Tango (22 page)

Sally had not been at home when he had got back that morning. She must have gone to work early. His dinner was still in the oven, which had been turned off, and she had left no note. Angelica,
the maid, was already there, back from her holiday. She had started on the washing. Diminutive and smiling, she behaved as if there were nothing unusual in his tired and unshaven appearance. No,
Señora
had left no message, only instructions about the washing, that was all.
Señora
had gone to work at her usual time.

William showered and tried to ring her but she was teaching. He did not feel guilty at having been away all night, only a little at having had breakfast in the covered market when he could have
got back. But it had been a very good breakfast. He and Theresa had laughed about Box and the coffin, she had talked of her brothers and sisters and had asked him about the Queen and Mrs Thatcher
who, along with Churchill, were the Britons most admired or known about. They had eaten a vast breakfast, drunk many cups of coffee and had finished with two or three glasses of whisky. She laughed
helplessly when he described Box’s tactics for street meetings, coughing over her coffee as she clutched his arm for fear she would fall off her stool. He felt a twinge of disloyalty in
holding Box up for ridicule, but twinges were bearable. After all, they were getting on with their task, no matter what the embassy people thought. When they parted she kissed him on the lips.

He tried ringing Sally from the office, but again she was teaching. Presumably she wasn’t too worried or she would have rung him.

There was sudden laughter from downstairs and a few seconds later Ricardo bounced up. He entered grinning and reached for William’s hand, taking it in both his.

‘William, I congratulate you. Now at last you are a man.’

‘I am?’

‘You have a mistress.’

‘A mistress?’

Ricardo threw himself into his chair and put his feet on the desk. ‘No man is really a man until he has a mistress. Of course, any man can have a wife, that is easy, but to have a mistress
– and such a mistress – is very good. You were seen at breakfast in the covered market. By lunch you will be famous. And to have the president’s mistress, that is really
something.’

‘Things aren’t always what they appear.’

‘That is English modesty. It suits you but it is not true. She looked tired and happy. You must have been making love all night.’

‘No, we weren’t.’

Ricardo held up his hand. ‘It was breakfast. You both ate a lot and you were happy. She was laughing. When you parted, she kissed you. A woman who does that has always been making
love.’

‘Who saw us?’

‘Manuel Herrera’s men. He told me this morning. I had to see him to make my report. I was very nervous because it was him, but he was all right. I had nothing to report’
– he grinned – ‘of course, but he did not mind. He said you are a sensible man. He will come to see you this morning but he said I must not be here so I will go for
coffee.’

‘He’s coming here?’

Ricardo stood. ‘Please – don’t tell him I told you. He must believe I am spying on you. What do you want me to do?’

‘You could go to the factory and find out what’s happening. I haven’t been able to get through to them this morning.’

Ricardo grimaced. ‘Not that kind of work. Spying. What spy work do you want me to do?’

William thought. ‘You can find me another car. My old one was stolen.’

Ricardo’s face lit up. ‘Another car? Any sort, any price?’

William remembered Box’s promise as to who would pay. ‘Any sort, any price.’

‘I will find you a beautiful car.
Chau
, William.’ He paused at the door. ‘We work together well, eh?’

William smiled. ‘We do.’

‘
Chau
, William.’

‘
Chau.
’

Manuel made no secret of his visit. His black Mercedes drew up by the orange-seller’s stall. He got out with two other men and spoke to the orange-seller. His step was light on the stairs,
his olive-greens were clean and pressed and he wore tight black leather gloves, which he removed delicately.

He could not stay long, he explained. It was a social call, one of what he liked to call his ‘pleasure visits’. Things were going well and he was pleased that William had heeded
their little talk on the beach the day before. He had done the right thing.

William smiled. ‘You are well informed.’

