The World House (6 page)

  "You heard of a man called Jésus Garcia?" she asked, deciding that it was better to hide her interest by being upfront.

  "Of course, he's the bastard that deals in weapons for the Republic, his men are always down here conducting their deals and acting like they own the place. Why do you ask?"

  "No reason really. I heard someone mention him…"

  "Who? You shouldn't be hanging around people that discuss Garcia."

  "He was nobody, just an American, down at the marina."

  "An American? Since when do you speak English?"

  "I don't, he was speaking Spanish…" Kesara wasn't making a very good job of this – whatever she said seemed to interest Pablo even more.

  "A Spanish-speaking American down at the marina was talking to you about Garcia?"

  "No, he wasn't talking to me… he was…" An idea suddenly occurred to her. "He was arguing with another man about who lives in that big place overlooking the marina."

  "The Ramirez house?"

  "I don't know, probably, the expensive place… the American was insisting that this Jésus Garcia lived there. He was willing to bet money on it."

  "Then he would have lost. Garcia has that walled villa near the cathedral."

  Kesara tried to think of it. "The one with the little bell-tower?"

  "Yeah, people joke that he was jealous of the cathedral bells so had one built of his own."

  "I know it."

  "What did the American want with Garcia anyway?"

  "No idea…" Kesara tried her best to sound as if she really meant it, adding: "None of my business, is it?"

  "No, it isn't, and make sure it stays that way. You don't want to start getting mixed up with people like that."

  They talked about other things for a short while – only as a further attempt on Kesara's part to hide her true interest – before, finally, Pablo's father shouted to him from the prow of his fishing boat and the boy was forced back to work. Kesara was relieved. She wanted to go and have a look at Garcia's house.

 

It was a building she had seen many times but paid no attention to. After all, what importance did it have for her? A rich man's house was neither here nor there to Kesara; she wasn't welcome there and had better things to do with her days than look on things she couldn't afford. Now it was entirely different. In her imagination she hoped she might soon be able to afford a house just like it. Of course five thousand dollars wouldn't even begin to pay for a house like this but Kesara wasn't to know that. Anything over a few hundred pesetas was beyond her ability to imagine; there was "very little" money and then there was "more than you could ever dream of", nothing in between.

  The house was surrounded by a high white-plastered wall above which poked the bell-tower and the large blue-domed roof of the main house. Just below the dome was a small balcony window that revealed Garcia to Kesara as she watched from the steps of the cathedral. He stepped out through the dark archway, wrapped in a silk gown that was so soft and colourful it looked to Kesara like a woman's dress. He was smoking a cigar, watching the city come back to life after its siesta. A slender hand appeared at his shoulder, its long feminine nails painted a deep Rioja red. Garcia gave the sort of smile Kesara had seen fat men offer a heavily laden dining table and for a moment she thought he meant to bite the proffered fingers, chew them off one by one like shapely asparagus stalks. He kept his teeth sheathed, kissing the hand and taking it in his, holding it against his shoulder as if to carry its owner on his back. Kesara watched the woman emerge into the late-afternoon light and at first glance decided that she had found the face she wanted to grow up into. Then, as the soft light began to pick out flaws, Kesara realised that nobody – least of all the woman herself – would wish themselves into this skin. She was beautiful, yes, but it was a beauty painted over an inner ugliness. The eyes were not as happy as the smile pretended to be, and the woman's slender shoulders were hunched as if prepared to bear the greatest weight one could imagine. Kesara thought that weight was probably the companionship of the man standing next to her.

  Garcia pulled the woman in front of him and kissed her neck like a man chewing on a chicken drumstick. His piggy little hands rumpled the silk of her nightdress, pushing her breasts face upwards towards the sun. She sagged in his embrace, her face empty and devoid of passion. But then Garcia's unsubtle devouring was nothing to do with passion either, even Kesara could see that; it was about
pos
session
. He was offering this young conquest up to the eyes of the town and making sure all who saw them knew only too well that he had taken all he could want from the woman and would do so again and again until he tired of her. His hand dropped briefly between the woman's legs before retreating to follow its laughing master back into the darkness of the house. The woman held her position for awhile, her fingers gripping the wrought iron of the railing as she leaned forward, perhaps imagining what it might be like to topple over and away from the life she had found herself in. Kesara – no stranger to running away from oppression – hoped she might free herself from the man. But not today, it would seem, for the woman followed Garcia back into the house and Kesara found herself staring up at an empty window.

