The White Schooner (12 page)

Manuela came from her room on the other side of the passage and Black remembered, belatedly, to limp as she and the housekeeper helped him along past the iron gates and down the stairs into what he’d mentally labelled the Tribal Room. Juan was waiting there. Black thought he looked tired. Chasing
la
teja,
perhaps?

With the housekeeper leading, and Juan and Manuela now assisting him, they went down the passage past the pantries and kitchens to the waiting Land-Rover. Techa’s husband, Tomaso, turned out to be a dark bulbous-nosed man. He looked gloomy, presumably at the prospect of driving into San José so soon after his return from Portinax. His reply to their ‘
Buenos
dias,
señor,’
was a gruff,
‘Dias.
’

They thanked the housekeeper for all she had done, asked her to convey their thanks to Señor van Biljon, exchanged
adios
and sat back. Tomaso let out the clutch, the Land-Rover started down the drive which flanked the house, and Black felt like a runaway schoolboy being returned to his institution. As they approached the gates he made a mental note of their heavy iron-bound construction, estimated the height of the stone wall surrounding the house, and looked curiously at Pedro who was on duty with two Alsatians.

‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ said Manuela as the Land-Rover drew away.

Black made a face. ‘Absolute darlings. Those teeth!’

She gave him a sideways look. ‘You don’t like dogs?’

‘Not that lot.’

Pedro closed the gates and Black looked back at the steps leading to the front door, but there was no sign of van Biljon. During the drive down the valley he checked as much detail of the road and terrain as he could, masking this activity with small talk with Manuela. Several times he attempted to draw Tomaso into some sort of conversation, but without success.

When the Land-Rover went over a bad pothole Black groaned. Manuela touched his arm. ‘Is it very painful?’

He bit his lip as ostentatiously as he could, grimacing with
what he hoped looked like pain. ‘Pretty bloody,’ he said.

She looked at him sadly. ‘Poor Charles.’

At the bottom of the valley they reached the junction with the main road and turned right. A peasant working in the field at the turn-off leant on his fork and watched the
Land-Rover
travel down the tarmac towards San José. When it was out of sight he took a notebook from his pocket and wrote in it.

He was the man with the black beret and the mournful face.

Few were watching the white schooner as her crew made ready for sea: a handful of bystanders, people with nothing better to do, two small boys and, in the café across the road, the thin man who’d just put down the telephone and gone to a window seat where he could see the
Snowgoose
without fear of her crew seeing him.

In the engine-room Kamros was running the diesels dead slow, the propellers just turning, checking the thrust-block bearings, while the stern-line and after-spring strained and creaked as they held the schooner against the thrust of the screws. Dimitrio was in the bows oiling the windlass. Helmut and Francois were on deck checking the running gear.

‘What time d’you make it?’ asked Helmut.

Francois looked at his watch. ‘Twelve minutes to. He’s late. He’ll delay us.’

‘Maybe not. We said we were sailing at eleven.’

As he spoke a car came up the quay and stopped alongside the schooner. Helmut said, ‘There he is,’ and called softly to Dimitrio who looked up, nodded and went below. A man in uniform got out of the car, a file of papers under his arm, and stood on the quay thumbing through the file. Once on board, he introduced himself as Señor Manzala, representative of the Port Captain. Francois, who spoke good Spanish, took him down to the saloon where Helmut was waiting with a bottle of wine. After a preliminary exchange of courtesies they got down to business: the account for port dues was presented, inspected and paid. Francois explained that they were going to sea for a few days, to take photos and make notes of the coastline to the south and west of the port, and to visit Formentera and Abago.

They discussed the weather and the cruise of the
Snowgoose
thus far, and Señor Manzala asked if they might be so
considerate
as to show him examples of their work.

When this request had been satisfied, he expressed
admiration
for the schooner and inquired if they would be so kind as to show him round. Francois assured him that this would be a pleasure.

They started with the cockpit where he was shown the wheel, the compass, the repeater to the electronic log, the echo sounder, the engine controls, and the hooded chart-table. The watertight hatches to the engine-compartment were at his request lifted so that he might see the Gardner diesels. Then he climbed down into the compartment and examined the engines carefully, expressing surprise at their bulk and
congratulating
Kamros on their spotless appearance. Next
followed
a visit to the owner’s suite, where he was shown, among other things, the two-way radio telephone and the radio direction finder.

They explained to Señor Manzala that they didn’t use the owner’s suite because the accommodation off the saloon was more practical for them since they were also crewing. While expressing admiration for the owner’s suite, he assured them of the correctness of their decision. Next they visited the crew’s quarters in the bows—a four-berth cabin—at present, they explained, occupied only by Kamros and Dimitrio. Finally, they returned to the saloon and looked into the cabins off it which were used by Helmut and Francois.

Francois pointed to the starboard door in the foremost
bulkhead
. ‘Perhaps you would wish to see the galley, señor?’ The señor thought he would, so they inspected it and he exclaimed upon its smallness.