Manuel held up his hand, as Ricardo had done. ‘There is very little that escapes attention in this city, especially where women are concerned. Your companion for the night was an excellent
choice in every sense. Better that you spend your time with her than with the president. He will not want her as his mistress when he knows she is sleeping with you . . . as he shall, in good
time.’ His eyes rested steadily, almost warmly on William’s. ‘Also, I was never sure about that girl. Her attitude is suspect. Girls in general are not to be trusted. They are
confused and unpredictable. But it is better that she is with you than with the president.’

‘You know them well, these girls?’

‘Well enough to know that there are better choices a man can make.’ He continued to gaze warmly and assessingly at William. ‘Also, I have good news for you. The strike at your
factory will be finished. The workers will return this afternoon. It was a simple matter to resolve. We are keen to have more foreign investment, therefore strikes against foreign companies whose
attitude is favourable to us could be construed as sabotage. What is more, your Ministry of Information tender will be accepted. That should mean much business for you.’

William inclined his head. ‘This is all very unexpected.’

‘Of course, you may see the president whenever you or he wish. We would like you to see a little of him. It is important that he should feel he has friends who can reassure him, perhaps
even guide him. And it is equally important that you should feel free to discuss with me any worries that the president may confide in you.’

Manuel’s manner was soft but precise. His eyes never left William’s. William always felt uneasy in his presence, sometimes frightened. He had to remind himself that the man was not
invincible, that he didn’t like getting wet. But it was best to appear to go along with him.

‘I understand you.’

‘Good. There is one small question I have to ask: why should the British Embassy wish to see you this morning and send a car to pick you up and bring you back?’

The orange-seller, thought William. Box was right. ‘They asked me if I’d seen the president. They wanted to know what was happening.’

‘It is not usual for them to be so curious. The Americans, yes, they wish to know everything. But the British are not usually so interested. They have been trying to contact all sorts of
strange people.’

‘They are confused.’

‘Like the girls, yes. We men understand each other better, don’t you think?’ Manuel smiled. ‘We shall meet soon. It is important that we keep in touch, especially now we
are getting on so well.’

His apparent success made William more confident. ‘I have a question in return. The man on the beach I used to speak to, the tramp – what has happened to him?’

‘Ah yes, the nice old man. He has been re-housed.’

‘Where?’

‘In suitable accommodation provided by the government. It used to be the responsibility of the Church but, happily, the secular authorities now acknowledge their duties.’ Manuel
smiled again and stood. ‘I should not worry about it if I were you,
Señor
Wooding. That hut of his was really very cold and damp and rather insanitary.’

‘But he didn’t want to leave it.’

‘I’m sure he is happier where he is. He appreciates his new place; he has company there.’

‘He’s in prison?’

Mañuel appeared to give all his attention to pulling on his gloves. ‘I wouldn’t call it that.’

‘Who shot his dog?’

Mañuel stopped. He had one glove on and held the hand before him, fingers outstretched. ‘I did. What is it to you? It was only a dog.’

‘Today the dogs,’ said William, recalling
Señor
Finn’s words.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Tomorrow the people . . . But he was only a tramp, I suppose.’

‘Exactly.
Buenas días, Señor
Wooding.’

William stared through one of the clean panes of glass as the black Mercedes drove away. He had not started on a new pane since this business with Box, nor had he done any work to speak of. It
seemed to make little difference whether or not he tried; success or failure depended, as Manuel had just illustrated, on extraneous factors. Anyway, the company, the factory, London were hard to
take seriously any more. Perhaps he never had taken them seriously, not really, and only now was he realising it. His job was no longer the point, if it ever had been.

The fate of
Señor
Finn was something he couldn’t imagine. But although there was no positive image there was something there all the time, passively present, something that
would be sickening to know if he knew it. He kept recalling the lolling, glistening head of the prisoner.

He went downstairs, startling the two girls. Outside, the orange-seller stood with his hands in his pockets. He had not moved during his conversation with the men from the Mercedes and now
continued his unstinting stare at the shop door. William was pleased to see that his approach caused consternation.

‘
Buenos días, señor
,’ he said. The man grunted. ‘You have many oranges?’

