‘Oh, that’s nice!’ said Chantale’s cabezudo. ‘Now behind the ears, lovely lady!’
‘Next thing, it will be between its legs,’ said a woman in the crowd.
Chantale stepped back hurriedly.
‘Mother of God!’ cried the cabezudo indignantly. ‘The minds these women have!’
‘Take no notice of him,’ advised another cabezudo, sidling up to Chantale. ‘Scratch my back instead!’
‘No, no! Scratch mine! I’ve got a much better back,’ cried another cabezudo, rushing up.
‘Back, did he say?’ said the women in the crowd, which was now enjoying the occasion hugely.
In a moment, all the cabezudos came round them.
‘Did you talk to Nina?’ came a hiss from behind Seymour’s back.
‘Yes. Thank you. Can we talk somewhere?’
The cabezudos began to dance round him in a circle. He tried to make out which one had spoken.
One of the cabezudos was carrying a fish. He dangled it before Seymour’s eyes.
‘Do you like fish, Senor?’
‘Lockhart did,’ breathed the familiar voice behind him.
‘Would I be wise to?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then yes.’
‘Try this, then,’ said the cabezudo with the fish, now behind him, catching him a buffet with it across the ear.
Seymour spun round but the cabezudos spun with him ‘Lockhart would get them fresh,’ whispered the familiar voice.
‘Fresh?’
‘From the sea.’
The cabezudos danced away and formed a ring round Chantale. They presented their backs and began rubbing themselves up against her.
‘You had better look to your lady, Senor,’ said someone warningly.
Seymour grabbed Chantale and pulled her way.
‘These cabezudos need a cold bath!’ he said to the crowd.
‘Or a bucket of water thrown over them,’ said the jolly woman who had joined in the back chat before.
She was a stout, matronly woman with a large coloured shawl thrown over her head. Chantale took refuge between her and Seymour and the cabezudos danced off to find another victim.
‘Those cabezudos!’ said the woman. ‘They’re becoming impossible!’
‘They’ve always been like that,’ said someone else.
‘But now they’re worse!’ insisted the stout lady.
‘It’s the times,’ the other person said. ‘When the times are bad, they become unruly.’
‘They say things that should not be said,’ said the stout lady.
‘But maybe they need saying,’ said someone in the crowd.
‘Maybe they do,’ conceded the stout lady, ‘but sometimes they go too far.’
‘Sometimes they say things, though, that are helpful,’ said Seymour.
The stout lady gave him a quick look.
‘Be warned, Senor; they are not always to be trusted. What seems helpful may not be so.’
Chapter Four
It was early in the morning and although there were one or two people sitting in the cafe the chairs were still tipped against the tables outside. Dolores was going round tipping them back and wiping the tops of the tables. She recognized Seymour and greeted him politely but warily.
He sat down at one of the tables outside, where no one would hear them, and asked for a coffee. When she brought it, he said:
‘Dolores, I would like some advice.’
‘From me?’ she said, surprised. She thought for a moment and then said, ‘Well, my advice would be for you to go back home.’
‘Would you like that?’
She considered. ‘No. But it’s good advice.’
‘I’ve been to the prison,’ Seymour said, ‘and I’ve got nowhere.’
‘Well, that’s a surprise.’
‘I talked to the governor. I want to talk to people lower down. Other prisoners. People who were there when Lockhart died and who might know something about it.’
‘I can’t help you,’ said Dolores, dabbing at the table.
‘Can’t?’ said Seymour. ‘Or won’t?’
‘Look,’ said Dolores. ‘I’ve got a life to live and I want to live it. Lockhart told me to stay out of it and I reckon he knew what he was doing. Because he didn’t and now he is dead. I don’t want to be like that. Manuel said the same.’
‘It’s about Manuel that I want to talk.’
‘About Manuel?’ she said, surprised.
‘Yes. You said that when you couldn’t get into the prison to see Lockhart, Manuel said he would fix it. And later he did. Could he do that for me, do you think?’
‘No. He did it for me because I was one of his girls. He looks after us waitresses, you know, and he knew how things were between me and Lockhart. He wouldn’t do it for just anybody.’
‘This is still Lockhart.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘If you asked him.’
‘He knows that Lockhart is dead. And he’s said, “Now that he’s dead, forget him.” ’
‘You can’t forget him, though, can you?’
She moved away and began polishing a little vigorously.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, I can’t.’
‘You told me to see the people in England did not forget him, either. I’m doing that. But I need help. Will you help me?’
She moved away to another table.
He waited but she did not come back.
He finished his coffee and got up to go, putting some coins on the table. At the last moment she came back.
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ she said. ‘He knows you’ve come from England and that you want to know about Lockhart. You could say you were asking on behalf of Lockhart’s father. Manuel is very keen on fathers. He never had one himself and he has this idealistic picture. I’ll take you in to him and say that you’ve come to me and I don’t know what to do.’
‘Ah, Senor,’ said Manuel, ‘it is too late now. No one can do anything.’
His large brown eyes looked at Seymour sadly. He had a big droopy face and, with the eyes, the effect was of a large, doleful spaniel.
‘I know,’ said Seymour. ‘Nevertheless, the father-’
‘Ah, the father,’ sighed Manuel.
Seymour took him confidentially by the arm. ‘All I can hope to do is set his mind at peace.’
‘Of course. Of course!’
‘It is the uncertainty that is tearing him apart. All he knows is that his son has disappeared in a foreign country. He cannot believe that he is dead. How could he be? How could such a thing happen? In a country like Spain? It must be a mistake.
‘Someone has spoken of prison. But how can that be? His son, he knows, is no criminal. It is, surely, a mistake. A clerical error. You know these clerks, you know these bureaucrats. Well, it will be the same in Spain as it is in England. Some fool of a clerk has got it wrong. It must be so! And so he goes on tearing himself apart.
‘If I could find out something for sure, then perhaps that would help him. If it was only to confirm that he was dead. At the moment, you see, he cannot believe that he is dead. He goes on hoping that he is still alive. And he will until he knows for sure.’
‘Alas,’ said Manuel sympathetically, ‘there can be no doubt.’
‘But told in a notification from a prison! Cold, bald, remote. Can it be relied on? An institution — big, heartless, and, perhaps, like so many institutions, wrong. A mistake — that’s what it could be! And while there’s a chance of that he will go on hoping. Until — you will understand this, I am sure, Senor — some personal witness… a human being, someone of flesh and blood, not an anonymous cipher in an anonymous institution… says it definitely.
‘Well, that is all I am hoping for, Senor, all I can expect to achieve. Will you help me, Senor, in this task I am undertaking for a bereft, deeply loving father?’
‘Senor, I will! For the sake of the holy bond that exists between father and son, I will!’
Lockhart’s Barcelona office was just round the corner from the church with soot-blackened doors through which the coffins had emerged. It was up a side street at the entrance to which several Arabs were lounging. They looked curiously at Chantale and for a moment she wondered if she should put her scarf back over her face; but then she decided she would not, and looked back at them hard, and after a moment they looked away.