Her sympathies were, as you say, involved.’

‘But she also had feelings for Lockhart, you said. ‘

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And so she would not have known what she was passing in to him?’

‘What was she passing in to him?’

‘What killed him.’

‘She certainly did not know that,’ said Farraj quietly.

‘And you, did you also not know that?’

Farraj looked at him levelly. ‘No. I suspected. Afterwards. When I heard that he had been poisoned. And heard the rumours. But not before, Senor, not before. And if I had, I would not have let her do it.’

‘Why, then, did you hastily send her to Algeria?’

‘Because she told me the little she had done. And I saw at once that she would be implicated. I did not want her to suffer. Who knows, with the Spanish police, what she might have had to undergo? And even if she was released, what she would still have to suffer afterwards? What hope would there be now of marriage? Better to get her out, and, fortunately, I was able to find an old friend who didn’t mind. Who was prepared for my sake to marry her.’

As they were leaving, Seymour said, ‘And you are not going to tell me who persuaded her to do it?’

Farraj shook his head firmly.

‘One does not betray one’s own kind,’ he said.

Back in the hotel, Seymour was sitting in the vestibule waiting for Chantale to come down so that they could go out to dinner. He heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up. It wasn’t Chantale, however, but Nina. She hesitated for a moment and then came over and sat down beside him.

‘My mother will be down in a moment,’ she said, as if this boldness needed explanation.

‘And so I hope, will Chantale,’ said Seymour.

There was a slightly awkward pause. Nina did not seem to invite conversation but he thought that this was awkwardness, shyness, perhaps, rather than hostility.

‘You have had a good day at school?’

‘Every day is a good day at school.’

‘You have found your vocation, clearly.’

‘Yes.’

There was another awkward pause.

‘It is a responsibility,’ said Seymour, ‘and a rather demanding one, I would think. Are there just the two of you?’

She fired up defensively.

‘We can manage,’ she said.

‘I am sure you can. Certainly the teaching. I have seen you, and am most impressed.’

She looked at him suspiciously.

‘No, I mean it. I certainly couldn’t do it.’

‘Men are less good at this sort of thing,’ said Nina forgivingly.

‘And what about the administrative side? Do you have to do that as well?’

‘We have a parents’ committee.’

‘And that is all?’

‘Anarchists do not believe in unnecessary administration. We are opposed to bureaucracy.’

‘Yes, of course. I was just wondering if you had any support from outside.’

‘We don’t need support from outside.’

‘I was thinking of the chance to share views, pool experience.’

‘Well, that might be wise,’ said Nina, considering. ‘But there aren’t any other anarchist schools near us.’

‘There are anarchists, though?’

‘Oh, yes. It is a growing movement.’

‘And do you have much contact with that wider movement?’

‘We are too busy, really Perhaps we should.’

‘You sound very much on your own.’

‘Anarchists believe in self-reliance.’

‘Yes, of course. But sometimes ploughing a path of your own can be very lonely.’

‘Esther and I support each other. And we get support from the parents. Perhaps,’ she admitted, ‘not a lot of support. But Esther says that is always the case with parents.’

‘And your father, how did he fit in? Was he part of the wider movement or was he just, well, interested in the school? Because you were?’

‘Well, I think he was generally interested in anarchist education. He was interested in education of all kinds. Perhaps because he thought that, having been to an English public school, he had never had one. But, perhaps, yes, he was particularly interested in what we were doing because it was me.’

‘He didn’t put you in touch with anarchists outside?’

‘No, no. He didn’t really know many anarchists.’

‘You know, that surprises me. What about the fishermen? Aren’t they anarchists?’

‘Well, they are and they aren’t. They have a lot in common with anarchists, they are against authority, for example, and very self-reliant. But they are not — not very theoretical. Well, you wouldn’t expect it. In fact, my father rather liked that. “They’re practical people,” he used to say. “They just get on with it.” I don’t think he talked much about anarchism with them. They’re not — not the sort of people to have that kind of conversation.’

‘Do you have that kind of conversation with them?’

‘Not really. They’re very conservative. They don’t really talk much to women they don’t know. They don’t talk to anybody much, really.’

‘So your father’s contacts with them were not really anarchist contacts but more a matter of business?’

‘Not just business. He liked them and tried to help them. He gave them money sometimes.’

‘And then, of course, there was the smuggling.’

Nina stood up.

‘Senor Seymour,’ she said, ‘I think you’re fishing for information.’