And now time seemed to be racing past him. Each time he looked up from his desk it seemed the leaves were beginning to change color and drift to the ground. There was nothing in his life but chance friends, chance girls, and the routine of work he didn’t seem cut out for. But what was he cut out for?
Finally he made a decision while waiting for a bus on a gray and windy afternoon in New York. The bus had something to do with it, he had decided later; it wasn’t going anywhere he wanted to go. And neither were the ones chugging in the opposite direction. He had decided to come to Spain; he needed time to think, time to find out who in the name of God he was, and what he might fruitfully do with the rest of his life. And Spain was the land that had poured sand in the spinning wheels of time. Everybody knew that.
Beecher had withdrawn his savings, almost ten thousand dollars, and had bought a ticket to Madrid...
And now the money was about gone. And all it had bought him was idleness and irresponsibility and cheap drinks. And the time went racing by just as it had in New York.
Beecher had become weary of searching for a pleasant word to describe himself. He was a bum, that’s all there was to it. But it wasn’t just the lack of money, the lack of prospects. He could go home and get some kind of job. But he had lost his own country, in a curious and bewildering fashion. That was what hurt him. America was strange and frightening to him now — like some big glittering party he hadn’t been invited to. That was the worst of it. The feeling of being left out of things. Of being emotionally severed from his own people.
Trumbull seemed to sense his mood for he squeezed Beecher’s shoulder, and said, “How about a farewell drink?”
“Fine.”
“Do you remember the night I got into the brawl with that big Swede?” Trumbull was watching him closely, his hand still on Beecher’s shoulder. “You took me for a walk and talked some sense into me, remember?”
Beecher shrugged and smiled. “Well, you got it out of your system. You won’t be doing it in Westport, I hope.”
“I’m grateful to you for that night,” Trumbull said. “And for that reason I’m going to be cheeky enough to give you some advice. Okay?”
Beecher raised his glass. “Fire when ready.”
“Get the hell out of Spain, Mike.”
3
It was well-meant advice, and sound as far as it went, Beecher thought, as he crossed the plaza to buy a Herald Tribune. But Trumbull, with more tact than accuracy, was equating Beecher’s position with his own; he had urged Beecher to go home and go to work, arguing that he was bucking the law of diminishing returns in Spain. “You can absorb just so much from a foreign culture,” he said. “Some can take more than others, sure. But after the saturation point you’ll find you’re sticking around for the wrong reasons — because it’s sunny and the booze is cheap. That’s the crucial moment. When you know you’ve had it. If you don’t get out then you’re hooked.”
It was all very reasonable, and Beecher hadn’t argued the point. He knew lots of people who fitted Trumbull’s equation perfectly.
When Beecher started for home it was dark, but the streets were gay. Spanish girls walked arm-in-arm with jasmine twisted in their black hair, and the cafés were crowded with sun-flushed tourists. An accordionist played vigorously on the terrace of the Bar Central, and dogs wandered among the tables feeding on bits of shrimp and fish.
Beecher’s villa was on an inland bluff with an excellent view of the sea. The house was old and not particularly comfortable in the winter months, but the rooms were large, and the grounds included brilliant gardens and a small but charming swimming pool.
Beecher parked in front of the grill gate and walked through the garden to the side entrance. The maids had heard the car, for Encarna was standing in the doorway watching for him in the darkness. She and her sister, Adela, had taken care of the villa for more than a year. Encarna wore her best uniform and a white apron trimmed with a filigree of lace. And there was a flower in her hair.
“There is a young lady waiting,” Encarna said. “She has been waiting almost an hour.”
That explained the uniform, he thought, and her air of excitement.
“All right,” he said, and smiled at her. “Is there anything to drink?”
“Everything is ready.”
Beecher thanked her and walked into the drawing room which faced the gardens and the sea. The fire was lighted and there were bowls of fresh flowers on the tables and mantelpiece. A blonde girl in a slim brown dress was sitting in one of the leather armchairs. She stood up smiling. “I’m Laura Meadows. That won’t mean anything to you, but I’m a friend of Bunny’s.” American voices occasionally irritated Beecher, with their flatness and lack of distinction; but hers was very nice, he decided, crisp and warm and clear.
He found himself smiling. “Well, welcome to the casa. Welcome to Spain. And how is Bunny? Did she send any messages?”
“No. It was the oddest thing. I hadn’t seen her in years, until I bumped into her shopping in New York just a month or so ago. I told her I was coming to Spain, and she told me you were living here. She was going to write you, but I begged her not to. I know what a bore things like that are.” She smiled at him. “To set your mind at ease, I don’t need bullfight tickets, plane or train reservations, or someone to help move a big trunk. Isn’t that a relief?”
Beecher felt pleasantly stimulated. “Well, I hope you need a drink at least.”
“Thanks, I’d love one.”
Beecher called to Encarna who must have been waiting just outside the door, for she appeared instantly with a tray of bottles, glasses, and ice. She moved in a hush of dignity, eyes and face grave, and her slippers barely whispering on the tiled floor. The tray was set with the villa’s best linen and silver, and everything looked calm and pretty, with the firelight sparkling on the shining glasses and deepening the colors of the fresh flowers. Beecher was grateful to Encarna for sensing that this was a special occasion.
“Sit by the fire,” he said to Laura Meadows. “The nights cool off pretty fast.”
“I love your place. I walked down to the swimming pool before you came in. The sun was setting and the fishing boats were bobbing around in the water. It looked like... I don’t know... like something out of a Fifth Avenue toy shop.” She sat down and crossed her lovely legs and put her hands out to the fire. “No wonder Bunny can’t entice you home.”
“Ye gods!” Beecher said. “Did she send you over with the heavy artillery?”
“No, please,” she said, looking up at him quickly. She seemed to sense that she had blundered into a personal area. “She just mentioned that she misses you. I’m sorry.”
Beecher smiled. “Bunny lives in pictures, as you may know. Firelight flickering on family and friends, Christmas carols sounding faintly, even if it’s the middle of July, and everybody rosy and happy and gay. If someone is missing, she’s mildly upset. The picture isn’t complete.”
“I understand what you mean.”
Beecher made two drinks with care, and as he measured gin and lemon juice into ice-filled glasses, he tried to analyze the current of emotion that was running through him. It must be that he was lonely for someone who looked and talked like Laura Meadows, he thought.
She was beautiful, of course, as refreshing as a lovely sunrise, with a slim healthy body, and hair that was like pale gold in the dancing firelight. There was a pleasant but casual confidence in her manner, and her face was bright with humor and intelligence. The tones of her body were warm and tawny, from clear yellow hair to bare brown legs, and Beecher could imagine how she would feel to the touch, cool and smooth as ivory, with fine supple muscles moving under the silken skin. But what appealed to him about her wouldn’t be evident in any catalogue, he knew; it was an intangible thing which stirred him, a quality of health and vigor and freshness, which, in his loneliness, he equated painfully and nostalgically with home.