Maisie shook her head and then, surprising herself, she began to cry. Suddenly she felt the pain of losing her family, a pain she had refused to acknowledge all these years.
Danny put a hand on her shoulder. 'I'll go back up north and see if I can trace them.'
'I hope you find them,' Maisie said. 'I miss them so much.' She caught the eye of April, who was staring at her in astonishment. 'I'm so afraid they'll be ashamed of me.'
'And why should they?' he said.
'I'm pregnant.'
His face reddened. 'And not married?'
'No.'
'Going to get married?'
'No.'
Danny was angry. 'Who is the swine?'
Maisie raised her voice. 'Spare me the outraged-brother act, will you?'
'I'd like to break his neck--'
'Shut up, Danny!' Maisie said angrily. 'You left me alone seven years ago and you've no business to come back and act as if you own me.' He looked abashed, and she went on in a quieter voice: 'It doesn't matter. He would have married me, I expect, but I didn't want him to, so forget about him. Anyway, he's gone to America.'
Danny calmed down. 'If I wasn't your brother I'd marry you myself. You're pretty enough! Anyway, you can have what little money I've got left.'
'I don't want it.' She was sounding ungracious, but she could not help it. 'There's no need for you to take care of me, Danny. Use your money for your workingmen's club. I'll look after myself. I managed when I was eleven years old, so I suppose I can now.'
Section 3
MICKY MIRANDA AND PAPA were in a small eating house in Soho, lunching off oyster stew--the cheapest dish on the menu--and strong beer. The restaurant was a few minutes from the Cordovan Ministry in Portland Place, where Micky now sat at a writing table every morning for an hour or two, dealing with the minister's mail. He was finished for the day and had met Papa for lunch. They sat opposite each other on hard wooden high-backed benches. There was sawdust on the floor and years of grease on the low ceiling. Micky hated eating in such places, but all the same he did it often, to save money. He ate at the Cowes Club only when Edward was paying. Besides, taking Papa to the club was a strain: Micky was constantly afraid the old man would start a fight, or pull a gun, or spit on the rug.
Papa wiped his bowl with a chunk of bread and pushed it aside. 'I must explain something to you,' he said.
Micky put down his spoon.
Papa said: 'I need rifles to fight the Delabarca family. When I have destroyed them I will take over their nitrate mines. The mines will make our family rich.'
Micky nodded silently. He had heard all this before but he would not dare to say so.
'The nitrate mines are only the beginning, the first step,' Papa went on. 'When we have more money, we will buy more rifles. Different family members will become important people in the province.'
Micky's ears pricked up. This was a new line.
'Your cousin Jorge will be a colonel in the army. Your brother Paulo will become chief of police in Santamaria Province.'
So that he can be a professional bully instead of an amateur, Micky thought.
Papa said: 'Then I will become governor of the province.'
Governor! Micky had not realized that Papa's aspirations were so high.
But he had not finished. 'When we control the province, we will look to the nation. We will become fervent supporters of President Garcia. You will be his envoy in London. Your brother will become his minister of justice, perhaps. Your uncles will be generals. Your half-brother Dominic, the priest, will become archbishop of Palma.'
Micky was astonished: he never knew he had a half-brother. But he said nothing, for he did not want to interrupt.
'And then,' Papa said, 'when the time is right, we will move the Garcia family aside and we will step in.'
'You mean we will take over the government?' Micky said, wide-eyed. He was bowled over by Papa's audacity and confidence.
'Yes. In twenty years time, my son, either I will be president of Cordova ... or you will.'
Micky tried to take it in. Cordova had a constitution which provided for democratic elections, but none had ever been held. President Garcia had taken power in a coup ten years ago; previously he had been commander-in-chief of the armed forces under President Lopez, who had led the rebellion against the Spanish rule in which Papa and his cowboys had fought.
Papa surprised Micky by the subtlety of his strategy: to become a fervent supporter of the current ruler and then betray him. But what was Micky's role? He should become the Cordovan Minister in London. He had already taken the first step by elbowing Tonio Silva aside and getting his job. He would have to find a way to do the same to the minister.
And then what? If his father were president, Micky might be foreign minister, and travel the world as the representative of his country. But Papa had said Micky himself might be president--not Paulo, not Uncle Rico, but Micky Was it really possible?
Why not? Micky was clever, ruthless and well connected: what more did he need? The prospect of ruling a whole country was intoxicating. Everyone would bow to him; the most beautiful women in the land would be his to take, whether they wished it or not; he would be as rich as the Pilasters.
'President,' he said dreamily. 'I like it.'
Papa reached out casually and slapped his face.
The old man had a powerful arm and a horny hand, and the slap rocked Micky. He cried out, shocked and hurt, and leaped to his feet. He tasted blood in his mouth. The place went quiet and everyone looked.
'Sit down,' Papa said.
Slowly and reluctantly, Micky obeyed.
Papa reached across the table with both hands and grabbed him by the lapels. In a voice full of scorn he said: 'This entire plan has been put at risk because you have completely failed in the simple, small task allotted to you!'
Micky was terrified of him in this mood. 'Papa, you'll get your rifles!' he said.
'In one more month it will be spring in Cordova. We have to take the Delabarca mines this season--next year will be too late. I have booked passage on a freighter bound for Panama. The captain has been bribed to put me and the weapons ashore on the Atlantic coast of Santamaria.' Papa stood up, dragging Micky upright, tearing his shirt by the force of his grip. His face was suffused with anger. 'The ship sails in five days time,' he said in a voice that filled Micky with fear. 'Now get out of here and buy me those guns!'
Augusta Pilaster's servile butler, Hastead, took Micky's wet coat and hung it near the
