The White Schooner (3 page)

Though he had not met her, Black had, during his time on Ibiza, heard the island gossip about Manuela Valez, just as she had heard that about him.

Like him she was a comparatively recent arrival, a painter of sorts. He’d seen some of her pictures and thought little of them: crude attempts at a Miro-like spideryness,
unconvincing
abstractions, indifferently executed. She lived in a flat in the
barrio
sa Peña on a scale which, though modest, could not have been supported by the proceeds of her painting. Some said she lived on remittances from a well-to-do father in Puerto Rico, others that she had good alimony, but the rumour favoured was that Kyriakou supported her. She admitted to being on hash and LSD, but her detractors suspected more, notwithstanding her denials, and since the Greek was thought —or so the whispers went—to be involved vicariously in drug trafficking, her dependence on him seemed logical.

Black had been on the island long enough to know that the rumours which circulated in its café society were often
inaccurate
, often malicious, and he wondered how much of what he’d heard was true. And it happened that Manuela Valez was at that moment thinking about him and making much the same reservations. Since she faced him, she was obliged to look at the sun-bleached Englishman with the hawkish bearded face whom she had seen at times sitting
outside
the Montesol, sometimes with members of the
artists-writers
colony and their hangers-on, but more often alone. None of her friends seemed to know him well, and in her three months on the island she had not found herself in the same party. So while she talked to Kyriakou a part of her mind recalled what she had heard about Black: that he was artistic, charming but shiftless, drank too much and existed on a modest remittance from England supplemented by the proceeds of occasional contributions to art journals.

Not surprisingly, because he was seldom seen with women, he was rumoured to be a homosexual. She wasn’t interested and so didn’t care, but it had occurred to her that he
wasn’t often seen with men either, so perhaps he just didn’t like people. Which wasn’t difficult for her to understand,
because
she wasn’t at all sure she liked people. At least not those she seemed to see most of these days.

Her last thought about him was interrupted by Tino Costa who was pawing at her knee under the table. She pushed away his hand, glared at him and turned to Kyriakou who was filling the Cypriot’s glass for the fourth time.

‘Don’t give him any more,’ she said. ‘He’s getting above himself.’

‘Wadya mean?’ Tino was red-eyed and hoarse.

‘You know what I mean,’ she said.

He stared at her, wondering how much she’d say in front of the Greek and deciding through an alcoholic haze not to take any chances with the boss who was a mean bastard if crossed.

The moment of tension passed Kyriakou by, and he
continued
his story of an art-forger friend and went on pouring the champagne as if nothing had happened.

The meal proceeded with Kyriakou doing the talking while Tino sulked. Manuela listened to the Greek with half
attention,
while she thought of other things. Towards the end of the meal he stood up. ‘You two wait here.’ He dabbed at his lips with a table napkin. ‘I’m going down aft to see how Benny’s getting on. Back soon.’

Manuela looked sad. ‘Poor Benny,’ she said.

Tino Costa snorted. ‘How come a guy who claims he was an Olympic swimmer, pukes his heart out for a few waves?’

‘A man can’t help it if he’s seasick,’ said Kyriakou. ‘He’s not God.’ The Greek took Manuela’s hand and with an exaggerated bow kissed it before making an exit which included
hand-waves
, smiles and shouted ‘Allo’s’ in several directions. Black noticed that he himself was not among the recipients. Not long afterwards Tino Costa took over the Greek’s empty chair and Black saw him slant towards the girl like a toppled sack of potatoes, sliding an arm along the back of her chair and whispering hoarsely.

She drew away, but a large hand pulled her back and the whisper continued. Whatever it was he was saying, the Puerto Rican girl didn’t like it. She tried to get up but he pulled her back. This time she let fly and the noise as she slapped his face was like the muted crack of a whip. Tino’s mouth fell open with surprise. He swore at the girl as she pulled free and
moved away from the table.

As she came abreast of where Black was sitting the Cypriot caught up with her, grabbed her arm and said, ‘You goddam bitch. You don’t get away with that…’

Black had no intention of intervening. There were good reasons why he shouldn’t mix in a brawl, but when she turned to him, eyes bright with fear, and whispered, ‘Please help me,’ her appeal was so urgent that he got up awkwardly, hating the involvement, and said to the Cypriot: ‘Cut it out, chum.’ He tried to sound friendly, to keep his voice free of animus, but Costa had drunk a lot of wine and was in no mood to let this Englishman stop him dealing with a woman who had publicly insulted him.

