The White Schooner (7 page)

‘There’s only one subject which interests him,’ said Manuela.

‘What’s that?’ Ilse Berch rattled the ice cubes in her empty glass.

‘
Mister
Kyriakou,’ said Manuela.

The Greek jerked himself and the chair back into an upright position and took the cigar out of his mouth. ‘You wanna be careful what you say, baby.’ The way he looked at her, the menacing voice, made Black believe all he’d heard of him.

Manuela must have realised she’d gone too far. ‘I’m sorry, Kirry,’ she touched his arm. ‘I didn’t mean it. But you were being lousy. I said it to hurt. I’m sorry.’

‘Okay,’ said the Greek giving her a long hard look. ‘I’m glad … for your sake.’

Ilse Berch tried to gloss things over with a change of subject but it didn’t work. The tension between Manuela and Kyriakou, blown up so suddenly, hung in the air like a bad smell. Black decided it was time to leave. He didn’t want to get involved in another fracas like that in the ferry, and he realised that to sit there much longer was tempting fate for it was a high probability that sooner or later Hassan would appear. It was said on Ibiza that if you sat in front of the Montesol long enough you saw everybody you knew go by, and he had every reason to believe it was true. As he walked away he thought of Manuela, and because he was beginning to like her he worried.

Why was she mixed up with the Greek? They weren’t
remotely the same type. What could they have in common? Was it just that he represented a meal ticket, that she liked life on Ibiza, playing at painting, loafing around? And the Greek made it possible?

She was afraid of Kyriakou, he could see that, so why didn’t she go? Reluctantly he accepted that there was only one rational explanation: she couldn’t break away because she was under some sort of obligation. And it wasn’t too difficult to imagine what that was. She was hooked. Maybe she was one of the Greek’s pushers, just as George Madden was likely to be another.

And if that was her position, what would happen to her? Life itself didn’t last very long for a junkie. The only comfort he could find in these rhetorical questions was her appearance. Although there were heavy shadows under her eyes and she looked fragile, she didn’t appear to be on the point of collapse, she was not withdrawn, and her morale was good. Maybe it was still only hash and LSD. But if so it wouldn’t be long before it was the amphetamines and heroin. Not if she hung around Kyriakou much longer. Vague notions of rescuing her, of some absurdly quixotic act, floated through his mind until he thought of Kagan and jerked back to reality. He wasn’t on Ibiza to solve the problems of feckless young women, however attractive. He sighed. He hadn’t learnt much about life in his thirty-five years. Least of all where women were concerned.

Soon after Black had gone Kyriakou suggested to George Madden that it would be a good idea if he made himself scarce, and the young man, looking mildly surprised, dragged himself from his chair, said, ‘Be seeing you,’ and shuffled off.

Kyriakou watched him go and then turned on Manuela. ‘Why the hell you ask Black to sit here?’

‘Why not? I couldn’t leave him standing there, gaping at me. It was what I’d do for anybody. Anyway, who asked him to join us in the steamer the other night?
You.
That’s how I got to know him.’

The Greek chewed on his cigar, frowning. ‘That’s different. Then you had trouble with Tino Costa and the Englishman helped you. I wanted to teach Tino a lesson.’ Almost as an afterthought he added, ‘I wanted also to find out more about Black.’

‘Why?’ She opened her handbag, took out a comb and used it on her hair.

‘This is my business.’

‘And did you?’

‘Enough. Enough that I know it’s not good for you to be too friendly with him.’ He disgorged an olive pip, took a toothpick from the glass on the table and began picking his teeth.

Manuela looked at herself in the compact mirror, moving her head from side to side. ‘I’m not getting too friendly with anyone.’

‘I see how you and Black look at each other and talk. He likes you. You like him. First many hours’ talk with him in the steamer. Then long talk next morning at Garroves. Now …’ He threw up a hand as if he were getting rid of it. ‘This morning, you sit here and talk cock with him about art. You don’t talk with me like that.’

‘Charming, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘So. What’s your
complaint
?’

The Greek’s eyes gleamed. ‘Don’t forget. You need me, my leetle one. You
need
me.’

‘Maybe. But maybe not all that much.’

Kyriakou held out his hands in a gesture of appeal, the toothpick in one of them. ‘Look, baby. What we fighting for? You know I go for you in a big way. Why you want to crucify me? Why you cheek me in front of heem?’

‘I’m not crucifying you, Kirry.’ Her manner changed and she spoke gently. ‘But you’re being silly about a guy I’ve just met who means nothing to me.’

Kyriakou looked round at the adjoining table to make sure he was not being overheard. He lowered his voice. ‘Manuela. I don’t trust Black. That ees why I’m worried. I getta tip from—’ he paused, rolling his eyes, ‘a
friend.
Now they begin to step up drug law enforcement. Plant
informadores.
I know.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘I’m wise guy, baby. Black could be a plant. Nobody here knows about him. He never give
information
about himself. What he’s doing for the rest of life? I mean before he comes here coupla months ago?’

