Love, Let Me Not Hunger (41 page)

Don Francisco said hoarsely to Father Belmondo, “Have you finished?”

“Yes,” replied the chaplain.

“Get out!” It was a croak more than a voice that came from the bed. “Get out!” repeated the Marquesa, and the command was directed at the priest and his assistant. “Black crows! You have done your work now. There is nothing more you can do for me. Get out!”

Father Belmondo looked anxiously in the direction of Don Francisco, who nodded with his head in the direction of the door. The chaplain shrugged, gathered up his skirts, and, followed by his acolyte and the doctor, went out from the room. The younger man paused at the bedside for a moment as if he wanted to say something, but the Marquesa only stared at him stonily and so he went on.

She lay back as though the effort had exhausted her; then her eyes moved. She saw Mr. Albert and the spoiled mouth broke into a smile, which only seemed to accentuate the deflated caricature of her face.

She turned her head. “My funny man,” she said. “You have come to make me laugh, haven’t you? You are going to fall down for me, aren’t you? I want to laugh.” And a moment later she said, “I want to die laughing. Laughter must be pleasing to God, who is never done with making fun of us. If I could, I would have you fall down upon my grave and then I would laugh so hard that I would shake the earth and rise again.”

Mr. Albert looked about the room. There were no buckets of water there this time, and he realised that of course Janos was not there either to throw them over him. Only death was there—the dwarf dead, the Marquesa dying. He turned to look at her and could not keep his feelings from showing in his eyes.

“Don’t pity me,” the Marquesa croaked. “You are the only one who has ever really amused me. Never leave me.”

Still Mr. Albert stood, as though transfixed, unable to move. It seemed like such a dreadful thing to do in a death chamber. He was holding his hat pressed to his breastbone.

“The hat behind you,” prompted Don Francisco.

Mr. Albert placed the bowler at his back, but somehow his legs refused to move. He said to the major-domo, “Pull the rug please. It’s better that way.”

Don Francisco leaned down, seized the two ends of the long runner in his hands and jerked sharply. Then, as before, Mr. Albert’s feet shot out from under him. For a moment, he struggled in the air, his spectacles slipping off one ear, and down he came a crasher on the bowler which exploded with a pop, like someone striking a blown-up paper bag. And Mr. Albert lay there on the floor looking foolish, dishevelled, and distraught.

The Marquesa put one shrivelled hand, the fingers of which were covered with emeralds, over her eyes and began to shake. She shook so hard that the great bed began to tremble likewise.

But there was something wrong, and for a second it flashed through Mr. Albert’s mind that it was like looking at a silent film, for beyond the grinding of the joints of the bed, there was no sound. Missing were the loud guffaws, the lusty roars and shouts of laughter that had formerly accompanied his performance. And still she shook.

Mr. Albert climbed to his feet, holding the ruins of the bowler, and Don Francisco came over to the bedside to see what was the matter.

She took her hand from her face and they saw that she had not been laughing but weeping, for the painted face was streaked with tears, muddied with mascara.

She looked at the two men standing by her bedside. Suddenly and but for a moment, there came into her eyes a look of fathomless surprise, and in them was the expression of an innocent and startled child. And then there was no expression whatsoever in them any longer.

The major-domo leaned over and closed the silvered eyelids, and Mr. Albert found himself almost waiting for the metallic sound they might make.

“You can go now,” the major-domo said.

“Is it over? Is she dead?”

“Yes.”

“But I didn’t make her laugh,” Mr. Albert said, and felt that of all the failures of his life this was his greatest. “She wanted to die laughing.”

Don Francisco looked at the woman he had served so long. He said, “What you have done perhaps is better. She wept. She was never known to shed a tear.”

Mr. Albert turned and tiptoed out, closing the door softly behind him. He had one final glimpse into the room as he did so. The major-domo was on his knees before the inert mass of flesh propped up in the bed, his head bowed, his hands folded in prayer.

The old man crossed the courtyard slowly, raising his bared head to the gale-lashed rain and sleet, wanting it to wet and sting him. He did not wish to escape his soaking. Perhaps somewhere, wherever she was, the Marquesa would see and laugh again.

