The Man from the 'Turkish Slave' Page 11

  As he came out of his room he bumped into Anita. It did not surprise him. Anita was always arranging that he should bump into her. The corridor was lit only by a candle from a wall bracket at the head of the stairs. They were close together for a moment, wedged in the angle of the wall and the door. She lifted her face to him and in the flicker of the candle-light her eyes were dark obsidian. She raised her arms and put them loosely round his neck and moved her lips towards him.

  He kissed her because there was no escape; but it was a friendly, happy kiss and he could see that it served only to annoy her. She drew away from him, her bracelets rattling.

  ‘You go to eat at the villa?’

  ‘Yes—aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘ It’s the big night.’

  ‘No.’ Then turning towards him quickly, she said, ‘Why do you like her better than me?’

  Peter shrugged his shoulders, smiling. ‘Why does anyone like anyone? I don’t know. Anyway, I do like you.’

  ‘But not the way I want.’

  Peter passed her. ‘To-night, save me a dance. Grazia says you are the best dancer in Portos Marias.’

  ‘You would like that I dance for you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You shall see then. I shall dance for you and you will forget everything, everybody.’

  ‘Good.’ He laughed and was away down the stairs.

  Anita watched him go. Then she turned and went to her room. She lit her oil-lamp and standing by the window slipped off her dress. She would be beautiful. She would dance. She would take his eyes and he would see no one but her. She pulled open the drawer of her dressing-table. She would show him how beautiful she was, how much to be desired she was … and when he wanted her, she would make him wait, as he had made her wait.

  Behind her there was the sound of someone coming quietly into the room. For the moment she was sure that he had come back. Through the open door he had seen her half-naked and he had had to come. A pair of hands slipped under her arms and cupped themselves over her breasts. She stood perfectly still. A mouth pressed itself against the back of her neck. She twisted round and found herself facing Assis. He held her tightly and kissed her full on the mouth. As he released her she stepped back and smacked his face.

  He laughed and shook his head.

  ‘Who did you think it was? The Englishman?’ His head was thrust forward on the broad shoulders, the black, thick curls disordered, and he had not shaved.

  ‘Gorilla,’ Anita snapped.

  Assis caught her again, holding her to him with one arm so that he had the other free. He kissed her, caressed her face and body and laughed as she struggled. ‘A little dark bird in a net. It is no good to struggle. One day Assis will buy you a beautiful cage and you will forget the Englishman who looks at no one else but Tereza.’

  Anita let him hold her. She took his caresses and for a moment responded to his kisses. Then she reached out an arm to her dressing-table.

  Assis saw the movement and sprang away from her. She turned on him, holding a long brooch pin. He laughed and backed away from her to the door.

  She jumped for him, but he was gone, slamming the door in her face.

  Chapter Nine

  Candles in paper lanterns were hung from the olive and acacia trees. It worried no one that occasionally one of the lanterns caught fire, flared brightly for a few seconds and then sank in a flutter of pale ash to the ground.

  Below the villa long tables were set out in the garden, and a barbecue glowed, a red pyre, on the terrace.

  Quisto stood at the head of the tables about to say Grace. Seated around were the das Tegas household and a great many guests; Nimo Dinez and the crew of his boat with whom Quisto would leave for the night’s fishing in a few hours, Doctor Jaeger, Captain Guarani, Mr. Lesset and Father Gordano, and with them the captains of the rest of the fishing boats in the fleet and their wives and children. Those who could not find room at the table sat where they could; on the ground, on the terrace walls, and on upturned boxes and wicker fish baskets. There were children everywhere, perched in the trees, crawling around the garden, fighting with dogs, scaring the hens … and all contributing to the pandemonium which now, with a great roar, Quisto silenced.

  Next to Peter sat Tereza. He had seen little of her that day for she had been busy in the kitchen helping to prepare the gargantuan meal. Quisto’s voice boomed across the night and Peter watched the magnificent old man admiringly. His white hair, fresh washed, rose in a fluffy mane about his head, his great body, vigorous for all its age, was clothed in a fine white sweater which was worked with an intricate and highly coloured pattern of boats, fish and flowers. Every other fisherman present wore either a sweater or a white shirt, all worked with the same type of pattern. His trousers were dark blue and tucked neatly into the tops of short sea-boots. At his side was his son, José.

  When Quisto finished Grace, Father Gordano followed with a brief blessing and then the feast was on. Peter, who had a healthy appetite, found that, compared with the others, he could only skirt around the edges of the meal. The noise and confusion was constant. For two hours the only time anyone left the table was to refill the various wine flasks. Before the meal was half-way through Peter had decided to refuse more wine. He knew his limit and he knew he was very close to it. There were others who were not so careful. Pedro-or-Luiz, flushed with wine, turned towards the house with his catapult and put three walnuts in quick succession through two panes of glass that Peter had fixed in position the day before.

  For a moment Tereza’s hand was on Peter’s arm. ‘To-morrow I will make him sorry for that.’ She was proud of the way Peter was repairing the house.

