Message From Malaga Read online

  “Kids?” Ferrier asked with a grin. The one with the beard might be in his teens, but two others—one white, one black—were certainly in their twenties; and the fourth, who wore his dark glasses even in moonlight, might be closer to thirty. “You know, I think I’ve seen one of them before.” Thin beard, young unhappy face, drooped shoulders and all. But where? Today... Not in Granada. Here in Málaga, when I was driving around searching for numbers on a street: Reid’s street, in fact. Almost at Reid’s gate, that’s where I saw him. “No importance,” he said. “He was just like me—another lost American.” But he’s still lost, Ferrier thought, lost in all directions. Then, his attention was switched away from the back-corner table to the doorway beside him. Another guitarist had emerged to make his way slowly to the stage. He was followed by a white-faced man, middle-aged, plump, whose frilled shirt was cut low at the collar to free the heavy columns of his neck. The singer, of course. A young man came next, one of the dancers, tall and thin, with elegantly tight trousers over high-heeled boots and a jacket cut short. He disdained the three rough steps that led up to the stage, but mounted it in one light leap without even a footfall sounding. Control and grace, admitted Ferrier, but how the hell does he manage to look like a real man even with a twenty-inch waist? Strange ways we have of making a living. My own included. Who among all these Spaniards would guess what I do? And here I am, the most computerised man among them, yet less formal than most of them in dress and certainly less controlled. No one else was showing any impatience. The two guitarists had started a low duet, a private test of improvisation between them; the dancer, standing behind them along with the singer, was tapping one heel at full speed, quietly, neatly, as if limbering up; the singers looked at nothing, at no one, perhaps concentrating on a new variation in tonight’s cante jondo; the tables continued their quiet buzz of talk, a few men rose to talk with friends or make their way to the lavatory, and all Reid had done was to glance casually at his watch. Ferrier concentrated on the Spaniards around him. “Who are they? Longshoremen and who else?”

  Eight minutes to go—if this was an alert. Reid’s attention swung away from the questions in his mind and came back to the courtyard. “Well, of the regulars here, I can pick out fishermen, a lawyer, a couple of bullfighters, some business-men, an organist, several artists, workers from the factories across the river, shopkeepers, and students. And a policeman.” He dropped his voice judiciously. “That’s him, the man in the light-grey suit at the table just in front of our four fellow citizens.”

  “State Security?”

  Reid nodded.

  Ferrier, sitting sideways at the table, could glance briefly, toward the back corner of the courtyard without swerving his head around. He saw a man in his mid-thirties, small, compact, cheerful, with dark complexion and curling hair. He seemed to be concentrating on his companions, who were talking volubly. “Who are the two men with him?”

  “A journalist, and a captain of a freighter that docked this morning. From Cuba.”

  “And where’s that?” They exchanged smiles, remembering the missile crisis, a tricky situation indeed, that had brought them together in a strange way. Reid had been one of the flyers who had volunteered to take photographs, at a low and dangerous level, of Khrushchev’s rocket installations in Cuba. Ferrier had been one of the intelligence group who had analysed the original photographs taken at high altitude, discovered the area that seemed to deserve closer attention, called for some low-altitude shots, and found the sure proof. “We ought to work together more often,” Ferrier said.

  “We certainly called Papa Khrushchev’s bluff that time.”

  “Do you do any flying nowadays?” Ferrier’s question was purposefully casual. He wondered for a moment if he’d ask Jeff outright why he had resigned from the Air Force. Sure, he had had a bad smash up, still flying too low, still taking dangerous chances for a more closely detailed photograph. At the time, he had said he didn’t want to be pushed into a desk job, and with his injuries that was certainly where he was heading; but what was a business-man except someone attached to a desk? That separation from his wife had something to do with it. He had moved abroad soon after, which was one way of definitely putting distance between himself and Washington where Janet Reid lived. But I can’t ask him about that, either. Not directly. Several of Jeff’s friends had lost him completely, trying to nose into that puzzle. And now Jeff wasn’t even answering his question except with a shake of his head. So Ferrier backed off tactfully, tried another angle. “Interesting town, Málaga. I begin to see how you enjoy it. Plenty of action, movement in and out.”

  Reid looked at him sharply, then relaxed. “Oh, we get a bit of everything wandering through here, from honest tourists to strayed beatniks and travelling salesmen.”

  “Not to mention all those freighters along your docks, packed like cigars in a box. Stowaways and narcotics and smuggling in general?”

  “All the headaches of civilisation. But at least there has been peace and growing prosperity. I’ll take that, headaches and all, over war any day.”

  “And civil war, at that,” Ferrier said quietly. He was looking at the packed courtyard, a mass of faces waiting expectantly as they talked and laughed and listened to the guitars’ improvisation. Incredible, he was thinking, how people can look so damned normal as they do, when they’ve been through so much. Sure, it was thirty-odd years ago, another generation, and yet... He shook his head and added, “I keep remembering what you told me about it, on our way here—”

  “If you must talk about that, keep your voice down.”

  “It’s down. We are both mumbling like a couple of conspirators.”

  “And that,” Reid said, trying to look amused, “is not too good either.”

