Seven Lies South

8

The next day was fine, and the bullfight was a very good one. Everything seemed vivid and gracious in the brilliant sun, the flags and bunting on the railing of the president’s box, the Spanish women with mantillas and flowers, and the matadors performing like golden mannequins with six handsome bulls from the ranches of Don Angel Arisco. Ears were cut, wineskins and bouquets showered the ring, and the band played gay, triumphant music. Beecher saw Lynch in a barrera seat, applauding vigorously, and the Frenchman, Maurice, in the company of an American with a long cold face. Neither of them saw him; he had chosen seats high in the sombra to spare Laura the details of the pic-ing and killing.

Afterward they drove up the hills behind Málaga to a restaurant which overlooked the city and the sea. From their table they could see the bullring, empty now, a small brown bowl half filled with light from the setting sun.

“Well?” Beecher asked with a smile.

“I loved it. There’s a reaction setting in, I think, but I loved every minute of it.” She wore a slim black dress with a red flower pinned to her shoulder, and she looked exquisitely lovely, Beecher thought, with the excitement in her eyes and face, and the wind brushing her smooth blonde hair.

They ordered a simple dinner, sole amandine and artichokes with lemon mayonnaise. They decided against dessert, but had coffee with sol y sombra, “sun and shade” — anisette and brandy. They talked through two pots of coffee and when Beecher paid the bill the night was dark and cool and a crescent moon was riding above the sea.

They drove down the winding road with the mountain wind blowing against the sides of the car.

“Would you like to go swimming?” Beecher asked suddenly.

She shivered. “I’m blonde and Nordic, but I’m no polar bear.”

“I meant in my pool.”

“Well, that’s different.”

“We’ll stop at your hotel for a suit.”

“That seems like a lot of bother,” she said.

“How can you swim without a suit?”

She looked at him and laughed. “Would it embarrass you if I swam nude? The moon isn’t full.”

“If I had a heavy-handed touch, I’d say, ‘More’s the pity, my dear.’”

“Well, thank goodness you don’t.”

Beecher changed into trunks in his bedroom, and Laura undressed in the thatched bathhouse beside the pool. When he started down the garden path, carrying a tray of hot tea and a bottle of rum, he saw that she was already in the water, her blonde head smooth and bright under the soft moonlight, and her arms and legs shimmering and unreal beneath the green water.

“Come on in,” she called to him. “It’s perfect.”

Beecher put the tray on a table between two reclining chairs. He had no robe to offer her, but he had brought down towels, and a terry-cloth shirt which would probably hang to her knees.

The water was fresh and cleanly cold. Beecher swam several lengths to warm himself, and then let his body rock lazily with the miniature waves surging back and forth across the pool.

“Not too cold?” he asked her.

“It’s wonderful.”

They said nothing after this, and there were no sounds around them but the murmuring splash of water against the sides of the pool. But Beecher was tense with the awareness of her presence. He couldn’t help but be; the pool was very small. They were both trying not to be self-conscious, he thought, pretending this was as casual as swimming in the sea in bright sunlight; but they were avoiding each other scrupulously, keeping far apart to minimize the chance of even an innocent contact.

Finally she swam swiftly toward the ladder. Beecher waited until she had dried herself before joining her. She sat in the reclining chair, his terry-cloth shirt tucked around her knees and her slim calves bare and shining in the moonlight. “Cold?” he asked her.

“Yes, a little.”

Beecher put the towel over her legs and tucked it around her feet and ankles. He poured hot tea, added a splash of rum, and handed her the cup.

Beecher saw that her eyes were unhappy. He sat down and took her hand. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know. Nothing.”

But he knew that her mood had changed. He smiled at her. “Come on, we’re friends, remember?”

“Everything seems so unreal here.” She turned and looked at him steadily, and he could see the shine of moonlit water in her eyes. “You don’t care so much about things you thought were important. It’s like waking up and finding that you’re a child again. Does Spain do that to everybody?”

“I don’t think you can blame old Spain. People find out about themselves by accident, as a rule.” He studied her shadowed face, trying to guess at her thoughts. “That can happen in a garden of palm trees or a telephone booth or a poker game.”

Beecher turned from her as he heard footsteps hurrying down the garden. It was Encarna, her white apron fluttering palely in the darkness. “There is someone to see you, Señor,” she said, in an unmistakably disapproving tone. “Señorita Ilse. Don Willie’s friend.”

Beecher frowned faintly. “Did she say what she wanted?”

“No, señor.”

“Will you excuse me a minute, Laura?”

“Yes, of course.”

Beecher put on his robe and slippers and went up to the villa.

Ilse stood by the fireplace in the living room, with a white leather coat belted tightly about her slender waist and her thick black hair swinging loosely to her shoulders. She looked as if she might have dressed in a hurry; her legs were bare and she wore no make-up except a vivid slash of lipstick.

