Greek Fire (2 page)

Nearly everyone in the cellars knew French, and those who did not were jollied along. Her eyes, small as diamonds and as bright, and the good-tempered shock of her white teeth, made you ready to laugh before the joke was out. She was all fat, healthy young fat, mainly in the breasts and behind. Her black crêpe dress fitted her like a sausage skin. And when she began to dance she used her fat as a comedian uses a false nose: with it she laughed at you and then at herself.

At the table where the Greeks were the girl, Anya Stonaris, put out her cigarette. The politician Manos, deferential and attentive, offered her another; she took it, twisted it slowly with pointed nails into the holder, thoughtful lashes black on cheeks, glinted a smile across the lighted flame at her escort, flickered her glance back across the American before turning again to watch the show.

Down below the harpist, who, after the end of the applause and while the fat girl stood aside, had been hinting at the sad nostalgias of Seville and Castile, suddenly set fire to his harp with great chords and discords of a new kind. In the sudden silence which followed, El Toro himself stepped into the ring.

Welcoming applause was discreetly led by the waiters, schooled in the dangers of anti-climax, for El Toro, dressed though he was in all the magnificence of a toreador, was tiny, no taller than his girl partner, fine featured, dapper, the perfect lady killer—and perhaps bull killer—but in minuscule.

The man and the woman began to dance. It was the dance of the bull-ring, hot and bloodstained, to the shrill pulse of the harp. They swirled and twisted to the shouted rhythm, she charging, he adroitly avoiding her with his muleta, sword point to ground, enticing and evading, side-stepping and, body swaying. For
she
was the bull, not he. She looked like a bull, heavy shouldered, broad nosed, dark curled, she breathed and snorted and charged like a bull, at his delicate, precise almost feminine evasions, his perfect slender body leaning this way and that. Here was some inner truth from Spain stated in terms of the dance, an allegorical picture of the relationship of the sexes, spiritual more than physical but partly both, a statement of a racial anomaly which had existed for two thousand years.

As the dance reached its climax, the harpist in a sort of frenzy produced unheard of sounds. If a harp was the instrument of angels, then this was a fallen angel, perverting his gifts to the expression of the noise and cruelty of a blinding Andalusian afternoon.

Vanbrugh sipped the indifferent champagne. The bull was tiring, faltering now and stamping in hesitation, watching the toreador who flicked his muleta with small poised formal movements. She lowered her head to charge, El Toro drew back his sword. As she ran at him he turned slightly aside and plunged the sword between her arm and shoulder. She sank slowly, her attitude the conventional posture of the slain bull. In a moment he had drawn away and she was on the floor before him; his foot rested lightly on her shoulder.

There was loud applause at the end of this dance, and the partners, toreador and slain bull, stood bowing side by side.

“You see,” said the Lithuanian, “ it is not bad after all. Of course, that fat woman, Maria Tolosa, she is the best.”

Vanbrugh looked at the harpist as he went off. He was still sweating. The band came back to their cage and a few dancers drifted on to the floor. Manos asked Anya Stonaris for a dance, but she said something smilingly and they did not get up.

Vanbrugh nodded or answered in monosyllables as his companion chattered away. He was debating in his mind one or two things, the least of which was how he might most easily get rid of this girl and go. The most important was whether he should attempt to see Juan Tolosa tonight. He had only landed at Hellenikon three hours ago. Rushing one's fences. Also he thought he had been recognised tonight by the fat man, whose name he thought was Mandraki, and if that were so it was a disadvantage to any move now.

So he made no move now.

He didn't realise then the importance of the decision, because he did not then know that by tomorrow it would be too late.

George Lascou was taking his mid-morning coffee when Anya rang him.

“Good morning, darling,” she said. “I suppose you have been up hours.”

“Since six. But, that's no reason why you should be. Four weeks and it will all be over.”

“Or all beginning. I can't imagine in either case that you will learn to relax.”

“I relax when I'm with you. That's why you're so good for me.”

“It must explain why you have been seeing so much of me lately!”

“Darling, I'm
sorry
. I hate it as much as you do. I wish I could do something about it, but you know what it is at present. This morning we have a press conference at twelve. At five there's a meeting of the party executive. Then this evening there is the manifesto to consider in full session. It will be easier when the campaign is in full swing. What will you do today?”

“I have a press conference with my hair-dresser at twelve. At five I shall buy a hat. This will pass the time until seven when I'm to take cocktails with Maurice Taksim.”

“And what did you do last night?”

“Had dinner with Jon Manos and two of his friends. Afterwards we went to the Little Jockey and danced for a while. It wasn't much fun without you.”

“You went where?”

“To the Little Jockey.”

“Did Manos take you there?”

“Yes. There's a new cabaret. Quite good. I got home about two. My sweet, it's a perfectly
respectable
night-club. One is in far more danger of being bored than corrupted. We must go together sometime.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I know it.” As he poured himself a second cup of coffee, the morning light glinted on the heavy silver coffee-pot and on the big emerald-cut diamond in the ring on his left hand.

“But are you being disapproving just the same?”

“Nothing of the sort.” He dabbed at a spot of coffee which had fallen on the tray-cloth and sucked the damp tip of his fingers.

“Then what? …”

He said in slight irritation: “ Perhaps one has to be specially careful at a time like this. The opposition press are always out for snippets of scandal, and they know of our connection. A photograph. A chance of involving me——”

“You can always disown me.”

“That I may do in my coffin but not before.”

“Darling, a gallant speech before midday.”

He laughed politely. “One has to keep up with the Taksims of this world. What did you think of the cabaret?”

“It was Spanish.”

“… Is that all?”

“No. I hate their singing but love their dancing.”

“I prefer Greek. What was it, all women?”

