Message From Malaga, Page 3

  She was taller than the others, Ferrier noted, and moved with a grace that was notable even by the dim light. She reached the stage, mounted it, walked its length toward the empty chair with that same effortless stride. Around him, the silence broke into a storm of welcome. He could almost feel the excitement that filled the courtyard before it swept over him, too. She was worth waiting for, this Tavita. A small delay, it seemed now, not worth noticing; a little time lag that had served to stir the emotions and rouse expectations. She was unique, no doubt about that, although she was dressed like the others in the stylised costume of flamenco. And it wasn’t her selection of colours that was so different—the others had made their choices, too, combining favourite contrasts to give variety. It was the way she wore the splendid clothes. She dominated them, made them part of her individuality.

  She had reached her chair, sat down with her spine erect and head high, like all of them and yet like none of them, sweeping aside her wide skirt with a slender arm so that its rippling hem spread out on the wooden floor like an opened fan around her feet. The sleeveless top of her dress was black and unadorned. It moulded her body, from low rounded neckline down over firm breasts and taut waist almost to the line of her hips. There, the many-tiered skirt, black lace over red silk, belled out in a cascade of ruffles that ended above her ankles, dipping slightly in back almost to the heavy high heels of her leather pumps. These were the practical note, the classical shoes of the flamenco dancer, which could beat out lightning rhythms like a riffle on a drum. The small red shawl, fringed in black, was practical too: it covered the bare back and shoulders against the cool touch of early-morning air. But the flower in her elaborately simple hair was completely exotic, large, softly frilling, startlingly pink. She wore long earrings to balance the curl over her cheek, but no necklace, no rings, no bracelets. The bones of her face were strong yet finely moulded, cleverly emphasised by the skill of her make-up. Her large dark eyes were shining, her smile lingering. “Good God,” Ferrier said again, aloud this time.

  Suddenly, without any apparent signal, any noticeable exchange of glances, the four girls rose and swept into a round with the first bright chords of the sevillana, paired off, laced, separated, came together again, filling the little stage with a swirl of skirts, a flurry of heels struck hard, a crack of castanets from upraised hands. The guitars quickened, heightened, their rhythms marked by hard hand-clapping from the singer and dancer. From Tavita, too. Her eyes were watching the stamping feet with pleasure and excitement, her smile breaking into laughter. “Go! Go!” she called out to Constanza. “Anda! Anda!”

  Reid was studying Ferrier’s face. “This is just for openers, you know. The individual dancing comes later.”

  “They really enjoy themselves.” And I along with them. “Why the hell don’t I give up my job, move here, see this every night?” Ferrier settled back in his chair. At this moment, he thought, I am a very very happy man.

  Reid said softly, as Jaime came out of the darkness and placed their brandy before them, “Excuse me for a few minutes, will you? This is just as good a time as any—Pablo will have to dance, Miguel to sing, Constanza or Maruja to demonstrate an alegria, before we get Tavita’s performance. Don’t worry, I won’t miss that. Hold the table. Some of the late comers are ready to pounce on any free space.”

  Ferrier nodded, his eyes on the stage. But he was aware that Reid had moved, not toward the back of the courtyard, where others had previously sauntered out to the washroom, but through the door in the wall beside him. Special privilege, Ferrier thought, and was briefly entertained. And then he forgot about Reid as the climactic moments of the sevillana, with violent strumming and rapping on the guitars, wildly swinging skirts, rattling heels, lightning castanets, caught him up into the excitement of movement and colour and sound, a frenzied crescendo that ended abruptly, completely, jolting everyone into a shout of applause.