He put his free hand on Black’s shoulder and pushed him away, and only the roll of the ship saved the Englishman from the table behind him. ‘Keep outa this,’ the Cypriot warned hoarsely.

Conversation in the saloon stopped, all eyes on the two men while stewards hovered nearby. But even they did not see what Black did. In a quick movement he slipped between the Cypriot and the girl and the next moment Costa let go his hold, staggered back and clapped a hand to his arm, grimacing with pain. Recovering, he moved forward and squared up to Black just as a voice from the saloon door shouted, ‘Quit that, Tino!’ The big man dropped his arms, looking like a dog called to heel. Kyriakou pushed into the small group, jaw out-thrust, and glowered from Manuela to Black to Tino.

The girl said, ‘He tried to get fresh, Kirry. I slapped his face. Then he wanted to hit me.’

Kyriakou turned on Tino. ‘You goddam sonofabitch. Put one hand on that girl and I break you in leetle pieces.
Understand
?’

The Cypriot shook his head. ‘I didn’t get fresh, boss. She got me wrong.’

‘Like hell she got you wrong,’ Kyriakou’s eyes dilated. ‘You’re drunk. Get to hell out of it.’ He pointed imperiously at the door.

Tino Costa’s perspiring face was agitated. Kyriakou had cracked the whip, and, befuddled though he was, Tino knew he had to obey. Shaking his head, muttering, he lumbered out of the saloon. At an adjoining table a thin man with dark glasses and a christ-beard got up and followed.

Manuela looked at Charles Black and then away. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her breath coming in small gasps. ‘You stopped him. He’s crazy.’ Black liked her soft foreign accent, the inflections of Caribbean Spanish with North American
undertones
. Somehow the way she said them, expressed more than the words she used.

He hitched his shoulders. ‘It was nothing.’

But he was thinking that it might have been if Kyriakou hadn’t turned up. The Cypriot wasn’t all that drunk. It would have been a brawl by any standards. He didn’t really doubt his ability to deal with Tino, but these things couldn’t be done neatly among the tables and chairs of a swaying dining-saloon.

Kyriakou turned off his rage like a tap, and became in an instant all smiles and geniality. ‘Fine, fine, old chap,’ he beamed, rubbing his hands and looking round to see who was in the audience. ‘So you protect my leetle Manuela. Ah. Very nice. I am so much grateful.’

‘I’m not
your
Manuela,’ said the girl. ‘And I wish you’d keep your
friend
Costa on a leash.’

The Greek’s eyes flickered but he laughed as he took Black’s arm. ‘Ah. She make leetle joke, hey? Come along. Join us for a dreenk. We soon forget Tino’s nonsense. He take too much vodka. Make him angry.’

Black hesitated, was about to refuse, when he remembered the dingy cabin. He wasn’t tired enough for that. Besides these two might have some information, however little, that could help him. The girl saw his hesitation. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘We would like you to.’

So he accepted, saying that he would join them when he’d settled his account with the chief steward.

After that he went across. Kyriakou had unbuttoned his coat and was sitting back smoking a cigar, shirt buttons
straining
across the round of his stomach.

‘Aha! Sit down Mister …? Forgeev me. I forget.’

‘Charles Black,’ said the Englishman.

Kyriakou’s white teeth flashed under the black moustache. ‘Of course, of course. The art critic. Yes?’

Black nodded and sat down. Kyriakou beckoned to a waiter. Black ordered a
coñac.
Manuela wouldn’t drink, and the Greek ordered an
Oso.

‘You know Manuela Valez?’ he asked, knowing perfectly well that Black didn’t.

Black smiled at her. ‘Hallo,’ he said.

‘Hi,’ she replied and her dark eyes seemed to be trying to read his mind.

The Greek was preoccupied, and Black and the girl did most of the talking. The tables emptied and the stewards hovered, until Kyriakou lifted himself out of his thoughts and said: ‘What say we go to the bar?’

Black was enjoying himself. Manuela Valez was not the person he had imagined her to be. She was intelligent and sympathetic. Most of the time they discussed Ibiza and he was amused by her gossip about the Ibizencan painters and writers, and though he’d not gleaned anything new he wasn’t anxious to face the disenchanting cabin. It was not long after ten, so he said, ‘Yes. Good idea.’