“No. A man. Two men. One danced and one played a harp as if he'd sold his soul to the devil. Then there was a woman. They're known as The Three Tolosas.”

“Good. Good. I'm glad you enjoyed it. But I must talk to Jon Manos.”

“You quite astonish me. I'll go into purdah for the next four weeks.”

“Nonsense, darling, you exaggerate. Tell me when you are next going down to Sounion.…” He began to talk easily, smoothing over what he had said.

When they had rung off George Lascou sipped his coffee. From where he sat two reflections of George Lascou aped his movements and were a constant reassurance that he was still personable and still in the early forties. All the same, he was angry with himself now for having allowed himself to be surprised into an emotion which she had detected.

His secretary came in.

“Where had I got to, Otho?”

“Shall I read the last piece? ‘It was Aristotle who said that Virtue consists in loving and hating in the proper proportions. The danger of a too-civilised approach is that we become afraid of the positive emotions. If this election——' ”

“Leave it now.” He made an impatient gesture. “Before we go on I'd like you to get Mr. Manos on the phone.”

Otho put away his notebook, but as he was about to go out Lascou said: “And also Major Kolono.”

“Sir?”

“Major Kolono. You'll find him at police headquarters. Tell him I'd like him to call round here about four-thirty this afternoon on a personal matter.”

“Very good, sir.”

While he waited, George Lascou re-read a report he had received that morning from a man whom he occasionally and reluctantly employed. Having done that, he put it in his wallet and began to slit open with a bronze dagger some letters that Otho had brought in. The blade of the dagger was three thousand years old and a lion hunt was inlaid on it. The handle had long since rotted away and been replaced with a modern ivory one. He read the letters, made an emphatic note in the margin of one, got up, lit a cigarette, and went to one of the windows which looked out over Constitution Square. He was high enough here to be undisturbed by the bustle and noise and all the clamour of the morning traffic below, high enough too to see over the new budding trees to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and to the Old Palace, where Parliament had recently been prorogued. Beyond were the trees of the National Garden. Along the further rim of the square three trolley-buses were crawling like centipedes surprised by the lifting of a stone. A handsome man, with that shadowed pallor that comes to some Greeks; the pince-nez he wore softened the strong cheekbones and the strong skull, gave an uncertain studious look to a face otherwise purposeful. As Otho came in again he let the scarlet-and-whitestriped satin curtain fall.

“Sir, I phoned Mr. Manos at his office but he was in court. I left a message for them to ring when he came back.”

Lascou put the end of his cigarette in an ash-tray.

“Then get him
out
of court. I want to speak to him.”

It was then nearly 11 a.m.

At three o'clock that afternoon a short stout young woman was walking through Zappeion Park. Her mane of hair was dragged back and fastened under a scarlet head-scarf. Her cheeks were puffy with crying but she was not crying now; her face was set like iron; it was a good-tempered face riven by lightning, hardened by storm. She walked any way, not looking where she was going and not caring; but after a while she came opposite a statue and hesitated staring at it, not really seeing it but uncertain whether to go on or turn back. As she stopped, a man who had been following the same path stopped also and looked at the statue. After a moment he glanced at her and said in English:

“He died here too.”

“What? Who?” She stared at him with blind, angry eyes. “What do you say?”

“Byron. That statue. He loved Greece more even than his own land.”

She focused the speaker properly for the first time, saw his slight figure and down-pulled hat. “If you are from the police I will spit in your face.”

“If I were from the police that would land you in trouble.”

“And you are not?”

“I am not.”

“Then get out of my way!”

She turned her back on him and walked off. There were not many people about and he followed her a few paces behind with his easy cat-like walk.

“Tell me one thing,” he said, catching her up. “How did the accident happen? I was coming to see him about midday when I heard.”

She strode out of the park but at the entrance stopped, breathing again like a bull, formidable for all her shortness, quite capable of knocking him down in the street.

“Who are you?”

“A friend. My name is Gene Vanbrugh.”

“What is your business?”

“I was at the Little Jockey last night. This morning I had a certain business proposition to put to your husband, but I was too late.”

“So you were too late! Well, I am sorry. But that's the end of it, isn't it.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Why not?”

“I might put the proposition to you, Mme Tolosa.”

“Do I look or feel in a condition to listen to business propositions? Get out of my way.”

“How did the accident happen? He was run over, wasn't he? What did the driver say?”

“Clear off or I will call the police. See, that one.”

“Your husband perhaps took to many risks.”

That stopped her. “What are you talking about?”

“Take a coffee with me and I'll tell you.”

She hesitated, fingered an ear-ring, glanced up at him again, looked him over, taking in the lean slant of his jaw, the bony hands he kept thrusting in and out of his pockets, the old suit.

“How do you know I have English?”

“Most cabaret dancers do.”

She looked behind her. “ I do not want for coffee. But if you have something to say I will sit down.”

He nodded, his mouth still tight, but with a gleam of approval in his eyes. “ I've something to say.”

They sat at a table part protected from draught by a glass screen. It was a chilly day. There were very few people about at this time of day, and a waiter, yawning, came and swept the table-top with a perfunctory cloth. Gene Vanbrugh ordered coffee for himself and a brandy for her.

She said: “Well?”

He looked at her! It might be she was easy-going most times, but once roused she was a fighter. He was a fighter himself and felt drawn towards her.

“How did the accident happen?”

“Accident nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“He had a phone call at nine this morning. I do not know who it was from, he did not tell me. But as he left the house he was run down by a waiting car. I saw it all because I went to the window to call after him. The car came from up the street, not very fast. You know. There was a lorry turning up the street blocking it to other cars, and the street was empty. It went on the pavement behind Juan. He turned at the last minute and tried to jump out of the way, but it caught him against a wall—crushed him. I … I saw his face.…”