Horse Under Water

the light of the window and I began to realize for the first time what every male in the region had known since she arrived; she was five feet ten inches tall and every inch was soft and delicious.

The deaths of Joe and Giorgio had curtailed the diving operation. Each day Singleton went out to the sunken submarine and continued the search, but I had long since concluded that what I was looking for was on dry land.

After lunch Singleton said that he must drive to Lisbon to recharge the air bottles. How long could he stay there, he said. I looked at Charly and she looked at me. ‘Have two or three days there,’ I said. Singleton was pleased.

I walked along the beach trying to arrange the facts I had access to. As I look back on it I had enough information then to tell me what I wanted to know. But at that time I didn’t know what I wanted to know. I was just letting my sense of direction guide me through the maze of motives.

It was clear to me that Smith was connected with this town in some way or other, legal or illegal. Fernie was a frogman and Giorgio had been killed under water. The canister from the U-boat had contained heroin and someone had emptied it recently (or how had the ballpoint writing got inside?). Smith had sent ?7,100-worth of equipment to K (Kondit begins with a K, but so does the real name of da Cunha — Knobel).

Did Smith have a say in Giorgio’s death or in Joe’s? Did da Cunha want Smith to have the sovereign die when he gave it to me, and why had he invented a mythical dead sailor and manufactured a grave?

I met Charly in the main square.

The scrawny old houses stared red-eyed into the sunset. Two or three cafes — houses with a public front room — opened their doors, pale-green colourwashed walls were punctuated with calendar art, and crippled chairs leaned against the walls for support. In the evening the young bloods came to operate the juke box. A small man in a suede jacket poured thimble-size drinks from large unlabelled medicine bottles under the counter. Behind him green bottles of ‘Gas-soda’ and ‘Fru-soda’ grew old and dusty.

It grew darker and juke-box music scalded the soft night air. Between the strident rock vocals came the occasional fado. Brazilian jungle melodies, transposed for Lisbon slums, they sounded curiously right in a Moorish land. I sipped brandy and chewed the dried-cuttlefish appetizers — rubbery and strong- tasting.

‘Medronho,’ said the man behind the counter, pointing to my glass. It is made from the medronho berry from the mountains. ‘Good?’ he asked with his sole word of English.

‘Medonho,’ I said, and he laughed. I had made a Portuguese joke; ‘medonho’ means ‘frightful’. Above the noise Charly was saying, ‘You speak Portuguese?’

‘A little,’ I said.

‘You cunning old bastard,’ said Charly in her clear Girton voice, ‘you understood every word I’ve said for weeks.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I only have a smattering.’ But she wasn’t to be placated.

We went to the Jul-Bar for dinner. The place was full of men doing Toto-Bola football pools and the seventeen-inch TV was cutting us in on the secrets of Tide and Alka-Seltzer. Our table was set with a tablecloth and cutlery and a flask of wine. The meal was simple and the drink relaxing, and by 11 p.m. I wanted to go to bed, but Charly suggested a swim.

The water was cool and moonlight trickled across it like cream spilt on a black velvet dress. The night and the water reminded me of the night Giorgio died. Charly’s blonde hair shone in the light and her body was phosphorescent in the clear black water. She swam near to me and pretended to have cramp. I grabbed her as I was intended to do. Her skin was warm and her mouth was salty and the clear white brandy had done things to my better judgement.

What a short journey it is to any bedroom. How difficult to remove a wet swimsuit. She was a considerate and inventive lover, and afterwards we talked with the soft, kind truth that only new lovers have.

Her voice was low and close; she had discarded the banter with her clothes.

‘Women always want love affairs to go on for ever and ever,’ Charly said. ‘Why aren’t we clever enough just to enjoy it on a day-to-day basis?’

‘Love is just a state of mind,’ I said, using Dawlish’s slogan and grinning to myself in the darkness.

There was a note of alarm in Charly’s voice. ‘It has to be more than that,’ she said.

I held the cigarette against her lips. ‘A mortal’s attempt to define infinity,’ I said.

She inhaled and the red glow lit her face for an instant. She said, ‘Sometimes two people see each other just for an instant, perhaps from a moving train and there’s a rapport. It’s not sex, it’s not love, it’s a sort of magical fourth dimension of living. You never saw him before, you’ll never see him again; you don’t even intend to try because it doesn’t matter. Everything that is wise, I mean, that is good, that is understanding and profound, in the two of you becomes real at that instant.’

‘My old man gave me two pieces of advice,’ I said, ‘don’t ride a hard-mouthed horse or go to bed with a woman who keeps a diary. You are beginning to make noises like a diary-keeper. It’s time I faded.’ But I made no move.

‘There’s one thing I’d like to know,’ said Charly.

The church clock clanked one o’clock and there was a sudden scurry of cats across the balcony.

‘Why are you really so interested in this submarine?’ Charly asked. I suppose I must have snapped awake, for she added, ‘Don’t tell me if it’s a big man’s secret and I’m not allowed to know.’

I didn’t answer.

‘What is it that you are trying to find out here? Why do you stay here after two men have died? You know as well as I do that there is nothing in the submarine. Who is it that you are so interested in? I would like to think it’s me, but I know it isn’t.’

‘You sound like you have a theory,’ I said. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think you are investigating yourself,’ she said.

She waited for a comment, but I made none. ‘Are you?’ she said.

I said, ‘There’s a law held inviolate by the people among whom I work: truth varies in inverse proportion to the influence of the person concerned. I’m going to break that law.’

‘Must you do it alone?’ Charly said.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘everyone is alone, born alone, live alone, get sick alone, die alone, everything alone. Making love is a way for people to pretend they aren’t alone. But they are. And everyone in this business is even more so, alone and aching with a lot of untellable truths in his brain-box. You’re groping in the dark through the Hampton Court maze with a hundred people shouting different directions at you. So you grope on; striking matches, grabbing handfuls of privet and occasionally getting mud on your knees. You are alone and so am I. Just try getting used to it or you’ll wind up telling people that your husband doesn’t understand you.’

‘I’m still single,’ Charly said. ‘I’ll make a lot of men miserable on the day I get married.’

‘No kidding,’ I said. ‘How many men are you going to marry?’ She gave me a spiteful punch in the ribs and tried to make me jealous by talking about H.K.

‘Harry has a canning factory,’ Charly said; she lit two cigarettes and passed me one. ‘He’s very proud of it. Practically built it with his bare hands, according to him.’ I grunted. We smoked cigarettes and outside the sea that had caused it all kicked the shore in delinquent spite.

‘What does H.K. can at this canning factory?’ I asked.

‘Tuna in the season, sardines, pilchards. Anything that’s a good buy. All the canning factories mix their products. Harry does pickled things too, I think.’

‘Yes?’ I said.

‘Oh yes,’ said Charly, ‘as we drove past his laboratory tonight the smell of vinegar was as strong as anything. It almost choked me.’

There is a tremendous amount of acetic acid to get rid of … Boardable … erection of chemical works …

I thought about it all for a minute. Then I said, ‘Get dressed, Charly; let’s take a look at H.K.’s laboratory right now.’ She wasn’t keen to go but we went.