Back in the saloon once more Francois beamed at him. ‘And now you have seen it all, señor.’

But Manzala was looking over the Frenchman’s shoulder to the port door in the foremost bulkhead—the door of the radio office. ‘Ah, señor,’ he said. ‘What have you there?’

Francois smiled thinly. ‘A lavatory, señor.’

‘Pardon, señor. May I? It is the wine.’ Señor Manzala smiled as if in deprecation of his lack of fortitude.

Francois tried the door. From inside came Dimitrio’s grunt.

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders apologetically. ‘
Unfortunately
Dimitrio is there. Poor fellow, he has an upset stomach. However, please use the lavatory in the owner’s suite.’ Without waiting for the Spaniard’s reply he led the way aft through the cockpit, Señor Manzala following and Helmut bringing up the rear.

The Snowgoose had cleared the harbour and was past Botafoc
lighthouse when Señor Manzala reported to Capitan Calvi.

‘I had a good look round,’ he said. ‘They took me
everywhere.
I went into the engine-compartment. The diesels are exceptionally large, but I saw nothing else of interest. All that I observed on board was consistent with the work these men say they are engaged upon. In the saloon there is much writing and photographic material, typewriters, cameras, paints. They showed me specimens of their work. It seemed professional. Of a high standard, I should say.’

The thin man looked at him doubtfully. ‘I am more
interested
in what you did not see. The storerooms, forepeak, the bilges.’

The port official held out his hands, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I could not ask to see these without arousing suspicion.’

‘Of course, Señor Manzala. Do not worry. You have done your duty.’

There was a fresh easterly wind blowing and once they had cleared the harbour sail was set, the diesels were stopped and
Snowgoose
heeled over, clipping along to the south at eight knots.

‘This is the life,’ said Helmut leaning over the Perspex hooded chart-table.

At the wheel Francois nodded. ‘Better than hanging round the harbour. There’s nothing worse than waiting.’

To starboard, a mile or so away, the coast was slipping by: Figuretes, Playa den Bossa, the Malvin rocks, Sal Rosa, Punta Corpmari and Punta Portas. Astern, Ibiza, its buildings rising steeply on the hill above the harbour, was fading into the distance. There was a broken sea and at times the schooner dug her bows into it and sluiced spray over the deck, so that all was moist and fresh and the foot of the sails glistened in the sunlight.

Off Isla Ahorcados course was altered to the west and the schooner ran with the wind astern, making for the rocky pinnacle of Vedra, twelve miles ahead. At three o’clock in the afternoon they rounded Vedra and soon afterwards shortened sail and stood in towards the coast.

As they closed the land an engine was started, sails were lowered and the schooner anchored in the lee of the land off Cala d’Or.

For the next hour or so her crew were busy with cameras,
sketch-books and notebooks, and in the late afternoon they found time for a swim. Some time after six o’clock, anchor was weighed and
Snowgoose
stood out to sea on a southerly course. The wind had backed slightly but was still fresh. By nightfall she was well away from the land. At nine o’clock navigation lights were switched off, sails lowered, the engines started and course altered to the east, the schooner heading directly into wind and sea.

At midnight Helmut got a fix from the lights at Vedra and Ahorcados which put the schooner three miles south of Cabo Llentrisca. Course was altered to the north-east and they made for a
cala
to the east of Cabo Negret. Two miles from the shore the engines were stopped and the schooner proceeded under light canvas, moving silently through the water, showing no lights.

The land rose steeply round the base of the horseshoe bay, and once in it
Snowgoose
encountered sheltered water and lost the wind. Sails were lowered and her way carried her slowly inshore until the echo-sounder showed the water
shoaling
fast. The anchor was lowered, not dropped, and she came in to five fathoms.

There were no shore lights ahead of them. They had visited the
cala
by road a few days before and knew that there was nothing there but the road from San José winding down through land marked out for development but as yet not built upon. Nevertheless they had taken pains to conceal the schooner’s arrival, and in this they had been assisted by the dark night and clouded sky.

A rubber dinghy was brought up on deck, inflated and put over the side. Francois, Helmut and Dimitrio, wearing dark clothing, climbed into it and paddled for the shore.

The best part of two hours later, Kamros heard a low whistle and the dinghy bumped alongside in the darkness. Helmut climbed on board, and Francois and Dimitrio manœuvred the rubber craft under the schooner’s bow. A line was taken from the
Snowgoose
and made fast. Then Kamros and Helmut weighed the schooner’s anchor and the men in the dinghy began to paddle. Slowly the
Snowgoose
responded to the tow and when the first breath of wind touched her a jib was hoisted, Francois and Dimitrio came back on board, and the dinghy was recovered, deflated and stowed below.

More sail was set,
Snowgoose
’s speed increased and she was
put on a southerly course.

‘How was it?’ asked Kamros.

‘Okay,’ said Helmut who was at the wheel. ‘We must anchor closer next time. There’s plenty of water. The dinghy journey can be shortened quite a bit.’ He looked at the deck watch on the chart-table. It was three hours and twenty-seven minutes past midnight.

