Grand Canary

  Jimmy scratched his head, thinking: Don Balthasar. He was the biggest crow of the lot by the look on it. And he had her well blinkered. Aloud he said:

  ‘Ye’ve got a tidy piece of land here, ma’am. Faith, it’s a shame to see it fell to such rack and ruin. A man – a good man, mind ye – could make it ship-shape in a twel’month. Didn’t nobody niver want to give ye a band with it, now?’

  ‘Words of the mouth are like stones of a sling. Many would promise, none would do. They do not work; they rob; above at the finca of the Americano they withdrew the water from the stream, though it is forbidden. Land will not prosper in a woman’s hand. Ay, ay, ay, it is hard for Isabel de Luego.’

  ‘The scoundthrels,’ muttered Jimmy in powerful sympathy, ‘to be humbuggin’ ye like that. It’s athrocious. Why, with a bit of sound overlookin’ by a capable fella this place could make a glorious come-back. It’s a lovelee spot.’ Enraptured by a growing idea, Corcoran open his mouth to extol the virtue of his sentiment. But she murmured:

  ‘So, señor! But you, too, take heed of words. Speaking witout thinking is shooting without aiming.’

  He closed his mouth again. The expression on her face baffled him. There was a curious silence.

  ‘Ah,’ he muttered. ‘Maybe I’m a bether shot than ye think.’

  ‘No doubt you have done many things,’ she went on imperturbably. ‘No doubt you have travelled far. And no doubt you must travel farther.’

  ‘Be hanged to the farther,’ he declared. ‘I’d give me Sunday hat to be settled in a tidy billet.’

  Again there was silence. He waited quite breathlessly: would she or wouldn’t she be takin’ the hint?

  ‘You are a heretic, of course,’ she sighed. ‘Alas, it cannot be else!’

  Then Jimmy had an inspiration. Thrusting his fist into his trousers pocket, he solemnly produced, not Plato, but a string of worn beads. It was a rosary, and he dangled it reverendy before her eyes.

  ‘Look at that, will ye?’ he murmured piously. ‘Divil the heretic would be carryin’ that about wid him. Over the seven seas it’s been wid me.’ It was true: he carried it like a charm wherever he went, but once only in a twelvemonth would he say an ave. ‘ Me ould mother’s beads they be’s – rest to her goodness. And, by the holy, they’ve steered me straight, through sorrow and through gladness.’

  She looked, not at the dangling beads, but far beyond them; then vaguely she smiled.

  ‘Madre de Dios,’ she pronounced, as to herself. ‘ I would have said before there was more noise than nuts. But perchance after all there is a kernel.’

  It was impossible to mistake her meaning. Completely taken aback, for the first time in five years Corcoran blushed. His jaw dropped; a vivid scarlet mantled his corrugated brow.

  Then, still without looking at him, she murmured:

  ‘Be at ease, señor. A blush on the cheek is better than a stain on the heart. I have a regard for you. Later we will talk.’

  Turning without warning, she trailed slowly from the room. And Jimmy stood gaping after her like an old carp waiting to be fed. At last he moved, let out a long dumbfounded breath.

  ‘Did ye ever!’ he declared to the ambient air. ‘ Did ye ever meet the like!’ He was obliged to ferret in his waistcoat, hanging upon a chair, and to recover himself with snuff. Then, as his gaze slid out of the window and fell upon the rich enclosure beyond, the recurrence of his thought made him hug himself.

  ‘Jumpin’Moses,’ he muttered warmly, ‘but wouldn’t it be powerful grand if she’s got the same notion as meself in that bit of a headpiece of hers. Sure, it’s a little kingdom-come of a spot. And a man could put shape intil it quicker’n eat sausidge. The sun’s glorious; the soil would make buckshot sprout. Eighteen months and I’d have a new plantation bearin’. I’d bring smoke out a them lazy yellah boys, thievin’ a poor old woman like they been. It’s a black burnin’ shame just to think on it. And besides, what a life for the gintleman! “Good mornin, Don Corcoran, and what are yer honour’s orders for today?” Sure, it’s got the pig in the backyard knocked to glory. Oh, faith alive, I’d be settled aisy for life if she’d only rise to the occasion.’ Tenderly he restored the rosary to his pocket and patted it lightly. ‘ Me mother always said good would come of ye. And, be the saints, for once the ould lady wasn’t far wrong.’

