Horse Under Water

was going, did he?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘he told me that the boys were diving. What sort of security do we have here? How much more information has he pumped out of you?’

‘He’s just done to us what he’s done for you: mentioned the word “diving” to see what reaction he got. What would you prefer us to do, take him up on it and start playing “What’s my line”?’

‘I don’t like it.’

‘Well, you know, little us can’t be expected to manage without big chiefman. You shouldn’t leave us, darling.’

‘Knock it off, Charlotte, and put some clothes on. So much flesh in the kitchen is revolting.’

‘I’ve had no other complaints,’ said Charly. She moved past me through the door, and paused, her nubile body brushing mine … ‘so far,’ she said, and leaned forward to touch the tip of my nose with her pointed tongue. ‘You are breathing heavily, chiefman,’ she said huskily just an inch or so from my mouth. ‘Buzz off, Charly,’ I said, ‘I’ve got enough troubles already.’ But I was breathing heavily.

‘I hear you have a sexy little secretary tucked away in London, darling.’

‘I wouldn’t say sexy,’ I said, ‘she has two kids, three chins, and five per cent of the gross. She drinks like a fish and cooks the sort of food advertised on television.’

Charly gave a high-pitched giggle. ‘You nasty old liar, you left a photo of her in your shirt last week, I know what she’s like.’

‘Do you wash our shirts, too?’ I said.

‘Well, of course I do, who do you think does your laundry? But don’t change the subject. I’ve got the photo of your secretarial sex-bomb and what’s more I can see the glint of matrimony at fifty paces.’

‘Fifty paces from you is close enough,’ I said.

‘Then stop looking down my swimsuit,’ said Charly.

‘What swimsuit?’

There was a knock at the door. I backed away from her. It was a local urchin who went to the fish market for Charly sometimes. Would I like him to clean the car? Yes I would. I walked across to the Victor with him. We must be running up quite a bill with the hire company. He produced a bucket and cloth from nowhere and began to slop water over the windscreen. I sat inside the car and engaged this fourteen-year-old in conversation. Did he know H.K., da Cunha, Fernie Tomas. Yes, he knew them all. Was the tunny fish any good at present? It was all right but not like it is in July. Did he ever run errands for any of those people? No, they were too grand, he said. Would he care to do a small favour for me? But of course. And keep it secret? As secret as the grave. Did he know which barber Senhor Tomas went to? Augusto knew — the movement of the town was his pastime and career. He must get a small lock of Senhor Tomas’s hair. A small piece of hair and no one must see. He and I would share this secret and further I would reward him to the extent of five escudos.

It would be for sending to the ‘O pais das fadas’? he asked. I thought of Charlotte Street. It would, I agreed, be for sending to the land of the fairies. I began to wonder how to tell them about Joe.

23 In the same one

Giorgio and Singleton got back at 3.30 for a late lunch of grilled red gurnet and butter sauce in the Portuguese manner. I didn’t want to play the heavy father, but I suggested that H.K. was coming too close to the family circle.

‘You don’t suspect him of being a Salazar police spy, do you, sir?’ asked Singleton.

‘I suspect even you, Mr Singleton,’ I said. There were no grins behind the gurnet. They knew I wasn’t kidding.

We continued to eat in silence. Then, as Charly collected up the dishes, she said, ‘H.K. has bought or borrowed a forty-foot cabin cruiser.’

‘No kidding,’ I said. Charly had taken the used plates into the kitchen. She called to us, ‘It’s coming into the bay now.’ We went out on to the balcony to watch. Down below, beating a wake on the gleaming water, the big red-and-white launch cast a long shadow in the afternoon sunlight. From the high wheelhouse a cap, blue, soft, and nautical, peeked over the wrap-around windscreen. H.K.’s bronze face broke into a grin and his lips moved. Charly put her flattened hand behind her ear and H.K. shouted again, but the wind from the sea grabbed the words out of his mouth and tossed them over his shoulder. He disappeared into the inner confines of the launch, which kept just enough power to hold its position without turning beam-to to the swell.

He reappeared with an electronic hailer.

‘C’mon, landlubbers,’ the metallic voice struck across the water. ‘Get off your butts and get out here, kids.’

‘He really is the most vulgar man,’ said Charly.

‘He is insufferable,’ said Singleton.

‘I only said he was vulgar,’ said Charly. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it.’

Giorgio blew on the lighted end of his cheroot. We all went down to the dinghy; the starter cartridge spat, and the outboard roared as we shot out towards the cabin cruiser.

‘Are you sure we can feel quite safe with you, Mr Kondit?’ asked Charly.

‘Holy cow, how many times do I have to tell you to …’

‘Harry.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you, Charly. These guys are safe. You — you aren’t so safe,’ and he pushed his yachting cap back and boomed his big laugh.

Inside the main cabin it was all mahogany veneer, bright curtains and soft music. Nautical procedures had gone overboard. Along the wall was a stainless sink and a refrigerator. In the corner was a seventeen-inch TV set. We sank into the armchairs while H.K. blended vodka and vermouth with ritualistic devotion.

‘What’s that all about, Harry?’ Charly was looking at the mural of signal flags which decorated the cabin wall.

‘It’s kind of talk with flag, see, you haul them …’

‘Yes, Harry, I understand the function of signal flags; what, I mean to ask, do they mean?’

‘Sure, hon. They are international foreign code flags K.U.Z.I.G. and Y., nautical meaning …’ H.K. leaned over close to Charly, ‘“Permission granted to lay alongside.”’

Charly giggled. ‘Oh, that’s very nautical, Harry. I must commit it to memory.’

I noticed Singleton’s lip curl, but whether at H.K.’s suggestiveness or seamanship I couldn’t tell.

‘Step up to the bridge,’ said H.K. The record finished. The stereo player rumbled into a countdown for the next disc. Against the hull the water giggled and gurgled like a fool. I heard Singletpn say, ‘So this is the driver’s seat?’ H.K. replied, ‘Yep.’ I wondered how many of the jibes really bounced off H.K. and how many went deep under the skin like a chigger. Miles Davis began to pump the cabin full of sound.

From the forecastle overhead I heard Charly shouting, ‘I’m falling, I’m falling,’ in a not-very-convincing way, and the sound of Giorgio saving her in an embrace that suited them both. Just behind me on the bridge Singleton was admiring the R.D.F. and the electronic depth-gauge.

‘Yes, sir,’ H.K. said, ‘a powered anchor; right here.’ He pushed one of a series of brightly coloured buttons. There was a faint purr and I felt the big cruiser float free on the outgoing tide. ‘Self-starter, a little choke.’ The big motor suddenly battered the quiet bay. H.K. moved the gear lever, and the screw engaged the water. We slid forward.

H.K. held the steering wheel in firm proprietorial grip, bit on a large cigar and beamed at us all from his high stool. ‘You British have had the monopoly of messing about in boats long enough; here, somebody else steer,’ he said, and poured us all another round of cocktails from the big jug that featured a design of pirates dancing a hornpipe with the words ‘splice the mainbrace me hearties’ around the top. We made a scene as domestic as a beer ad.