  She shifted on the hard stone steps, massaging some life into her buttocks. Now it wasn't just the money that had her itching to scale the wall; now she wanted to take the box simply because it belonged to the pig she had seen on the balcony. It would do him good to lose something.

  The afternoon light crept towards evening, the sun losing its harshness and settling a hazy glow across the streets that made them appear wrapped in plastic. Kesara sat with her nerves for company, watching the house and trying to decide how to get inside. She walked around it a couple of times, hoping to get an idea of what lay beyond the wall. The bricks stretched too high to give her anything but a glimpse of the house roof, the tower and the tips of the most mature fruit trees. A sprawling bougainvillea clutched the external wall and, as wary as Kesara was of tearing herself to shreds on its thorns, she could see no better way of sneaking into the garden.

  Walking back to the front of the house she panicked as the front gate opened and Garcia exited. He walked towards her, the woman from the balcony holding on to his arm. Kesara did all she could do to vanish into the background, sitting down in the dirt and holding out her grubby little hands for coins. Garcia walked straight past. Nothing was more invisible in this city than a beggar, there were so many of them.

  Kesara realised this was her chance; she knew Garcia wasn't in the building and she had a way in, however uncomfortable. She ran around to the rear of the building and began to climb the bougainvillea. She was careful not to let the thorns bite into her hands or feet but they transferred their attention to her clothes, tugging and tearing at the fabric of her skirt and blouse. She reached the top of the wall, peered over to make sure the garden beyond was empty, then dropped down to the dry soil of a flower bed. To her right was the lazy gurgle of a water feature: a small cherub appearing to throttle a goose, water gushing from the unconcerned bird's beak and stirring a pond of koi carp. Kesara watched the fat fish glide pointlessly in their small world and had a momentary urge to fish them out to rest on the sun-baked gravel that lined the pond. They would die, of course, but maybe that was better than moving redundantly in a world that was only a couple of times as big as themselves.

  There was a swimming pool, something that seemed utterly alien and pointless to Kesara – if you wanted to swim, the sea was no distance away. To move up and down in this oversized bath… well, that was as unfulfilling as the lives of the carp. Beyond the pool a large covered terrace was draped with the burgeoning fruit of grapevines. A large dining table in the centre was surrounded by statuary, a selection of stone nymphs whose gritty breasts poked out from the demure yet ineffectual swathes of cloth draped over their exaggerated curves.

  Kesara suddenly realised the house might not be completely empty. Somewhere as large as this likely had staff, and all it would take was for one of them to glance out of a rear window and see her gawping amongst the garden furniture. She ran towards one of the vine-wrapped alcoves and stood close against the cream-coloured stone. The only thing to do was to get to the house as quickly as she could. Bending almost double she ran towards a pair of glazed double doors, using the table and then the various potted plants for cover as she went.

  She crouched to one side of the doors, quickly popping her head around so that she could peer through the glass and see if anyone was inside. The doors led to an indoor courtyard, walls covered in paintings and tapestries. No doubt when Garcia was entertaining he would open the doors and let his guests mingle between the gardens and his expensive works of art. He was a man who would enjoy showing off. She tried the handle and heard a panicked moan build involuntarily in her throat as the door opened. Now it was real. Now it was breaking into a man's house. A koi carp straying from its pond. She slipped around the open door and stepped inside.

  Two women laughed raucously in a nearby room and Kesara looked for somewhere to hide. The gallery held a wide marble staircase and she ran up it, the stone cold beneath her feet as she raced upwards. The two women were talking with the sort of freedom that only comes from having your employer out of the house for a few hours. Their voices bounced off the high white ceilings and chased Kesara up the stairs. She peered over the banister, glimpsing the black uniform of a woman in the room. The cleaner laughed again, flicking at the back of an armchair with a feather duster.

