The Spanish Gardener

  This queer, impenetrable day seemed to match the Consul’s mood, which, from the moment of his rising, was set and gloomy. Since he had taken his decision, two nights before, he knew that there was no looking back, and his mind was firmly fixed upon what must inevitably come to pass. Yet his strange depression would not lift.

  After breakfast, before departing for the office, he drew Nicholas aside into the embrasure of the salon, and with a kind of painful logic explained to him what he was forced to do. It eased him somewhat that the boy listened with proper docility, for he had feared the possibility of another outburst, a scene. Only when he was about to leave, as he stepped from the portico to the car, did Nicholas, standing at the front door, raise his bowed head.

  “Don’t go, Father.” He spoke in a low voice, with only the faintest tremor of his lips.

  “I must, Nicholas.”

  At that the boy suddenly gave way and, with a little rush, cried out:

  “Father, I beg of you not to go. It is not necessary. Let them take José without you.”

  But Brande was by this time in the automobile. He raised a restraining hand, shook his head in reproof, and the next minute was gone.

  At the office, during the forenoon, he studiously kept his thoughts away from the coming journey. Several intending immigrants had to be interviewed and their documents attested, after which a number of ship clearances demanded his attention, and when these had been disposed of he sat down to draft a letter to Restaud et Cie, a firm of Parisian publishers recommended by Halevy as being most likely to do justice to his work on Malbranche. His pen did not flow with its customary fluency and for some reason he felt sluggish, bound by a physical lethargy. Yet it gave him a momentary satisfaction to reflect that his manuscript was at last complete, parcelled in his bedroom, ready for the mail.

  At one o’clock, shunning the public gaze of the Chantaco, he had a sandwich and a cup of coffee brought to his room; then, some twenty minutes later, he set out for the station. Rain had begun to fall, in large warm drops which left coin-like splashes on the dusty pavements, yet the Consul walked slowly, unmindful of the wet. So rabidly had he anticipated this moment, this hour of justice, that he experienced, within himself, a strain of anger that his mood should be so listless and so dull. Of course, he had again been sleeping atrociously, and on the previous night had snatched barely an hour of fitful slumber. Yet this alone could not explain the change in him. Fantastic though it seemed, he had not yet shrugged off the recollection of his indiscretion—the word was his own—on that torrid afternoon, two days before. Nor could he banish from his mind that gnawing doubt of Garcia. Strive as he would, it kept creeping back upon him, shaking his pose of high integrity, infusing him with intolerable despondency.

  At the station the party had already arrived—Pedro, José, and the guardia, sheltering together on the platform under the projecting roof of the despacho de billetes. The Consul looked at them heavily, observing with vague astonishment how gaunt and sallow José had become, how unkempt was his appearance, how closely the handcuffs forced him to stand beside the guardia. Viewing him after the interval of a week, Brande was conscious of no especial surge of his aversion, only a queer reluctance which increased as, having taken his ticket, he advanced towards the youth. He was like an automaton, compelled by forces which he himself had set in motion and which were now out of his control.

  When he reached the little group, Pedro and José avoided his gaze, but the guardia saluted him briskly with his free hand.

  “Wet, isn’t it?” Brande remarked after a moment.

  “Very wet, señor,” the guardia answered briefly, yet respectfully.

  There was a long pause during which the Consul’s eyes kept straying to these shining handcuffs. Somehow they provoked him to a strange distaste. The steel bracelet, he could see, had raised a weal upon the guardia’s wrist. And suddenly he exclaimed, in a voice which, though irritated, remained aloof:

  “Do you need these things?”

  “Only until we are safely in the train, señor.”

  Again a heavy silence fell, broken by the drumming of the rain on the corrugated roof and the low mutter of voices from behind the barrier. Through the singular sense of fantasy that now enveloped him Brande became aware of the crowd that had gathered outside the despacho, of their hostile stares and vulgar imprecations. In a dignified manner, he averted his gaze. A moment later Pedro, detaching himself, shuffled off to buy a newspaper. When he returned he made, in an undertone, some remark to José concerning the weather. José did not answer. Fretfully, the Consul shifted his position. Would the train never come? This waiting was intolerable.

