Sleeping Tiger (12 page)

She turned, beaming.

“
Buenos días,
Señor.”

He decided to plunge straight in.

“Did you wake the Señorita when you drew the water from the well?”

“No, Señor, she still sleeps, like a baby.”

George glanced at Juanita sharply. Her voice was lyrical, her eyes shining with sentiment. This was not exactly what George had expected. He had not even had time to tell his story about the visiting cousin, and here was Juanita already looking all dewy-eyed … about what?

“You've … been up to see her then…?”

“
Sí,
Señor, I went to see if she was awake. But, Señor,” her voice dropped to a tone of mild reproach, “why did you never tell me that you had a daughter?”

George felt behind him for the arm of the sofa, and sat on it. “I never told you?” he said, stupidly.

“No, you have said no word about your daughter. And when Maria tells me, this morning, as I come through Cala Fuerte, that the Señor's daughter is staying at the Casa Barco, I would not believe it. But it is true.”

George swallowed, and said, with forced calm, “Maria told you. And who told Maria?”

“Tomeu has told her.”

“Tomeu?”

“
Sí,
Señor. There was a taxi-driver who brought her here. He spent many hours in the bar of Rudolfo, and he told Rosita, who works there, that he had taken the daughter of Señor Dyer to the Casa Barco. Rosita told Tomeu when she went to buy some soap powder, and Tomeu told Maria, and Maria told Juanita.”

“And the rest of the village, I'll be bound,” George muttered, in English, and silently cursed Selina.

“Señor?”

“It is nothing, Juanita.”

“Are you not pleased to have your daughter?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I did not know that the Señor had been married.”

George thought for a second and then said, “Her mother is dead.”

Juanita was devastated. “Señor, I did not know. And who has taken care of the Señorita?”

“Her grandmother,” said George, wondering how much longer he was going to get away from telling the truth. “Juanita, tell me … does Rudolfo know that … the Señorita is my daughter?”

“I have not seen Rudolfo, Señor.”

The kettle boiled, and she filled the earthenware jug that George had taught her to keep for coffee. The smell was delicious, but did nothing to cheer him. Juanita put the lid on the coffee-pot and said, “Señor, she is very beautiful.”

“Beautiful?”
He sounded amazed, because he was.

“But of course she is beautiful.” Juanita carried his breakfast tray past him and out on to the terrace. “The Señor does not have to pretend with me.”

He ate his breakfast. An orange, a sweet
ensamada,
and as much coffee as the pot contained. Juanita moved about inside the house, soft-footed and making gentle sweeping sounds which indicated that she was cleaning. Presently she emerged with the round washing-basket, filled with clothes.

He said, “The Señorita got very wet last night, in the storm, and I told her to put her clothes on the floor of the bathroom.”

“
Sí,
Señor, I have found them.”

“Do them quickly as you can, Juanita. She has nothing else to wear.”

“
Sí,
Señor.”

She went past him and down the steps to her little cave of a wash-house, where she scrubbed sheets, socks and shirts impartially, boiling water in a great tub and using a bar of soap as large and as hard as a brick.

*   *   *

The first thing to do was go and see Rudolfo. As George went through the house, he glanced up at the gallery but there was no movement and not a sound. He cursed his visitor silently, but left her sleeping, and went out, and because he could not be bothered to open the garage doors and start up his car, began to walk to the village.

He was to regret this. For, before he had reached the Cala Fuerte Hotel, no fewer than seven people had congratulated him on having his daughter come to stay with him. As each encounter took place, George walked a little faster, as though on some errand of desperate urgency, giving the impression that much as he would like to stop and discuss this new and happy state of affairs, he simply did not have the time. Consequently he arrived at Rudolfo's bar, out of breath and soaked in sweat, and feeling as if he had been caught in a trap. He stood in the curtained doorway, panting with exhaustion, and said, “Rudolfo. Am I allowed in?”