  2

  Reid slipped out of the courtyard into a room that was dark and silent. And oppressive; the collected heat of the day had been trapped under its heavily timbered ceiling. It was mostly used for storage: at one end, adjoining the wineshop itself, were grouped barrels, crates, sacks and cartons, their shapes vaguely outlined in the deep shadows. Someone had tried to cool the place and opened two of the shutters on the wall opposite the courtyard entrance, but the effort was only partially successful. Between the doorway where he stood and the barred windows, which were glassless, there was a hint of cross-ventilation, but the minute he started climbing the wooden stairs on his right, he felt the warm air close around him. It smelled of wine and wood, of leather and dust, with a touch of carnations from the perfume the girls liked to use. Their dressing-room was upstairs, part of a winding warren of little apartments. The men had their quarters on the ground floor, reached by a passage that began somewhere under the staircase; there, the smell of wine and wood and leather would be mixed with cigar smoke, hair oil, and lime cologne. To a stranger, the geography of this interior would be completely baffling. To Reid, it was a matter of fifteen wooden steps that hugged the wall all the way up to the landing, where there were two naked light bulbs, a venerable clock that had never yet failed in its timing, and two entrances. The one on the left to the girls’ side of the house; the one on the right to Tavita’s own corridor. It was this doorway he chose.

  It was a narrow hallway, with several small rooms branching from it. Tavita’s receiving room, dressing-room, bathroom, special sitting-room were on one side, and naturally over-looked the courtyard. The other side of the corridor had a series of little square spaces no better than interior boxes, where clothes were made and stored and cleaned and pressed under old Magdalena’s supervision. She would be there now, in the biggest of the boxes, a small skylight open above her grey head, a radio picking up some Algerian station and its soft wailing music, working alone, ironing out frills and ruffles on Tavita’s change of costume, her shapeless black dress bent over bright colours, gnarled hands smoothing out fine silks with strange delicacy.

  But as he passed her door, ready with a brief greeting and a friendly nod, he saw she was standing just inside the threshold, waiting. She put a finger to her lips, her other hand on his wrist, her eyes looked along the corridor as if she thought someone might be listening at its other end. So he took a step into the little room, carefully avoiding the wide hem of the white-and-yellow organza skirt that floated down from the ironing board, watching Magdalena’s pale, heavy, peasant face, with its tight lips and intense frown. She spoke in a deep hoarse whisper. “Important, this one. Very important. Tavita says you must get him away from here at once. Tonight. That’s what she says.”

  Reid looked at her in surprise. In the six years Tavita and he had been running this little operation, there had never been any request like this. There never had been any urgency. Secrecy, certainly; that was a necessary part of security. A refugee from Cuba, smuggled out of Havana into Málaga, needed a place where he could find safe shelter until he could continue his journey to other parts of the country. There, relatives or friends would help him. (They had been contacted quietly, weeks and sometimes months before, to make sure that they were able and willing.) But in Málaga there were Castro agents and informers watching for stowaways; and the first day of freedom for a penniless man, often hungry and sick, could be a perilous one. There had been cases of political refugees, barely off the docks, who had been shanghaied right back to where they had come from. Others had thought they’d be safe if they could reach a police station or some official bureau, ask for asylum, be willing to face detention until their case would be judged. But it seemed impossible to prevent publicity: the news would leak out. Within hours, there would be a request from Havana for the man’s extradition: he was a murderer, an embezzler of union funds, a forger, a kidnapper and extortionist; full details of his crime—place, date, names of witnesses—to follow. And the details did follow, again within a few hours. “This man has to leave tonight?” Reid asked. “When did h
e arrive?”

  “This morning.”

  “The usual way?” Reid had worked out a simple—and so far dependable—method of bringing a refugee into El Fenicio. The first of them, six years ago, had been Tavita’s brother. El Fenicio had chosen itself, as it were, for the role of a safe house.

  “No. He did not come from the docks. He came from Algeciras.”

  “But how?”

  Magdalena shook her head. She knew nothing. Tavita had given her the message for Señor Reid and she had passed it on. “He is dangerous, this one” was all she said. Her worst misgivings about helping any refugee had been fulfilled. She always had complained about the risks for Tavita. Not for el norteamericano; he could look after himself. So could Esteban. Even young Jaime. But Tavita? She could lose everything.

  “Do you know this man?” Reid was watching her face closely.

  She shook her head, pushed him out of her way as she reached over to switch on the iron. “Tavita knows of him,” she said. “He was a friend of her brother’s. That was many years ago. Here, in Málaga.”

  “What is his name?”