  Peter did not mind at all. To-night, the beginning of the festival, anything went. What were a few panes of glass? But he was glad that she had thought of him.

  He would have been surprised if he had known how much she thought of him every day. And this had nothing to do with Quisto’s recent clumsy, half-gallant suggestions about him which she met with silence or angry scoldings.

  After the meal the whole party started down to the square in a ragged procession, stretched out along the rough cliff path and singing as they went. Just ahead of Peter and Tereza was Assis, a little drunk, and roaring his head off in song.

  The moon was coming up and the harbour was a wash of grey, silver and gold. A few high banks of cloud hung motionless in the sky to give its steely arch depth.

  His hand on Tereza’s elbow to steady her on the rough path, for she was wearing her yellow gown and high-heeled shoes, Peter found himself moved with a swift affection for Portos Marias. Huddled at the top of the harbour circle, the tall, cliff-climbing houses ringing it like a palisade, the great square open and silver under the moon and threaded now with the black, ant movements of the waiting villagers, and the tiny points of lanterns strung between trees and houses … it was snug and trim and—no matter about Assis and the jewels—friendly. He liked it, and he was glad he had found it.

  As they reached the square, six great rockets screeched into the air from the end of the jetty. They went up and up, cutting quick-healing scars of flame across the night, and then, exploding, littered the air with arching fronds of small green and blue stars that drifted gently seawards.

  Peter heard Tereza sigh with pleasure at his side. The crowd in the square engulfed them, rushing around them, shouting to Quisto and Nimo and his crew. They were borne off to the bodega where the piano had been dragged out, a long table set with food and drink, and Commere Grazia presided, her fat, jolly face shining with sweat and beaming with pleasure. She wore a new dress patterned with concentric circles of green, gold and red.

  ‘Boy,’ she called to Peter, ‘yoh havin’ good time? You wait, Mistah English. This is just warmings up.’

  Portos Marias was wide open. No door was shut, windows blazed with light and great banks of midges, and moths spiralled about the lanterns. Peter danced with Tereza. Neither of them spoke much. It was enough to be together. The light
s flickered under the palms. The fireworks seared across the night. Hordes of children raced shrieking through the crowd. And then after an hour the noise suddenly stilled and everyone moved towards the jetty.

  Quisto and Nimo went aboard the Borrisco with the other fishermen. The shouting, the music, the fireworks ceased. The tall candles in the bow and stern were lit, their flames burning clear and steady in the calm air. The garland-wreathed, fresh-painted boat was suddenly a mysterious barque, bedecked and gay yet charged with an archaic solemnity. Father Gordano raised his arm in blessing and the crowd knelt, crossing itself. The ropes were cast off, the engine came to life and the Borrisco drew away from the jetty, the great eyes on its bows flaring and imbued with an odd suggestion of life under the candle flames as they began to sway and dance in the draught of the boat’s motion. It drew away, blazing with light. The crowd watched in silence until it was a hundred yards out from the jetty. Then there was a great shout and with one movement everyone turned and began to pelt along the roadway past the cannery and out along the rough cliff path to the harbour entrance, like a pack of children racing down the banks of a stream to keep in view the flower-adorned toy craft of an afternoon’s pleasure.

  Out they poured, Tereza and Peter with them, following the Borrisco to the headland. Then, shouting and waving, they watched it draw away, smaller and smaller in the moonlight, the candles failing one after another in the light breeze that stirred at sea, until it could no longer be seen.

  Slowly the crowd on the headland turned away and drifted back to Portos Marias. But Peter and Tereza stayed, standing close together, looking out over the moon-ribbed sea. Against the rocks below them the waves frothed and fretted in long, lush swells and occasionally the thin cry of a bird came cutting through the scented air. A large fish jumped clear of the water some yards off shore. It went up, scattering a shower of milky, turquoise phosphorescence and then, as it fell back, the sea blazed briefly in a ragged aurora. Behind them the thin sound of shouting and music grew louder as the crowd refilled the square and fireworks bored their way into the sky, bursting with soft, distance-muted explosions and dying in great feathery fronds of tinsel stars.

  They sat there on the grass, held by the sorcery of the night and Peter put his arm around Tereza’s waist without looking at her and held her gently. He began to talk in a slow, steady voice.

  ‘I was born in a fishing village, too. But we never had anything like this. We were all chapel people. Perhaps that’s why. But it was beautiful in a different way … I didn’t live there long but I’ve always thought a lot about it and I’ve always stuck up for it. Just as you do for Portos Marias. Your own place is your own place …’

  She was looking at the blunt outline of his profile against the sky. The sound of his voice slipped by her while she abandoned herself to the rising contentment and happiness of being here with him, of feeling his arm, trembling a little with gentleness, around her.

  ‘You’re happy here, aren’t you?’ she asked softly.

  Peter nodded. ‘Happier than I’ve been for years. I don’t know … looking back now I can see that I was a plain, damn fool. You can get like that.’

  His hand took hers and suddenly there was no difficulty in talking. He wanted her to know everything. He told her of his wasted years, of his stupidity and anger against life, and then about the morning in Plymouth when Marston had waited outside the gaol for him.