Manuela put the comb and compact back into her bag and snapped it shut. ‘You think I haven’t noticed that?’ She glanced quickly at the Greek. ‘Don’t act so dumb, Kirry. Why d’you think I’ve been nice to him? The better I know him,
the better my chance of finding out if he’s working for the police. I want to get to know him a
lot
better.’ She smiled coquettishly.

Kyriakou looked at her with a mixture of admiration and suspicion. ‘Okay. But don’t make too much with the act. If you want to give favours, remember Kirry is top of the list.’

‘I’m not handing out those sort of favours,’ she said. ‘Not yet anyway. You should know that.’

He put his hand to his forehead and grimaced with imaginary pain.
‘You
tell
me!
You driving me crazy.
Not
now
Kirry.
You
must
wait.
Another
time,
Kirry.
What’s wrong with you? It’s not the crown jewels you know.’

‘Why bother about me, then?’

‘You know why?’ He banged the table and the glasses shook. ‘Because I’m crazy about you. That’s why. I say to myself every morning when I wake up. I say. Be a man, Kirry. Forget this bloody girl. Always plenty nice girls waiting for you. But I can’t forget Manuela. Every time you come to me and say, “
Give
me
some
hash,
Kirry.
I
want
to
make
a
trip.
Give
me
some
acid,
Kirry.
I
want
to
get
high.
”
I give it to you. And you? You give me
nothing.
Not right like thees.’ He shook his head. ‘Not right.’

‘You’ve got other girls.’

‘They
’re nothing.
Nothing.
Not same like you. I want you.’

The thin man with the dark glasses and the christ-beard got up from his table, walked down to the corner and turned into Avenida Ramon y Tur. A few feet down it, leaning against the wall of the Montesol, was a man with a black beret and a mournful face. The thin man gave him the newspaper as he went by but no word was spoken, nor did they look at each other.

A few moments later the man with the beret read the pencilled message on the newspaper and moved round the corner of the building. He leant against the wall where he could see the tables on the pavement in front of the Montesol. Later, when Kyriakou and Manuela Valez got up to go, he followed them.

The yellow Land-Rover came in along the Figuretes road, turned left at the end and made for the harbour, keeping north of the
paseo
.

‘Not so fast, Juan.’ The tall man looked straight ahead, his lips barely moving, his thin body rigid.

The driver mumbled, ‘
Si,
señor
‚’
and slowed down. He was wearing the striped vest and bell-bottoms of a sailor.

When the Land-Rover reached the harbour it swung round opposite the customs shed and made up the quay, stopping close to where the
Snowgoose
was berthed. Astern of her lay the inter-island schooners, rust-streaked white hulls
contrasting
with red upperworks, yellow bowsprits and green sails. Farther up the quay, the fishing boats had hoisted nets to their mastheads to dry.

There was an odour of fish, of tar and paint and fuel oil in the air; and the noise of winches, of shouting stevedores, of chipping hammers, of throbbing diesels, and the cry of
seabirds
.

The Land-Rover stopped and the men in her looked over the water to the motor-cruiser coming across from the yacht moorings in front of the Nautico clubhouse. Van Biljon tapped his watch. ‘Pedro is five minutes late.’

Juan nodded. ‘
Si,
señor.
I expect he had trouble starting the engines.’

‘He should have been alongside when we arrived. The children will be here soon.’

‘
Si
,
señor.
Do not worry.’

The motor-cruiser turned in towards the quay and the note of her engines fell. Van Biljon sat motionless, watching the manœuvre, giving no sign to the man next to him of his elation, of the sensual pleasure he derived from the
Nord
win
d
’s
fine lines, the gleam of her enamelled hull as it reflected the light from the water, and the sparkle of sunlight from the windows of the deck-house. Built by Vospers, she had cost him thirty-five thousand pounds, but she had been worth every pound of it for she gave him many things: the thrill of high speed over water, the satisfaction—to him almost a
sublimation—of catching fish (Juan and Pedro had been fishermen before they came to him, and they knew the fishing banks as they knew the streets and alleys of the
barrio
sa Peña); the means to give pleasure to children; to get away from the island at any time he chose and to have privacy outside Altomonte. Above all, the boat satisfied his insatiable desire to possess fine things.

Juan got out of the Land-Rover. The motor cruiser was almost alongside now, fenders over the side, her bows coming up so fast on the stern of the
Snowgoose
that collision seemed inevitable. Then a deep throb reverberated over the water as her engines were reversed, water cascaded from her stern and she lay parallel to the quay, a few feet from it. Juan took a bow-line from Pedro and slipped it over a bollard, then a stern-line, and the boat was warped alongside. The two men called to each other, laughing at something in a ribald way. Juan went back to the Land-Rover. He opened a door and van Biljon passed him his duffel coat, binoculars and camera. Stiffly, awkwardly, the old man got out of the car and, helped by his servants, climbed aboard the motor-cruiser. He went at once to the after cabin, where the curtains were drawn.