For the next hour or so they sat at the bar. She didn’t drink, but somehow they laughed a lot, and Black wasn’t sorry when on two occasions Kyriakou left them for one reason or
another.

It was close to midnight when the party broke up, and by then they were all on first name terms. Black looked at Manuela. ‘See you to-morrow.’

‘Surely,’ she said, and he wondered if she meant it and found to his concern that he hoped she did.

His last thought before going to sleep was to regret the fracas in the dining-saloon. It had been stupid and
undignified
, and it had made him conspicuous.

Soon after daybreak the ferry steamer passed Tagomago Island and started down the coast of Ibiza. Wind and sea had dropped and the sound of the bow-wave reflecting back from the calm surface of the water was like rustling paper.

Black went up on deck as they passed Santa Eulalia. It was the cold of early morning and he kept moving to warm his body, his mind occupied with what lay ahead. At first he had the deck to himself but soon other passengers appeared, among them Kyriakou and Tino Costa who went by absorbed in conversation. Kyriakou gave him a preoccupied smile and waved, but the Cypriot looked away. After that, though he hesitated to admit it, Black was looking for the girl and that this should be so annoyed him. He regretted the party of the night before. If he’d refused the Greek’s invitation she would have remained no more than a name and a face. It would have been better that way, he thought, but his eyes continued to search.

The sun rose as the ship rounded Isla Grossa and headed in between the Botafoc lighthouse and the breakwater running out from La Bomba. He looked across the harbour to the waterfront where the buildings of Ibiza crowded upon each other, rising until they reached the walls of the old town. There they halted, to emerge again on the terraces of D’Alt Vila, the white of tall Moorish houses emphasising the browns and terra cottas of buildings of medieval formality.
Dominating
them, tall and ecclesiastical, the cathedral of Santa Maria seemed to proclaim the truth that man cannot live by bread alone. The jumble of architecture with its Moorish, Carthaginian, Gothic, Castilian, Ibizencan reminiscences, was like pages torn at random from a history book. He tried to picture the pageantry, the splendour, the savagery, the battles fought beneath the citadel walls, the Moorish raids to rape and pillage, and his thoughts became sombre—man had not changed: the obscenities of Auschwitz, Buchenwald and Theresienstadt—worse probably than anything in Ibiza’s long
history—the brutality of Vietnam. Was there no end to it? Was the only lesson of history that nothing was learnt from it?

Manuela’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘It is beautiful, is it not?’ She pointed across the water.

‘Hallo. Yes. It is.’ He felt an inner excitement he would have liked to repudiate, and fought it by concentrating on what she’d said.
Beautiful.
But
beautiful
is not a good word, he thought. The harbour this morning with the town above it bathed in early morning sunlight, the sky opalescent, the whole thing looking like an illustration from Hans Andersen, requires something more definitive. Just as she does. One can say
Manuela
is
beautiful
but it does not describe her. What does? Idiom?
Fabulous
,
for example? No. Overworked superlatives lose their meaning. So what?

She saw him smile. ‘Why do you smile?’

‘Nothing,’ he said.

‘You smile for nothing?’

‘Sometimes. When I feel good.’

‘Have you seen them?’ she asked.

‘Kyriakou and Costa?’

‘Yes.’

‘They were on deck a few minutes ago. They went down aft.’

She touched his arm. ‘I am grateful to you for last night.’

‘Forget it.’

‘You have made an enemy.’ She said it gravely.

‘Tino?’

She nodded.

‘Forget him, too,’ he said.

‘For me that is not possible.’

He thought he knew why.

She looked uncertain. ‘I think I must go to find them.’

‘They’ll find you.’ He knew he couldn’t stop himself saying it. ‘Hold on for a minute.’

‘You think so?’

‘Sure of it. How’s your friend Benny?’

‘Oh, still very sick, poor chap. They say he will rest for a while before going ashore.’

‘Who is he?’

‘A business friend of Kyriakou’s,’ she said casually. ‘From Beirut.’

The telegraph bells rang and the ship’s engines stopped. The
bow swung in towards the cross berth and a motorboat with a one man crew chugged off towing a hawser. On the quay a longshoreman threw a heaving line. The man in the motorboat caught it and secured it to the eye of the hawser, and the
longshoreman
hauled it up and slipped it over a bollard.

As the steamer warped in, her passengers exchanged shouted greetings with those who had come to meet them; there were waves and grimaces, gestures of pleasure, of embarrassed recognition, while the distance between ship and shore was still too great for conversation.