  What’s wrong? Ferrier wondered. Jeff is suddenly on edge. And that’s the third time he has glanced at his watch. What’s worrying him? Does he think that Tavita may decide not to dance, after all, and the whole evening becomes a letdown? Not just for me. These quiet faces around me—how would they react? “Okay,” he said. “Voices back to normal. No more questions about their civil war. I asked you enough of them, anyway.”

  “It wouldn’t be the old Ian if you didn’t,” Reid said, but he made sure of changing the subject by starting some talk on the history of this courtyard. Its name, El Fenicio, was a reminder of the Phoenicians who had founded Málaga, long before the Romans had even got here.

  Ferrier listened, but his own thoughts were wandering. His mind kept coming back to Jeff’s answers to his questions this evening as they had driven down through the city towards the wineshop.

  * * *

  Ferrier had looked at the busy streets through which they were travelling slowly, at the bright lights, the crowded cafés, the masses of people on the sidewalks. “They’ve forgotten,” he had said. “Or didn’t the Civil War touch them much?”

  Reid had stared at him. “They haven’t forgotten. That would be difficult,” he had added grimly.

  “Was it as bad as that here? In Málaga?”

  Reid had nodded. “That’s why they don’t talk much about it. Not to me, not to—”

  “But you’ve lived here for almost eight years.”

  “I’m still el norteamericano when it comes to politics; let’s not kid ourselves about that. There’s such a thing as an experience gap, you know. We didn’t go through what they suffered.”

  “Some foreigners did.”

  “Only for a couple of years. They weren’t here before the war started, or after it ended. They didn’t live through twenty years of misery.”

  “Twenty?” Ferrier had been disbelieving.

  “I’m not even including the years when grudges and hate were built up, long before the violence really started.”

  “And when did it?”

  “In Málaga? 1931. Forty-three churches and convents burned in two days. A pretty definite start, don’t you think?” Ferrier had been puzzled. (As someone who had been brought up on Hemingway a
nd graduated to Orwell, he thought he knew something about Spain.) “Have you got your dates right?” he asked half-jokingly. “There was an elected government in power then. Newly elected, too. It didn’t have to burn and terrorise. It had the votes.”

  “And couldn’t control its anarchists. Not in Málaga, certainly. Those burnings took place just one month after the Republic was declared.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense!” Anarchists and communists had been on the side of the Republic. “Unless, of course,” Ferrier said thoughtfully, “it was some kind of power grab.”

  “It was just that. The Republic was never given a fair chance. The anarchists had their ideas of how to dominate the scene; the communists had their own plans for coming out on top—anything that created a revolutionary situation was all right with them. So things went wild. Burning, looting, kidnapping, killing. Málaga had five years of that before the Civil War really got going. And you think no one remembers? Look—they have only to walk down their most important street—the one we have just passed through, all modern buildings and plate-glass windows. When you looked at it, what did you think all that newness meant?”

  “I didn’t think. I just assumed. Natural growth of an active city.” Experience gap, thought Ferrier. He was being given a sharp lesson in the meaning of that phrase. But he had asked for it.

  “Once, it had historical buildings, some fine architecture; a kind of show place. It also had rich families and art objects—an unhappy combination when anarchists are taking revenge. In 1936, it became a stretch of burned-out rubble.” Reid’s tone was quiet, dispassionate. In the same even way, he continued, “A couple of months later, the Civil War started. You know what that meant. Bravery on both sides; and cruelty, and hate, and vengeance. At one point, the communists thought they were going to win, and that’s when they made sure the anarchists wouldn’t give them any future trouble. So it was ‘Up against the wall, comrade anarchist!’ Literally. In Barcelona—but you know about that?”

  “I’ve read my Orwell. The anarchists were shot by the hundreds, even thousands, weren’t they?”

  “Just after they had come out of the front-line trenches. Their rest period.” Reid shook his head. “I don’t know why that seems so particularly bloody in all that bloody mess. The right wing would call it poetic justice, I suppose. But I’ve never seen anything poetic in justice: it’s too close to reality. And the realities went on, and on, long after that war was over. Starvation and poverty—the outside world never heard the half of it. But what else do you expect from so much destruction? The food source was gone: cattle, fields, ranches, farms. And jails and executions for men who had jailed and executed others.” Again he shook his head. “The innocent suffered too—on both sides. They always do. Whether you won or lost in that war, there was plenty of misery for everyone.”

  Civil war... “A lesson for all of us,” Ferrier said. “Don’t take anarchists or communists as your political bedfellows unless you want to wake up castrated.” The twentieth-century experience, he thought. “But the radicals never learn, do they?”

  “Nor do some nationalists,” Reid said bitterly. “If trouble breaks out here again—” He didn’t finish that thought. “The hell with all extremists,” he said shortly. “Their price is too high.”

  * * *

  Ferrier’s thoughts came back to the courtyard. Around him, the tables were buzzing with talk; expectations were rising—you could hear it in the gradually increasing volume of sound. Everyone was out to enjoy himself. Ferrier looked at Reid. “Sorry. My mind drifted. You were saying the Phoenicians—?”

