Seven Lies South

6

The irishman’s pub had the dimensions of a railway coach; it was a narrow and dimly lit haven for anyone weary of castanets, flamenco, and the bright, boisterous tones of the Spanish bars and cafés. There were murals of city scenes done in a heavy black line on the blue-gray walls, and no entertainment except muted recordings of show tunes, and an occasional irrelevant bit of Gilbert and Sullivan. The Irishman served free hors d’oeuvres, and the bar was stocked with Scotch and Irish whiskies, bonded American bourbons, and French cognacs. When business slacked off for any reason, the Irishman, who was a shrewd practical psychologist, simply raised his prices, and this brought the crowds back in a hurry. The prices at the Irishman’s were a stable complaint of the foreign colony, and anyone who hadn’t suffered them at firsthand was bound to feel left out of things.

When he came in Beecher saw that Trumbull and Nelson were sitting alone at a table in the rear of the room. They looked mournful and tight. Beecher joined them and introduced Laura, which caused them to perk up immediately.

“Bastard’s going home,” Nelson said, pushing ineffectually against Trumbull’s big shoulder. “Defecting. Bloody coward.” He took Laura’s hand and stared at her solemnly. “Welcome to Spain.”

Beecher ordered drinks. Laura was delighted with Trumbull and Nelson, he could see, and they were fired by her attention, flattered by her smiling and incredulous reaction to their nonsense. She made them feel important. They wanted to tell her how it was, how it had been, how it would be. Any good-looking young girl would have made the same impression on them, he decided philosophically. They hit it off with her instantly and intimately, and he realized that he did not; the touchstone was their youth, the warm and sympathetic awareness of sharing the same niche in time.

“Will you excuse me a second?” he asked.

“Formality, yet,” Trumbull said. “To the latrine and be done with it, O lurking conscience in our wee-wee Gomorrah.”

“Gomorrah and Gomorrah and Gomorrah,” Nelson intoned in sepulchral tones. “Creeps in this petty place abound and abound and abound.” He began to sing. “Sodom-day I’m going to murder the bugg-er.”

Laura was laughing. “Please stop it. You’re both crazy, you know that, don’t you?”

Beecher walked to the bar and sat down. He felt tired and old. The Irishman said, “What’s your pleasure, Mike?”

“Nothing, thanks. I’ve got a drink at the table.”

“Lovely girl. I haven’t seen her before.”

“She’s just off the boat. Passing through.”

“That’s too bad. She’s very attractive.”

The Irishman’s name was Donald O’Brien. He was slender and handsome, with brown wavy hair, friendly eyes, and sharply defined features. His complexion was Irish, fine and pale, with touches of vivid color just above his cheekbones. His manner was reserved but friendly, and rumors attached themselves to him like steel filings to a magnet; in a society in which everyone was addicted to confessional outpourings, the Irishman was that frightening and mysterious person who kept his mouth shut and minded his own business. Lacking the concrete material of scandal, the village invented it; it was said that he was up to his pink ears in smuggling; that he kept a harem of black and white girls in Tangier; that he liked men; that his bastard son would one day sit in the House of Lords. The speculation had eventually taken on the misty and wondrous colors of mythology. No one believed them for a moment; the Irishman was protected by the need of people to exaggerate, and then to deny the truth of their own inventions.

And the Irishman went on keeping his mouth shut.

One night Beecher had fallen asleep on a beach a dozen miles from the village. He had been waked by a creak of oars, the sound of low voices. Sitting up he had seen the silhouette of a motor launch against the blurred horizon. Beecher had wanted no part of this, but while getting into his clothes someone had seen him; in a moment he was facing a group of Spaniards and talking to the Irishman.

“Your boat?” Beecher had said, with the inane feeling he had when making conversation at a cocktail party.

“As a matter of fact, yes. She’s registered in Tangier. The captain’s got engine trouble. Brought her over for me to take a look at it.”

Ten yards away from them stood an orderly heap of boxes and cartons piled up on the beach.

“That’s nice,” Beecher had said, ridiculously. “Awkward if you’re seen. People always chatter about such things.”

Beecher had wondered then how it was going to turn out; they’d hardly shoot him on the beach, he decided.

“Well, you can’t blame them,” he said. “People like things tricked up. The simple explanation doesn’t satisfy them. I prefer the easy way. Accept what’s offered. It’s usually true.”

“That’s a good way of looking at it.”

There was a pause, a silence. Then the Irishman had made up his mind. “Good night, Mike. Stop by when you can at the bar. I think we may be getting some good whisky in.” That had been a year ago. They hadn’t mentioned the incident since. And they were still friends.

Now Beecher lit a cigarette and drummed his fingers on the bar. “Don Willie’s offered me a job, Donald. Selling stocks and bonds in Rabat. How does that sound to you?”

“Hmm. Might be a good thing.”

“For me or him?”

