“Travel agents would sulk,” she said, smiling out at the sea.
Don Willie’s villa, The Black Dove, was built high on a rocky bluff above a shining crescent of beach. There were cars lined up on both sides of the arched entrance. Beecher parked fifty yards away, and helped Laura pick her way up the rocky road. They could hear music and laughter beyond the high white wall which surrounded the gardens.
“It sounds exciting, doesn’t it?” she said. “I hope our host doesn’t mind my coming without an invitation.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
The party had overflowed the main terrace, and streamed into the long gardens that sloped to the swimming pool and bath house. Guests stood in clusters on the graveled walks which cut precise patterns through the flower beds, and maids in black uniforms flitted among them with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Candles with plastic shields lighted the walks, and Japanese lanterns glowed brilliantly in the bordering rows of neatly trimmed fruit trees. Music poured from a band beside the pool.
There were at least a hundred guests present, and after a glance Beecher was able to place them in three main categories: the Spaniards first, correct and smiling, but banded together for linguistic comfort. He saw the mayor of Málaga, and Don Julio, the constable of Mirimar, talking with a group of businessmen and army officers, while their wives chattered among themselves and watched the activities of the foreign crowd with excited but disapproving eyes. These foreigners made up the second group, French, British and Americans for the most part, permanent residents, and permanent sources of gossip for the Spaniards. The last group had no obvious markings. They were tourists, strays, out-groupers, most of whom had met Don Willie in the village, and had become the beneficiaries of his frequently whimsical generosity.
Beecher saw Lynch, the tall Englishman, standing head and shoulders above the crowd, with his fair hair and happy smile shining in the candlelight. He wore a blazer, and a red choker knotted loosely under the collar of a white shirt. Beecher felt a twist of irritation at the sight of him. He wondered at it. The match was over, safely moth-balled with other unimportant defeats. What did he care now? He wondered if it were because of Laura. She stood smiling expectantly but uncertainly, a hand resting on his arm for assurance, and he would have liked to feel secure and confident about something, if only from winning the match this afternoon.
Don Willie came striding toward them with both arms stretched wide in a gesture of paternal welcome. He reminded Beecher of a beardless Santa Claus, with his stout body swelling against a white silk suit, and his pink cheeks glowing with an air of breathless jolliness and excitement.
Beecher introduced him to Laura. Don Willie’s eyes glinted with appreciation; he bowed over her hand with a massive formality, but, as Beecher knew, the main object of this lingering courtesy was to allow himself an unhurried view of her slim bare legs and ankles.
“You must come inside and put away your wrap,” he said, beaming with pleasure. He wasn’t like Santa Claus, Beecher decided; he was more like a Halloween pumpkin, with a Peeping Tom looking out through the candlelit eyes.
Don Willie was comically famed for his feverish gallantry to pretty young women but, even so, Beecher disliked the look of his big meaty hand on Laura’s bare arm.
The three of them went into the villa. Don Willie’s German shepherd dogs lay on a fiber rug in front of a huge stone fireplace. They were formidable animals, a hundred pounds or more each, with heavy, supple muscles coiled beneath smooth black hides. “These are my babies,” Don Willie said to Laura, as the dogs came slowly but alertly to his side. “They are lovely, no? And so clever. They are learning English with me. Watch.” He pointed to the fireplace. “Go lie down like good doggies,” he said, and the shepherds cocked their heads attentively, and then returned to the rug and settled down with their muzzles resting between their paws.
“Now I will show you my home, no?” Don Willie said. He was obviously pleased by Laura, and flattered by her smiling interest in him. They visited the kitchens and woodhouse, the den and bedrooms, with Don Willie parading before them like a dancing bear, literally hopping with pride and enthusiasm.
The villa was large and the furnishings excellent. There were rooms full of Spanish chests, austerely carved and dark with time, immense leather chairs and sofas, and brass trays and candelabra shining like old gold in the soft light. But in spite of high-ceilinged rooms, the effect of spaciousness had been obliterated by the clutter of curios, souvenirs, mementos and relics which Don Willie had collected in his travels.
The walls were stuffy with tapestries, the lines obscured by maps and calendars and pictures; there were enlarged snapshots of Don Willie everywhere, poised like a clumsy bird on the top of a ski run; preparing to enter the sea in a skindiver’s suit; at fiesta time with a bota of wine to his lips and his free arm about the waist of a pretty but unenthusiastic muchacha. The tabletops were a battlefield on which cigarette boxes, ashtrays, magnifying glasses, and souvenir knives jousted for space. A cuckoo clock stood on the mantelpiece, flanked on one side by a Swiss yodeler in a cage and on the other by a rack of meerschaum pipes ranged according to size, the largest suggesting an edelweiss horn, and the smallest, the crooked finger of an elf.
In the bedroom Don Willie threw open closet doors to show them suits and lounging robes. “You think I am a sissy, no?” he said, wagging a finger roguishly under Laura’s chin. “But I like these nice things. It is funny, no? A big strong man liking pretty things like a girl, hah!”
They returned to the terrace at last, and Don Willie snapped his fingers at a passing maid. She turned quickly, a hand fluttering at her throat. She was about fourteen.
Don Willie spoke to her in Spanish. “Hands at the side, back and shoulders straight, it is better, no?” He patted her smooth dark head, as he had patted the heads of his dogs. “Now you are much nicer, my dear. Respectful and nice.” Laura was staring with bright eyes at the crowds, the glowing gardens, and the sea beyond as flat and bright as a mirror in the moonlight.
“It’s enchanting,” she said. “Too lovely to be true.”
Don Willie seemed genuinely touched by her compliment. His chest filled deeply, and his eyes were proud. “I made all this from nothing,” he said, with a sweeping gesture which, Beecher noticed, embraced most of the Mediterranean and all of the northern shores of Africa. “I came here a poor man. One little man, alone and poor, and I made all this. My name means something. The best people in Spain come here as my friends. That is good, no?” He blinked his eyes. “Now we must drink. What will you have? Demand anything you like.”
Laura wanted a Daiquiri; Beecher a brandy and soda. When the drinks came, Don Willie asked Beecher if he could take Laura with him and introduce her to his friends. He laughed and pounded him on the shoulder. “I do not steal your girl. But I have knowed, I mean, I have teached...” He shook his head in frustration. “I have learned — ha, ha — that is it! I have learned the best thing is to cut all the couples up. It makes things go better, no?”
“You go ahead,” Beecher said to Laura, who was watching him with a smile. “I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.”
When they had gone into the garden, Beecher chatted with his Spanish friends, drifting from group to group toward the sound of music. He collected another drink from a passing maid. The Englishman, Lynch, waved to him. There was a crush of people between them and Lynch cried; “Glad you changed your mind about coming. A little dissipation will take the edge off your golf.”