In the lobby of the Espada, Beecher asked her if she would like a last drink, or a cup of coffee, but she smiled and shook her head. “It’s been marvelous, but I’m tired, Mike.”
She didn’t look tired; everything about her was glowing, blonde hair and blue eyes, smooth bare arms and shoulders, all of it shining and precious in the dimmed lights of the lobby.
“I had a good time, too,” he said quietly.
“Mike, aren’t we silly? You haven’t said a word to me since we went to that funny little pub. What’s wrong?” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. “Aren’t we friends?” she said, smiling. “Are you going to call me tomorrow?”
Beecher was too surprised to say anything for an instant; he was conscious of nothing but the heat in his face and that he was grinning like a fool. “Yes, yes,” he said at last, almost blurting out the words. “Yes, of course.”
“Well, that’s better.” She winked at him, innocently but conspiratorially, and walked quickly to the elevators. He heard her humming softly under her breath, a Cole Porter melody that had been playing at the Irishman’s.
7
Beecher got up early the next morning and swam for half an hour in the small pool at the foot of his garden. The day would be perfect, he knew, as he saw the blood-red sun emerge from the sea. Now it was cool, with a suggestion of moisture hanging close to the earth, but by ten o’clock the air would be dry and clean and hot, and the purple and red flowers and the tawny sides of the mountains would be burning vividly in the transparent atmosphere. The sea would be calm under the immaculate blue sky, and the horizon pierced by the white sails of the fishing boats.
When Adela brought his breakfast tray of buttered toast and coffee to the side of the pool, he told her he would like a picnic lunch by noon if possible.
“For two?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“She’s very pretty,” she said, with simple, friendly confidence. And then she ran back through the garden to the villa, stunning the birds with a rill of flamenco.
Beecher drove down into the village later to buy wine and cigarettes. The shops were crowded with Spanish maids and housewives fingering, commenting on, and occasionally buying from the fresh stocks of vegetables, the early catch of fish, and the hams and rabbits and sides of young beef hanging in the butcher’s doorway. He bought two bottles of white wine which had been grown up north near San Sebastian, and several packs of American cigarettes. These last were a luxury, three times the price of the Spanish brands, but he doubted that Laura would be up to the local product after only a few days in Spain. She probably had all the American cigarettes she could use, he thought; cartons tucked away in smart leather luggage, sharing space with vitamins, Kleenex and huge supplies of cosmetics. But it pleased him to buy cigarettes for her. Beecher went up the main street of the village to the central plaza and bought the Spanish newspapers. He was returning to his car when Lynch hailed him from the terrace of the Bar Jerez.
“Any chance of golf today?” he called. There was a bottle of beer on his table, and he seemed in his usual beaming spirits; his face was bright and cheerful, and his long bony legs were stretched out comfortably. The blue-and-white Moroccan cap was perched on his fair head, and his eyes were like clear blue glass — the eyes of a man who had slept an easy ten hours with sea air blowing through his room.
“I’m afraid not,” Beecher said.
“Tomorrow then?”
“I’m going to be busy.”
“I say, that is a pity. I’m packing off Monday.”
“I thought you were staying the month.”
Lynch grinned. “Yes, that was the drill when I left London. But a quite amazing thing has happened. I’m going down to Rabat Monday night. A chap I knew in the war, our RSM as a matter of fact, is onto a good thing in Dakar. Runs a trucking line into Bamako. Dare say you’ve never heard of the place. At any rate, he’s offered me a chance to throw in with him. The letter bobbled around my digs in London for a week before my landlady had the presence of mind to post it on here. My friend will be in Rabat Tuesday. We’ll have a chat, see what works out. It’s fortunate I don’t have to drop all the way down to Dakar, considering the state of my exchequer.”
Lynch’s smile had remained bright and steady during this explanation.
“I see,” Beecher said. He hesitated then, oddly puzzled and uneasy. The warm human tumult of the plaza beat around him, and the wine bottles under his arm pressed coldly against his ribs. “I may be going down to Rabat Monday,” he said. “Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”
“Good show! We’ll bring a bottle to help make the flight jolly.” He was still grinning. “It can’t be business taking you down there. I gather you fancy your leisure too much to spoil it with work.”
“Don Willie’s offered me a job in Rabat.”
“Don’t take it, old man. You’ve got the world on a string here. Sun and beaches, women and wine. Where will you find a setup like it again?”
Beecher looked at him steadily. “I think I’m in your debt,” he said.
“Please, old man, I wasn’t serious. Just pulling your leg. Look into the job, of course.”
“I don’t mean the job. Last night at Don Willie’s you intercepted that Frenchman who’d been giving me a bad time.” For the first time in their brief relationship Lynch seemed embarrassed; his smile became awkward, and he cleared his throat self-consciously. “Hadn’t thought you noticed it,” he said. “Damn nuisance, wasn’t he? But I thought it best to let him chew on me for a bit. I was alone, after all.”
The explanation was so civilized and sensible that Beecher’s vague suspicions seemed, in contrast, unreasonable and churlish.
“Well, I’m sorry about the golf,” he said at last. “But I’ve got a date.”
Lynch laughed cheerfully. “Golf is one thing, lovely American blondes are quite another.” He raised his bottle of beer to Beecher in a good-humored salute. “No offense, old man.”
You couldn’t take offense at him, Beecher thought, as he walked across the plaza to his car. He was too good to be true, all the best in England, mint-conditioned Wodehouse. Lynch seemed to be a caricature of proper British strength and proper British absurdity, and this fact nagged at Beecher as he drove up the winding road to his villa, sounding his horn constantly to scatter chickens and goats and children. Lynch reminded him of Maurice, the Frenchman. They had both exaggerated their poses until the original tracings were hard to find; the net result was a kind of camouflage. In some circumstances, he thought, a shout caused far less stir than a whisper. But where was the need for mystification or camouflage? The only mystery, he decided, was that there wasn’t any.
Beecher packed the lunch and wine in the back of the car and drove off to get Laura. They swam that day at the foot of a steep cliff, off an isolated beach a dozen miles from the village. The mountains were shaped like a bandshell behind them, deflecting the wind sweeping over the baking tablelands, and keeping the water in the bay as still as a millpond. Laura wore a two-piece knit bathing suit under a simple skirt and blouse. She undressed and kicked off her brown loafers, while Beecher tied a line to the wine bottles and put them in the water to cool. He smiled as she ran toward the line of foaming breakers; she was delightful to watch in motion, the small bra and brief tan shorts clinging to her snugly, and her slim lovely legs flashing in the sunlight. She cut into the water at a clean, competent angle and struck out for the horizon with a rhythmic crawl. Beecher followed her out a hundred yards or so, churning strongly to keep up with her deceptively smooth stroke. Finally she rolled over on her back and floated with the gentle waves. He was glad to rest.