Horse Under Water

into town. They sat by little heaps of mauve sweet potatoes, green lemons, cabbages, eggs, brown speckled beans and tomatoes.

The black peasant garb is being relinquished from the feet upwards. Few people wear all black, but almost all have a black trilby hat. The old women wear one on top of their head-scarves. A horse with an embroidered harness set with broken mirror and tinkling bells tapped and tinkled past us like a Salvation Army tambourine. Under the trees local lads kicked their Perfectas and Dianas into angry roars and they cavorted in angry bravado across the steep cobbles.

One passed us with a noise like a Cup Final rattle, and Harry Kondit, who seemed to know everyone in this town, shouted to him, ‘George Porgy — how’s about a drink, kid?’

The little motor bike popped to a halt. On it there sat a white-faced man with a wide moustache and very light blue eyes. He wore the inevitable black trilby with bow at the back, and a grey Spanish-style waistcoat with long sleeves and pointed front.

Almost before the bike stopped he had whirled his hat off and held it across his chest like a shield.

‘Let me do the introductions,’ said H.K. ‘This here is Senhor Jorge Fernandes Tomas. Do I have that right, Fernie?’

‘Sim,’ said Fernie.

Fernie was a thin, neurotic man of perhaps forty years. Although it was late afternoon Fernie was newly shaved, as is the custom in southern Europe. He wore his hair long, and one sideburn half concealed a small scar noticeable around his ear.

‘We’re going to the Jul-Bar, Fernie,’ and H.K. walked on, taking it for granted that he would follow. Fernie propped his two-stroke against the baker’s shop. Through the doorway I saw rosy men, lop-sided loaves and flaming tinder.

We walked up the stone stairway to the cafe. Brightly painted metal chairs shrieked their protest as H.K. arranged them on the pavement.

H.K. had Charlotte under his wing by now. It took him no time at all to discover that Charlotte had been called ‘Charly’ at school. From that moment on, no one called her by any other name.

H.K. was in no way bashful about describing himself. ‘I said Harry you’ll soon be nudging fifty and what are you? A small-time publishing exec. making twenty-five grand and not much chance of pushing it past thirty. And what are you getting in return? Three weeks in Florida once a year and a hunting trip to Canada if, repeat, if you’re lucky. So what did I do?’

I could see Charly was still converting twenty-five thousand dollars per annum into pounds per week.

‘Were you here in Europe in the Army, Mr Kondit?’ she said, cutting across his narrative with feminine disregard.

‘No, I was not. You remember how General MacArthur told the people of the Philippines “I’ll be back”? Well I was back about eight hours before he was. They weren’t waiting on the beach with dry pants when I hit the surf. No sir. You’re not drinking — I’ll order some more wine! — Chefe dos mocos! Estas Senhoras desejam vinho seco.’

I saw the young waiter catch Fernie’s eye, for, quite apart from the extraordinary pronunciation, he had used pompous phrase-book Portuguese. We got the wine.

We went back to H.K.’s for pre-dinner drinks. He lived a long way down the Praca Miguel Bombarda. It was a simple house with a red-and-white tiled entrance hall. The dark furniture did a heavy dance as we walked across the uneven plank flooring. From the entrance hall one could see right through the house to where the light-grey sea, dark clouds and whitewashed stone balcony hung like a tricolour outside the back door. From the kitchen emerged a smell of olive oil, pimento, cuttlefish, and a wizened woman of sixty who did for H.K. I could detect her feminine hand in the hydrangeas that stood around in terracotta bowls.

‘Hi there, Maria — this way folks,’ said Harry, ‘I’m the only American in the world that doesn’t have an icebox.’ He had fixed the patio with green plants and a parasol. From his balcony one could see the new hotel that was being built. H.K. swirled his drink and looked across at it regretfully. ‘This place is going to be way outside my tax bracket when they get that baby finito.’

Fernie, who hadn’t spoken much until now, asked Giorgio for a cigarette and Giorgio pressed a black cheroot upon him. Fernie’s few words were in clear, fluent Italian, and H.K. noticed me listening. ‘And he speaks German and Spanish just as well as you and I speak our mother tongue, don’t you, Fernie?’ He patted him affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Used to own three boats, Fernie did, but the Government took them away from him. One morning he goes down to the wharf, there’s a padlock on his office door and two men in grey standing by his boats. No law court — nothing — just seized.’

Singleton said, ‘What reason did they give?’

‘None,’ said H.K.

‘They must have said something.’

H.K. laughed. ‘You’ve not been long in Portugal, sonny. The day the Government hands out explanations is the day after husbands start telling their wives where they’ve been. No sir, there’s nothing like that in this country.’

‘Do you think there was a reason?’ Singleton asked.

‘Me? Now that’s a different thing entirely. Sure it was because Fernie here fought against that son-of-a-bitch Franco in the Spanish business. He was at the siege of Malaga.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘There weren’t many Portuguese fighting in Spain.’

‘They’ve fought everywhere, these Portuguese,’ said H.K. ‘They say, “God gave the Portuguese a small country as their cradle and all the world as their grave.”’ Fernie Tomas gave no sign of understanding the conversation.

Singleton said, ‘If he fought in Spain I suppose that explains it.’

‘Explains it,’ said H.K., ‘you mean makes it understandable.’

‘In a way it makes it understandable,’ said Singleton.

‘It does, eh?’ said H.K. softly. ‘Let me tell you something, kid. A lot of my buddies were in the Abraham Lincoln brigade and they weren’t Commies either. They were just guys getting themselves dead so that you wouldn’t have to wear a black shirt and kick in the window of a Jewish candy-store on the way to school. Nuestra guerra they call it over there in Spain, but it wasn’t their war, it was his war, my war and, whether you know it or not, your war. It was their war too; the ones that came back Stateside and found a lot of people who’d like to do to them what Fernie’s people did to him — and more. But they didn’t — which was lucky all round — because in 1942 people who would prepare Fascists for wooden overcoats were back in fashion again. So don’t be so tolerant and understanding, you just never know when you might be out of fashion.’ H.K. was still speaking quietly but all other conversation had stopped. The evening Nortrada began to shuffle the leaves of the little palm tree. H.K. touched Singleton on the shoulder in avuncular fashion and said in a different voice, ‘We’re getting a little serious, aren’t we — how’s about another drink? Come and help me fix it, Charly.’

They disappeared into the kitchen. Fernie began talking Italian to Giorgio across the far side of the balcony.

‘What do you know about that?’ said Joe quietly.

‘Ask London for an S.8 on him, and check Singleton again. You can’t be too careful, and that Singleton’s just not for real.’

I watched the waves moving down on to the shore. Each shadow darkened until one, losing its balance, toppled forward. It tore a white hole in the green ocean and in falling brought its fellow down, and that the next, until the white stuffing of the sea burst out of the lengthening gash.

Charly and H.K. emerged from the kitchen with a big tray of glasses and a jug with can-can girls and vive la difference painted on them in gold.

As they came through the door H.K. was saying,’ ‘… it’s the only thing I really miss of the New York scene.’

‘But I’ll do them for you,’ Charly said.

‘Willya really honey? I sure would be grateful. Just one a week would be great. My girl can do the cotton ones O.K., it’s the synthetic fibres that they burn. They have the iron too hot, y’see.’

Then Charly said in a loud clear voice, ‘Mr Kondit — Harry I mean — has made us all a special Martini, and he has got a refrigerator after all.’