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That inexplicably moving kiss caused me a good deal of self-examination and some considerable dismay—in the moments, that is, when I had time for anything but work. For as if he sensed that all was not well in my private world, Mr. Fitzgerald kept me hard and long and unremittingly at work. He also kept me at arm’s length.

Mr. Fitzgerald himself was very busy, of course. H.E. was due back on Saturday, and it was clearly a point of honour with the Head of Chancery that nothing unnecessary should be left over for Mr. Mallenport’s attention, on his return. Not a letter was left unanswered, not a directive unfulfilled, not a relevant file uncirculated, not a meeting unattended or unminuted, not a signal undecoded.

By Friday evening I was tired. I half expected Mr. Fitzgerald to make some mention that he would be handing over to H.E. tomorrow and that after that he wouldn’t be my overall master any more. I thought he might comment on my work. I knew that some parts of it had at least been good—good as Eve’s, Mr. Green had said, occasionally perhaps better. I thought Mr. Fitzgerald might also have said something. But he simply gave me his curt goodnight.

Though it was eight o’clock, he was still in Chancery when I left that night for the Residence. Mrs. Mallenport and Hester were dining at the Greens’—unwillingly, on Hester’s part, because Mr. Fitzgerald was duty officer and had therefore declined. The official car was waiting outside as the Land-Rover dropped me off at the Residence. Hester was giving herself a last look in the hall mirror. Mrs. Mallenport was pulling on her white kid gloves.

‘Now you will stay in and have an early night, won’t you, dear?’ Mrs. Mallenport asked solicitously, after remarking that I looked peaky. ‘Chico has already got you something rather special on a tray. Just ring when you’re ready.’

I waved them off and promised that I would. But I didn’t fulfil that promise. Nor did I even get around to ringing for whatever special Chico had prepared on the tray. Instead, within seconds of their departure, the telephone rang in the small switchboard off the hall.

I was halfway up the stairs, so I ran back and answered it. I had an idea that it was either going to be Don Ramon, unnecessarily reminding me of that unforgettable kiss and his remark about the woman he loved, or it was Mr. Fitzgerald finding some last-minute fault in the typing I’d just done. The thought of both contingencies made me breathless.

It was neither.

‘Madeleine?’ Morag’s normally soft voice came over the wire, taut with anxiety. She didn’t waste time in small talk. ‘Petiso’s scarpered. I suppose you haven’t seen him anywhere, have you?’

‘No, not a sign. I’ve just got in. But I didn’t see him on the way up here.’

She sighed.

‘How long’s he been gone?’

‘Long enough. He missed his midday meal, and now he’s missed supper. That means trouble.’

‘Have you any idea where he might have gone?'

‘I’ve an idea
why
. My fault. I had to tick him off this morning.'

‘Not pinching wallets again, was he?'

‘No, I think he’s cured of that. But he was hanging around yesterday, pestering customers at West Central Park. He’s not allowed there. If the police saw him he’d lose his licence.’

‘But they didn’t?'

‘Luckily, no. Eve saw him, from her balcony, and sent me a message.’

‘She would!’

‘Oh, yes,’ Morag replied warmly. ‘Besides having no hesitation in saying so.'

‘And you tore Petiso off a strip this morning?'

‘Rather more than a strip, really—at breakfast time. I also told him I'd stop his Hananda Day outing if he was caught at it again. He blubbed a while, then off he went, and that was the last I saw of him.’

‘Have you tried Don Ramón?’ I asked.

‘I have—I rang his house, but he’s out. I left a message.'

‘The police?'

Morag made an exasperated noise. ‘The police here are not like your friendly British bobby, you know. They'd go screeching around in their high-powered cars and try to round him up as if he were Al Capone. They’d scare him silly. He’d just make a run for the mountains.' She sighed.

‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked gently.

‘Oh, it's only a hunch, but he seems to have a thing about you. He knows I’m strict. Maybe I was too cross in front of the others, but Eve said . . She bit off her next words, and then went on, ‘I’d hoped he might make a beeline for you as his only friend.'

‘I’ll take a look round.’

‘Don’t look as if you’re searching,’ Morag instructed sharply, ‘or you’ll scare him off. Just take a stroll round yon Residence garden. But keep your eyes skinned.’

