Beecher frowned faintly. “Did she say what she wanted?”
“No, señor.”
“Will you excuse me a minute, Laura?”
“Yes, of course.”
Beecher put on his robe and slippers and went up to the villa.
Ilse stood by the fireplace in the living room, with a white leather coat belted tightly about her slender waist and her thick black hair swinging loosely to her shoulders. She looked as if she might have dressed in a hurry; her legs were bare and she wore no make-up except a vivid slash of lipstick.
“Hello, Mike,” she said, with a small quick smile. “You must forgive me for coming here like this — barging in, that’s what you call it, I think.”
“Not at all. Sit down.”
“No, please, I’ll only stay a moment. I interrupted your swimming. This is really absurd. I feel foolish. I went to the village for cigarettes, but couldn’t find any. The newsstand, the Central, the Jerez...” She turned her palms up and smiled nervously. “They were finished, out, kaput. So I came up to — what is your word? — sponge, that’s it, to sponge some from you.”
Beecher smiled. “That’s what neighbors are for, Ilse.”
“Don Willie would be furious with me,” she said. “You mustn’t tell him I came to you. He thinks it is not prideful to ask for things — to beg, I mean.”
“That sounds like Willie.”
“Pardon me?”
“Nothing. Which do you prefer? Spanish or American cigarettes. I’ve got both.”
“The Spanish will be excellent. Thank you a million, as you say it.”
“Couple of packs enough?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You have plans with Don Willie, I hear,” she said, as Beecher got cigarettes from a carton on top of the mantel. “Selling stocks and shares, isn’t it?”
Beecher was about to tell her he had decided not to take Don Willie’s offer; but he realized that courtesy required him to make his answer directly to Don Willie. “Well, we’ve been talking about it,” he said.
“But isn’t it a gamble? You have a good life here. And you risk if for something that may or may not be good.”
“I haven’t made up my mind yet, Ilse. But it’s a job, and I need one.”
“But you need a good job.” There was a touch of color in her cheeks now, and her fingers were trembling as she plucked at the cellophane wrapping on the cigarettes. “This may not be a good job,” she said. “When Don Willie talks business I don’t listen too closely. I pretend to, but I am dreaming of sailing on a little lake surrounded by high mountains. So I know nothing of business. But he is worried about money, I know that.”
Beecher struck a match. “Here,” he said, and holding the flame to her cigarette he saw the soft pulse leaping at the base of her throat.
“Thank you, Mike.”
“Ilse, what are you trying to tell me? What’s this about Don Willie having no money?”
“I didn’t say that. I said he is worried about money, Mike. He is strong and clever, and he expects other people to be the same.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “He is good, believe me. He is honest and good. But weak people can be hurt by him. He doesn’t mean to. But it happens.”
Beecher watched her for a moment. Then he said: “Did it happen to you?”
“We are not talking about me.”
“You think I’m weak then?”
“You said at the party you were scared. I told you to stay that way, scared and safe. Can’t you just accept that?”
Beecher was embarrassed by her intensity, and her apparently neurotic anxieties, and he was relieved when the terrace doors opened and Laura came in.
“It’s too cold,” she said, hugging her arms about her body. Beecher’s terry-cloth shirt hung just above her knees, and her damp bare feet left narrow footprints on the tile floor as she crossed quickly to the fireplace.
“You remember Ilse, don’t you?” Beecher asked.
“Why, of course. Didn’t we meet at the Bar Central, or some place?” She smiled and put her hands out to the fire. “This feels heavenly, Mike. Could I have a drink, please?” She hadn’t glanced at Ilse.
Beecher suspected that she wasn’t just ignoring her; it was considerably more subtle than that. She was behaving as if there was nothing about her to ignore.
“Ilse was our hostess at Don Willie’s party,” Beecher said.
“Was she really?” Laura said, smiling. “But there was such a crowd. It was difficult to keep everybody straight.”
The exchange confused Ilse, Beecher could see; she didn’t understand all of it, but Laura’s tone had brought color into her cheeks. “I was not in fact the hostess,” she said. “In our villa there is only the host, Don Willie.”
“But you have your own special work to do, I’m sure,” Laura said lightly.
“Yes, I have a job, as you say.”
“And I’m sure you’re excellent at it.” Laura looked at Ilse for the first time, and there was the suggestion of a smile on her lips. “It was so nice meeting you again,” she said.
“Thank you.” Ilse’s body was rigid with embarrassment, but she managed a quick smile for Beecher. “I must go, Mike. Thank you again.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ll see you around.”
When Ilse had gone Beecher made a pair of drinks. “You need something to warm you up,” he said to Laura.
“What do you mean by that?”
He shrugged. “You were pretty rough on her.”
“Well, how did you expect me to react? I don’t have your Bohemian temperament, of course.” She took a quick swallow from her drink. “But give me time. I’ll get used to such things.”
“What the devil are you talking about? She came up here to borrow some cigarettes.”
“At this time of night. Oh, that’s good. And without stockings and damn little else underneath that contour raincoat of hers.”
Beecher saw with surprise that her anger was real. “Come on now,” he said smiling. “What she’s wearing or not wearing doesn’t prove much. You’re not exactly dressed for chapel, are you?”
“I know.” She sat down and pulled the hem of the terry-cloth shirt over her bare knees. “We’re sisters under the skin, I suppose, members in good standing of Beecher’s happy harem. Panting for action, all stripped down for the call to the master’s bed.”
“Stop it,” Beecher said sharply. “You’re talking like a fool.”
“I know it’s none of my business,” she said and struck her knee with the flat of her hand in impotent anger. “But you’re so much better than all this.”
“Than all what?” Beecher said quietly.
“This drifting along with cheap servants waiting on you hand and foot. Making a way of life out of denying the responsibilities of life. Waiting happily for some sex-starved Fraulein to pop in for the swing shift. What you don’t—”
“Shut up!” Beecher said quietly. “We don’t talk anymore tonight. Get dressed.”
“All right, Mike.” She stood up very slowly, as if all the buoyant strength had been drained from her body. “I’ll get dressed, Mike, I’m sorry.”
“I’ll send Adela down for your things. You can use my bedroom.”
“Thank you.” She was staring about as if she didn’t recognize the room, and Beecher saw the silver flash of tears in her eyes.
Without bothering to change, he went out and swung the Citroen about in the narrow parking area in front of his garage. With the motor idling softly, he lit a cigarette and frowned unhappily into the darkness. It was a lovely night, cool and quiet, with the stars standing out brilliantly. In the village the bars would be gay with music and people. But he was wondering what the devil had stirred her up; he was certain it hadn’t been jealousy, or an emotional reaction to a threatened pride of place. She was too sensible for that. And he guessed that her bruised feelings had nothing to do with him; they stemmed from her own worries and uncertainty. But this was something she might understand better after a good night’s sleep.