  In an excess of holy zeal, he seized the dish-cloth and began to assault the greasy pan, while at the same time he broke lightly into:

  ‘Oh! I’ll knock a hole in McCann

  For knockin’ a hole in me can.’

  He was still polishing when, five minutes later, the door opened and Susan Tranter came into the room. The look upon her face drove the smile from his lips and he stopped dead in the middle of a bar. Swept by the optimism which could so readily elate him, he had forgotten – of course he had forgotten! – but now a sudden flash presented the melancholy situation that had slipped his mind. His face fell comically; he made with his tongue a distressful sound reproaching his unpardonable neglect; and following a pause he said:

  ‘Is she – is she any bether – herself – upstairs?’

  Susan shook her head without speaking. She was pale, and her lips and eyes had a curiously rigid look. Even her body was stiff, as though purposely she held herself erect and taut, containing with all her resoluteness the burning conflict that was in her.

  ‘Ye’r tired,’ said Jimmy, pulling forward a chair. ‘Ye’r lookin’ all wore out. Sit down and rest ye. I’ve a drop of broth here that’ll put pith in ye.’

  Again she shook her head.

  ‘I’m going for my things. I must see my brother. Then – then I’ll be back.’ There was a queer finality in those few slow words which touched his ready sentimental heart.

  ‘Ah, come on now,’ he coaxed her. ‘Just slip off yer legs for a minute. Sure, what harm will it do? And, if ye don’t fancy soup, say the word and I’ll give ye coffee in a jiffy.’

  She did not sit down; but neither did she go. She stood gazing at him with those rigid, troubled eyes; then, as if drawn by a force which could not be escaped, she said frozenly:

  ‘She is not better. She is worse, much worse.’

  He gave her a quick look, then with averted face meditatively stroked his chin.

  ‘Why don’t you say something?’ she went on in a suppressed tone. ‘ I say she’s worse. The jaundice is beginning. She has been very sick. She is delirious – raving about all sorts of nonsense – gardens and fountains and her’ – the words suddenly came flat – ‘her freesia flowers.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry,’ he muttered heavily, ‘downright sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Sorry! There’s every reason to be sorry!’ Her voice rose to a vibrant pitch. ‘I don’t think she’ll get better. I feel she’s going to die. A terrible conviction that I’ve got’ – her voice was rushing, climbing – ‘ that terrible conviction of death – death in the air. Can’t you feel it, beating over the place like wings? Darkness pressing in, and disaster. She is lying up there. And he is with her. And all the time I’m thinking –’ She did not finish. Her plain features were suddenly distorted – she choked upon her words. There was an uneasy silence.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said at length, as though to pacify her. ‘Ye must be aisy. ’Tisn’t like ye to be this way. While there’s life there’s hope. And you’re doin’ yer best, aren’t ye?’

  But his manner increased her agitation.

  ‘Doing my best,’ she cried out. ‘Of course I’m doing my best. Doing everything – everything. I’m fighting – fighting with him to save her. But don’t you see –’ She broke off and caught his arm quite wildly. Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘ Don’t you see I love him? And in my heart I don’t want her – I don’t want her to get well. Oh, God in heaven, it’s terrible, terrible – me – to be thinking that. But I can’t help it. And it’s killing me.’

  Her distress was painful. For an instant it looked as though she would burst into scalding tears. But no, she did
not weep. She gritted her teeth upon her sobs; her twitching cheek grew stiff; her hand fell from his arm.

  ‘So now you know,’ she whispered, labouring with her choking breaths. ‘At least I’ve told somebody – what I am.’

  There came again a heavy silence, then in a low voice she said:

  ‘I’m going – going to get my things.’ And in spiritless, disjointed fashion she moved through the side door into the patio, followed by his perplexed, commiserating eyes. Restrained only by her will, the anguish in her bosom almost stifled her. Her heart seemed burning, bursting with the commingling of pain and love.

