Sleeping Tiger (14 page)

“But you've been around, George … you've done so many things. That cruise in the Aegean…”

“Do you think I didn't try to write about that? I spent three weeks bashing words on to my typewriter, and it was as dull to read as it had been to write. Anyway it's been done before. Everything's been done before.”

Frances took a final drag of her cigarette, and then stubbed it out, carefully, in the ashtray. Her brown hands were as big as a man's, the nails very large and painted bright red. She wore a heavy gold bracelet and as she moved her arm, it clashed on the wood of the table. She said, carefully, “Is it really that much of a disaster? After all, you've had one successful book, and if you can't write a second, then you just can't.”

A boat was moving out of the yacht club basin. Across the water came the rattle of shackles, and the sail slid up the mast. It hung slack for a moment, and then the boy at the tiller moved the boat around and the sail shivered slightly and shook out its folds and swelled into a smooth, strong curve, and the boat heeled over and ran forward, and was pulled closer to the wind and heeled some more.

He said, “I don't like to break a promise.”

“Oh, darling, you talk as if it were a personal thing.”

“Isn't it?”

“No, it's business.”

“Would you break a business promise, just like that?”

“Of course not. But writing isn't like selling stocks, or doing accounts. It's creative and it doesn't work with the same set of rules. If you have a writer's block, then there's nothing you can do.”

“Writer's block,” said George bitterly. “Is that what it's called?”

She laid her hand on his arm, heavy with the weight of the bracelet. “Why don't you forget about it? Write to Mr.…” she glanced at the signature on the letter, “Rutland, and say, Well, O.K. if that's how you feel, to hell with any more books.”

“You really think I could do that, don't you. And what then?”

She shrugged. “Well…” Her voice began to drawl. “There are other diversions.”

“Such as.”

“In two weeks it'll be Easter.” She picked up the knife she had used to slit his envelopes, and began tracing the grain of the table with its tip. “I've been asked to Malagar for the Easter Sunday
corrida.
I have friends there, Americans. They are great
aficionados.
At Malagar you get the best bulls and the best
toreros
in Spain. And there are parties all day long and all night long.”

“It sounds like a travel agent's dream.”

“Darling, don't get sour with me. I didn't write that letter, I just read it.”

“I know, I'm sorry.”

“Will you come with me? To Malagar.”

The waiter was hovering. George called him over and paid for the drinks and the boy took away the glasses and George gave him a tip, and when the boy had gone, he gathered up his cap and the pink-and-white-striped parcel and his two letters.

Frances said, “You haven't answered my question.”

He stood up, holding the back of his chair.

“I think you've forgotten that I was never an
aficianado.
The sight of blood makes me faint.”

She said, like a child, “I want you to be there.…”

“I'd spoil it all.”

She looked away, trying not to show her disappointment. She said, “Where are you going now?”

“Back to Cala Fuerte.”

“Can't you stay here?”

“No, I must get back.”

“Don't tell me you have to feed that cat again.”

“I have more things to feed than the cat.” He touched her shoulder in farewell. “Thanks for the ride.”

*   *   *

Darkness fell as George drove back to Cala Fuerte. Once the sun had slipped out of the sky, the air became chill, and at dusk he stopped by a lonely farmhouse and reached for the spare sweater he had brought with him. As his head emerged from the neck of the sweater, he saw the farmer's wife come out of her house to draw water from the well. The open door glowed with yellow light and she was silhouetted against it, and he called
“Buenas tardes”
to her and she came over to chat for a little, resting her water-jug against her hip and asking him where he had been and where he was going.

He was thirsty, so he took a drink of water from her, and then went on his way, his headlights probing the sapphire evening. The first stars began to prick the sky and San Estaban was a saucer of lights in the shadow of the mountain, and as he came down the last stretch of the road towards Cala Fuerte, the wind blew off the sea and brought with it the fresh resinous smell of the pines.

Unaccountably, but inevitably, this feeling of coming home always cheered him up. Now, his spirits lifted, and he realised how depressed and tired he had been feeling all day. Nothing, much, had gone right. The letter from Mr. Rutland was an added weight to his conscience, and he was still saddled with Miss Queen's Gate. He wondered how she had spent her day, and told himself that he did not particularly care, but he could not help hoping, as he bowled down the last slope of the road towards the Casa Barco, that she would not still be in a sulk.

He put the car in the garage, turned off the engine, glanced at his watch. It was past eight o'clock. He got out of the car and crossed the lane and opened the door of the Casa Barco, and went in. There did not seem to be anybody about, although the house bore witness to a certain amount of unaccustomed care and attention. The fire was blazing, the lamps lighted, and the low coffee table by the hearth laid with a blue-and-white cloth, which George had not known he possessed, and knives and forks and glasses. There was also a bowl of wild flowers and the air was filled with the delicious smell of cooking. He laid down his cap and went out on to the terrace, soft-footed in his rope-soled shoes, but the terrace was dark and there was no sign of his guest. He went to lean over the wall, but the slipways were empty, the only sound was the whisper of water and the creak as his dinghy tugged at her mooring. Then, from one of the harbour cafés came the warm chords of a guitar, and a woman started to sing, the strange two-tone warbling that was one of the Moorish legacies of the island.

He frowned, puzzled, and went back into the house. The gallery was in darkness, but the light was on in the kitchen, and when he went to lean over the counter, he was surprised to find Selina squatting in front of the open oven, basting a casserole with enormous concentration.

He said, to the top of her head, “Good evening.”

Selina looked up. He had not startled her, and he realised that she had known all along that he was there, and he found this disconcerting. It seemed to give her some sort of advantage.

She said, “Hello!”

“What are you doing?”

“Cooking dinner.”

“Smells good.”

“I hope it is. I'm not much good at cooking, I'm afraid.”

