Complete Short Stories (8 page)

In short, he was perfectly dead, and
his daily post-bag, because of the recency of his death, was enormous; he used the blank pages of letters and the back of envelopes for his replies. He was in no position to buy stationery, even if his signature to cheques or letters had been valid, which it was not. However, he calculated that the serviceability of his large gold propelling-pencil (which held, screwed in its base, a copious supply
of refills) could even at the present extravagant rate of daily use be prolonged for fully another three hundred years.

‘With care, for as long as three thousand years,’ he cried, ‘and by that time who will care for my work except antiquarians?’

His mood was now so hilarious that I had no compunction in leaving him without another word of commiseration or encouragement. His parting joke was
one about the legal impossibility of the dead libelling the living.

‘But,’ he said, ‘I am careful not to trade on my immunity. I flatter myself that I died a sportsman and lie buried as such.’

‘Holá – señor!’

The sudden summons came from a thin hook-nosed man in a baggy white shirt, blue striped cotton trousers, and a black felt hat, who rose suddenly from behind a mastic bush a few yards off. I had been sitting for ten minutes or more on the stone bench of the
mirador,
a look-out platform built on the cliff edge, idly watching a tall-funnelled Spanish destroyer disengage
itself from the horizon and disappear behind the distant headland to the north-east. Below me was a drop of nearly a thousand feet to a glaring white stony beach. I sprang up, startled, and may have answered in English; but I do not remember. He forced a reassuring smile, spread out both hands to show that he was unarmed and said in Spanish: ‘Please forgive my disturbance of your tranquillity.
You are an American?’

I answered: ‘No,
señor
, you must not judge me by my elegant straw hat, a gift from a friend in the United States. Judge me rather by my old shirt and patched trousers. I am one of the victorious but bankrupt English. What a stifling day, is it not?’

This put him at his ease. ‘Yes, it is very hot,’ he said. But he stayed where he was, so I strolled over to him.

‘Your first
visit to Majorca?’ he asked.

‘The first time since the troubles started in 1936, when I had to leave my house and lands. And I remember you well, even if you do not remember me. Surely you are Don Pedro Samper, the proprietor of Ca’n Samper on the other side of the mountain spur?’

We shook hands heartily as I went on: ‘I visited you once in the company of your neighbour Don Pablo Pons, back
in 1935. I needed some really good cuttings to graft on two young apricot trees that had proved to be of poor quality, and Don Pablo informed me that you had the best tree on the island. I had the pleasure of meeting your charming and sympathetic wife. I hope she is in good health?’

‘Thanks be to God, we are well, and so are the children.’ He apologized several times for not having recognized
me, explaining that my sunglasses, the greying of my hair and the thinness of my face had deceived
him. In return he enquired after my health, that of my family, and the condition of my property after ten years’ absence. And of course he wanted to hear about the flying bombs in London. The Spanish Press had played up the havoc of the flying bomb until it was difficult for anyone to believe that
there could be a single survivor. ‘And is it true that in England now potatoes sell at a hundred pesetas a kilo?’

‘No, at about one peseta. The farmers are subsidized by the Government.’

‘Well, well!’ he said. ‘Our journalists seem to have been misinformed about many things… But, tell me, did those apricot cuttings take?’

‘Divinely well. I found a barbaric crop of apricots waiting for me –
the branches had to be tied up to prevent them from breaking off – and wonderfully tasting apricots they are. Like orange-blossom honey. I sold a great quantity and bottled the remainder.’

‘I am delighted… Have you perhaps visited Don Pablo since your return? You must know that he no longer lives in these parts but has taken a house in Palma?’

‘Between ourselves, I have no intention of calling
upon him. When I quitted the island at an hour’s notice with only a suitcase and a wallet, I left a certain small affair for him to settle on my behalf. He neglected it, and his neglect has cost me a thousand pesetas or more. But I do not intend to recall the matter to his memory; it is already ancient history. And, finding my house in perfect condition, with everything in its place, I have reason
to be grateful that his conduct is not characteristic of Majorcans in general.’

‘No, indeed! His is a very special case. You know perhaps of my former disagreements with him?’

‘You disputed about some irrigation rights.’