Rudolfo was behind the bar, polishing glasses. When he saw George, his hands were still. His smile began to spread. “George, my friend.” He laid down the glass and came out from behind the bar as if to embrace George.

George eyed him warily. “You're not going to hit me?”

“It is you who should be hitting me. But I did not know. I was only told, this morning, by Rosita, that the Señorita is your daughter. Why did you not tell me last night? That she was your child. I did not even know that you had a child. And so beautiful…”

“Rudolfo, there's been a mistake.…”

“And it was my mistake. And what kind of a man must you think I am, to grudge a favour to an old friend and his child?”

“But…”

Rudolfo raised a hand. “There can be no buts. Six hundred pesetas, well,” he shrugged, “it doesn't grow on trees, but it will not ruin me.”

“Rudolfo…”

“My friend, if you say more I shall think that you have not forgiven me. Come, let us have a drink together—a cognac.…”

It was impossible. He refused to listen to the truth and George was not going to push it down his throat. He said weakly, “I'd rather have a coffee,” and Rudolfo went to shout for it and George hitched himself on to one of the bar stools and lit a cigarette. When Rudolfo returned he said, “You'll get your money back. We can cable to London…”

“You will have to go to San Antonio to send a cable.”

“Well, fair enough. How long would you reckon it would take to come?”

Rudolfo shrugged hugely. “Two or three days. Maybe a week. It's of no importance. I can wait a week for six hundred pesetas.”

“You're a good man, Rudolfo.”

“But I get angry. You know I get angry.”

“You're still a good man.”

The coffee came, brought by Rosita, the unconscious source of the trouble. George watched her set down the minuscule cups and told himself that he was deeper in deception than ever. And he realised, with a slight sinking of his heart, that there was now no need to ask his second favour of Rudolfo. If Selina was to be George's daughter, there could be no point in her coming to live at the Cala Fuerte Hotel.

*   *   *

It was Pearl who woke Selina. She had been out all night, was tired from hunting and in need of a soft place to sleep. She came into the Casa Barco by way of the terrace, trod lightly up the stair to the gallery, and jumped, with scarcely a sound, on to the bed. Selina opened her eyes and looked straight into Pearl's white, whiskered face. Pearl's eyes were jade-green, the dark pupils mere slits of contentment. She trod the sheets for a little, making a nest, then fitted her boneless, furry body into the curve of Selina's own and proceeded to go to sleep.

Selina rolled over and did the same thing.

The second time she was awakened more roughly. “Come on, now, it's time to wake up. It's eleven o'clock. Come on, now.” She was being shaken, and when she opened her eyes, George Dyer was sitting on the side of the bed. “It's time you woke up,” he said again.

“Umm?” The cat was still there, deliciously heavy and warm. George, once focused, loomed enormous. He wore a blue cotton shirt and a grim expression, and Selina's heart sank. She was never at her best first thing in the morning.

“It's time you woke up.”

“What time is it?”

“I told you. Nearly eleven. I've got to talk to you.”

“Oh.” She pulled herself up and searched for pillows that had disappeared. George stooped to pick them up off the floor, and shoved them behind her. “Now, listen,” he said. “I've been to see Rudolfo…”

“Is he still angry?”

“No, he's not angry. Not any more. You see, Rudolfo, and for that matter the entire village, believe that you really are my daughter. You know why they think that, don't you? Because your drunken taxi-driver, damn his eyes, told them so.”

“Oh,” said Selina.

“Yes. Oh.
Did
you tell the taxi-driver I was your father.”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“For God's sake why?”

“I had to, to make him bring me here. I said, ‘My father will pay the taxi fare,' and that was the only thing that persuaded him.”

“You had no right to do that. To involve an innocent party…”

“You?”

“Yes, me. I'm up to my neck in this now.”

“I never thought he would tell all the village.”

“He didn't. He told Rosita, the girl who works in Rudolfo's bar. And Rosita told Tomeu. And Tomeu told his mother. And Maria is the Official Receiving and Transmitting Station for this part of the island.”