  “Not important. Just a footnote.” Only a brief remark to keep Ian from noticing this delay too much. It was ten minutes past one now. Four minutes to go. If this was an alert. “You know, Ian, you’re a lucky man. You have a job that’s worth doing, a job you like. You can keep your eyes fixed on the stars and not worry about politics.” Because that’s all I do now, Reid thought. I, too, have a job that’s worth doing, but before I entered it I hadn’t one idea of how much worry was needed over politics. The things that never get known, that can’t be published unless you want to throw people into a panic; the things that stand in the shadows, waiting, threatening; the things that have to be faced by some of us, be neutralised or eliminated, to let others go on concentrating on their own lives.

  “Not worry?” That had caught Ferrier’s attention. “I wish I could keep my eyes on the stars instead of all that junk that’s floating through space.”

  Reid studied his friend thoughtfully. “It’s more than junk that’s bothering you, isn’t it?”

  Ferrier nodded. “What about a nice big space station up there? Not ours. What if a politically oriented country got it there first? One that doesn’t hesitate using an advantage to back up its demands?”

  “Another blackmail attempt, as in Cuba?”

  “1962 all over again. Except, this time, the rocket installations would be complete with armed missiles or whatever improvements the scientists can dream up,” Ferrier said bitterly. “And the whole, damned package would be right above our heads, way out there.” He looked up at the sky. “Not to mention various satellites that now have their orbits changed quite easily to remote control. God only knows what they contain.” He tried to lighten his voice. “Well—one thing is certain. There is no future in being ignorant. Or in being depressed. You know what’s at stake and you keep your cool. If you don’t, you’ve had it.” He finished his drink, didn’t taste it any more.

  Reid looked around for the waiter. “Where’s Jaime? Oh, there he is—transfixed by our fellow-Americans.” He clapped his hands to signal to the boy, small and thin, who had been standing against the rear wall.

  Ferrier glanced briefly in Jaime’s direction, caught a passing glimpse of the back-corner table. Four pairs of eyes had been levelled at him—or at Reid. Four pairs of eyes automatically veered away as he noticed them. It was a very brief encounter, and if there hadn’t been that unified evasive action, Ferrier would have thought his imagination was playing tricks. “Ever seen these fellows before?”

  “I’ve seen a thousand like them in the last three years.” Reid was concentrating on Jaime, who was just arriving with expert speed. “Like to try the wine this time? It’s local, out of a barrel, sweet but nourishing. There isn’t much choice, actually. This is grape territory.”

  “I’ll stick with the brandy. Sweet but less nourishing.” And after Reid had given the brief order and Jaime, with a bright smile on his lips and in his eyes, had left them, Ferrier said, “I admire your Spanish. But doesn’t he know English? He seemed to be listening to what I was saying.”

  “He’s learning. And if I know Jaime, he’s fascinated by your jacket. He’s going to save up and get one just like it.”

  “One thing about Jaime—he could teach those fellows back at the corner table how to look cheerful.”

  “You should see the village he comes from, back in the hills. It was one of those that almost starved—”

  From the doorway came the sound of women’s voices, a burst of argument still going on, a quick command, silence. And then a rattle of castanets, light laughter. A clatter of heels came over the wooden threshold as four girls stepped into the open. There was a rustle of silk as wide ruffled skirts swept toward the stage in a mass of floating colour. Smoothly brushed heads, each crowned by one large flower, were held high, long heavy hair caught into a thick knot at the nape of slender white necks. Three profiles were turned just enough to let the courtyard see a long curl pressed closely against a barely pink cheek, dark-red lips softly curving, an elaborate earring dangling. The fourth girl, lagging behind although she walked with equal poise and dignity, paid no attention to anyone, not even to the quick flurry of guitars reminding her, with a sardonic imitation of a grand fanfare, that she was later than late. The male dancer greeted her with a burst of hoarse Spanish that set the others laughing. She tossed her head, drew the small triangle of fringed silk that cover
ed her shoulders more closely around her neck, sat down with her spine straight and a damn-you-all look at the front tables. The longshoremen roared.

  “Constanza,” Reid was whispering. “She’s always in trouble. But her temper improves her dancing.” He looked at his watch. Almost fourteen minutes. Tavita’s exact timing never failed to amaze him.

  To Ferrier’s ear, there seemed to be some slight trouble at the rear of the courtyard, too: an American voice briefly raised in anger, a sharp hiss from the neighbouring Spaniards that silenced it. He glanced back with annoyance, saw the youngest of the four—the bearded one—heading towards the wineshop, thought that this was a hell of a time to choose to go to the men’s room, looked once more at the stage. The girls, a close cluster of bright colours, were settled in their seats, leaving the last chair free. The singer and the male dancer stood behind the guitarists at the other end of the row. The lamps around the courtyard walls went out. A softer glow, as amber as candlelight, focused on the stage. Suddenly he was aware that another woman had entered from the door beside their table. Silence fell on the courtyard.

  Good God, thought Ferrier as he glimpsed her profile. She brushed past them, paying attention to no one. Reid was no longer looking at his watch. The silence intensified.