‘We did indeed.’

‘May I ask whether you are still on bad terms with him? In our village I find that the effect of the Troubles has been to end all personal and family feuds
and unite the people as never before.’

‘Está en su casa!,
as we say here. He is in his own house; I am in mine.’

‘I am sorry. I should be interested to hear the story if it doesn’t inconvenience you to tell it.’

‘It is a long one. But, Don Roberto – may I first ask a favour of you?’

‘Anything that lies in my power.’

‘I wish to seat myself on the bench of the
mirador
where you have been. I
have been trying to reach it all morning since ten o’clock. Will you help me?’

‘But, man, are you lame?’

‘Not in my legs. In my belly.’

‘You mean that you are scared? Then why go? The view is as good from that rock over there as from the
mirador
itself.’

‘My doctor orders it – Doctor Guasp of Sóller, a specialist. He knows a great deal about psychology, having studied in Vienna as well as
in Madrid. Once I have gone there, he says, and remained calmly for a while on the bench, making my peace with a certain important Saint, my nerves will recover and I shall once more sleep all night. He even offered to come with me, but I was ashamed to put him to the trouble. I said: “No, I will go alone. I am no coward.” But now I find that I cannot walk the last few steps.’

He began to stutter
and a light sweat broke from his forehead. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘the heat is excessive. You will perhaps take me there in a little while when we have smoked a cigarette or two in the shade of this rock? Meanwhile I will tell you about the irrigation dispute. Have you tobacco?’

‘I stupidly left my pouch at home.’

‘No matter. Here is good tobacco, and cigarette paper.’

‘Contraband?’

‘Did I
not say it was good tobacco? You cannot buy this sort at any
estanco.
Allow me, you seem to have lost the habit of rolling cigarettes. In England you smoke only Luckies and Camels?’

He began his story between puffs. ‘Well, if you know anything of the matter, you will know that I had been for fifteen years the tenant farmer of the estate called Ca’n Sampol, which Don Pablo Pons acquired by his
marriage with Doña Binilde.’

I nodded.

‘He dispossessed me, though I had an agreement with Doña Binilde’s late husband that I was secure in my life-tenancy. Don Cristóbal Fuster y Fernández was a
caballero,
a man of the strictest honour. When he inherited the estate from his brother who was killed in the Rif War, he told me in the presence of his wife: “There will be no changes here. You may
cultivate Ca’n Sampol for the rest of your life, friend Pedro. You have transformed the place since you took it over, and I am happy to leave it in your hands.” In the island, as you know, a verbal agreement is sufficient between neighbours, and if there is a witness present it becomes binding in law. To ask to have it put in writing is bad manners. We pride ourselves on being men of our word. Well,
a catastrophe! In 1934, Don Cristóbal died in a road accident, and Doña Binilde fell in love, at the funeral itself, with a profligate adventurer – this same Don Pablo – and married him on the very first day that the law permitted.’

‘I did not know that there are restrictions in Spain on immediate marriage in such cases.’

‘There is a law that safeguards the rights of posthumous children. Well,
as you can imagine, the marriage caused a scandal, and I, for one, did not attend the wedding – out of respect for the memory of Don Cristóbal. Not a week later Don Pablo served me notice to quit the farm, which he proposed to cultivate himself.’

‘And Doña Binilde?’

‘She was infatuated with the man. He could do nothing wrong. And she was angry with me for my coolness towards her. When I appealed
to her about the agreement made in her presence between Don Cristóbal and me, she answered: “Upon my word, peasant, I can remember nothing. I have a bad head for business matters.”’

‘But the Law protected you?’

‘Certainly it did. In those days six years’ notice was necessary. But I chose not to take the case to court. It is an uncomfortable position for a man to be tenant to a landlord who has
a grudge against him, especially if the wife has instigated it. So I said to him, mildly enough: “Since Doña Binilde has lost her memory for the sayings of the best husband in Majorca, how can I press the matter? My word is not good enough for you, I see. Well, then, pay me ten thousand pesetas and I will leave on St Anthony’s Day, when I have passed the olives safely through the mill.” For it
was not a bad olive year.

“‘Ka, man! Why should I pay you ten thousand pesetas?” asked Don Pablo.