The two sailors stayed on the quay, enjoying the warm
sunshine
. They talked about the
Snowgoose,
admiring with the
professional
eyes of seamen her fine lines and high masts and
rigging
. In the bows of the schooner Dimitri was sewing canvas. Kamros sat on a box beside him, legs crossed, smoking a pipe.

‘She must have big engines,’ said Juan. ‘See the size of the exhaust outlets.’

Pedro grunted. ‘She is the boat of rich people. They always have the best.’

‘
Nordwind
is a fine boat,’ said Juan. ‘But I wish she also had sails. Such are more of the sea.’

‘
Nordwind
has mighty engines. Great speed. Radar. A boat cannot have everything.’

From behind them came the sound of children singing. A bus drew up and the singers swarmed out. The driver, a gnarled bent man, called to Pedro and Juan. They went over and he handed down baskets of food. Having undertaken to be back on the quay at five, he drove off.

A teenage boy and girl were in charge of the children from whom came a happy clamour. The teenagers marshalled them into some sort of order and Juan addressed them, outlining
the plans for the day and the disciplines which had to be observed: no climbing on to bulwarks or guard-rails, and no visits to engine-room or wheelhouse unless by invitation. When he’d finished, the teenagers led their charges across to the
Nordwind
and helped them aboard. Soon the
motor-cruiser
was overrun with children and their shouts and laughter drowned most other sounds.

Juan and Pedro carried the lunch baskets on board. After reporting to van Biljon, Juan went to the wheelhouse. Pedro cast off the bow and stern ropes, and bore off the bows with a boat-hook. Slowly
Nordwind
drifted clear of the quay, the note of her engines rose and a bow-wave formed as she gathered speed and made for the sea. Only when they had passed Botofoc lighthouse and altered course to the
southeast,
did van Biljon come out of the owner’s suite and join the children.

Many of them knew him, some well enough to run to him and hold their arms round his legs, reaching as high as they could, and since he could not smile he would touch their heads with the only gesture of affection left to him. He spoke to them in Spanish, asking what they had been doing at home and school and how their parents were. If they were new to him he would ask their names and question them about their families, and they would look at him with wide eyes, uncertain as yet of this old man with the scarred face whose eyes they could not see behind the dark glasses. But there was
something
in his voice which reassured them and soon they would forget their shyness and call him
tio
‚
uncle, and run off shouting to their friends.

It was a fine day, the sea calm under an almost cloudless sky. For these trips the weather was chosen with care, and the disciplines explained by Juan were strictly enforced.

When van Biljon reached the wheelhouse he ordered speed to be increased to twenty knots. Juan advanced the throttle and the
Nordwind’s
stern settled more deeply in the water, the hull vibrations increased and the deep note of the diesels rose.

They overtook the small ferry making for Formentera, and Punta Tramontana lighthouse on Espardell island grew taller as they approached, and soon fell astern. Fifteen minutes later they passed down the eastern side of Formentera, keeping a few miles off shore. Punta la Creu came out to meet them, and they passed El Pilar and followed round the heel of the
island. When the high lighthouse at Mola was abeam, they altered course to the south.

It was midday when they closed Abago, a small
uninhabited
island to the south of Formentera, and there were shouts of recognition from the children who had done the journey before.

Speed was reduced and they rounded the island and nosed into a bay on its south-western side. The anchor was dropped about fifty yards offshore, and the
Nordwind
swung head-on to a light breeze from the sea. The motor dinghy was lowered and after several journeys, Juan and Pedro had ferried van Biljon and the children ashore.

On the warm sand strewn with sea-weed, the children made stacks of shoes and socks and discarded items of clothing before splitting up into groups. Some went digging in the sand, others explored the rocky pools, and some played tag or rounders. The two teenagers were everywhere at once, enjoying their authority, encouraging, suggesting, cajoling and scolding. Van Biljon took no part in this but moved among them, saying little, a gaunt figure walking with a stick, the masklike face giving no indication of its owner’s emotions.

Juan and Pedro unpacked the baskets and prepared the lunch: water boiled in pots hung from iron tripods over a driftwood fire, and sausages spluttered and sizzled in big saucepans.

When all was ready Juan reported to van Biljon, then sounded a blast on a whistle. The games petered out and from the rocks and beaches the children came running. Lunch was soon in full swing, with much laughter and chatter and,
occasionally
, tears. Van Biljon sat on a rock outside the main group, a small boy and girl keeping him company. While they ate from heaped plates he spoke to them, but had no food himself. Juan and Pedro, busy handing out the meal, making coffee, tending the fire, exchanged odd snatches of conversation.