  Magdalena shrugged, tested the iron, began pressing a ruffle. She knew little, wanted to know even less. Whoever this man is, Reid thought, he really silences her. He reached out, gave her bent shoulders a reassuring pat, and then stepped into the corridor. Quickly, he walked its length, taking out his key to the sitting-room door. It was kept locked on the nights it held any special visitor. How many times had he come along here, just like this, in the last six years? No more than thirty. Some might think that a small achievement indeed, but it had been successful. Thirty men who would never have been given permission to leave Cuba had found their way out. And after tonight? Possibly this could be the end of the whole operation: the man behind this door hadn’t come here through regular channels, hadn’t even been expected. Yet he must have known the right identifications, or else Esteban would have played stupid, turned him away when he had arrived this morning. I like this as little as Magdalena, Reid thought as he turned the key in the lock and then knocked three times before he opened the door.

  The room was in darkness except for a vertical strip of subdued light where the tall shutters had been left ajar. Down in the courtyard, Pablo’s heels were beating out a frenzied zapateado. The man who stood looking out at the balcony could not have heard Reid’s knocking against the collected noise, but he had sensed the door opening. He swung round on his heels, stepping aside from the band of light, and faced Reid.

  “Close the shutters. Draw the curtains,” Reid said in Spanish. What kind of a fool am I dealing with? Had he actually been out there, on that balcony? Possibly it was safe enough, provided you moved slowly and kept well back in the shadows: it was partly recessed, and the iron railings and side pillars were thickly covered with climbing vines. Even so, there was a risk, and it irritated Reid.

  “You close them,” the man told him in English. He stepped farther away, merging completely with the darkness.

  Reid moved quickly, wasting no time on argument. He pushed the shutters gently together, fastened them securely; the strumming guitars, the stamping feet, the clapping hands, the cries of “Olé!” faded into the background. He caught the heavy folds of the long curtains, drew them close until their edges overlapped; the last vestiges of greyed light were blacked out. Behind him, the small lamp on the central table was switched on. Reid turned toward it, but the man was no longer there. He was now standing some six feet away, his right arm held stiffly, his eyes watching Reid’s hands. Reid kept his voice casual. “Were you out on that balcony?”

  “It’s a good place to see what is going on.”

  “It could be a foolish place, too.” Reid chose the nearest chair, sat down, crossed his legs, made no attempt to reach for his cigarettes.

  “Did you see me out there?” The man slipped his throwing knife back into the cuff of his tight sleeve.

  Reid shook his head. And was I supposed not to notice that knife? “You know, if I had come up here to kill you, I would have entered with a revolver pointed. I would have peppered the room in the direction you moved. There’s a good six-to-one chance that I would have got you.”

  “A noisy method.”

  “There are such things as silencers. Even without one of them, the noisy method might have seemed only part of the flamenco. Pablo’s heels rattle like a machine gun.”

  The man sat down at the table. “Don’t be so sure you would have got me,” he said softly. “The light from the shutters reached the threshold of the door. I could see your feet—and your hands.”

  So this was a type who never apologised, and if he explained it would be to show how right he was. Certainly, he wasn’t afraid of risks; but he calculated them. And his reflexes were remarkably quick. Physically, he was of medium height and weight, with even features, thick dark hair now greying, heavily tanned skin, pale lips, two deep furrows on either side of his mouth, expressionless brown eyes under heavy brows. He was dressed, surprisingly, in a neat summer suit of silver-grey, a cream silk shirt, a broadly knotted tie of almost the same colour. He was totally unlike any refugee who had ever emerged from a packing case in the hold of a cargo ship.

  “You were late,” the man was saying, continuing his explanation.

  Two minutes.”

  “I saw you leave your table. Someone could have been waiting for you near the staircase. A matter of substitution, you understand.”

  “Quite,” said Reid gravely. He repressed a smile. He had the feeling that this man might not appreciate any joke about conspiracy: he seemed to accept it as a natural way of life. Yes, Magdalena might have been right—this man could be trouble. “How did you know who I was?” He could risk taking out his cigarettes and lighter.