“Hello, Mike,” she said, with a small quick smile. “You must forgive me for coming here like this — barging in, that’s what you call it, I think.”

“Not at all. Sit down.”

“No, please, I’ll only stay a moment. I interrupted your swimming. This is really absurd. I feel foolish. I went to the village for cigarettes, but couldn’t find any. The newsstand, the Central, the Jerez...” She turned her palms up and smiled nervously. “They were finished, out, kaput. So I came up to — what is your word? — sponge, that’s it, to sponge some from you.”

Beecher smiled. “That’s what neighbors are for, Ilse.”

“Don Willie would be furious with me,” she said. “You mustn’t tell him I came to you. He thinks it is not prideful to ask for things — to beg, I mean.”

“That sounds like Willie.”

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing. Which do you prefer? Spanish or American cigarettes. I’ve got both.”

“The Spanish will be excellent. Thank you a million, as you say it.”

“Couple of packs enough?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You have plans with Don Willie, I hear,” she said, as Beecher got cigarettes from a carton on top of the mantel. “Selling stocks and shares, isn’t it?”

Beecher was about to tell her he had decided not to take Don Willie’s offer; but he realized that courtesy required him to make his answer directly to Don Willie. “Well, we’ve been talking about it,” he said.

“But isn’t it a gamble? You have a good life here. And you risk if for something that may or may not be good.”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet, Ilse. But it’s a job, and I need one.”

“But you need a good job.” There was a touch of color in her cheeks now, and her fingers were trembling as she plucked at the cellophane wrapping on the cigarettes. “This may not be a good job,” she said. “When Don Willie talks business I don’t listen too closely. I pretend to, but I am dreaming of sailing on a little lake surrounded by high mountains. So I know nothing of business. But he is worried about money, I know that.”

Beecher struck a match. “Here,” he said, and holding the flame to her cigarette he saw the soft pulse leaping at the base of her throat.

“Thank you, Mike.”

“Ilse, what are you trying to tell me? What’s this about Don Willie having no money?”

“I didn’t say that. I said he is worried about money, Mike. He is strong and clever, and he expects other people to be the same.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “He is good, believe me. He is honest and good. But weak people can be hurt by him. He doesn’t mean to. But it happens.”

Beecher watched her for a moment. Then he said: “Did it happen to you?”

“We are not talking about me.”

“You think I’m weak then?”

“You said at the party you were scared. I told you to stay that way, scared and safe. Can’t you just accept that?”

Beecher was embarrassed by her intensity, and her apparently neurotic anxieties, and he was relieved when the terrace doors opened and Laura came in.

“It’s too cold,” she said, hugging her arms about her body. Beecher’s terry-cloth shirt hung just above her knees, and her damp bare feet left narrow footprints on the tile floor as she crossed quickly to the fireplace.

“You remember Ilse, don’t you?” Beecher asked.

“Why, of course. Didn’t we meet at the Bar Central, or some place?” She smiled and put her hands out to the fire. “This feels heavenly, Mike. Could I have a drink, please?” She hadn’t glanced at Ilse.

Beecher suspected that she wasn’t just ignoring her; it was considerably more subtle than that. She was behaving as if there was nothing about her to ignore.

“Ilse was our hostess at Don Willie’s party,” Beecher said.

“Was she really?” Laura said, smiling. “But there was such a crowd. It was difficult to keep everybody straight.”

The exchange confused Ilse, Beecher could see; she didn’t understand all of it, but Laura’s tone had brought color into her cheeks. “I was not in fact the hostess,” she said. “In our villa there is only the host, Don Willie.”

“But you have your own special work to do, I’m sure,” Laura said lightly.

“Yes, I have a job, as you say.”

“And I’m sure you’re excellent at it.” Laura looked at Ilse for the first time, and there was the suggestion of a smile on her lips. “It was so nice meeting you again,” she said.

“Thank you.” Ilse’s body was rigid with embarrassment, but she managed a quick smile for Beecher. “I must go, Mike. Thank you again.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ll see you around.”

When Ilse had gone Beecher made a pair of drinks. “You need something to warm you up,” he said to Laura.

“What do you mean by that?”

He shrugged. “You were pretty rough on her.”

“Well, how did you expect me to react? I don’t have your Bohemian temperament, of course.” She took a quick swallow from her drink. “But give me time. I’ll get used to such things.”

“What the devil are you talking about? She came up here to borrow some cigarettes.”

“At this time of night. Oh, that’s good. And without stockings and damn little else underneath that contour raincoat of hers.”

Beecher saw with surprise that her anger was real. “Come on now,” he said smiling. “What she’s wearing or not wearing doesn’t prove much. You’re not exactly dressed for chapel, are you?”

