Tango (17 page)

‘All right?’ he asked.

She nodded. They hurried to his Datsun, their heads bent against the squalls. Her presence in his car made him confident again. Once more everything became possible. ‘I can’t believe
what I’m doing,’ he said. ‘I can only do it because it doesn’t feel real.’

At first it seemed she was more interested in her fingernails. ‘That is how to do it. Keep it from being real.’

‘But it is real, isn’t it? What we do matters.’

‘It’s only what we do. It’s only a part. God sees the rest.’

She had to direct him to the palace. It was on the hill beyond the cathedral not far from the parliament building and the gaol. There was plenty of time and he drove slowly through the wet
deserted streets.

They stopped at some traffic lights. ‘I’m sorry about this afternoon,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘You are so English.’

‘For apologising?’

‘For stopping.’

‘Oh, yes. Sorry.’ The lights were still red. He drove through them. He kept forgetting – rather, had never properly acquired – the local custom of treating traffic lights
as optional.

‘I stopped at a pedestrian crossing once,’ he said, ‘and a policeman told me off. I also tried to cross on one and got told off again for nearly being run over.’ The rain
drummed on the roof of the car. ‘But I am sorry, I really am. I never meant to deceive you.’

‘Don’t talk about it now.’ She stared straight ahead. ‘Tell me about England. Does it really rain all the time like this?’

‘Not all the time, not even most of it. But in parts of the west it rains a lot. They have a saying – when you can see the hills you know it’s going to rain, when you
can’t, you know it is.’

‘Your prime minister is very strong.’

‘Yes.’

‘What would you like me to ask the president – for your spy work?’

‘You don’t need to bother, really. I’m only an amateur spy. It doesn’t matter.’

‘It makes it better for me if you tell me something you want to know.’

‘Ask him, then, whether the Russians and Cubans are really taking over and whether that is what he wants. Is the People’s Party really a communist party? But be careful. Manuel
Herrera warned me this afternoon.’ He described his visit to
Senor
Finn. ‘Ask him what Manuel Herrera does.’

‘Herrera is dangerous,’ she said. ‘Even the army is frightened of him. People who do not agree disappear. He controls the president’s guard and has many informers. The
army don’t like it but the officers can do nothing because it is Herrera and the Chief of the Police, Paulotti, and another general, Quinto, who control everything. Ines was told this by the
officers she was with. Also Paulotti and Quinto come to the club sometimes.’

‘What for?’

‘For us.’

The palace was not a very impressive building. It was partly barracks and much of it was anyway invisible behind the walls. Carlos’s letter had said they were to enter at the back by the
garages and stables. The streets around were broad and empty, laid out during the few years when the city aspired to international status. It took some time to drive all the way round the
walls.

At the back a pair of large wooden gates led into a cobbled courtyard. Some soldiers were leaning on their rifles with unaffected nonchalance. When William pulled up, one of them strolled over,
catching his rifle butt on the cobbles.

‘We are the interpreters who have come to interview the prisoners,’ William said.

The soldier had a boy’s face and an expression of premature indifference ‘
Qué
?’

William said it again but still the soldier didn’t understand. He replied in a thick, incomprehensible accent. Theresa leaned across and spoke rapidly and harshly.

‘
Sí
,’ said the boy. ‘Wait.’ He ambled back to his comrades.

‘These are peasants from the north,’ she said. ‘You have to speak to them hard, otherwise they don’t understand. They know no politeness and if you speak politely it is
like a foreign language for them. They have not heard the words said like that before.’

‘Peasants, are they?’ William wasn’t sure he had seen a real peasant before, unless the street-traders counted.

‘Animals.’

‘You don’t like them?’

‘I know them.’

The soldier left his comrades and ambled to the guard room inside the gate. Presently a big square sergeant came purposefully towards them. He wore a sub-machine gun like a necklace and trod
indifferently through the puddles. When he reached the car he bent down with one hand on the roof, letting the muzzle of his gun knock twice against the door frame. He pointed with his other
arm.

‘Straight through and turn right to the exercise yard. Someone is there for you.’

‘
Gracias
,’ said William.

The sergeant left them without a word.