  At last the air was rent by a shrill whistle, the pounding and screech of wheels. As the short train jerked to a stop, Brande moved forward with a feeling of relief and preceded the others into the single wooden compartment. There were few other passengers, mostly country people, a pair of travelling salesmen, some old women with baskets. It had been his intention to secure a position facing José, but something now withheld him. Instead, he seated himself a little distance away, at the top of the coach, before a spotted mirror advertising some liquid dentrifice. Thus, though his back was towards the group, he could see the dim reflection of what was taking place. Settling himself on the ribbed wooden bench, he prepared to endure the usual delay occasioned by the switching of the engine.

  Finally, this was done and, with a start and a bump, they clattered off. Viewing the scene behind him, as the train picked up speed, Brande saw the guardia take a key from his pocket and unlock the handcuffs from José’s wrist. The youth muttered a word of thanks and began to chafe the circulation into his hand. Pedro, with the paper before him, was reading aloud, apparently trying to interest the others in the sporting news. But neither gave him much attention. The guardia, sitting erect, maintained a correct official attitude, while José, with his face averted, stared steadily through the corridor at the fleeting, rain-drenched landscape.

  That fixed and pensive profile, emptied of all gaiety, stamped with a new maturity, with a grave, personal dignity, began slowly, and in a most distressing manner, to affect the Consul. He ought, surely, to have rejoiced in this just retribution for the harm inflicted upon him. But he could not. The victory had suddenly become hollow, dust and ashes in his mouth. Studying José’s image covertly in the mirror, he felt an extraordinary weakness creep over him. And he had a sudden impulse to go over to the youth, to speak to him kindly, to promise a measure of leniency. Yet how, in Heaven’s name, could he do that now? The idea was nonsense. By a tremendous effort, the Consul wrenched his eyes away from the glass and, removing his hat, wiped with his handkerchief the perspiration which rimmed his brow.

  The heat in the compartment was unbearably oppressive. Although the end door immediately in front of Brande was open, the rush of humid air which entered was like a furnace blast. In addition, he became aware that he had placed himself adjacent to the comun, the coach latrine which, on this line, was never maintained in a proper condition.

  Yet he would not or could not change his position, but remained sunk into himself, gripped by a profound lethargy, while the atrocious train rattled and swayed over the uneven metals. From time to time someone pushed past him in the narrow aisle to enter the comun. The heavy grinding of the wheels came in bursts, exploding like surf against his eardrums, echoing and re-echoing through his head. Was he ill? Instinctively, he asked himself the question. But no, despite his febrile symptoms, he knew that his disorder was not physical. It was, if anything, an affliction of the spirit, an apprehension he could not name, fallen from he knew not where, weighing upon him with the imminence of doom.

  The coast at this point of the journey became broken, indented by many inlets of the sea, and the railway, cutting inland, made a detour through the foothills of the mountains. Here, if anything, the sultry haze was thicker and, as in a dream, trees, vineyards, and little white farmsteads, mistily obscured, flashed past the Consul’s gaz
e. The track, badly laid, made no pretence of keeping to the level—at one minute the engine tore down a giddy slope while the next, gradually losing its momentum, it panted slowly to the succeeding summit.

  In a kind of stupor, the Consul glanced at his watch. Not yet three o’clock. And they had come no more than fifteen kilometres from San Jorge. He groaned inwardly, realising how much longer this tribulation must endure, and almost furtively he raised his eyes towards the mirror. Yes, they were still sitting in silence, exactly as before. Yet as he peered, from beneath his brows, into the greenish speckled glass he saw José turn, quietly, and address a brief remark to the guardia. There was an instant’s pause, then the guardia nodded assent, and made way for José to rise and pass into the aisle.