  Now the stupidity of Kesara's plan – or rather her complete lack of one – began to pick at her nerves. She had no idea where Garcia might keep the box. Would it be on display? Hidden away in a bedside drawer? Sitting on a desk? Now she was inside, it all seemed absurd and she was tempted to run out of the double doors and back to the safety of the port. But dreams are strong and hers were already built on the money she hoped to She ran on up the stairs. The landing stretched itself around a thick Persian rug, and the spaces between the heavy wooden doors were filled with busts and sculptures. Kesara checked the length of the corridor in case the box was out in the open. There was no sign of it so she opened one of the doors and stepped into a large and lavish bedroom. In the far wall she could see the balcony where Garcia and the woman had stood earlier. The bed was piled high with cushions and thick cotton sheets, a mountain range of bedlinen that she would have loved to roll in had she not been so nervous. She went to the cabinets by the side of the bed, pulling the drawers open and rifling through them, finding some of Garcia's underwear (she turned her nose up at that), a bible – unread and unheeded – and a selection of watches. Deciding she might as well swing for a collection of stolen goods as for a single item, she grabbed one of the watches -– the smallest, its pearlescent face suspended on a black leather strap – and fixed it on her wrist. It was a quarter to nine. Looking out of the window, she could see the darkening sky as night prepared to push away the blue for another day.

  She moved across the room to a large dressing table and searched through more drawers. There were women's things this time, pearls and glistening stones, gold chains and bracelets. Again she was tempted to fill her pockets but a noise from downstairs stopped her. She ran back to the open door, listening out for someone coming. All was quiet – it was probably just the housemaid shifting furniture. Her appetite for jewel theft had been chased away by the panic and she left the room for the one opposite.

  It was Garcia's office. At the centre was a heavy desk inlaid with leather, its thick legs twisted in ornate carvings. She looked over the objects on the surface, a marble penholder, a brass cigar cutter… the humidor got her excited until she opened it and realised her mistake looking at the thick rolls, piled like sawn timber, waiting to be smoked. She tried to check the drawers but they were locked and there was no sign of a key. She moved over to the window and looked down on to the roof of the covered terrace. She could climb out here, make her way down from the terrace roof and be away, a watch on her wrist to prove it hadn't been a wasted journey.

  There was another noise from downstairs, a loud crash followed by the tinkling applause of breaking glass. The cleaners would be in trouble when Garcia came home, Kesara thought. Something caught her eye on a bookcase facing the window: amongst the thick leather spines and document folders was a light-brown square of wood. Her breath caught in her mouth and she dashed across to the shelf. It was the box, surely it was, covered in Chinese writing – at least she thought it was Chinese, lots of curves and squiggles; she saw them sometimes on crates offloaded at the port. It was acting as a prop, keeping the books wedged against the wall so they didn't spill out. Was it possible that something so valuable was being treated in such a careless fashion? She tried to open it but her fingers couldn't discover the trick. She shook it: it was light and seemingly empty. Suddenly it gave a ticking sound and she dropped it in surprise. Stooping down to pick it up she tensed as footsteps clapped the marble stairs beyond the open door. Someone was coming!

  She grabbed the box and dashed across to the window, seeing no option but to escape across the roof. As she climbed out, she heard a voice behind her. Looking back over her shoulder she found herself gazing straight at Jimenez, here to carry out his own thievery. He noticed the box in her hand and, swearing profusely, pulled a revolver from the belt of his trousers. Kesara jumped on to the tiled roof of the terrace, fighting not to drop the box as she scrabbled to keep her footing. She kept moving, coming to the end of the roof and looking over the edge for a way to descend. The pool… A bullet was fired at her for the second time that day. Her luck held as she sailed through the air before crashing into the clear water of the pool. Her skin smarted with the impact but she kept her breath, kicked with her legs and yanked herself out at the pool's edge. Dripping wet, she hoped the box was undamaged but had neither the time nor the inclination to check. The terrace was protecting her from Jimenez above but he would be downstairs in seconds. She looked all along the garden wall, at a loss as to how she could climb it from this side. She would have to try the front.