I put back the receiver as she clicked the line shut. I walked through the Reception room and out on to the verandah. I strolled up and down for a moment as if enjoying the night air, my eyes and ears alert. The garden was full of soft sounds and shadowy movements. Bullfrogs croaked, and stirred among the lily pads. A night bird beat its wings high in the dry rustling leaves of the banana palms. Some creature with scratching nervous feet scuttered along the flower bed. A shadow from the as yet unshuttered kitchen windows moved across the farthest lawn.

Unhurriedly I descended the terrace steps. I crossed the first lawn, past the stacked chairs and tables waiting to be arranged for tomorrow’s At Home, I circuited the tennis courts, where Mr. Fitzgerald played such a vicious game. I walked by the swimming pool. Once I had the prickling sensation that something followed me, but when I looked sideways, only my shadow was cast upon the smooth surface of the water.

Dejectedly, I walked down to the farthest part of the garden, where an ornamental fountain played. As usual, the fountain was supported by a statue—not one this time in honour of Don Ramon Carradedas and his bride, but fittingly, a lion rampant. I stood for a moment gazing at the iridescent droplets, faintly lit by the thinnest wafer of a crescent moon.

I wondered if I should disobey Morag’s instructions and call out into the darkness. I sighed. I felt helpless and useless. Everything seemed to be going wrong. I was quite sure the infallible Eve would have been able to make an infinitely better contribution. I wished I had never come here to Charaguay.

And then I saw what looked like a new little statue on the other side of the ornamental pond, about four feet tall, and still as stone. The thin new moonlight reflected on wide brown eyes, then seconds later a tentative gleam of white between the lips.

‘Petiso?’

The statue moved nervously towards me. I am sure Pygmalion could not have felt more gratified when his statue of Galatea came to life.

A strange conversation followed. It was composed of fragments of Spanish, Indian, English, international argot and mime. Yet the understanding reached transcended fluency in any one or all five of them.

Piece by piece, fragment by fragment, it was as if we made a colourful tesselated pavement between the two of us. First of all, Petiso demanded a promise of me. It was mimed by the drawing of his diminutive forefinger across his throat, and the like gesture being repeated by me, that I would not summon anyone from the Residence. Nor, he pulled his ear, would I drag him in by force.

Once I’d made those promises, he came and stood beside me at the edge of the pond. After a few minutes we both sat down. The flagstones were still warm from the day’s hot sun. The fragile moonlight glittered softly on the droplets from the fountain and sheathed the water with an iridescent skin. Petiso watched with childish pleasure. After a while he dangled his feet over the side, and then with dawning confidence he dipped his grubby toes in the water, drawing in deep ecstatic sighs of pleasure.

Somehow we got on to the subject of those erring feet and where they must not go. If he was not permitted to ply his trade round the cafe then he must obey the rules. I sounded very like Mr. Fitzgerald.

From now on, Petiso must do exactly as Morag said, and then I was sure he would be allowed to go back to his village for Hananda Day and that Morag would help him with the journey. Meanwhile, he must go back to the hostel.

Petiso shook his head and went into an extravagant mime. I didn’t understand it. He went through a simplified version, cupping his little face in his hands, and then tossing what his hands held into the water of the pond.

‘Perdito.’
He tapped his face.

‘Lost? Face?’ Enlightenment dawned. He had lost face. I knew that feeling only too well.

‘But we all,’ I told him in mime and Spanish, ‘lose face some time or another.’

Patiso pointed disbelievingly to me and raised his sooty black brows in Don Ramón-like enquiry.

I nodded vehemently. ‘Me, yes, very often. Me, especially.’

Petiso held up a skinny hand and then smacked it hard with his other. Up went his brows again as he pointed to me.

‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘I have in a way had my hand smacked many times in these last few weeks.’

My voice and my mime must have carried the ring of truth, for Petiso’s face broke into a wide melon-like smile. He sighed happily at the reassuring knowledge that he was not alone in his temporary disfavour.

In fact, I thought wryly, we were even more companions in misfortune than Petiso knew. Both of us, it would seem, had suffered our sins being revealed by the diligent Miss Trent. But I didn’t allow myself to dwell on that.