  Tereza leaned against him, sheltered by his arm, and there was an instinctive understanding in her which far outstripped her years, a sympathy and recognition which she could feel rising in a full spring of emotion; a finely balanced ecstasy, marked with a sweet anguish for she knew that from now on life would be changed. She would have to give, was aching to give, and yet she would have to go where he went, and she knew so surely that Portos Marias would never hold him … In a moment she was going to turn and see it, make her way back to it, and it would be the beginning of a good-bye.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d ever tell anyone all this.’ Peter turned to her and the movement brought them together. ‘ But I wanted you to know …’ Her face was close to him, her eyes dark and shining. ‘Tereza …’

  He put his lips to hers and she was against him, her arms about him passionately.

  They lay there, and he held her, the hardness of his arms and body crushing her. She had nothing but love in her now, and the fierce-tender desire to give and to go on giving. His lips were on her face and neck, and his hands were holding her, caressing her. Overhead there was the young moon that picked a thin black thread of shadow from each blade of grass that rose up heavy-headed with pollen about them.

  It was midnight before they moved back to Portos Marias. Tereza was happy, laughing, teasing him now with the pretence that she could never leave Portos Marias and he would have to stay and learn to be a fisherman or a shepherd.

  Peter played up to her, but as they reached the square and pushed their way through the crowd to Commere Grazia’s he had a sudden black moment when he was convinced the whole thing was too good to be true. A man could not be as happy as this without something awful happening to spoil it. It was such a swift, almost violent conviction that for an instant it scared him. He felt he had to swing round and face some disaster.

  Half an hour later he had forgotten the moment in the stir and jubilation of the crowd. He danced with Tereza, was torn away from her, found himself dancing from one girl to another, sometimes holding a portly housewife in his arms, and sometimes joining in the stamping, round dances which turned the bodega platform into a whirling kaleidoscope of colour. He danced with Anita who tried to manoeuvre him off the platform into the shadow of the palms. He kept her on the platform and, finally, when he took her back to her table, she stamped her feet in anger. Assis, who was there, roared with laughter and winked at Peter.

  Peter went back to Tereza. She said fiercely, squeezing his wrist under the table, ‘If I ever see you kiss Anita, I shall cut your throat!’

  ‘I believe you would too.’

  He laughed, slipped his arm round her waist and swung her away into a dance.

  Grazia’s piano had been supplemented by a mandolin and an accordion. In the intervals between the dances Commere Grazia sat at the piano playing and singing calypso-like songs that set the islanders shouting with laughter. They were in Portuguese and Peter missed most of it, but he guessed that she was doing the rounds of the various people there. She sat as close to the piano as she could get, the flowers in her hat shaking, her face gleaming under the lights, and her voice as she poured out the bawdy, lusty verses was now rich with exuberance and now lazy with ineffable sorrow. She turned and looking at Peter and Tereza began to sing in English for their benefit, the whites of her eyes rolling: ‘Lawd, miss, Ah see you got that man right down on

  his knees.

  Ah can guess what you says:

  “Man,” you says, “ is you a dictionary?

  Or Man, is you a telephone directory?

  Cause Ah got all the words and numbers Ah need.

  Got to give me something else, and Mistah English—

  You don’t find it in no book!”’

  As she finished there was a burst of rockets over the harbour.

  The night sky blazed with a great diadem of jewels; emeralds, topaz and amethyst, and a spate of brilliants cascaded towards the dark water. Black figures swirled and danced against the flare of lights from the jetty, and the long, ragged shadows of the palms swayed and trembled over the square.

  Grazia started the piano again and was joined by the mandolin and accordion players.

  Suddenly at the doorway of the bodega Anita appeared. She was greeted with a roar of welcome from the people sitting around. Anita swung into the centre of the platform. She began to dance a wild, heel-clicking, head-tossing, castanet-snapping dance. In her hair was a high white comb and a long red shawl was swung round her neck and over her shoulders.

  Peter watched her fascinated. This was a different gir
l from the one who served and scrubbed in the bodega. She danced as though there was nothing else in the world for her but dancing. Once she passed close to him and for a moment her dark eyes were on him, scornful yet provoking and the fronded edge of the great shawl curved through the air like a broad flame.

  Suddenly the shawl was whipped free of her neck and shoulders. She flung it from her and with the movement her body began to arch and sway with a voluptuousness that reached out from her and took the whole night under its spell. As her hips rose and fell, her skirt swirled about her with a soft hiss. She moved forward, circling the shadows cast by the trellis work at one side of the platform. Swaying and stamping she snatched a glass of wine from the table where Lesset and Captain Guarani sat, and then with a rapid, darting movement was out of the shadows and in the full light of the lanterns, facing Peter and Tereza. Her eyes were on Peter, laughing, taunting and challenging. His eyes fell from her face, from the half-parted lips to the smooth column of brown neck and he knew that this was the black moment which, earlier, he had feared might dampen his happiness. About her neck Anita was wearing the tight four-string pearl collar which he had hidden with the jewels in his mattress.