“A few hours yet.”
The village of Estepona was falling behind them; it looked like a fire flickering along the coastline now, its lights glimmering faintly through the fogs rolling down the purple mountains. The fishing boats were standing in a long line on the horizon, each one marked by a single glowing torchlight which was there to draw the fish up to the looping nets strung between the boats. The fishermen would be out in the wet bitter winds all night long, and tourists standing on the terraces of their villas would admire the formation of pretty lights spaced like sentinels across the dark sea. And some of the tourists would envy the fishermen, Beecher thought, because they had jobs which wrung boredom and dissatisfaction from their bodies, and left them spent and drained, and blessedly grateful for food and drink and soft warm women. Beecher had envied them once, too, he remembered; he had watched them coming up from the beach in the cool morning light, with pesetas from the night’s catch in their pocket and he had wished that he were as tired as they were, and as involved as they were in the fundamental business of living.
He would see them later in Manolo’s little bar after a good catch, stunned by heaping platters of rice and fish, flushed by unlabeled bottles of strong red wine, their faces slack and smiling, dumbly grateful for warmth, and full bellies, and the big mouthful of smoke to be sucked down after another pull at the wine bottle. Beecher had never seen men enjoy tobacco so fervently, and sometimes that had made his own cigarettes seem flat and rank and tasteless.
He smiled. This was the sort of thing that had been wrong with him, he knew. Fretting over trifles, worrying about distant goals, dissatisfied with what he had done with his life, and believing stubbornly and egotistically that he had a right to happiness. He remembered his old reactions to life as if they were the symptoms of a draining and boring illness from which he had mercifully recovered; the inert self-pity, the premonitions of failure, the conviction that his efforts and ambitions were being frustrated by whimsical influences beyond his control or understanding — these were the tiresome crutches he wouldn’t need any more. Beecher smiled again as Ilse’s hair blew against his face. There was so damned much nonsense in the world about goals. Maybe this was the trouble with the idle, dissatisfied tourists, and so many of his friends in America. They weren’t ready to accept the imperfect present. They seemed to feel that happiness must be bought and paid for now, but delivered in the future; in the happy realm of pension plans and growth stocks, in the next step up the ladder, with college insurance and programs for their youngsters, and the tidy lot in Florida or California or Spain for themselves — this was so much nicer than the present that they traded now for then like children giving up an afternoon TV show for a movie at night.
What they had forgot, perhaps, was that survival itself was a goal. To be alive, in whatever circumstances, was an exciting and respectable accomplishment. Now, he thought, it was good to be standing close to a girl, with the strong wind blowing in his face. It didn’t have to be perfect. There was no reason to mess it up by wondering if what he felt for Ilse was pity or compassion, or a kind of guilty responsibility because he had been the first man to take her to bed. In a sense, it was to hell with the perfect future, and hurrah for the miserable present. If your cigarette didn’t taste as good as the fisherman’s, then throw it away and try a cigar.
Diego called to them and pointed off to port. A liner had come up on the horizon, advancing like a city of light through the darkness. It passed a few hundred yards from them and they could see the squares of cabin lights circling her hull, and the silhouettes of the slanted smokestacks. Its horn sounded like an animal baying into the wind and, incredibly, they heard the faint and distant sound of music coming over the water.
Ilse moved closer into his arms. “Isn’t it marvelous? Can you imagine being on a big ship like that, and dancing in a big gay ballroom?”
She might be the Constitution, Beecher thought. Pusey’s ship. Somewhere deep inside that great blaze of lights would be a little cabin with the bed covers turned down and fresh towels hanging in the bathroom. Ready and waiting for Mr. Pusey of Blue Island, Illinois.
“Let’s go below and get a bite to eat,” Beecher said.
“Let’s go below and get warm,” Ilse said.
They drank coffee and ate sandwiches. Beecher stretched out and smoked a cigarette while Ilse tidied up the galley. He wasn’t tired at all; that was his last thought until he felt Ilse shaking his shoulder. “Diego has called us,” she said.
Beecher sat up quickly. “How long have I been sleeping?”
“Almost two hours. Like a tired little boy. He wants us to go upstairs.”
Diego had swung in close to the shore line, Beecher saw, as he stepped from the companionway onto the deck. The Rosaleen was skimming like a dart over heavy breakers, swinging in toward the lights of Mirimar.
Diego called to him. “We will say good-by now,” he said. “There won’t be time at the pier. Good luck, my friend.”
“Thank you.” Beecher shook Diego’s hand. “When I can, I’ll come to Tangier and buy you a drink. Several drinks.”
“It’s nothing. Take care now.”
Directly ahead the blue lights on the pier of the Reina del Mar were glowing softly in the darkness. Diego throttled down his engines and with the loss of thrust the Rosaleen began to dance and buck like an unschooled colt sensing freedom in the feel of slackened reins.
“Be ready now,” Diego said.
The pier was dark and deserted, but above them they saw the dazzling lights of the beach club, and heard the sound of band music drifting toward the water. Diego docked the Rosaleen with gentle precision, and Beecher stood up and jumped onto the pier. He caught Ilse about the waist and swung her over the side. Diego waved to them, his teeth flashing brilliantly, and then the Rosaleen curved smoothly away from the dock, its slender bow cresting the waves for home...
Beecher took Ilse’s hand and started down the long dark pier to the shore. The clubhouse of the Reina del Mar sprawled gracefully along rising ground a hundred yards above the beach. Light from open terraces flowed over the calm green surface of the swimming pool, and glittered on the graveled pathways which twisted through fragrant groupings of oleander and geranium. The band was playing loudly, but occasionally bursts of laughter and conversation came shooting through the music.
Beecher followed a shadowed pathway through the gardens. There would be cabs at the front of the club, he knew, but he also realized that almost any cab driver from Mirimar would recognize him on sight. And everyone in town would know that he was on the run, wanted for murder. They were in Spain at last, their feet crunching on the graveled walks, but they still weren’t safe; until he had given himself freely into Don Julio’s custody, he couldn’t risk meeting anyone who knew him, and knew the trouble he was in...
Beecher tightened his grip on Ilse’s hand and led her into a curving path which skirted the clubhouse and stopped at a dead-end in the rear of the parking lot. There, in the shadows of a line of cars, he could see the entrance to the clubhouse, and a knot of drivers clustered at the head of the taxi rank. The doors of the club opened and a group of women and men stepped into the bright glow of the porch lights. They stood talking while a club attendant went off to get their car. One of the men laughed clearly and happily, and a woman said, “Can you imagine? It was green, positively green,” and everyone in the group laughed at this. When the car arrived, they climbed in noisily and swept off toward Mirimar.