When he regained his room Mr. Albert was startled at first by the noises from within. He had forgotten his wireless which he had neglected to switch off, and it was crackling and buzzing away. He remembered then and rushed to it, falling upon his knees and once more applying his ear so that the metal left a mark upon it. But the freak phenomenon was at an end. There was not so much as a whisper of the BBC Light Programme from the arena at Sheffield to be heard.

Far off in the ring the Walterses were riding, Judy was sitting on her tub, the acrobats were tumbling and the aerialists flying, but they were gone from the little box in his room, and although he turned the dial with exquisite care, teased it to the fraction of an inch to pull them all—all his friends that he needed so—back into the room with him, he could not raise them. Where they had been there was now an Italian station, and through the crackling a fruity tenor was singing. He went over to the dressing table, still in his soaked clothes, and picked up and fingered the card he had received from Toby. He read it again and lingered over the last line—“Love Rose”—and then found himself carefully counting the noughts and crosses—five hugs and six kisses. He shivered and put the card down.

There were no cars following the hearse of the Marquesa when her remains were laid to rest in the mausoleum at the burial ground by the
finca.
As a mark of respect everyone went afoot behind the cortege. It was like the day they had put away Janos, only more elaborate with a bishop functioning and more priests and canonicals to intercede with God for the poor flesh they were laying away. She was deposited as regally as she had lived in a casket made of silver. When at last the brazen doors of the mausoleum clanged shut, not to reopen until they would claim the next Pozoblanco, Mr. Albert found himself walking homewards beside the major-domo.

They were half-way there along the road muddied by the recent rains, when Don Francisco said to Mr. Albert, “I suppose you will be going home now?”

“Eh?” said Mr. Albert.

“To England, I mean. Perhaps back to the little circus?”

Mr. Albert had not even thought of this and spoke as he felt. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t rightly know.”

“You may go if you like. Death has released you.”

Mr. Albert walked a few steps with his head down. He was thinking hard. He said, “But she didn’t.”

The major-domo looked startled. “She?”

“The Marquesa! You remember what she said when I asked her how long?—‘Until I release you, perhaps forever.’ ”

“Yes, that is right,” Don Francisco said. “But death—”

Mr. Albert ignored the last and said, “Perhaps she would like to know that I am here.” And then he added, “She was a poor, unhappy woman!”

The major-domo was astounded at the depth of compassion upon the old man’s face. “You could remain here if you wish,” he said. “You could belong with us if you want. The animals need you.”

“What will happen,” Mr. Albert jerked his head back in the direction of the cemetery, “now that she’s gone?”

“Her nephew, Jaime, will inherit. He will be the new Marqués de Pozoblanco.”

“Ah, I see. And then?”

“Nothing will be changed. Everything here will go on as before except that she will not be here.”

“And you?”

“I will serve him as I served her.” And then he added, “Everyone here in the
finca
will be confirmed in their positions and left a little legacy.” Don Francisco was now looking at Mr. Albert and added, “And you, too, my friend.”

“As though I were going to remain here?”

“As though you were going to remain here.”

They walked on in silence for a while.

“Well,” asked Don Francisco, “do you think you will go or stay?”

Mr. Albert replied, “I don’t know. I just don’t rightly know yet.”

But the walls enclosing the
finca
and the iron doors of the rear entrance were in sight, and Mr. Albert projected ahead to what lay inside—the simple white-washed room, the ebony and ivory crucifix, and the little wireless set. And, on the estate were the caged and free beasts and the dogs of Janos who had become fond of and accustomed to him, and the friendly men and women, who, although they could not speak his language, smiled and were polite and kind to him and made him feel at home.

No, there had been no release, nor did he want one, for she had said, too, “You have given me your word and I have never needed a contract or paper when I wish to bind someone to me.” And he knew what his decision would be and how and where he would spend the last years of his life. “Never leave me,” she had begged him at the very end. Somehow the fact that she was lying back there in her silver casket and could not plead further was final. He thought he would stay.