“I see,” said Selina. “I am sorry. But can't we tell them the truth?”

“Not now.”

“Why not now?”

“Because the people here…” he chose his words carefully, “have a very rigid standard of morals.”

“Then why did you let me stay last night?”

He was exasperated. “Because of the storm. Because of the row with Rudolfo. Because there wasn't any alternative.”

“And you've said that I am your daughter?”

“I haven't said that you're not.”

“But you're much too young. We worked it out last night.”

“No one else is to know that.”

“But it's not true.”

“It wasn't true when you told the taxi-driver.”

“Yes, but I didn't
know
it wasn't true!”

“And I do. Is that it? Well, I'm sorry if your principles are offended, but these people are my friends and I don't want to disillusion them. Not that they have many illusions about me, but at least they don't think I'm a liar.”

She still looked troubled, so he changed the subject. “Now, about this money. You say that we can cable to your bank…”

“Yes.”

“But not from Cala Fuerte. We have to go into San Antonio to send a cable. We can either send a wire directly to your bank, or it occurred to me on the way home, we might get in touch with your lawyer…”

“Oh, no,” said Selina, with such vehemence that George raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Why not?”

“Let's just cable the bank.”

“But your lawyer would be able to get the money through so much more quickly.”

“I don't want to cable Rodney.”

“Don't you like him?”

“It isn't that. It's just that … well, he thought this whole business of coming to find my father was crazy.”

“As things have turned out, he wasn't far wrong.”

“I don't want him to know what a fiasco it's all been. Try to understand.”

“Well, sure I understand, but if it meant the money coming through more quickly…” Her face remained resolutely stubborn, and George, suddenly fed up with the whole business, stopped trying to persuade her. “Well, all right. It's your money and your time. And your reputation.”

Selina ignored this. “Do you want to go to San Antonio to-day?”

“Soon as you can be up and dressed. Are you feeling hungry?”

“Not particularly.”

“How about a cup of coffee?”

“If there's one going.”

“I'll make you one.”

He was half-way down the ladder when she called him back.

“Mr. Dyer…”

He turned, only his top half visible.

Selina said, “I haven't got anything to put on.”

“I'll speak to Juanita.”

He found her on the terrace, ironing, with the flex of the iron trailing through the open window.

“Juanita.”

“Señor.”

“The Señorita's things? Are they ready?”

“
Sí,
Señor.” She beamed, delighted with her own efficiency, and handed him a pile of neatly-folded clothes. He thanked her, and went back into the house, to meet Selina coming down the steps from the gallery. Still in his pyjamas, she looked tousled and sleepy. He said, “Here,” and handed her the pile.

“Oh, how wonderful!”

“Just one of the services in this hotel.”

“She's been so quick … I never thought…” The words tailed to a stop. George frowned. From the top of the pile of clothes, Selina took her dress. Or what remained of it. Juanita had treated the good British wool just as she treated the rest of her washing. With hot water, hard soap and much scrubbing. Selina held it out at arm's length. It might have fitted a very small six-year-old and the only thing that rendered it recognisable was the silk Fortnum and Mason label on the inside of the collar.

There was a long silence. Then George said, “It's a Little Brown Dress.”

“She's washed it! Why did she have to wash it? It didn't need to be washed; it was only wet.…”

“If it's anyone's fault, it's mine. I told Juanita to wash it, and if I tell Juanita to do a thing, she certainly does it.” He began to laugh.

“I don't think it's anything to laugh about. It's all very well for you to laugh, but what am I going to wear?”

“What is there to do except laugh?”

“I could cry.”

“That won't do any good.”

“I can't wear pyjamas all day long.”

“Why not? They're very fetching.”

“I can't come to San Antonio in pyjamas.”

Still enormously amused, but trying to be sensible, George scratched the back of his head. “What about your coat?”