“I know.” She sat down and pulled the hem of the terry-cloth shirt over her bare knees. “We’re sisters under the skin, I suppose, members in good standing of Beecher’s happy harem. Panting for action, all stripped down for the call to the master’s bed.”

“Stop it,” Beecher said sharply. “You’re talking like a fool.”

“I know it’s none of my business,” she said and struck her knee with the flat of her hand in impotent anger. “But you’re so much better than all this.”

“Than all what?” Beecher said quietly.

“This drifting along with cheap servants waiting on you hand and foot. Making a way of life out of denying the responsibilities of life. Waiting happily for some sex-starved Fraulein to pop in for the swing shift. What you don’t—”

“Shut up!” Beecher said quietly. “We don’t talk anymore tonight. Get dressed.”

“All right, Mike.” She stood up very slowly, as if all the buoyant strength had been drained from her body. “I’ll get dressed, Mike, I’m sorry.”

“I’ll send Adela down for your things. You can use my bedroom.”

“Thank you.” She was staring about as if she didn’t recognize the room, and Beecher saw the silver flash of tears in her eyes.

Without bothering to change, he went out and swung the Citroen about in the narrow parking area in front of his garage. With the motor idling softly, he lit a cigarette and frowned unhappily into the darkness. It was a lovely night, cool and quiet, with the stars standing out brilliantly. In the village the bars would be gay with music and people. But he was wondering what the devil had stirred her up; he was certain it hadn’t been jealousy, or an emotional reaction to a threatened pride of place. She was too sensible for that. And he guessed that her bruised feelings had nothing to do with him; they stemmed from her own worries and uncertainty. But this was something she might understand better after a good night’s sleep.

He smoked several cigarettes, lighting one from the stub of the other. Finally he glanced at his watch. A half-hour had gone by. He thought of honking, and then smiled faintly; it would hardly be tactful under the circumstances. Flipping away his cigarette, he returned to the villa. The living room was empty, and from the kitchen he heard the murmur of conversation between Adela and Encarna. He walked down the hallway to his bedroom. The door was open, and moonlight sliced through the grill-work of the window and made a checkerboard pattern on the carpeting and bedspread.

Laura was sitting with her back to him on the edge of the bed. She hadn’t removed his shirt.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t want to go,” she said, whispering the words.

“That’s all right.” He closed the door behind him and sat beside her on the bed. “You don’t have to go.”

“I’m so ashamed of myself. I’m so scared.”

“It can’t be all that bad,” he said and put his arm tightly about her shoulders.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she said, and he could feel her tears through the thin fabric of his robe. “When I get home.”

Beecher patted her shoulder gently. “There’s a guy at home, I guess.”

She nodded quickly. “Will this seem like a dream then?” She tried to laugh, but it was a sad little sound. “Par for a summer vacation in Spain? Or will it be the only thing that matters? I’m terrified of losing what’s real, Mike.”

“You’re too smart for that.”

“But don’t leave me.”

“You’re the one who’s leaving,” he said gently.

“Then I’ll stay here.”

Beecher thought about it. He ran a hand slowly over her smooth hair. There was no point pretending they could play house here like innocent little children. He knew the frenetic gossip of the village. And she’d get to know it, too.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

She sighed. “I said something wrong, obviously.”

“No, but listen to me; how much time do you have left?”

“Three weeks.”

“Will you spend them in Morocco with me?”

She didn’t answer, but he felt the quick nod of her head against his chest.

“We’ll go down to Rabat tomorrow night then,” he said.

“What do you mean? Are you going to take Don Willie’s job?”

“Don’t worry about him, okay?” Some day, Beecher thought, he would repay Don Willie for the flight. The silly old Prussian might have enough sentiment in him to appreciate playing Cupid’s aide-de-camp. But Beecher wanted no part of Don Willie’s job in Morocco; that would be just another slice of unreality. He had what he wanted in his arms now. And he didn’t intend to let her go.

He tilted her chin and looked into her eyes. The moonlight filled them with silver.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes, dear God.”

She turned from him and lay back on his bed, and the loose shirt fell open, and her skin gleamed like limestone in the light of the moon.

Once — much later — she stirred suddenly and raised herself on an elbow. A strand of her blonde hair fell across his eyes, waking him.

“What is it?”

“Will your Spanish maids be shocked by my staying here?”

“Go to sleep,” he said, and pulled her back into his arms. He was amused by her guilty little question.

“Maybe we could slip away early in the morning.”

“It’s already early in the morning.” The first gray streaks were on the horizon, and the light in the room had the texture and color of pearls; he could see the soft gleam of her smooth brown thighs, and the vivid white line made by the shorts of her swimming suit.

She said sleepily, “I wouldn’t want them to think I was just another little American tramp.”

“Another? You’ve got a funny notion of the traffic around here.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Might be a song title there,” Beecher said, but she was already asleep, breathing deeply and warmly against his shoulder.