Message From Malaga (3 page)

“It was just that. The Republic was never given a fair chance. The anarchists had their ideas of how to dominate the scene; the communists had their own plans for coming out on top—anything that created a revolutionary situation was all right with them. So things went wild. Burning, looting, kidnapping, killing. Málaga had five years of that before the Civil War really got going. And you think no one remembers? Look—they have only to walk down their most important street—the one we have just passed through, all modern buildings and plate-glass windows. When you looked at it, what did you think all that newness meant?”

“I didn’t think. I just assumed. Natural growth of an active city.” Experience gap, thought Ferrier. He was being given a sharp lesson in the meaning of that phrase. But he had asked for it.

“Once, it had historical buildings, some fine architecture; a kind of show place. It also had rich families and art objects—an unhappy combination when anarchists are taking revenge. In 1936, it became a stretch of burned-out rubble.” Reid’s tone was quiet, dispassionate. In the same even way, he continued, “A couple of months later, the Civil War started. You know what that meant. Bravery on both sides; and cruelty, and hate,
and vengeance. At one point, the communists thought they were going to win, and that’s when they made sure the anarchists wouldn’t give them any future trouble. So it was ‘Up against the wall, comrade anarchist!’ Literally. In Barcelona—but you know about that?”

“I’ve read my Orwell. The anarchists were shot by the hundreds, even thousands, weren’t they?”

“Just after they had come out of the front-line trenches. Their rest period.” Reid shook his head. “I don’t know why that seems so particularly bloody in all that bloody mess. The right wing would call it poetic justice, I suppose. But I’ve never seen anything poetic in justice: it’s too close to reality. And the realities went on, and on, long after that war was over. Starvation and poverty—the outside world never heard the half of it. But what else do you expect from so much destruction? The food source was gone: cattle, fields, ranches, farms. And jails and executions for men who had jailed and executed others.” Again he shook his head. “The innocent suffered too—on both sides. They always do. Whether you won or lost in that war, there was plenty of misery for everyone.”

Civil war... “A lesson for all of us,” Ferrier said. “Don’t take anarchists or communists as your political bedfellows unless you want to wake up castrated.” The twentieth-century experience, he thought. “But the radicals never learn, do they?”

“Nor do some nationalists,” Reid said bitterly. “If trouble breaks out here again—” He didn’t finish that thought. “The hell with all extremists,” he said shortly. “Their price is too high.”

* * *

Ferrier’s thoughts came back to the courtyard. Around him, the tables were buzzing with talk; expectations were rising—
you could hear it in the gradually increasing volume of sound. Everyone was out to enjoy himself. Ferrier looked at Reid. “Sorry. My mind drifted. You were saying the Phoenicians—?”

“Not important. Just a footnote.” Only a brief remark to keep Ian from noticing this delay too much. It was ten minutes past one now. Four minutes to go. If this was an alert. “You know, Ian, you’re a lucky man. You have a job that’s worth doing, a job you like. You can keep your eyes fixed on the stars and not worry about politics.” Because that’s all I do now, Reid thought. I, too, have a job that’s worth doing, but before I entered it I hadn’t one idea of how much worry was needed over politics. The things that never get known, that can’t be published unless you want to throw people into a panic; the things that stand in the shadows, waiting, threatening; the things that have to be faced by some of us, be neutralised or eliminated, to let others go on concentrating on their own lives.

“Not worry?” That had caught Ferrier’s attention. “I wish I could keep my eyes on the stars instead of all that junk that’s floating through space.”

Reid studied his friend thoughtfully. “It’s more than junk that’s bothering you, isn’t it?”

Ferrier nodded. “What about a nice big space station up there? Not ours. What if a politically oriented country got it there first? One that doesn’t hesitate using an advantage to back up its demands?”

“Another blackmail attempt, as in Cuba?”

“1962 all over again. Except, this time, the rocket installations would be complete with armed missiles or whatever improvements the scientists can dream up,” Ferrier said bitterly. “And the whole, damned package would be right above our
heads, way out there.” He looked up at the sky. “Not to mention various satellites that now have their orbits changed quite easily to remote control. God only knows what they contain.” He tried to lighten his voice. “Well—one thing is certain. There is no future in being ignorant. Or in being depressed. You know what’s at stake and you keep your cool. If you don’t, you’ve had it.” He finished his drink, didn’t taste it any more.