“What is it?”

“Steak and onions and peppers and things.”

“I didn't think we had any food in the house.”

“We didn't. I went up to Maria's and bought it.”

“You did?” He was impressed. “But Maria doesn't talk any English.”

“No, I know. But I found a dictionary in the drawer in your desk.”

“What did you use for money?”

“I'm afraid I put it down on your account. I bought myself a pair of espadrilles, too. They were eight pesetas. I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all.”

She eyed the casserole critically. “Do you think it looks all right?”

“It looks splendid.”

“I did think I'd roast the meat, but I couldn't find any fat except olive oil, and somehow I didn't think that would work.”

She picked up a towel, put the lid back on the casserole, and returned the whole fragrant dish back into the oven. She closed the door and stood up. They faced each other over the counter and she said, “Did you have a good day?”

In the light of all this domesticity, George had forgotten about his day. “What … oh, yes. Yes, all right.”

“Did you get the cable off?”

“Yes. Yes, I sent the cable.” She had some freckles on her nose, and under the light her smooth hair shone with unexpected streaks of fairness.

“How long did they say it would take?”

“Just what we thought. Three or four days.” He leaned on his crossed forearms, and said, “And how did you fill in the day?”

“Oh…” She seemed nervous, and for something to do with her hands, wiped at the top of the counter with the cloth she was still holding, like a diligent barmaid. “Well, I made friends with Juanita, and I washed my hair and I sat on the terrace in the sun…”

“You have freckles.”

“Yes, I know. Isn't it awful. And then I went up to the village to do the shopping and that took me ages, because everybody wanted to talk to me and of course I couldn't understand a word they said. And then I came back and peeled some vegetables…”

“And lit the fire…” George interrupted. “And did some flowers…”

“You noticed! They'll be dead to-morrow, they're just wild; I picked them on the way back from the village.” He did not comment on this, and she went on, quickly, as though nervous of any lull in the conversation, “Have you had anything to eat to-day?”

“No, I skipped lunch. I had a glass of beer at four.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Ravenous.”

“I just have to make a salad. It'll be ready in about ten minutes.”

“Are you hinting that I should go and put on a dinner jacket and my bow tie?”

“No, I'm not doing anything of the sort.”

He grinned at her, straightened up and stretched. “I'll make a bargain with you,” he said. “I'll go and wash the dust out of my ears and you can pour me a drink.”

She looked doubtful. “What sort of a drink?”

“A Scotch and soda. With ice.”

“I wouldn't know how much whisky to put in.”

“Two fingers.” He showed her how to measure. “Well, maybe three of your fingers. Got the idea?”

“I can always try.”

“Good girl. You do that.”

He collected a clean shirt and took a swift and icy shower and had dressed again and was combing his hair when his reflection told him that he needed a shave.

George squared up to his reflection and told it, without mincing words, that he needed that drink far more.

The reflection acquired a sanctimonious inner voice.
If she can lay a table and be bothered to pick a bunch of flowers you can surely shave.

I never asked her to pick the bloody flowers.

You never asked her to cook the dinner either, but you're going to eat it.

Oh, shut up!
said George, and reached for his razor.

He did it in style, finishing off with the remains of some after-shave which had been so little used that it had started to congeal in the bottom of the bottle.

Oh, very nice,
his reflection said now, standing back to admire him.

Satisfied?
George asked, and his reflection gave him a sardonic grin.

The whisky was waiting for him, on the table by the fire, but Selina had gone back to the kitchen, and was tossing a salad in his big wooden bowl. He picked up his transistor and went to sit with his back to the fire, and tried to find some music they could listen to, and Selina said, “They're having some sort of a party down on the harbour. You can hear the singing.”

“I know; it's riveting, isn't it?”

“It doesn't sound like a proper tune.”

“It wouldn't. It's Moorish.”

The transistor, from squeaks and warblings, moved into warm guitar music. George laid it down, and picked up his glass, and Selina said, “I hope your drink's all right”

He tried it. It was too strong. He said, “Perfect.”

“I only hope the dinner's perfect, too. I should have bought some fresh bread at Maria's as well, but there seemed to be masses of bread, so I didn't.”

“Juanita is a secret bread addict. She has it for elevenses every day with goat's cheese and a tumbler of
vino tinto.
How she keeps awake, I don't know.”

Selina picked up the salad bowl and came out from behind the counter to put it in the middle of the laid table. She was wearing a blue-and-green-striped shirt which George had never liked till now, and a pair of navy-blue pants, very neat and trim, and belted around her waist with a narrow strip of leather. He had genuinely forgotten what their row this morning had been about; the whole ridiculous business had gone clean out of his mind, but now his subconscious did a swift double-take, and he recognised the belt as one of his own, and as she moved away from him, back towards the galley, he reached out and took hold of it.

He said, “Where did you get those pants?”

Selina, held like a puppy by its tail, said, “They're yours.”

Her casual tone was not convincing. “They're
mine?”
They were, too. They were his best navy-blue serge pants. He set down his glass and turned her to face him. “But they fit you.” She met his eyes, but only just. “What have you done to my best trousers?”

“Well…” Her eyes widened. “You know, when you'd gone this morning, well, I didn't have anything much to do so I was tidying around and I noticed, well, that these trousers you had on last night were rather dirty. I mean, there were marks down the side of the leg, like gravy or something. So I took them down and showed them to Juanita, and Juanita washed them for you. And they shrank.”

After this outrageous fabrication, she had the grace to look a little embarrassed. George said, “That is a flaming lie, and you know it. Those trousers had just come back from the cleaners, and ever since
I
got back from San Antonio, you've been looking like a cat with two tails. And I, poor mistaken fool, imagined it was because you'd been clever and cooked poor old George a good dinner. But it wasn't, was it?”