  The Consul’s heart gave a sudden, heavy bound. He saw, of course, that José had asked permission to go to the comun, and the sudden realisation that the youth was now approaching, must brush closely past him, was enough, in his complex state, to set his nerves a-quiver. Every cell in his body, reacting tensely, made him aware of José’s steady advance. More and more he drew himself together, as if in dread of a violent blow. Yet, even while his flesh contracted, he knew it was not this he feared. No, deep in the dim recesses of his consciousness, there formed slowly, and floated upwards, the intuition, veiled yet terrifying, that the moment drawing near was to be, in some strange and tragic manner, a crisis in his destiny.

  José, swaying with the motion of the compartment, was now close behind him. Brande could scarcely breathe. He tried to close his eyes, to feign sleep. Impossible. As though compelled by forces stronger than his will, he shifted his gaze and looked directly up at José.

  The youth was now slightly in front of him, steadying himself against the end partition, waiting for a momentary aggravation of the jolting to abate. His eyes, dark in his pale face, bore down upon the Consul, searchingly, inscrutably, yet without rancour. It seemed almost that a faint smile was hidden in their depths. Then, quietly, he turned his head away.

  The train, having furiously rattled itself downhill to a little valley, was now met by a noticeably steep ascent. As its speed slackened, José took a calm step forward.

  As he did so, in a lightning stroke of illumination the Consul guessed the youth’s intention. He saw that José was not going into the cabinet, but, using this merely as a pretext, was about to jump through the open door of the coach. A sudden convulsion swept over Brande. Apathy fell from him, his breath swelled into his throat, choking him. He must not, he could not permit José to escape. It was dangerous, too, for him to leap from the moving train. Which of these thoughts was uppermost in the Consul’s mind, then or later, he never knew. At that second, as José jumped, he leaned forward with an incoherent cry and tried to hold him. His hand, clutching wildly, caught the selvedge of José’s coat. The poor fabric ripped instantly, but the restraint, slight though it was, broke the force and power of José’s spring. Deprived of his expected impetus, he lost his balance in mid air, and failed to land clear. Instead, his body sprawled forward and as he fell, by some fateful, preordained design, his foot was firmly caught between the footboard and the framework of the coach, so that his head struck, downwards, with brutal force, upon the edged metals of the track.

  Again the Consul gave out that inarticulate cry. Starting to his feet, he blundered forward, shouted for someone to stop the train. At once a commotion arose, hands tugged the emergency signal. In a daze of nausea, Brande heard the train brakes screech in anguish, felt the compartment shiver all over, then grindingly slow down. With a final hiss of steam the train slithered and grated to a standstill, an immobility which was somehow terrifying. Immediately everyone crowded out of the coach, there was a rush of passengers back along the track. Completely alone, the Consul straightened himself in the empty compartment. He must go, he must. Dizzily, he made his way to the exit.

  They had freed José. His body lay limp and extended on the green embankment. The clothing had been arranged. Someone had placed a clean handkerchief over the mutilated face. The grass, mountain grass, was soft and green, starred by little yellow flowers. A clear sound of running water reached the ear. It was not far from the river he had loved, the sanctuary he had hoped to attain.

  Old Pedro, standing with the watchers, did not look at the Consul. But in a low voice, a broken whisper, he said:

  “He will not go to prison now, señor.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was nearly ten o’clock that night before the Consul found himself, exhausted and dishevelled, on the sandy lane leading to the Casa Breza. Completely overcome, he had felt unable to travel back to San Jorge by train, and had walked away from the railway line, striding blindly across fields, ditches, and stone walls, heedless of his destination, bent only upon escaping from that fatal scene. After five o’clock he had stumbled into the tiny village of Offerino. Here, from the little post office in the general store, he had telephoned the Consulate. But there was no answer; the place was closed, they had all gone home. Next he had tried to get through to his house, meaning to ask Garcia to fetch him in the car. Yet again he failed: first the number did not answer, then it was engaged, and, finally, amidst the inevitable buzzing, was reported out of order.

