Saturn Over the Water (14 page)

‘After you left us last night,’ he went on, ‘she said something that made me feel you had helped her – ’

‘You surprise me – ’

‘She also asked me to write to our friend Harnberg, to discover if he could offer us any work of yours, Mr Bedford. I told her I had already made up my mind to do that. And now you go first to Lima – and then where do you go?’

‘I’m not quite sure. Probably to Chile.’

The old man stared hard at me before replying. ‘You will be making a mistake. There is nothing in Chile for you. I have a son and many friends in Venezuela. You would be well received there. I might be glad to purchase any work you did there – I help to maintain several public picture galleries. Up there I could be of great assistance to you, Mr Bedford. In Chile – no!’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Arnaldos, but it may still have to be Chile.’

He made a diagonal slicing gesture with his right hand. ‘Then I can do nothing for you.’ He made me feel that as far as he was concerned, I was out, written off, sliced away.

I thanked him for his hospitality, and added a few compliments to Machado and several other Latin-American painters whose work I’d seen round the house.

That set him off. For the next minute he forgot he’d just sliced me away. ‘I am glad you like his work. I am proud of it. Not one of these artists is completely of Spanish or any other European descent. All have some Indian blood, most of them a large proportion. The most vital and original art in South America comes from this mixed race, my own race. It is a new stock – of great force, of wonderful promise. We no longer need Europe, North America, Asia,’ he cried. For the first time I saw fire in his eye. ‘We should be better without them. A new race in a new world!’

Our good-byes were an anti-climax after that outburst. I felt he remembered that I’d been written off, that whatever might happen to me, if I persisted in going to Chile, I couldn’t count on him for any help. I also felt that to call him a little emperor wasn’t indulging in much exaggeration. A lot of real emperors had never known the power enjoyed by this tiny old man sitting on his balcony in Uramba, Peru.

I finished packing, saw the two cases on their way down, then looked in vain for Mrs Candamo. Rosalia’s car – the same pearly-grey Jaguar she’d taken to the beach – was being loaded up at the front door. She wasn’t there herself, and it wasn’t my business to discover what she was taking away with her, so I moved aside. The afternoon was hot again; not a cloud anywhere today. Though this was Peru and the sea out there could land me on Easter Island if I sailed on long enough, the time still had the special quality and feeling of Saturday afternoon, just as if I’d been at home. Down in the Institute grounds I could see some men and girls playing tennis and others diving into one of the pools. Though I’d no wish to join them, though I wasn’t sorry to be getting away from the Institute, I couldn’t help feeling a bit melancholy and lost-doggish. Having had no real companionship since saying good-bye to Sam Harnberg, I think I was getting tired of myself. If Rosalia and her rich gay chums could make me forget myself, they were welcome to start working on it. But I had my doubts. Rosalia came dashing out, with some forgotten armful of stuff, dismissed the slaves, and shouted to me to get in. She was still a gay chitchattery girl, all excited inside, but seemed to be sober in a technical sense. She took us smoothly round the house, out past the garage and her studio, and on towards the main coast road.

Two minutes later, when she’d speeded up, we nearly had a hell of a smash. A big car, coming from the direction of Lima and travelling too fast, was turning into the little Uramba road just as we were turning out of it. Brakes came screaming on, and both cars arrived at a standstill together, after just grazing each other. The two men in the other car got out to curse us in Spanish and English. The driver was a sallow little man in a purple shirt that did nothing for his looks. His passenger was a big good-looking American wearing one of those pale brown tropical suits that I was missing so badly. He was just about to blast Rosalia, who hadn’t moved, when his whole contorted expression changed. ‘Hells bells,’ he roared, ‘it’s you, Rosalia. Okay, okay,’ he shouted at his driver, ‘you can cut that out now. Get back to your wheel.’ Now he had a wide grin for Rosalia. ‘Well – well – well!’

‘I’m sorry about this, General Giddings,’ said Rosalia. ‘It was partly my fault, I guess. So you’d better blame me, not him. Grandfather’s in the house. Mr Melnikov’s there too.’

He dismissed them. ‘Point is, Rosalia, why are
you
running away? What’s the matter with poor old Mike Giddings – huh?’

‘Didn’t even know you were coming. We’re going to some friends of mine – the Garlettas – you must have met them in Lima – Pat and Tina – ’

‘Certainly have. Swell pair. Going to miss you though, Rosalia.’