  Yet as she walked through the cool air she struggled for self-control. She took the long way by the stream, climbing slowly the path that wound along the cracked and crumbling bank. Eased in part by her feverish self-accusation, gradually she grew calmer. When she arrived at the Rodgerses’ house her face was again composed.

  There, upright in a rocker upon the bare porch, sat Aaron Rodgers himself. He did not rise as she approached, but threw her a sour, suspicious look and went on rocking himself with rapid sanctimonious jerks, like a holy roller in an ecstasy. She stood before him.

  ‘Where is my brother?’

  A definite pause intervened before, with eyes fixed forbiddingly upon infinity, he answered.

  ‘Ain’t here.’

  A wave of disappointment swept her. She had wanted so much to see him – her own dear Robbie.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Gone to get quinine,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘Always dosin himself with that stuff when he might be doin’ a mite of good. Yeah, look as wild-cat as you please. I’m talkin’ about that brother of yours right now. He’s the most doggone disappintment for a missioner that ever come my way. He ain’t done a thing since he arrived but hang about and look goofy. Ever since he got your note he’s been buzzin’ mad. I’ll tell him somethin’ when he comes back from Santa Cruz. And he’s goin’ to like it none too good.’

  Though now habituated to Rodgers’s mean, inhospitable tongue, an outburst of indignation quivered within her. But she thought wearily: What is the use? And she said simply, as she moved into the house:

  ‘My brother is not strong. You forget that he hasn’t had time to settle down.’ An unusual note of bitterness crept in. ‘ Give us time to get things straight before you ask for miracles.’

  His acidulous ‘Huh!’ flew after her as she mounted the creaking pinewood stairs. But again she gave no heed. Rodgers’s waspish rudeness! – it was as naught to bear beside the burden of her own distress.

  She entered her room, drew her suit-case from beneath the bed, tugged open a drawer, gathered some clothing, a towel, sponge, and toothbrush, flung them listlessly into the case. Her preparations took but a moment. She knew her hair to be untidy – all mussed up, she thought bitterly, and mousey! Her eyes, too – sure, they must be a lovely sight! But she made no effort to repair the damage. She did not even look at herself in the glass. For a second she thought of leaving a note for Robert, but reflected that she had already written him her plans. Yes, she was ready. With suit-case in hand she descended the stairs, passed again through the porch.

  Rodgers, rocking grimly, affected not to notice her, but she had not gone two paces beyond the step before his voice rang out.

  ‘Here!’ he shouted, ‘where are ye goin’ with that valise?’

  She turned, faced him steadily.

  ‘You know where I am going. I am going back to Los Cisnes.’

  ‘What’ye mean?’ He half rose from his chair. ‘ Mixin’ up with that rotten bunch. Come back. D’ye hear? Come on back. What’ye think yer doin’? You ought to be ashamed to walk out on a man like this.’

  ‘You know why I am going,’ she answered fixedly. ‘And when he comes in you’ll tell my brother that I have gone. Tell him I don’t want him to come down.’ She meant to say: ‘It isn’t safe,’ but instead she corrected herself and added: ‘There is no necessity.’

  Then, quite unmindful of his protesting shout, she turned and moved off down the stone-flagged drive between the green retama bushes. She walked slowly, her head inclined, her valise dragging upon her shoulder, her figure outlined against the light. And somehow there was a strange loneliness upon her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  But Robert Tranter had not gone for quinine. Though in Santa Cruz he was searching now ostensibly for a shop which bore the sign ‘Quimico,’ in his heart this earnest-faced apostle of the Seventh Day Unity was not caring a button about quinine. The errand was a blind, constructed by his crumbled self-esteem to evade the acid-tongued suspicion of Aaron Rodgers. There was something – something right about this message for quinine. Honest – there was! Yes, he almost deceived himself. And all the time his big feet led him insidiously towards the Plaza.

  Yet when the pharmacy was fortuitously discovered, his lips made a little clicking sound of satisfaction. Why, here it was, of course. He entered; ordered the medicine openly; sat upon one of the white chairs ranged in a row within the clean white place, his moist palms clapped upon his knees, waiting.

  He began to hum a hymn tune, and, as he hummed, silly little verses went with the tune. He couldn’t help it; they just came.