‘They don’t understand “
gracias
”,’ Theresa said.

The only light in the exercise yard came from an open door-way. William drove towards it. He heard a series of small, perhaps nervous, movements at his side and glanced across. Theresa was
looking at herself in the vanity mirror.

She turned to face him. ‘Do I look all right?’

‘You look very beautiful.’

She remained facing him. ‘Do I make you unhappy?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘You must not be. All this has nothing to do with me. It is not me. You must remember.’

‘You make me more happy than unhappy.’

‘I cannot promise anything. You must undersand that. Will you wait here for me?’

‘If he lets me.’

They stopped outside the lighted door. Inside, well back from the rain, was the slim figure of Carlos. He leaned against the green-painted wall, his arms folded. He wore a white jersey and blue
jeans which made him look very youthful. His slack mouth seemed less out of place with casual clothes and his expression was alert and humorous. William thought, resentfully, that he looked pretty
all right, too.

‘This is an unusual way for the president to receive his guests,’ Carlos said, ‘hiding from his own guards in his own palace.’ He smiled briefly at William but his eyes
were on Theresa. ‘They all think I’ve gone to bed early. I had to cross two courtyards without being seen by my own sentries. It was not easy but never mind. We are here.’ His
speech sounded prepared. He stood back for Theresa and touched her lightly on the elbow, indicating that she should walk on. As she passed he smiled directly into her face.

William remained by the door. Carlos made to follow Theresa and then hesitated.

‘Wooding, you can wait, can you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you. Leave your car where it is and come with us. I will show you where.’

It was a long corridor, freshly painted and harshly lit with white neon lights. Theresa’s heels rang out on the stone. William felt each reverberation in his breastbone. There were
carpeted wooden stairs and a door, then a room with a table, a number of wooden chairs, two armchairs and a sofa. On the table were magazines and newspapers. Two doors led off the room. Carlos
opened one to reveal a small hall and two further doors.

He turned to William. ‘If you wait here. We’re going in’ – he hesitated, slightly awkward – ‘the other door through here is a lavatory if you need it.’
He opened the nearer one for Theresa and she entered without looking back. ‘No one should bother you. If they do, say you’re waiting for your turn with the prisoner. This is the
waiting-room of the officers’ medical centre. It’s all you need to know.’ He glanced to confirm that Theresa was out of sight and then, holding the door to with one hand, put the
other on William’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, my friend, for this service. I shall find a way to reward you. We shall not be long. Normally, of course, I should want all night’ –
he smiled – ‘but this evening has been difficult to arrange. You will find newspapers on the table.’

William stood for a minute or so after the outer door had closed. Fortunately, he could hear nothing. What surprised him was that at first he also felt nothing – no indignation, no
jealousy, no rejection, no shame. It was as if a part of him had been abruptly and painlessly cauterised. He considered how long he could remain before Sally became anxious. He had said he
wouldn’t be late. However, there was a telephone on the table, so he could ring her if it looked like being a long wait. But perhaps it would be only ten minutes or so.

He picked up some of the papers and sat down. They were a month or two old but it was noticeable how much the country had changed even since then. There was a dated innocence about them, about
their continued rejoicing in the demise of the old regime, about their prescriptions for economic recovery, about their speculation as to the political future. Now all that was known; the future
was the People’s Party.

William rested the papers on his lap. It was of course absurd to be sitting reading while the woman he loved prostituted herself to the president in the next room. He had been accustomed to
think of himself as a stable sort of man, not one to be blown hither and thither, yet here he was hourly determining to divorce his wife, deciding it was impossible, then that it was inevitable.
But the events had about them a sort of logic. After all, she was a prostitute – if it had to be put like that – and he had fallen in love with her, knowing that. He had encouraged her
relationship with the president for his own ends, despite an attempt to persuade her not to go through with it. The sort of logic it was, therefore, was the logic of his own choices, given which it
all seemed inevitable – except that he need not have chosen.

He got up. Box was to blame, of course. It was at Arthur Box’s behest that he had done it all. The reason he was there now was to do Box’s bidding. Thank God he could hear nothing
from next door. He reached for the phone.

