Which were shut, it having been judged time for morning coffee.
When the harbour master and his secretary returned, fifteen minutes later, Fflytte had worked himself into a state of high dudgeon and was ready to turn his aristocratic fury on someone, whereas La Rocha was … well, he was La Rocha. Anything might happen.
The harbour master was young, educated, and new to Lisbon (a beneficiary of the country’s current impoverishment and general dissatisfaction with The Way Things Were, young newcomers being both cheap and unaffiliated with the status quo). His secretary was a Lisboan, born and raised, who had lived within gull-cry of the water his entire life, and who had worked as a stevedore until an accident had cost him a few essential body parts. His wits, his modicum of literacy, and his ability to hold a pen landed him in the office instead of on the street, and here he remained, a valuable resource for three decades of harbour masters.
And this man knew La Rocha, oh yes. His hand came out as if to seize his employer’s coat, then faltered as his initial philanthropy was countered by craven self-interest: the impulse to turn heel and run. But the urge got no further than a brief step backwards before his nobler instincts regained control.
He caught his employer’s shoulder and murmured in that young man’s ear. The fresh face went from an expression of curiosity at the pair of men waiting to mild irritation at being manhandled by his inferior, followed by a frown of concentration at his secretary’s words, until his eyes went wide and his throat convulsed in a nervous swallow. The grey-haired assistant let go his grip. The boss settled his narrow shoulders inside the jacket, and came slowly forward.
“Good morning, gentlemen, I apologise for my absence. Are you waiting for me?” He spoke flawless English, and would have presented a face of complete assurance but for the tight wobble that was the final word. He made haste to get inside his office and around the back of the polished counter, as if personal territory combined with solid wood might offer a defence.
“Yes,” Fflytte answered. “There’s a ship in your harbour called Harlequin. I need to talk with the owner.”
“The-”
One word was all he managed before La Rocha began to speak. Everyone listened, even Fflytte, who did not understand a word of it but could appreciate authority when he heard it: incongruous voice, looming presence, and the texture of promised violence at the back of La Rocha’s torrent of words. The scar helped, too: The harbour master’s gaze wove in fascination between the compelling eyes and the terrible scar.
Within a couple of sentences, the young man was making a hurry-up gesture to his assistant, who ducked under the counter and began to pull out files. Less than a minute after La Rocha opened his mouth, the secretary stood up with a piece of paper in his good hand, and made to proffer it to La Rocha. The harbour master snatched it, then laid the page cautiously on the wood between the two strangers. La Rocha picked it up.
“Obrigado,” he said, like a pat on the head. He handed the page to Fflytte, who repeated the thanks in a surprised voice.
As the two men left the office, the sweating employees of the Lisboan harbour authority heard the tiny Englishman’s comment: “I say, they’re certainly more efficient than one might expect. They didn’t even have to look it up!”
The name and address were for a ship’s chandler near the harbour. This man, too, seemed almost to be expecting an enquiry concerning the Harlequin, although he was clearly not interested in a temporary arrangement. He flatly turned down Fflytte’s offer to hire the vessel for the week. When Fflytte pointed out that he would be returning the ship in considerably better shape than it was currently, the man’s eyes flicked briefly sideways in the direction of La Rocha before they locked back on Fflytte. No: It was for sale, to the right customer, but only for sale. And no: He could not introduce Fflytte to the owner, whose instructions had been clear, and who was in any event out of the area. The entire country, in fact. Perhaps forever. But to be absolutely honest (he said, earnestly holding Fflytte’s eyes, as if another glance at La Rocha would mean being reduced to smoking bones) the Harlequin was a bargain. Yes, she was not pretty, but the owner was getting out of the fishing business and wanted only to sell. To the right customer, as he had already indicated. And if he could be so bold to suggest, if the good gentleman did not wish to take the Harlequin back to England with him, once the ship was restored to beauty, she could be sold again, perhaps by sailing her around Spain to the coast of France where the wealthy gathered with little to-
La Rocha cleared his throat, and the man went a touch pale, dropping his gaze to his papers and scrabbling them about for a moment. Then he returned to his suggestion: Perhaps if Mr Fflytte would look at the proposal, he would see that purchasing Harlequin would be a far more beneficial arrangement.
So Mr Fflytte sat down with the papers, and to his surprise, what the man had said looked to be true. The purchase price was so reasonable it made him wonder what was keeping the vessel afloat.
Love might be blind, but it was not completely witless.
“I’ll have to have someone survey it for me,” he said firmly, expecting the man to quibble, but far from it, the fellow seemed quite relieved.
Fflytte took away a sheaf of papers, which he studied with the attitude of an unlovely octogenarian handed a marriage proposal by a charming young beauty: What am I not seeing here?
“I must speak with Geoffrey.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
PIRATE KING: Although we live by strife, We’re always sorry to begin it.
For what, we ask, is life Without a touch of Poetry in it?
Also the previous Monday …
IN THE MEANTIME, Team Two had gathered in the Maria Vitória to continue the arrangement of the pirates’ scenes. Without La Rocha to keep the men in line, Geoffrey Hale was anticipating problems, and his heart sank when his first instruction to gather round was completely ignored by the merrily chattering men.
Then Samuel’s single word crackled through the theatre, bringing instantaneous silence. He fixed the others, one by one, with a baleful eye, then turned to Hale and waved a hand of invitation.
Hale had no subsequent problems with discipline.
Not that there weren’t problems aplenty without discipline entering in.
Hale began by introducing the stand-in cameraman, William Currie’s assistant. This was a nervous and spotty Liverpudlian named Artie, who wore a soft cap that he never removed and prefaced each speech with a series of tugs at the beard he was attempting to grow. The pirates looked him over as if he were a puppy, or dinner.
“Artie is here to see that the fight scenes we plan out will work on the screen. Remember, the camera lens stands at one place, so if, for example, Adam – come here, Adam – goes to stab Charles – yes, you stand there – and in the meantime Earnest is in the way, the audience will make no sense of it when Charles falls with his hands to his stomach. You see?”
Charles said something, and Pessoa said, “He wants to know if he is going to die in the picture.”
“I don’t know, that’s up to Mr Fflytte.”
Pessoa translated that, then Earnest spoke, and Pessoa said, “He says, who is he fighting with while the other two are stabbing each other?”
“Again, I don’t know.”
Translation, then Kermit spoke up, followed by Pessoa: “He wants to know if he can fight Irving. I think the two boys both have eyes for one of the girls. That is my comment, not what the boy says.”