  “Tavita pointed you out to me. Necessary, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Certainly cautious.” Reid took a cigarette, was about to light it, remembered politeness, and rose to offer the pack. “Do you smoke?”

  “I prefer cigars.”

  “But not here,” Reid said quickly. “Tavita doesn’t smoke cigars.” He lit his own cigarette, sat down at the table with his hands well in view. The lighter was at his elbow. “The smell stays in a small room for days.”

  “Does she smoke this brand of cigarette?” The man reached across the table, lifted the pack, examined it briefly, tossed it back.

  “As a matter of fact, she does,” Reid said. “We are cautious, too, you see. I’m sorry we had to lock you in here, but that is also part of—Something wrong?” The stranger had stretched his arm across the table again, tapped Reid’s left hand.

  “Only your watch. I’m amazed that a careful man lets it run slow.”

  “I don’t think so.” If he’s interested in this watch, then let’s encourage him, Reid thought. Let’s keep his curiosity away from the lighter. Reid unfastened the watch from his wrist, wound it a little. “It usually keeps perfect time. Are you sure it isn’t your watch that is fast?”

  “Perhaps. Certainly, it isn’t as elegant as that one. So very thin.”

  “The newest fad. All face and no works. Like some people I know.”

  “No works?”

  “Hardly any. See?” Reid displayed the watch with an owner’s usual pride, let the man examine it closely. “I don’t suppose there are many of those for sale in Havana.”

  “The first I’ve seen.”

  Reid took the watch, strapped it back on his wrist. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes—caution. I was explaining why we had to keep you locked in here. But we don’t want any stranger opening that door and—”

  “There is need for caution,” the coldly factual voice cut in. “I saw three men down in that courtyard, each of whom would have been quite capable of killing me. When I saw them, I thought that was why they had come here.”

  Reid’s amusement ended. “If you’ve blown our little operation—”

  “They may not have been following me. I doubt that. I have been excessivel
y careful. They may only have been putting in time, spending it agreeably, normally; or they could have chosen to meet here where men of all types and nationalities can be found. We will watch them, of course—”

  “Will we?”

  “They are potentially dangerous, quite apart from me. They—”

  “I’d prefer to hear about you. There are several questions. How did you get here, why did you come, who are you, where are you going, what relatives or friends have you in Spain?”

  “Relatives? None. Friends? Tavita. Where am I going? To safety. Who am I, why did I come? The answer is the same: I am a defector.”

  Reid stared at the quiet face opposite.

  “And how did I get here? I’ve planned the journey for months.” He watched the American take off his jacket, throw it over a neighbouring chair, loosen his tie and the collar button of his shirt. “Yes, it is warm,” he said with his first smile, small and brief. But not for me, he seemed to be saying when he made no move to slip off his coat. Perhaps, thought Reid, he doesn’t want to show the gun he is carrying.

  “Where did you start the journey?” Reid asked. Was this man really a defector? He could be Spanish Security. He could be a Castro spy. “And we’ll talk in Spanish now.”

  “It was planned in Cuba, and started in Mexico when I went there on a special mission last month. From Mexico to Venezuela and then to Morocco. From Morocco to Spain, by the port of Algeciras—as a tourist. I even took an excursion across the bay to have a look at Gibraltar. Yesterday, I joined the tourists to see the beauties of Andalusia. I did not come into Málaga on that bus. I had a headache, a feeling of slight fever, so I left it when we stopped to make a brief visit to Torremolinos. What changes there are in that place! I knew it as a fishing village. Now there are a hundred hotels—like Miami’s. A stranger is not even noticed. And there are so many kinds of strangers, from the naked to the fully clothed. This morning, I came to Málaga by public bus—and then a short walk, and then a taxi; another stroll, another taxi. Oh, not to El Fenicio direct! Really, Señor Reid, you must understand that I do know this business. If you wonder how I arranged so many changes of clothing, passports, all I had to do was to have a small suitcase waiting for me in various cities. As I told you, I had plenty of time to arrange all that: six months of preparation, once I had decided on the plan. I used reputable hotels, American Express, Cook’s, even an airport in one place.”