Manuela and Black leant on the rail watching the upturned faces, the small unfolding drama of arrival.

‘Anyone meeting you?’ Why, he thought, do I feel this girl’s proximity so acutely?

‘No. And you?’

He shook his head. ‘How do you get to where you’re going?’

‘It is not far. Kyriakou will take me.’ She looked along the deck as if expecting him.

‘I see,’ said Black. He’d forgotten that tie up. The night before she’d said to the Greek, ‘I’m not
your
Manuela.’ With surprise he acknowledged that it pleased him to remember that. While he was thinking about it, a voice inside him said, snap out of it, man, remember what you’re here for. He stretched his arms and stifled a yawn. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘So long. Be seeing you.’

As he walked away he knew that his abrupt change of manner would be inexplicable and she would be hurt. Just as well, he thought, wondering how a certain synthesis of voice and manner, of face and figure, could affect a man’s judgment. And for
this
girl. A pseudo abstract painter, a Puerto Rican drop-out, tied up in some way with Kyriakou who was said to be in the drug racket. She was probably a junkie, maybe a pusher, and—he shied away from the thought but came back to it—maybe the Greek’s mistress. Christ, he thought, I must be going round the bend.

Down in the cabin he collected his suitcase and raincoat and went up on deck. Stevedores were running the gangway across into the hull where water-tight doors had opened to receive it. He walked to the after end of the boat-deck and looked down at the sailors taking lashings off the cars brought from Barcelona.

Kyriakou was there with Tino. They were fussing round the
Greek’s powder-blue Buick which dwarfed the small
Continental
and British cars around it.

There was a smell of tarred rope, of fishing nets, of oil fuel and old drains, and the noise of steam winches, of men
shouting
, of cars and trucks revving on the quays, the barking of a dog and, above it all, the shrill cry of seabirds fighting for offal.

Black looked up towards D’Alt Vila to see if he could identify his room. He found the El Corsario and then, below it, he thought he could make out the Massa house, and high up in it the window of his own room. Maria Massa, his
landlady
, would be there, misshapen by work and poverty,
industrious,
honest, proud. She would be swabbing the floor, the terra-cotta tiles glistening with moisture, the rooms smelling of old age and stale cooking. She would be singing sad little Spanish folk songs about work and love and childbirth and death.

He went down a companion ladder and joined the stream of passengers making for the gangway. Once ashore, he set off along the quay carrying the suitcase and raincoat. It was not far to D’Alt Vila and he felt good. The sun was warm and the smell of coffee and freshly baked bread from the cafés made him hungry. He passed the Plaza Marino Riquer, the Bar Balear, Les Caracoles and went into Can Garroves. The tables were full so he stood at the counter and ordered coffee and
ensaimadas.
While he waited a couple left a table in the window, and he went over and put his suitcase and raincoat on it. When he returned with the coffee and
ensaimadas
a woman was sitting at the table. Her back was to him but he knew it was Manuela.

For a moment he thought of going back to the counter, but she turned and saw him and it was too late. He said, ‘Hallo,’ and sat down.

Her ‘Hi,’ was subdued and the way she looked at him he knew she was thinking of his earlier abruptness.

He stirred the coffee vigorously. ‘Smells good.’

‘I guess so.’

‘Aren’t you having anything?’ he said.

‘The waiter has not come.’

He took a mouth of
ensaimada.
‘He’s busy. What d’you want?’

‘Just coffee,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. I can wait.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll’ get it.’

When he came back she thanked him and for a moment they sat in silence. Then he said, ‘Waiting for Kyriakou?’

She nodded. ‘You don’t like him?’ It was more a statement than a question. He took another mouthful of
ensaimada
and when he’d dealt with that, and the crumbs, he said, ‘I haven’t really thought about it.’

A small procession came down the road from the town led by a priest with a crucifix. He was followed by acolytes
carrying
candles. Behind them about twenty men straggled in an untidy line. The procession passed the Can Garroves and turned right, going on in the direction of the ferry steamer. To Black there was a picturesque solemnity about the cortège, a pious, infinitely patient futility.

‘Wonder what all that’s in aid of?’ he said.

‘It’s a kind of funeral. They go to the ship. You will see.’

The procession halted when it reached the ferry and its members stood in a semi-circle behind the priest.