‘Did our guest give any trouble?’

‘Not at all,’ said Kamros. ‘It seems seasickness makes him sleep.’

Francois shivered with cold. ‘It would have been difficult without this reccy. Everything seems different in the dark.’

‘Everything
is
different in the dark,’ growled Dimitrio. ‘Except women.’

Snowgoose
was far out to sea by sunrise.

For the next two days Black kept to his room, going through the motions of nursing his ankle, deprecating the fuss Maria Massa made of him, and keeping her away from the injury. Several times he telephoned Manuela. When at last he found her in he asked her to come and see him. She expressed concern for his ankle, but said she was too busy. She simply had to get on with her painting. She’d persuaded a local gallery to take eight pictures for an exhibition in a month’s time and she’d only done three. She promised to see him soon but could not name a day.

He found the story unconvincing and wondered how much of the time she’d be spending with Kyriakou. He shied away from admitting that he was jealous, ascribing his emotions to concern for her well-being. But another matter troubled him more seriously. He was desperately anxious to collect Werner Zolde’s letter from the post office, for he still did not know if Hassan had been dealt with. For this and other reasons he found the enforced seclusion frustrating to a degree. But it was necessary, not only to maintain the ankle fiction, but because he needed time now, uninterrupted time, for planning. So he spent hours on his bed thinking, then at the table with pen and paper drawing up programmes and time-tables, making lists of possible courses of action and counter-action, for each of which he would work out responses.

Everything that he sketched or wrote he burnt, the salient facts he committed to memory. At the end of three days he
consoled himself with the knowledge that in no other way could he have found the time to plan so thoroughly.

Maria Massa brought him a walking stick and on the third day he took his shopping basket and hobbled downstairs. The swelling had gone but the ankle was bandaged and he wore a slipper. By the time he reached the market he’d acquired a reasonably comfortable gait combined with what he believed to be a convincing limp.

His first call was the post office. There were two letters for him. One from Werner Zolde. Out in the
paseo
he sat on a bench, tore open the envelope and read the brief message:
All
is
well.
Your
friend
is
with
us.
Safe
and
sound.
Do
not
worry.
No address, no signature—but, oh, what a relief. He took a deep breath and felt his whole body relax. For some minutes he sat in the warm sun, his mind emptied for the moment of its troubles. Then he opened the envelope with the Madrid postmark. In it he found an acceptance slip for the article on de Salla’s
vernissage
and a cheque for
twenty-five
pounds. He took the cheque to the Banque Abel Matutes Torres and deposited it. The teller, who knew him, was friendly and asked why he limped. Black said he’d fallen climbing in the hills. The teller smiled politely, without
conviction
, and Black knew what he was thinking. After that he shopped in the market and at Spar. When he’d finished it was getting on for noon and he began to look for Manuela. She was not on the pavement outside the Alhambra or the Montesol, but several people he knew were and as he hobbled past he felt absurdly self-conscious. Ilse Berch, at a table by herself, was sympathetic. ‘I know all about it,’ she said. ‘Manuela told me.’

‘Seen her this morning?’

‘Yes she was here half an hour ago. With friends.’

‘Really. Who were they?’

‘No idea, Charles. Two young men. They looked nice.’ Ilse was enjoying herself.

‘Any idea where they went?’

‘Along Calle Rambau. Perhaps Malcolm’s Boutique or Knack. I know she wanted to get some slacks.’

‘I shouldn’t have thought she needed two young men for that.’

Ilse Berch’s eyes twinkled. ‘You never know, Charles.’

‘So long,’ he said. ‘If you see her, say I’m on the prowl.’

She wasn’t at either of the boutiques, and although he didn’t really think she’d be there he looked in at Mariano’s, Bud’s Bar and the George and Dragon, staying for a drink at each, and then, feeling better, he resumed the search, this time making for the waterfront.

It was a fine day, a few clouds tossed out like white candy floss straggled in the sky, and the sun was the warmest he’d yet experienced in Ibiza. It’s good to be alive, he thought, even carrying this limp around. The plane trees were putting out new leaves and once again he was struck by the quality of light in Ibiza. It was of exceptional brilliance and opalescent. Ibiza was called the White Island, and he wondered whether it was because of this light or the limewashed houses. Perhaps it was both. He went past the church of San Telmo and came to the harbour. Manuela was not at the tables outside the Bar Formentera nor at the Pechet. He went on past the Plaza Marino Riquer, drew a blank at Juanito’s, Delfin Verde, Les Caracoles and Can Garroves. He went along Calle de Carijo, the ships on his left and the old buildings of sa Peña on his right, the limewashed walls splashed with brightly painted doors and windows, and the small iron-railed balconies decorated with pots of geranium and fern. Up the side streets, lines of washing hung across from house to house like limp flag-hoists, children played in noisy groups, and neighbours resting from their chores chatted from balcony to balcony.