Reid looked around for the waiter. “Where’s Jaime? Oh, there he is—transfixed by our fellow-Americans.” He clapped his hands to signal to the boy, small and thin, who had been standing against the rear wall.

Ferrier glanced briefly in Jaime’s direction, caught a passing glimpse of the back-corner table. Four pairs of eyes had been levelled at him—or at Reid. Four pairs of eyes automatically veered away as he noticed them. It was a very brief encounter, and if there hadn’t been that unified evasive action, Ferrier would have thought his imagination was playing tricks. “Ever seen these fellows before?”

“I’ve seen a thousand like them in the last three years.” Reid was concentrating on Jaime, who was just arriving with expert speed. “Like to try the wine this time? It’s local, out of a barrel, sweet but nourishing. There isn’t much choice, actually. This is grape territory.”

“I’ll stick with the brandy. Sweet but less nourishing.” And after Reid had given the brief order and Jaime, with a bright smile on his lips and in his eyes, had left them, Ferrier said, “I admire your Spanish. But doesn’t he know English? He seemed to be listening to what I was saying.”

“He’s learning. And if I know Jaime, he’s fascinated by your jacket. He’s going to save up and get one just like it.”

“One thing about Jaime—he could teach those fellows back at the corner table how to look cheerful.”

“You should see the village he comes from, back in the hills. It was one of those that almost starved—”

From the doorway came the sound of women’s voices, a burst of argument still going on, a quick command, silence. And then a rattle of castanets, light laughter. A clatter of heels came over the wooden threshold as four girls stepped into the open. There was a rustle of silk as wide ruffled skirts swept toward the stage in a mass of floating colour. Smoothly brushed heads, each crowned by one large flower, were held high, long heavy hair caught into a thick knot at the nape of slender white necks. Three profiles were turned just enough to let the courtyard see a long curl pressed closely against a barely pink cheek, dark-red lips softly curving, an elaborate earring dangling. The fourth girl, lagging behind although she walked with equal poise and dignity, paid no attention to anyone, not even to the quick flurry of guitars reminding her, with a sardonic imitation of a grand fanfare, that she was later than late. The male dancer greeted her with a burst of hoarse Spanish that set the others laughing. She tossed her head, drew the small triangle of fringed silk that covered her shoulders more closely around her neck, sat down with her spine straight and a damn-you-all look at the front tables. The longshoremen roared.

“Constanza,” Reid was whispering. “She’s always in trouble. But her temper improves her dancing.” He looked at his watch. Almost fourteen minutes. Tavita’s exact timing never failed to amaze him.

To Ferrier’s ear, there seemed to be some slight trouble at the rear of the courtyard, too: an American voice briefly raised
in anger, a sharp hiss from the neighbouring Spaniards that silenced it. He glanced back with annoyance, saw the youngest of the four—the bearded one—heading towards the wineshop, thought that this was a hell of a time to choose to go to the men’s room, looked once more at the stage. The girls, a close cluster of bright colours, were settled in their seats, leaving the last chair free. The singer and the male dancer stood behind the guitarists at the other end of the row. The lamps around the courtyard walls went out. A softer glow, as amber as candlelight, focused on the stage. Suddenly he was aware that another woman had entered from the door beside their table. Silence fell on the courtyard.

Good God, thought Ferrier as he glimpsed her profile. She brushed past them, paying attention to no one. Reid was no longer looking at his watch. The silence intensified.

She was taller than the others, Ferrier noted, and moved with a grace that was notable even by the dim light. She reached the stage, mounted it, walked its length toward the empty chair with that same effortless stride. Around him, the silence broke into a storm of welcome. He could almost feel the excitement that filled the courtyard before it swept over him, too. She was worth waiting for, this Tavita. A small delay, it seemed now, not worth noticing; a little time lag that had served to stir the emotions and rouse expectations. She was unique, no doubt about that, although she was dressed like the others in the stylised costume of flamenco. And it wasn’t her selection of colours that was so different—the others had made their choices, too, combining favourite contrasts to give variety. It was the way she wore the splendid clothes. She dominated them, made them part of her individuality.