‘Next time then.’ She started up the car. ‘Have to hurry now, general. Be seeing you.’

I didn’t say anything until we were running easily on the main road. ‘So that’s General Mike Giddings, is it? I was listening to an argument about him at a party in New York. What’s he doing down here?’

‘When he’s in Lima he always comes to see my grandfather.’ I didn’t feel she was interested in Giddings. But I was.

‘Yes, but why should he be in Lima?’

‘Why shouldn’t he? These characters are always going places. Mike Giddings puts on a big playboy act when he’s in Lima. You’d think he was just another of these middle-aged American men living it up away from home.’

‘And he isn’t?’

‘I don’t think so. I think he’s putting on an act all the time. He pretends to be a fool and a big loudmouth, but he isn’t. Oh – gosh – look! Hundreds of chickens all down the street!’ And she had to slow down. She drove fast – and of course raised the dust for miles – but she wasn’t as reckless as I’d thought she’d be.

We left the main road long before Lima was in sight, bounced for a couple of miles or so down a side road, and finally passed through a stone gateway where a line of poplars stood out against a big steep slope, pale rose doré in the afternoon sunlight. We curved round towards a white house, not unlike Arnaldos’s but smaller and more modern in style. Beyond a stone terrace to the right was a fine swimming pool, with clumps of yuccas and similar things on the far side. Everything was in beautiful trim, as if ready for visitors, but there was nobody about, the place seemed absolutely deserted. I was surprised, and told Rosalia so.

‘I’ll make a confession,’ she said. We were out of the car now, standing in front of an enormous front door, dramatically dark against the white walls. ‘Right now Pat and Tina Garletta are about to stage a big cocktail party in their Lima apartment. I took a chance on your wanting to come here right away.’

At that moment the door was opened by an oldish smiling woman who was obviously waiting to leave the place. She and Rosalia talked in Spanish while I took my two cases out of the car. Then the woman left us. Telling me to bring my baggage – she offered to carry one case, but I refused any help – Rosalia led the way, along a shuttered cool corridor, to the far end of the house, really an extended bungalow. Here she found my room. It was shuttered and cool too. It contained a bed big enough for three, together with some agreeable bits and pieces, and had its own bathroom.

‘I’ll tell you now what I want you to do, Tim,’ she said, standing in the doorway while I opened my cases. ‘Because you might want to get into an old shirt and pants before you do it. Up that hillside, just beyond that line of poplars you must have noticed, there’s an old cemetery – hundreds and hundreds of years old. Go and have a look at it – and take a sketchbook at least – because you won’t have seen anything like it. The air’s so dry here that everything’s preserved – you’ll see. I won’t come with you. I’ve got things to do.’

‘What things?’ It was a fair question. After all, we were supposed to be guests of the Garlettas.

‘Tell you later.’ She seemed to take my question as a personal challenge. ‘I suspect you’ve got wrong ideas about me, Tim Bedford. I lived in Paris on an art student’s allowance, and I hadn’t much more when I was in New York. Grandfather may be as rich as everybody says he is, but that doesn’t mean I’ve ever lived on my own like a millionairess. And if there are things that have to be done, I’m quite capable of doing them. Later, we might have a swim.’

She turned away but I called her back. I was already beginning to feel that this was a queer setup. ‘Just a minute, ducky.’ I went nearer. ‘We made an agreement, don’t forget. If I came here, then you’d tell me all you know. That’s still understood, isn’t it? It’s very important to me. I didn’t come to Peru for fun.’

‘I know it, Tim. I’m not as dumb as you seem to think I am. And I haven’t forgotten we made a deal.’ She suddenly gave me a wide grin. ‘I think I’d tell you anything if you just asked me to in that special voice and called me ducky.’

‘It doesn’t mean much, I’m afraid, Rosalia. As you’d know if you’d spent longer in London. Women in shops and pubs use it. Conductors of buses. Anybody to anybody. You remind me of a girl I met at a party last Sunday – a girl who did sculpture – I’ll tell you her name in a minute – ’

‘You needn’t,’ said Rosalia, cutting in quickly. ‘Marina Nateby. She wrote to me and told me about you – how you called her ducky and didn’t make passes. She adored it.’ And off she went, leaving me with my mouth wide open.