“Well now, Mike, that’s hard to say. Here, let’s have a peg.” The Irishman poured two generous dollops of Bushmills into a tall glass, added cubes of ice, and made a concession to form with a splash of water. “All the best, laddie boy,” he said, and pushed one of the glasses toward Beecher. “Now what were you saying? Oh, yes. Don Willie. The job and all that.” He frowned faintly. “It’s a curious coincidence. I was thinking of asking you to come in with me, actually. I need someone who speaks the language and can keep tabs on the waiters. They’re a childish lot and not above pinching the odd peseta, you know. Would that interest you now, Mike?” Beecher smiled.

“You’re a liar, Donald.”

“On my word, Mike. I was thinking of it only yesterday.”

“Don Willie’s offer stinks. Is that what you mean?”

“Well, now, I wouldn’t be saying that, Mike. But you don’t have to accept it. Remember that.”

Beecher smiled again. “I’ve got two offers to sleep on now. I’m becoming a celebrity, Donald.” He realized abruptly that this was close to the truth; an odd lot of people were suddenly paying attention to him. He had lived inconspicuously in the village for two years, idle, insignificant, unimportant. Now things were starting to happen to him. It was flattering in a way, of course. But he couldn’t see any reason for it, and this disturbed him. “Thanks, Donald,” he said, and he wasn’t smiling any more. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Laura and Trumbull were chatting away, heads together over the table, but Nelson’s chair was empty.

“Where’s he gone?” Beecher asked.

“Gone for a Burtons,” Laura said, looking up at him with a smile.

“Now what’s that mean?” Trumbull asked her.

“I don’t know, it’s just something people say. When somebody’s late for an appointment, or leaves unexpectedly.”

“But it’s got to have a specific derivation,” Trumbull said, very heavy with logic and brandy. “Take good-by. Used to mean God be with you. Got contracted over the years. But everything’s got to have an origin.”

“Well, how about cum grano salis? What does it mean to take something with a grain of salt?”

“Don’t change the subject. Burtons is an English ale, right?”

They got on fine together, Beecher thought, sipping his drink. There was no strain between them; they had no compulsion to show off, to make jokes, to sound learned or wise. Youth called to youth in an exciting but uncomplicated voice.

“It’s RAF slang,” he said, to settle the issue. “Gone for a Burtons. When a plane was shot down, there’d be empty seats in the mess hall. Pilots coming in off leave would blurt out the inevitable awkward question. ‘Where’s So-and-So?’ The answer was, ‘He’s gone for a Burtons.’”

Beecher lit a cigarette and tried to drop the match into the exact center of the ashtray. “It was a little mannered, I suppose, but it kept things casual.”

They were silent a moment. The music was soft and sweet. “Sure, it’s mannered,” Trumbull said gently. “Gone for a Burtons. It’s also graceful, and it’s got some guts to it. Like chivalry and dignity, and all the rest of the stuff we think is so goddamned square today.”

Laura stared at the backs of her hands. “I feel like a fool. I didn’t know what it meant, Mike.”

Beecher felt irritated with both of them. They acted as if he were a stately old veteran in a wheel chair, beard blowing in the winds of yesterday. He represented the worthiness of time, emphasized their melodramatic youth. They were young, young, young, a generation standing on sand, bereft of their elder’s quaint old virtues and graces.

“You were with the RAF?” Trumbull asked him respectfully; he might have been talking about the Marne or Shiloh, Beecher thought.

“No, the Canadians,” he said. “I switched to the Air Force when America came in.”

“Blessed by the Gods of Time,” Trumbull said, shaking his head. “Born to glory, eagles against the sky. While we’ve got nothing to worry about but snuggling down into heavily mortgaged little suburban coffins.”

“Well, the recruiting offices are open around the clock,” Beecher said with a smile. “With luck, you might wind up running a PX on the moon.”

But the mood of the table had changed, gone flat. Beecher signed for their drinks, and they said good-by to Trumbull and went out to the car. The village was quiet and dark. They drove in silence along the coastal road to Laura’s hotel, with the mountains black beside them, and the sea hidden under floating white fogs that were forming in the cold winds.

Beecher felt clumsy and awkward. Everything had been fine until now, casual, light and amusing. But it had fallen apart in the last few minutes. And he guessed it was seeing her with Trumbull and Nelson that had done it; they had been so spontaneously happy and right with one another, recognitions made intuitively, formalities swept aside by their youth.

In the lobby of the Espada, Beecher asked her if she would like a last drink, or a cup of coffee, but she smiled and shook her head. “It’s been marvelous, but I’m tired, Mike.”

She didn’t look tired; everything about her was glowing, blonde hair and blue eyes, smooth bare arms and shoulders, all of it shining and precious in the dimmed lights of the lobby.

“I had a good time, too,” he said quietly.

“Mike, aren’t we silly? You haven’t said a word to me since we went to that funny little pub. What’s wrong?” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. “Aren’t we friends?” she said, smiling. “Are you going to call me tomorrow?”

Beecher was too surprised to say anything for an instant; he was conscious of nothing but the heat in his face and that he was grinning like a fool. “Yes, yes,” he said at last, almost blurting out the words. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, that’s better.” She winked at him, innocently but conspiratorially, and walked quickly to the elevators. He heard her humming softly under her breath, a Cole Porter melody that had been playing at the Irishman’s.