  Normally the inefficiency of the local system was a source of maddening irritation to Brande. Now, however, he left the dark cavern of the shop without a word. They told him that a bus would leave for San Jorge at eight o’clock. Silently, with bowed head and drooping shoulders he seated himself on a bench outside the whitewashed fonda, refused the innkeeper’s courteous, offer of refreshment and, unconscious of the curious glances of the tavern’s patrons, simple country people, surrounded by their wagons and beasts, taking their refreshment in the open air, began passively to wait.

  Sick, empty, and weak, he found it easy enough to let his weary limbs relax. But his brain, alas! was less quiescent, throbbing crazily, as if to split his skull, spinning an endless web of anguished thought. José dead, wiped out, his young life extinguished … it still seemed impossible to him; yet it was so, there was no escape from that irrevocable fact. Fixing his wandering and almost witless thoughts, he tried to reason that it was an accident … oh, a most regrettable accident, yet one which was quite unavoidable, which he indeed had done his utmost to prevent.

  But wait … he must not rush, not quite so fast, to that comforting conclusion. Did no one hate José with a bitter, spiteful hatred, harass and persecute him, drive him to the brink? A soundless groan came from the Consul’s lips, a cry of pain, unuttered, wrung from the depths of his being. The arrival of the bus broke only for a moment the torment of his thoughts, barely dispelled that vague reverie which filled his eyes with shadow. Stiffly he clambered into the narrow vehicle, which was almost empty, and sank into the corner with a heavy sigh. When they drove off darkness had begun to fall. His heart beat heavily as they drew near San Jorge.

  Now, having left the bus at the head of the lane, he was suffused by an agitation so acute he scarcely dared approach the solitary house. With the advent of dusk the mist had vanished and a wind arisen. Now Brande could hear its muffled drumming through the low cedars on the cliff. It was as though the sky vibrated, stirred by the echoes of a gigantic bell. Ahead of him the path lost itself in the pitch blackness. Although he advanced slowly, the Consul felt out of breath; he had to clench his hands tight to force himself to go on.

  Suddenly, amidst the indistinct masses of obscurity ahead, the moon came surging through the sea of sky and the outline of the villa loomed whitely before him. The wind, roaring spitefully up the drive, bit into him like a whiplash. A shutter banged loudly at the back premises. Bent double, his arms pressed against his sides, he took advantage of a short lull between two gusts to pass round the side of the house. In the sudden burst of moonlight the luminous shadows of the mimosa trees danced upon the gravel drive and their threadbare foliage was slit by silver blades. Then, all at once the moon went out, and the blackness was deeper, dens
er than before. Panting, he gained the shelter of the portico, paused for a moment, his head aslant, listening to the stillness, then, with desperate resolution, pushed open the door.

  Inside, the hall was swimming with darkness, a great dark pool filled with the hollow thudding of his heart. Then he became aware of a strange odour, acrid and smoky, which stung his nostrils and drew the moisture to his eyes. Bewildered, he felt himself powerless, seeming to be surrounded by movement yet himself unable to move. This incomprehensible paralysis, which lasted only a few seconds, seemed prolonged for hours. The clang of the shutter freed him. His body emerged from torpor and, unsteadily, he lit a match. It flickered wanly between his shaking fingers, spluttered, and went out.

  At that moment, above the howling of the wind, he heard the sound of weeping. Turning with a jerk, his head over one shoulder, he searched the darkness with strained intentness. The sobs continued. He groped his way towards the door of the kitchen and opened it before he succeeded in raising his eyelids. Magdalena was before him, seated at the table, rocking herself to and fro in a passion of despair.

  “Magdalena,” he said in a scarcely audible voice.

  She looked towards him and he saw her face, disfigured by a great purple weal, hollowed by terror, suddenly aged, unrecognisable.

  “What …” he said, and broke off with a trembling of his shoulders.

  Staring at him, as at an apparition, she clutched at her torn black bodice.

  His voice came back to him.

  “For God’s sake … what is the matter?”

  A pause, filled by the prowling of the wind without.