‘Morag has been very worried about you,’ I went on in my halting Spanish. ‘She is very fond of you.’ I mimed loving arms. ‘And sometimes older people and those in authority have to get cross,’ I smacked one hand on the other, ‘even with people they are very fond of.’

It took some time to get this over to him, and when I’d finished he sat for several minutes staring at the water as if trying to digest this theory.

Then he turned to me and enquired in mime if my hand-smacker was also fond of me and worried.

I shook my head with fervour. Petiso looked genuinely stricken.

‘It is of no importance.
No importa
,' I said firmly. ‘What is important is to take you back to Morag.’

He hesitated and then finally nodded. But
me
,
alone
. Only me, he mimed. He pointed to the house and shook his head.

For a moment I was torn. Technically I ought to book out, but if I made for the house, Petiso would certainly disappear. I didn’t know how to explain to him, and I certainly couldn’t break my solemn promise and hold him by force. Besides, with any luck, I’d only be gone for twenty minutes. And certainly no one was in the Residence to miss me.

‘All right,’ I nodded. ‘But first you must promise me, no more hanging round the cafe. And no more running away, even if Morag does get cross.’

Solemnly, he drew his finger nail across his throat. Then he pointed to me and my throat.

‘You want me to promise?
Promisio?’

‘Si.’

With equal solemnity I drew my finger across my throat. In English I said,
^£
I promise not to talk to strange men on aircraft. I won’t forget the number combination to open the key box, nor be unpunctual. Nor meet Don Ramon even by accident in the Park, nor wear the wrong dress for a soiree, nor answer back.’ It was a daunting catalogue, not a word of which Petiso could understand, but whose length alone impressed him. He seemed more than satisfied. He scrambled to his feet, and mimed that there would now be no more hand-smacking for me either.

‘Luckily,’ I said softly, still in English, adopting Mrs. Mallenport’s habit of talking to herself rather than her hearer, ‘I won’t get the opportunity to offend James Fitzgerald again.’

A providence-tempting statement, at which even the little sliver of moon found a trail of cloud and under it hid her face.

Hand in hand, for nothing would convince Petiso of the benevolence of the uniformed guard, we crept behind the oleander bushes and down the drive to the gate, then along the tree-lined avenue and out on to the main road. I hailed the first taxi that came along and gave the address of the hostel.

I would have said quickly, but really there was no need. All drivers here went like the wind, and any fears I had that Petiso might leap from my custody were quelled as he settled himself back against the upholstery, sticking out his feet which didn’t reach the floor.

When we reached the West Park where Don Ramon and I had sat, Petiso licked his lips nervously. We passed the shiny new Clinic where Eve lay recovering with commendable rapidity, then took a sharp left-hand turn into an old-world square. It was one of the less beautiful ones. The gardens were colourful but untended; the cobblestones were worn. The houses looked as if they had belonged to prosperous Spanish merchants who had long since gone home.

We stopped behind a low-slung red Jensen sports car. • Petiso gave it a look of recognition, then pointed to it. ‘Don Ramón,’ he said.

I nodded abstractedly because I’d just realised I hadn’t got my handbag with me, of course. And I’d begun to search for the bits of loose change I sometimes have in my pocket, and hoping I’d find enough to pay the taxi, which are luckily cheap.

But I needn’t have worried. The door of the taxi was thrown open by Don Ramón himself. He handed a note to the driver and kissed my hand as he helped me out. Then after a spiel of reproach to Petiso, he hoisted the boy on to his shoulder.

‘I’ll get the taxi to take me back,’ I said, waving to Morag as she stood anxiously in the doorway of the hostel.

‘That you most certainly shall not,
senorita
,’ Don Ramon imperiously waved the taxi away. ‘She shall go in style, shall she not, Don Petiso?’ He whispered something in dialect in the boy’s ear, and Petiso grinned and nodded.

‘Right, you scamp, off you go.’ He put the boy down and shooed him towards Morag who held out her hands to him. ‘Make your peace with Morag, you naughty boy.' He turned to me. ‘Allow me to express our gratitude, Madruga,’ with a flourish he opened the door of the Jensen, ‘and the privilege of escorting you home.’ He helped me into the low seat. ‘Unless you would first like some refreshment?’