  ‘From up aloft Robert was seen

  Waiting on his nice quinine.’

  And another one:

  ‘I watch the chemist stir his rod,

  Nothin’ wrong with dat, O Lawd.’

  He blushed. Funny sort of poetry, he guessed! Yet religion was so mixed up with a man’s daily life you just couldn’t get away from it. Didn’t want to either! When the package was prepared he attempted a feeble joke with the white-coated chemist behind the counter.

  ‘Reckon you don’t serve chocolate sundae in your drug store?’ A trifle hollow, perhaps, like the laugh which accompanied it, but still a joke.

  The chemist did not smile. Watching the other’s nervous grimace he said brusquely:

  ‘Cuatro pesetas, señor.’

  ‘Sure!’ – fumbling in his pocket – ‘You didn’t think I wasn’t gonna pay you?’

  Then Robert was free – quite free to return to Laguna. And yet upon the pavement outside the shop he dallied. Around him the life of the town flowed heedlessly, yellow-faced men shouldering past him, women gliding, hooded in black shawls, mules tugging reluctantly against the yoke, a huckster crying aloud his raw, sliced water-melon, a woman swaying along – a basket of fresh-washed linen upon her head. At the corner of the street a civic guard in shiny three-cornered hat stood planted with his feet apart, his hands behind his back, his eye observant.

  Robert stirred uneasily. Was the fellow watching, actually watching him? Why, it was preposterous! He stared back with a certain hauteur, and then, as at a secret thought, his eyes fell down. Suddenly he moved off down the street. He needed a walk, you see; time enough to go back when he’d had a stroll. A fellow ought to have a stroll after being cooped up on the hill. And it was towards the Plaza that he strolled.

  The nervous look was back upon his face – a loutish, chalky look – as he came into the Plaza and crossed the blue and yellow tessellated square. Hardly knowing what he did he halted, sat down on an iron seat beneath some palms. There in front of him was the hotel – Hotel de la Plaza – the letters gilded across the stucco front. When he had received Susan’s note from Corcoran he had jumped to a swift conclusion. His reasoning was wrong; but not his intuition. He had asked one agitated question, which Corcoran unguardedly had answered. That was enough. Since he had known that Elissa was in this hotel a burning impulse had tormented him – an impulse in which he saw the solution of his difficulties, and the end of his distress.

  A light colour had risen to his cheeks, agitatedly he fingered his watchchain, then actually he moved his lips in prayer.

  ‘O God, help me,’ he groaned, ‘ help me to see her. You understand how I feel. I want to make things right. You know how much I want to see her. O Lord, help me now.’ And abruptly he rose and w
alked swiftly into the hotel. His rush carried him into the lounge which opened out of the vestibule; and there, in wicker chairs beside one of the many small tables, were seated two men. Robert hesitated whilst he took them in – Dibdin, whom he recognised without enthusiasm, and Carr, whom he had never seen before – then with less impetuosity he advanced towards them.

  His reception was chilling. Dibs offered a toneless word; Carr turned on him one sullen, swollen eye then pointedly turned it away.

  ‘I wanted to say,’ stammered Robert, ‘ how downright grieved I am at Lady Fielding’s illness. And how glad that my sister Susan can be of service to her. Yes, sir, I honestly am. I sympathise deeply with you over this calamity.’

  He rested his fingers upon the table edge, leaned towards them in an effort to convince.

  There was a long unresponsive silence, then Dibs threw out:

  ‘What are you doin’ down here?’

  ‘I came down from Laguna on an errand. To fetch some quinine, in fact. And I just looked in to offer my condolences to you – to you all.’

  Dibs let his monocle drop to the end of its silken cord; without further ado picked up his conversation with Carr where it had been interrupted.

  ‘If only that other cable would come,’ he said, ‘then we’d know how we stand.’

  Carr exclaimed:

  ‘Why the devil he asked for further information I’m damned if I know.’

  ‘Michael’s got his own way of lookin’ at things,’ Dibs said, and paused. ‘Can’t we do something on our own?’

  ‘They’re such fools at the Juzgado. And so damnably slow. It’s the quarantine ring that’s upset them. They won’t go in or out of the blasted area. They’ll take days to move.’

  There was a silence.