She had reached her chair, sat down with her spine erect and head high, like all of them and yet like none of them, sweeping aside her wide skirt with a slender arm so that its rippling hem spread out on the wooden floor like an opened fan around her feet. The sleeveless top of her dress was black and unadorned. It moulded her body, from low rounded neckline down over firm breasts and taut waist almost to the line of her hips. There, the many-tiered skirt, black lace over red silk, belled out in a cascade of ruffles that ended above her ankles, dipping slightly in back almost to the heavy high heels of her leather pumps. These were the practical note, the classical shoes of the flamenco dancer, which could beat out lightning rhythms like a riffle on a drum. The small red shawl, fringed in black, was practical too: it covered the bare back and shoulders against the cool touch of early-morning air. But the flower in her elaborately simple hair was completely exotic, large, softly frilling, startlingly pink. She wore long earrings to balance the curl over her cheek, but no necklace, no rings, no bracelets. The bones of her face were strong yet finely moulded, cleverly emphasised by the skill of her make-up. Her large dark eyes were shining, her smile lingering. “Good God,” Ferrier said again, aloud this time.

Suddenly, without any apparent signal, any noticeable exchange of glances, the four girls rose and swept into a round with the first bright chords of the
sevillana,
paired off, laced, separated, came together again, filling the little stage with a swirl of skirts, a flurry of heels struck hard, a crack of castanets from upraised hands. The guitars quickened, heightened, their rhythms marked by hard hand-clapping from the singer and dancer. From Tavita, too. Her eyes were watching the stamping feet with
pleasure and excitement, her smile breaking into laughter. “Go! Go!” she called out to Constanza. “
Anda! Anda!
”

Reid was studying Ferrier’s face. “This is just for openers, you know. The individual dancing comes later.”

“They really enjoy themselves.” And I along with them. “Why the hell don’t I give up my job, move here, see this every night?” Ferrier settled back in his chair. At this moment, he thought, I am a very very happy man.

Reid said softly, as Jaime came out of the darkness and placed their brandy before them, “Excuse me for a few minutes, will you? This is just as good a time as any—Pablo will have to dance, Miguel to sing, Constanza or Maruja to demonstrate an
alegria,
before we get Tavita’s performance. Don’t worry, I won’t miss that. Hold the table. Some of the late comers are ready to pounce on any free space.”

Ferrier nodded, his eyes on the stage. But he was aware that Reid had moved, not toward the back of the courtyard, where others had previously sauntered out to the washroom, but through the door in the wall beside him. Special privilege, Ferrier thought, and was briefly entertained. And then he forgot about Reid as the climactic moments of the
sevillana,
with violent strumming and rapping on the guitars, wildly swinging skirts, rattling heels, lightning castanets, caught him up into the excitement of movement and colour and sound, a frenzied crescendo that ended abruptly, completely, jolting everyone into a shout of applause.

Reid slipped out of the courtyard into a room that was dark and silent. And oppressive; the collected heat of the day had been trapped under its heavily timbered ceiling. It was mostly used for storage: at one end, adjoining the wineshop itself, were grouped barrels, crates, sacks and cartons, their shapes vaguely outlined in the deep shadows. Someone had tried to cool the place and opened two of the shutters on the wall opposite the courtyard entrance, but the effort was only partially successful. Between the doorway where he stood and the barred windows, which were glassless, there was a hint of cross-ventilation, but the minute he started climbing the wooden stairs on his right, he felt the warm air close around him. It smelled of wine and wood, of leather and dust, with a touch of carnations from the perfume the girls liked to use. Their dressing-room was upstairs, part of a winding warren of little apartments. The men had their quarters on the ground floor, reached by a
passage that began somewhere under the staircase; there, the smell of wine and wood and leather would be mixed with cigar smoke, hair oil, and lime cologne. To a stranger, the geography of this interior would be completely baffling. To Reid, it was a matter of fifteen wooden steps that hugged the wall all the way up to the landing, where there were two naked light bulbs, a venerable clock that had never yet failed in its timing, and two entrances. The one on the left to the girls’ side of the house; the one on the right to Tavita’s own corridor. It was this doorway he chose.