An operator asked for the number with disconcerting promptness. The hotel answered after the usual delay and he asked for
Herr
Kronstadt. The ringing tone was abruptly terminated by a
harsh voice.

‘
Ja
?’

‘
Herr
Kronstadt? This is William Wooding – we were—’ William stumbled over his words. The charade made him self-conscious even though the likelihood of the
palace telephones being bugged was remote. ‘I was ringing to see if you are all right.’

‘Yes, I am all right.’

‘The lunch did not upset you?’

‘No, the lunch did not upset me.’

Box’s Germanic persona was not a helpful one. ‘I was wondering if you would like to continue our discussion. I may have some business for you now. Would you be able to come
over?’

‘
Jawohl
.’ Box rang off.

William rang back. ‘I didn’t tell you where I am. I’m at Carlos’s place. Can you come here?’

‘
Ja
.’

‘Use the back entrance and when challenged say you have come to help in interpreting for the prisoners.’

‘The prisoners,
ja
.’

‘Head for the exercise yard and wait outside the lighted door. You will see my car.’

‘
Ja.
’

Box’s replies were so prompt that William wondered whether his message was really getting through. It was possible that Box was still concussed. ‘Have you understood
everything?’

‘
Ja, ja.
And now something for you to understand. I am bringing my goods.’

‘Your goods?’

‘
Ja
, my goods. What I have showed you.’

‘Oh,
ja
– yes – your goods, right.’ William replaced the receiver and listened. No sound reached him. He hated to listen, but couldn’t help it. He
wasn’t sure how long they’d been in there. Long enough in one sense, if not in any other. Too long, of course, as far as he was concerned. He had to do something. He picked up the phone
and asked for his own number. Sally took a while to answer.

‘Just thought I’d better let you know I’ve been a bit delayed. Might be late after all.’

‘All right.’

‘It’ll keep in the oven, will it?’ Thinking of food made him hungry.

‘Yes, I’ll switch it off. You can heat it up when you get in.’

‘Fine. Everything all right?’

‘Yes, fine.’

‘ ’Bye.’

‘ ’Bye.’

Next he wanted to urinate. He had meant to go before leaving home and it was now becoming urgent. Carlos had pointed to the door beyond theirs as being a lavatory. He supposed that the room they
were in was the surgery. The two were very close and he would no doubt be able to hear them, and they him. There must be other lavatories. The second door opening off the waiting room was locked.
He went to the green-painted corridor and looked for other doors. There was none open and he was soon outside, where his car was parked. There seemed to be no one about. He went to one side of the
lighted doorway, but the wind was too blustery. He hurried round the corner. There he found a row of single-storey brick huts linked by open paths with corrugated roofs. They looked like the kind
of post-war hospital accommodation in Britain that had become permanent. The entrances were lit, so he made for a dark patch at the far end of the nearest hut.

The rain came in spiteful gusts. He was about to pass the lighted entrance where the roofed path joined the hut when he heard voices. He ran across the grass and ducked into the darkened doorway
of the next hut. His need was now desperate.

Two soldiers came out of the hut. Their rifles were slung over their shoulders and they dragged a man between them. They had him by the arms with his back towards the ground, his bare heels
dragging along the cinder path. His body looked young though his head was shielded from view by the soldiers’ thighs. William was close enough to see a large wet patch in the man’s
jeans where he had wet himself. The shock made him forget his own desire for a moment. As the soldiers passed William glimpsed the man’s face. The whole of one side was crinkled and red where
the hair had been torn out. Blood glistened in the neon light. His head lolled back as if he were unconscious.

The sight shocked and frightened William. He wanted to get back to the waiting room as quickly as possible, but felt he would burst. He hurried through the wet grass to the next corner. His
eyes, particularly weak in the dark, gave him no warning of the sitting figure and he fell heavily. The figure toppled over with a muffled grunt. There were four of them, blindfolded and
handcuffed, sitting in the grass with no shoes or socks. They were grouped around a short flight of concrete steps leading into the end of the hut. Squatting on the top step, the door closed behind
him, was a soldier in a cape, his rifle with fixed bayonet resting across his legs.