‘He is a strange one,’ said Juan. ‘So stern with men and women. So gentle with children.’

‘It is a madness,’ grumbled Pedro. ‘To spend all this money, to make all this work, for these ungrateful little wretches.’

Juan shook his head. ‘You have no children of your own. You do not understand.’

The other man chuckled. ‘None that know me.’

‘These children are poor. Imagine the joy this gives them.’

‘I imagine only the work it gives me, Juan.’ With a hairy forearm he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

When the last of lunch had been eaten, van Biljon told the children that he would take them inland to explore. There were excited shouts and they gathered about him in groups, asking questions. When they had put on their socks and shoes, he took up his stick and started stiffly up the sandy incline, plodding through the carpet of succulents and grass which bordered the beach. The children followed, crowding behind him at first, but dropping back until a long line had formed, the teenagers at its end rounding up stragglers, the older children close on the old man’s heels.

He would stop at times to point to a shrub or wild flower, telling them its name in Castilian Spanish and then its often different Ibizencan name. He would pick up a stone or touch a rock with his stick, tell them its geological significance and point to the ravages of wind and weather. Switching to the history of Ibiza and the other islands in the group, he would explain that the Greeks had given them the name
Pityusas
because
of the pines which covered them. He recalled the
original
names of the islands:
Augusta,
Ibosim,
Ebysos,
Insula
and many others, how their history was made, the comings and goings of sailors and merchants and warriors, the Chaldeans, Phoenicians, Egyptians, Carthaginians, Romans, Vandals,
Byzantines
, Moors, Turks, and in the end the Spaniards.

Somehow this elderly childless man, stern and remote, was transformed by the children. He seemed so well to understand them, what interested them, and how to communicate it.

The island was small and soon they reached the beach on its far side. There the children paddled and played on the sand while Arturo, the teenage boy, was sent off by van Biljon to lay a paper trail back to the beach where they had landed. While he was away the children gathered round the old man who explained a paper chase. Some had played it before, but to many of the smaller ones the game was new. Presently he sent them off in groups, the youngest first, and soon the chase was on, the children spread out in a long sinuous line, their cries carrying back in the wind. Van Biljon came up behind, two small children with him.

At first they walked in silence, then the little girl said, ‘Why is it called a
chase
?’

‘Because Arturo is trying to escape and the others are
chasing
him,’ said van Biljon.

‘Then why does he leave little bits of paper to guide them?’

‘Those who are chased always leave things to guide their pursuers,’ said the old man. ‘Like the fox who leaves his scent.’

The little boy said, ‘Is the fox frightened?’

‘Very,’ said the old man.

‘Why?’

‘He knows if the hounds catch him they will kill him.’

‘Will Arturo be killed?’ said the little girl.

Van Biljon looked at the dark upturned eyes and patted her head. ‘No. It is just a game. They will not harm Arturo.’

‘Why do they kill the fox?’

‘Because they think he has done wrong. Stolen their fowls and ducks perhaps, and sometimes lambs.’

‘Why does he?’

‘For food. He has to live.’

They walked on in silence, the old man’s stiff gait somehow matching in pace the runs and jumps of the children. The little girl said, ‘I don’t think it is a nice game,
tio.
It is cruel.’

‘The chase is part of life,’ said the old man. ‘Life is cruel. We are all pursued at times. In many different ways, by many different things. Sometimes it is only in our minds, but we are afraid, and like the fox we suffer.’

A big boy appeared suddenly over a sand dune, running back to them, breathless and excited. ‘They caught Arturo,’ he cried. ‘They caught him. I saw it happen.’ He pointed to the top of the sand dune.

‘Poor Arturo.’ The old man said it heavily, and the children tightened their mouths and were sad.

The
Nordwind
got back to Ibiza in the late afternoon and made slowly up the harbour, crowded with children who were tired but determined to miss nothing. Van Biljon was in the wheelhouse talking to Juan.

‘When did she arrive?’ He was examining the
Snow
goose
through binoculars.

‘Three days ago, señor,’ said Juan.

‘To whom does she belong?’

Juan turned the wheel to port and closed both throttles. ‘Two young men. One French, the other German. They are writing a book about the Mediterranean islands.’

‘She is a fine schooner,’ said van Biljon. ‘They must have much money.’

Juan grunted, put his head out of the bridge window and shouted to Pedro who was talking to the children. Pedro left them and began putting fenders over the side. The
Nordwind
’s bows came round to port. Juan put the port engine half-astern and the starboard engine slow-ahead. The motor-cruiser trembled and the air vibrated with the noise of the exhausts. As the boat closed the quay astern of the
Snowgoose,
van Biljon looked through a wheelhouse window at the knot of people on the quay.