‘“It is customary to compensate a tenant in lieu of notice. I am asking two years’ rent.”

‘“Two years’ rent! How two years’ rent? You have ruined the estate by your mismanagement!” he yelled.

‘I insisted: “The respected Don Cristóbal – may his soul rest in peace – thought otherwise. He knew that
I found Ca’n Sampol in a derelict condition and added many thousands to its value. He told me so in the presence of Doña Binilde.”

“‘I remember nothing of that. I have a bad head for business matters,” the lady said very stubbornly. “And, in the Virgin’s Name, who are you to decide who is the best husband in Majorca and who the worst?”

‘I should not have believed it possible that a decent woman
could change so, even with the help of peroxide and red nail-varnish; but some women are as accommodating as chameleons.’

‘But you got some compensation, surely?’

‘Not two
reales
. I will explain. Don Cristóbal, like so many gentlemen of a generous nature, had been slack about keeping accounts. He had a good memory for sums due, and sums owing, but disliked committing his memory to paper, and
either demanding, or making out, receipts. Don Pablo was aware of this peculiarity and therefore asked me to show the rent receipts for the last few years of my Ca’n Sampol tenancy. Four half-yearly receipts were missing. So he set those against the two years’ compensation that I asked, and I had no redress, having always paid in cash, not by cheque, and having no witness to the payments.’

‘What
a nasty insect! And then you went to live at Ca’n Samper?’

‘Yes. It had been bequeathed me by my old uncle some three years
before: family property descended from my great-grandparents. They had once owned Ca’n Sampol too, though that was before the big house had been built there in Carlist times. You have seen Ca’n Samper. It is a small place but the soil is good, there is plenty of water and
the orchard is valuable.’

‘Someone told me a local proverb about its position… something about twitching hairs from a beard – I forget.’

He laughed nervously: ‘Yes, that is right. St Peter, we say in our village, sits on St Paul’s neck and twitches the hairs from his beard. The proverb refers to the two saints’ sharing the same feast day. St Peter takes precedence and robs St Paul of the glory.
And in the geographical sense Samper – the name is a contraction of the Majorcan words
San Per,
or St Peter – sits on the neck of Sampol, or
San Pol,
namely St Paul, because of my farm’s situation just above the small western bulge of the Ca’n Sampol terraces. Yes,
señor,
though not showing any animosity, I decided to put a tight collar round Don Pablo’s neck, a regular martingale, and pluck out
a few bristles from his chin. Meanwhile, my wife and I could live comfortably enough at Ca’n Samper and enjoy the respect and affection of the village, who soon knew all about the negro’s trick that Don Pablo had played us. Now we come to the story of the irrigation rights.’

He paused for a minute while he rolled and lighted another cigarette.

‘“Water is gold,”’ I quoted in the sententious local
style which keeps conversation on the move.

‘“And land without water is stones and dust,”’ he agreed. ‘Well, while I had been farming Ca’n Sampol, secure in my life-tenancy, I had not made much distinction in my mind between it and my own farm; in fact, I had rather robbed Peter to keep Paul fat. At Ca’n Sampol I had planted a very fine grove of orange trees – Florida seedless navels, brought
from Valencia, the first seen in the island. They need a lot of water about midsummer, but if well tended they yield fruit the size of canteloupes and of a marvellous juiciness. Well, St John’s Day came around and Don Pablo’s bailiff greeted me in the Church porch after mass, and asked me to let down the water from Ca’n Samper every Monday and Friday, if that suited me. And I said, playing the innocent:
“Ka, man, why do you want water? You have plenty in Ca’n Sampol. Enough for goldfish ponds and fountains and a turbine for the electric light.”

‘“Yes,” said he, “God be thanked that the greater part of the farm is well watered. But the part separated by the Rock of the Ass from the rest of the terraces, lying directly below Ca’n Samper, does not enjoy the benefit of the spring which rises on
the other side of the rock. And that is precisely where you sited the new orange plantation.”

‘“Of course,” I said. “I had almost forgotten that I planted about a hundred Florida navel oranges while I was the tenant of Ca’n Sampol. They no longer interest me.” Many people were present and smiled at my words.