Even though I wasn’t feeling very energetic and the afternoon was still glaring and burning, I thought I might as well take a look at that place on the hillside. No painting though, just a sketching pad, a stick of charcoal and some pencils. It wasn’t far up, really the summit of a hillock. The local people must have poked around in the sand, looking for relics. There were still plenty left – skulls and bones, and what was strangest, tufts of hair and odd bits of ancient fabrics, still intact after centuries, preserved by that rainless air. I sat up there, doing a few quick little sketches, like Hamlet in the graveyard. I might have come back from the moon, long after the Third and Final World War, to discover what was left on this planet. And I felt in some obscure way that what was passing, darkly and mysteriously, through my mind, there with the skulls and hair and sand, was linked in some way, which I didn’t even try to understand, with the object of this long trip. I knew that the promise I’d made to Isabel, the search for Joe Farne, the visit to Uramba and the Institute, were only a mere beginning, that so far I’d only been scratching and poking around the surface, like the local peasants, well ahead of the archæologists, who’d been looking for ornaments and weapons and burial cloths in this sand. It was a queer hour I spent up there.

8

When I got back to my room, without seeing Rosalia or anybody else, I found she’d chucked some swimming trunks on to my bed, to remind me that the pool was waiting for us. I hadn’t been in more than five minutes, enjoying the coolness and the fascinating light effects on the broken surface of water, before she arrived, wearing a bikini. As soon as I climbed out, really to take a better look at her although I wouldn’t have admitted it, I saw at once that I had to revise my opinion of her figure. She might not have been any model in the fashion world, but Despiau and Maillol would have rushed her into their studios. Either I’d never looked at her properly or I’d no imagination. No doubt she wouldn’t do for the glossy magazines, striking silly attitudes, but standing like that, with everything showing but nipples and pubic hair, she was just about every sensible man’s idea of what Woman ought to be, the substantial but marvellously subtle arrangement of lines and planes that God intended the female human creature to be. She must have caught the look in my eye, as they always do, and she gave me a quick smile and then hurried to the board and dived in. I followed her and we spent the next half-hour or so diving and splashing around, and by the time we came out the sun was sinking into some unknown glory and the sky was scattering flakes of fire and gold. When I got back to the terrace, dressed for the evening now, it was almost dark and lights had been turned on, and Rosalia or somebody, if there was a somebody, had wheeled a portable bar out there. The heat had gone but it wasn’t chilly, just right. I made myself a martini as dry as the climate, and felt wonderful. Even though I was here just because I hoped this girl could tell me something I wanted to know, I can remember wishing idly, as I sat there smoking and sipping my drink and looking at the strange stars coming out, that there hadn’t to be any talk of any kind, no attempt to exchange thoughts, no arguments, that the girl could just sit there, not wearing very much, keeping me company without a single damned word.

Finally she came out, neat as a pin, sleek as a seal, and asked me to make her a martini too. ‘Shall we have dinner out here?’ she asked, when I’d given her a drink.

‘Doesn’t that depend on the Garlettas?’ I asked though I already had an idea that it didn’t.

‘No, they won’t be back in time.’ She was rather airy about it. ‘So if you’d like to eat out here, do you think you could get the barbecue going – there it is – while I do the rest?’

The rest, which she admitted she’d brought along with her in the car, was a lot better than the two steaks we finally managed to grill on the barbecue, so it ended up by being a good dinner. We drank a bottle of Chilean red, and she made coffee and I had some brandy and one of Arnaldos’s best cigars, which she’d also brought along – forgetting nothing and very proud of it. ‘I’m adoring all this. You’re enjoying it, aren’t you, Tim?’

‘Every minute so far, ducky.’ And then I hoped I didn’t sound as complacent and bloated to her as I did to myself. By this time I felt fairly sure that we’d never see any Garlettas that night, that she’d arranged from the first for us to have this place to ourselves. But I didn’t say anything. It was up to her.

‘It’s a good time to tell you what I know that might help you.’
It was too, the pair of us sitting close on that terrace, with not enough light to diminish the glitter of stars. ‘But then of course you
could still ring up Lima for a car – and then run away. You wouldn’t do that, would you, Tim?’

‘No, Rosalia, though I’ve already guessed there won’t be any Garlettas here tonight – ’

‘Are you sorry?’

‘Again, the answer’s no. As for running away, I never felt less like trying it. And anyhow, a deal’s a deal.’

‘More brandy?’

‘Not just now, thanks. Afterwards perhaps – or a long whisky. But just now, if you’re going to talk, I’d like to keep my head clear for half-an-hour.’