Manuela pointed. ‘You see. Now they will wait for the coffin from the ship. It must be an Ibizencan coming home to be buried. It is not unusual if they die on the mainland. They are superstitious.’

Black munched away at the
ensaimada,
stopping now and then to wash it down with coffee.

The train of thought which the funeral cortège had started was interrupted by a yellow Land-Rover which drew up in front of the café. The driver wore a blue and white striped sailor’s vest, blue bell-bottoms and a beret with a red
pom-pom.
His arms were tattooed. Next to him sat a tall thin man with white hair and dark glasses. Even from the fifty feet which separated them, Black could see the scarred face and taut unsmiling features. The driver came into the café and bought a packet of cigarettes. He went out, said something to the tall man, then climbed into the Land-Rover and they drove off.

Black looked at Manuela. ‘Know who that is?’

‘Of course,’ said the girl. ‘Van Biljon.’

‘Don’t often see him around.’

She nodded. ‘A strange man. They say he feels rejected socially because of his face. I think he is very unhappy.’

‘Burns from an air crash when he was young,’ said Black.

‘It must be terrible to have your face destroyed.’ She
shuddered.
‘Poor man.’

‘Poor! He’s stinking rich. At least he can be miserable in comfort.’

‘Do you think that is a compensation?’

‘Of course. He lives in a marvellous house in the hills near San José. He’s reputed to have a fabulous collection of pictures. And that boat
Nordwind,
the fastest, most
comfortable
thing in harbour. That’s his life. Collecting pictures,
fishing
when he wants to. What more could a man want?’

Manuela shook her head slowly. ‘Do you think that is all a man wants out of life? He lives alone. No wife. No children. Not even friends.’

‘Not quite alone.’ Black poured himself another cup of coffee. ‘They say he has a Spanish housekeeper, her husband, and two sailors living at Altomonte. And some Alsatians. That’s hardly alone.’

‘What sort of company is that for a cultured man?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said the Englishman. ‘I’ve never been invited.’

‘Who has? They say he never allows visitors, except an occasional government official.’

Black exhaled loudly through his nose. ‘I would love to see those pictures.’

She smiled sympathetically. ‘What are they?’

‘No one absolutely knows. They say mostly Impressionists and post-Impressionists. Collecting them is said to have been his life’s work.’

She opened her bag, took out a compact and fussed with her hair, looking critically in the small mirror. When she’d finished she drew her lips in tightly and put away the compact. She looked up and saw that he was watching her in a strange way, so she turned her head towards the harbour. His stare
embarrassed
her. She felt he was looking at her without seeing her. An empty strained look as if he were searching
inside
her mind rather than outside it.

Something caught her eye. ‘See,’ she said. ‘There is the coffin.’

He looked over to the ferry steamer. A derrick had swung over the ship’s side and a coffin was being lowered. On the
quay waiting hands steadied it, the rope sling was removed, and the priest began his benedictions.

A few minutes later the coffin was hoisted on to the shoulders of the pallbearers. The mourners and acolytes re-formed
behind
the priest and the procession left the quay and made off down the road.

Manuela looked at him. ‘Do you believe in an after life?’

‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘I do not.’

‘I do,’ she said with an assurance he envied.

He shook his head. ‘Isn’t it—a monumental conceit? To believe that.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You see I believe that people are
reincarnated
in their children.’

‘That’s another kettle of fish,’ Black said. He was thinking what a strange person she was, how different from what he’d imagined and heard. Was she a junkie? Perhaps. She was fragile. Misty eyes with heavy rings under them. At dinner in the ship she’d eaten little and only played with her champagne: discreet sips, an upset glass, and at the end a full one
untouched
. After dinner she’d drunk nothing but coffee.

In front of the café a car hooted stridently. It was the powder-blue Buick, with Kyriakou and Tino Costa in the front seat. The Greek waved.

‘Better hurry,’ said Black dryly.

She gathered up her things and went out, calling over her shoulder, ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ But she didn’t look back, and he felt as if a thread had broken.

For some time he sat thinking about her and what they had discussed. He hadn’t learnt anything. His thoughts went back to the scarred face in the Land-Rover and he recalled the local gossip about Wilhelm van Biljon: born and bred in South America where his family had gone with other refugees from the Transvaal after the Boer War; a much respected figure on the island where he had lived for many years; rich, with investments in South America and South Africa; a recluse, known for his generosity to Ibizencan causes, particularly those associated with children for whom he did much.