‘
Sí.
’

‘But you do not sell many?’

‘Enough.’

‘I will help you. I will buy all your oranges.’

The man stared.

‘Yes, all. We have sacks in the shop to carry them in. I will pay now.’ He pulled out his wallet. ‘How much?’

‘No,
señor, imposible.
’

‘Why not?’

‘It is bad for trade.’

‘I will get the girls to fill the sacks.’

The girls enjoyed the job. It was something to do. They filled the sacks and William carried them in while the orange-seller watched in melancholy silence. When they had cleared his stall he
took William’s money as if it were a dismissal notice.

Afterwards William sat at his desk and stared again through the cleared panes. The orange-seller remained disconsolately by his empty stall. He had not moved but his posture indicated
despondency and confusion. Eventually he looked at his stall, then cautiously back at the shop and then very furtively up at William’s window. Finally, like one joining a funeral procession,
he took up the handle of the stall and left.

William was home early that evening. It seemed tactful. Besides, he was very tired and he thought that after an explanation to Sally and a meal he would go to bed. He had still
not managed to contact her.

She was not there. The flat was tidy, smelled of polish – Angelica’s work – and was filled with the warmth and light of the late afternoon sun. The wind had dropped and the
clouds had broken up, transforming the day. The sea was a flat pale grey, silvered by the sun and reflecting on the ceilings a clear shifting light. He pottered about for some minutes feeling
pleasantly unreal, knowing that if he sat he would sleep.

When Sally returned, she greeted him with a smile and a kiss. ‘I was getting worried. I thought you’d either been kidnapped by dancing girls or made president.’ She wore cream
and black, always a sign with her of confidence and good humour.

‘I rang several times but you were teaching.’

‘Yes, one of my full days today.’ She flung her handbag on to a chair and headed for the kitchen. ‘I’m very thirsty. Do you want a drink?’

‘Tea, please. Sorry, I should have been making it.’

‘I’ll do it.’

He sat with his eyes closed and let the sun warm his face, listening to the sounds of water, kettle and fridge. He could also hear birds and traffic and, distantly, the sea. It was pleasant to
do nothing.

‘Angelica was back today,’ she called.

‘I know. I saw her this morning.’

‘She’s done the ironing. She must have spent hours on these shirts – she’s still not as good as you, though.’

He dozed. Images of Theresa, the sea, the prisoners and coffins galloped in kaleidoscopic succession across his forehead.

‘What’s your secret?’ Sally asked when she came in with the tea.

‘What?’ He opened his eyes.

‘With the ironing. You must give her another lesson, show her what she’s doing wrong.’

‘I can’t. It’s temperament.’

‘But she must have the patience for it. She’s not like me.’

‘It needs passion.’

‘
Passion?
’ She laughed.

‘Passion for exactitude. You have to like being exact.’

‘I’d never thought of it like that.’

He described what had happened the night before. Relief that she wasn’t angry and pleasure in talking about it revived him. He even mentioned that he had had breakfast with Theresa. She
laughed at what he said about the orange-seller, at first refusing to believe him.

‘But that poor dog,’ she said when he had finished.

‘I know.’

‘Max was right. First they shoot the dogs.’

‘So was
Señor
Finn.’

‘But it really must be getting serious. Max said that there was a convoy of Russian lorries going into the palace this morning and one of the military airfields is now entirely Russian. He
said the Americans are evacuating some of their embassy staff.’

The telephone rang. She got up before he could. ‘It’s Ricardo,’ she said.

Ricardo’s tone was excited and conspiratorial. ‘William?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s me.’

‘Yes.’

‘I have a message for you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you listening?’

‘Yes.’

‘The message is from your friend of the night. I have seen her. She says the important visitors are coming tomorrow night. That is all.’

‘Thank you. If you see her tell her I’ll be in touch as soon as possible.’

‘She has gone home. She is not at work. She will come back tomorrow.’