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He smoked several cigarettes, lighting one from the stub of the other. Finally he glanced at his watch. A half-hour had gone by. He thought of honking, and then smiled faintly; it would hardly be tactful under the circumstances. Flipping away his cigarette, he returned to the villa. The living room was empty, and from the kitchen he heard the murmur of conversation between Adela and Encarna. He walked down the hallway to his bedroom. The door was open, and moonlight sliced through the grill-work of the window and made a checkerboard pattern on the carpeting and bedspread.

Laura was sitting with her back to him on the edge of the bed. She hadn’t removed his shirt.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t want to go,” she said, whispering the words.

“That’s all right.” He closed the door behind him and sat beside her on the bed. “You don’t have to go.”

“I’m so ashamed of myself. I’m so scared.”

“It can’t be all that bad,” he said and put his arm tightly about her shoulders.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she said, and he could feel her tears through the thin fabric of his robe. “When I get home.”

Beecher patted her shoulder gently. “There’s a guy at home, I guess.”

She nodded quickly. “Will this seem like a dream then?” She tried to laugh, but it was a sad little sound. “Par for a summer vacation in Spain? Or will it be the only thing that matters? I’m terrified of losing what’s real, Mike.”

“You’re too smart for that.”

“But don’t leave me.”

“You’re the one who’s leaving,” he said gently.

“Then I’ll stay here.”

Beecher thought about it. He ran a hand slowly over her smooth hair. There was no point pretending they could play house here like innocent little children. He knew the frenetic gossip of the village. And she’d get to know it, too.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

She sighed. “I said something wrong, obviously.”

“No, but listen to me; how much time do you have left?”

“Three weeks.”

“Will you spend them in Morocco with me?”

She didn’t answer, but he felt the quick nod of her head against his chest.

“We’ll go down to Rabat tomorrow night then,” he said.

“What do you mean? Are you going to take Don Willie’s job?”

“Don’t worry about him, okay?” Some day, Beecher thought, he would repay Don Willie for the flight. The silly old Prussian might have enough sentiment in him to appreciate playing Cupid’s aide-de-camp. But Beecher wanted no part of Don Willie’s job in Morocco; that would be just another slice of unreality. He had what he wanted in his arms now. And he didn’t intend to let her go.

He tilted her chin and looked into her eyes. The moonlight filled them with silver.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes, dear God.”

She turned from him and lay back on his bed, and the loose shirt fell open, and her skin gleamed like limestone in the light of the moon.

Once — much later — she stirred suddenly and raised herself on an elbow. A strand of her blonde hair fell across his eyes, waking him.

“What is it?”

“Will your Spanish maids be shocked by my staying here?”

“Go to sleep,” he said, and pulled her back into his arms. He was amused by her guilty little question.

“Maybe we could slip away early in the morning.”

“It’s already early in the morning.” The first gray streaks were on the horizon, and the light in the room had the texture and color of pearls; he could see the soft gleam of her smooth brown thighs, and the vivid white line made by the shorts of her swimming suit.

She said sleepily, “I wouldn’t want them to think I was just another little American tramp.”

“Another? You’ve got a funny notion of the traffic around here.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Might be a song title there,” Beecher said, but she was already asleep, breathing deeply and warmly against his shoulder.

9

At nine-thirty Monday morning Beecher phoned Don Willie and told him he would be ready to leave for Rabat that night.

“Good! Good!” Don Willie’s voice was a vigorous bray in Beecher’s ears. “You need work, Mike. Like the whole world needs it. The plane leaves at eleven-thirty. But we meet at my villa at eleven. I have arranged all things for tickets.”

“Eleven o’clock. I’ll be there.”

“I am going to hunt the fishes now,” Don Willie said, and laughed hugely. “Deep in the water with my spear guns. I must go now, please.”

Beecher hung up smiling. The conversation had meant little more to him than an exchange of noises; he was still caught up in the enchantment of the night. He had taken Laura to the Espada at seven o’clock and had arranged to meet her for cocktails late in the afternoon. She planned to spend the day in Málaga shopping.

Beecher used the morning to make arrangements for his trip. He called the agent who had rented him the villa and told him he would be giving it up. The simplicity and finality of the decision stimulated him; by that one act he had cut his ties to Spain. Now he was on the wing.

Adela and Encarna had reacted solemnly to the news. And now, as they flew about getting his clothes ready, their lamenting eyes and hushed voices seemed more appropriate to a wake than to a holiday. But this was their normal response, Beecher had learned, to any change in what they apparently thought of as the divinely arranged order of their lives.

At three-thirty in the afternoon he heard a motorcycle coming up the hill to his villa, its motor popping defiantly through the heat and silence of the siesta hour. Adela answered the door. In a moment she appeared on the terrace, where Beecher was relaxing with a cup of tea, and announced Don Julio Cansana, the police constable of Mirimar.

Beecher smiled as Don Julio came briskly through the living-room doors onto the terrace. They shook hands and gripped one another’s shoulder in the Spanish manner.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Beecher said.

“Thank you, Mike. I hope I’m not disturbing you. But why aren’t you resting? You Americans will never learn to take the siesta, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sold on it. But I had some work to do. Sit here in the shade. What would you like to drink?”

“A sherry, I think, if you please.”

“I’ll join you.” Beecher called Adela and asked her to bring a bottle of Gonzalez-Byass, a siphon of soda, and a bowl of ice. He made the drinks in tall glasses, using two jiggers of the pale dry sherry, lots of ice, and generous splashes of soda. Beecher gave Don Julio a glass and placed the tray of bottles and ice on a table within reach of his chair.

“Is it too hot for opera?” he asked.

“Never,” Don Julio said smiling.

Beecher went into the living room and put the album of Don Giovanni on the record player. This had been the original bond between himself and the policeman, an affection for Mozart, and a few of the Italians. The music was pouring out into the hot still air by the time he returned to his chair and picked up his drink.

“To good health!” he said.

“Thank you.” Don Julio took a worn leather cigar case from his pocket and extended it to Beecher. “Please?”