He let out his breath slowly. “Can I go down to meet her?”
“Yes. I would like to hear her story alone, however. Will you stand by?”
“I’ll be here when you need me.”
Beecher opened the door and walked down the steps of Don Julio’s office. The rain seemed to be over, but the sky was heavy and close, and trailers of white fog twisted through the empty square. The wind off the sea was cool and damp and salty, and the dark flowers in the middle of the plaza were swaying gently with its drift. A lone waiter in a white jacket was removing tables and chairs from the terrace of the Bar Central.
Beecher straightened himself and walked across the square to meet her. He realized that he must have picked up a cadence from Don Julio; his heels rang in a confident rhythm on the old stones of the village.
She was walking slowly up the street with her arms stiff and unmoving at her sides; it was as if she were approaching a gallows. There were drops of rain in her dark hair, but her face was wet with tears. She saw him stop for her, but she would have walked past him if he hadn’t caught her arm. He turned her gently, his hands light on her slim shoulders.
“I was waiting for you,” he said.
She began to cry then, sobbing like a lost and frightened child. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Please. Never mind.”
“I waited for you at the Quita Pena. I waited for you and I was so happy. Some fishermen had worked on one of Don Willie’s boats in the afternoon. They were talking of him and I learned that he was alive. I couldn’t help myself. I flew to him like a steel-filing to a magnet.”
“And he begged you to lie. He said the truth would destroy him. I know that. So does Don Julio. He’s waiting for you.”
“Will you come with me?” she said, in a wistful little voice.
“He wants to talk to you alone. I’ll take you to his office.” Beecher put an arm about her shoulders and they walked across the bright empty square.
“I will destroy him,” she said, whispering the words into the wind. “But it isn’t good, it isn’t a good thing.”
“It will be good later.”
“When I’m free? Free for what?”
“I’ll be waiting. We’ll need each other for a while.”
“Yes, for a while,” she said sadly.
“Who knows?” he said, and tightened his grip around her shoulders. “Now is what counts.”
At the steps leading up to Don Julio’s office, he kissed her gravely on the forehead. Don Julio opened the door of his office and bowed to Ilse. “Please come in,” he said.
She looked quickly and uncertainly at Beecher, and he saw the fear in her dark eyes. But she tried to smile. “Please wait,” she said. “Even a little while is all right.” Then she turned and ran up the steps.
When the door closed Beecher put his hands in his pockets and strolled across the plaza toward the Bar Central. He saw a pair of candles flickering in the dark street that led down to the sea. It would be Father Miguel, he thought, on a sick call. The priest came hurrying into the square, preceded by two men with hands cupped about the fitful flames of their candles. They were almost running. Father Miguel’s hands were clasped to his breast, folded gently and lovingly over a small, flat leather case. He carried the Host close to his heart, safe from the winds of the night.
Beecher stopped and blessed himself as the priest hurried by. Father Miguel glanced sideways at him, without a nod or smile, but there was a greeting in his quick look, an acknowledgment of Beecher’s deference to the ritual of his faith.
When the priest had disappeared down the street, the candles winking out abruptly in the darkness, Beecher strolled on toward the Bar Central. He discovered a five-peseta coin in his pocket, a duro. Just one duro. He smiled at this. It seemed a fitting and happy omen. Just the price of a brandy.