The Drifters (6 page)

‘That cluster of tall buildings, beyond Málaga,’ one of
the Germans explained, that’s your Torremolinos.’ He smacked his lips and said, ‘Imagine! Right now! Five thousand of the world’s most beautiful girls down there, panting for me to arrive.’

‘Is it a good spot—Torremolinos?’ Joe asked.

‘See for yourself!’ the excited German said. ‘Endless beach. Mountains to cut off the cold winds. It’s not a city. It’s not a village. It’s nothing seen on earth before. I’ll tell you what it is—a refuge from the world’s insanity, except that it’s totally insane.”

They looked down at the panorama, the most exciting in Spain, with its mixture of old Málaga, the blue Mediterranean, the fishing villages and the stark mountains. To see the area from this height, after having traversed the barren upland plains, was to see an invitation to life and music, to wine and seashore. ‘If it’s as good down there as it looks from up here,’ Joe said, ‘it’s a scene I’d like to make.’

‘The only people who know how to enjoy it are the Germans and Swedes,’ one of the students said. ‘Americans don’t fit in easily.’

‘Lot of Germans down there?’

‘When you get down, look. You’ll find whole areas speaking nothing but German. Signs will be in German, too. Or Swedish.’

They took one final survey of the splendid area, then jumped in the car and started the screeching descent, with tires whining protests as the car swerved first to one side, then wildly to the other. At one point the road had to make two complete circles requiring a sequence of tunnels, so that the car seemed as if it were sliding down the flanges of a corkscrew, and as they sped around the curves Joe caught a kaleidoscopic view of ocean, mountain, sky, tunnel, Málaga and, in the distance, Torremolinos. It was a dazzling, stomach-turning approach, and when the curves grew even tighter the Germans began shouting encouragement to the driver; as he approached a curve they would utter a long-drawn
uggggghhhhh
, rising in tone and volume as the car screamed into the bend, its tires about to pop off their rims, then ending in a triumphant
yaaaahhhhh
as the car teetered, almost toppled over, then regained its direction. When the road reached sea level and straightened out, the driver exultantly jammed the gas pedal to the
floor and they roared along at more than ninety, slowing only when the narrow streets of Málaga appeared.

‘That’s the way to come down a mountain!’ the driver shouted, and Joe said, ‘Son of the Red Baron.’

They did not stop in Málaga but sped directly westward past the airport, and in a few minutes were entering Torremolinos, with its nest of skyscrapers along the shore, its lovely winding streets leading inland. The Germans roared into the center of town, came to a screaming halt before a newspaper kiosk that featured papers from every city in northern Europe, and told Joe, ‘This is it, American. Learn German and you’ll love it.’

Joe said, ‘I thought Californians were crazy drivers,’ and the driver said, ‘You drive fast to get places. We do it for fun.’ With a burst of speed that not even an American teenager would have attempted, he exploded through the traffic and zoomed westward.

With a small canvas traveling bag in his left hand, no hat, no topcoat, little money, Joe stood in the roadway and surveyed the scene of his exile, and what struck him immediately in these first minutes of a wintry day was that he saw more beautiful girls than he had ever before seen in one place in his life. They were positively dazzling, and in a short time he would know them all: Swedish blondes down from Stockholm; lean, good-looking German girls on their winter vacation out of Berlin; many French girls from the provinces; handsome college students from England; and a score of petite girls from Belgium.

Across from the newspaper kiosk, there was a bar with a large outdoor area sunk a few feet below the level of the street. It served as a kind of observation patio, and its many tables were crowded with people sitting in the winter sunshine, nursing glasses of beer and watching the passers-by. Hesitantly Joe stepped down from the street, walked among the tables until he found an empty chair, and sat down. Even before the waiter could get to him, a young man of indefinite nationality grabbed the next seat and said in an attractive accent, ‘You’re new here, I see. An American running away from army service, I suppose. I don’t blame you. If I were an American I’d do the same thing.’

‘Who are you?’ Joe asked brusquely.

‘Who cares?’ the young man asked. He seemed to be about twenty, well dressed, amiable. Apparently he had money, for he said, ‘Can I buy you a drink? First day in town. Next time you pay.’

He uttered a penetrating
psssstttt
and ordered lemonade for himself, a beer for Joe. ‘You ever see so many beautiful girls?’ he asked as a procession of especially attractive ones passed on the street above. ‘For a man, this town is paradise. The secret is this. Every girl you see has flown here on a special excursion rate. They have fifteen days in the sun, then back to the treadmill. Not much time to waste, so they don’t want to bother with involved introductions …’

‘You speak good English,’ Joe said.

‘Also German and Swedish and French.’

‘What do you dor

‘I look after things.’

‘How can a guy get a job?’

Over the rim of his lemonade glass the young man assessed Joe, and while he did so, Joe had an opportunity to study the second layer of Torremolinos, for interspersed among the beautiful girls was a less appealing stream of fugitives—the dead-enders, both male and female, who had sought refuge in this Spanish nirvana and were finding life dreary, if not impossible. They were a shabby lot, young people from all countries who had thought that because Spain was warm it had to be cheap. They wore their hair long and their clothes tattered. Some were incredibly dirty and all looked as if they had not bathed for weeks. A considerable number were glassy-eyed, and they passed along the street as if in a trance; they were the ones who had been eating hashish or popping heroin, and their shoulders sagged and they moved mechanically. Unusually effeminate young men walked hand in hand. And there were the unpretty girls, the ones who had flown south in the same great jets that had brought the beauties. You could almost tell what point in their fifteen-day vacations they had reached; during the first tour days they were hopeful that life in a swinging town like Torremolinos might be different from what it had been at home; on the ninth day they faced up to the fact that when so many girls concentrated on one place, even some really attractive girls would have trouble finding young men; and by the
thirteenth day, knowing things weren’t going to be much different from what they had been at home, they surrendered to desperation and walked the streets heavy-shouldered, with disappointment showing in their faces.

And scattered through this variegated mob of Germans, Englishmen, Belgians and Swedes, there moved a few Spaniards—a very few. They were apt to be workmen on their way to fix abused plumbing systems, or entrepreneurs trying to peddle bits of property their uncles owned, or clerks from the various stores. You could spot them by the sardonic looks on their faces, by the uncomprehending glances they occasionally cast at particularly outrageous hippies. It was a foreign world, one they did not understand, nor did they care to, so long as it provided them with a living. They were surprised at times, when they stopped to reflect that all this was happening in Spain, but they no longer worried about it, secure in their belief that the government in Madrid must be aware of the strange things that were happening and would correct them if occasion demanded.

When the young man with the lemonade was satisfied that he understood Joe, he said, ‘With you I’d better be honest.’

Joe heard this frightening statement as if through a blanket of fog, for he was still lost in his review of the passers-by, wondering where in the procession he was going to fit. ‘What’d you say?’ he asked.

‘You can call me Jean-Victor,’ the young man said. ‘Not French. ‘I’ll let you guess what. But I’ve been studying you and I see that you’re capable. Quiet but capable. And I’ve decided that with you I’d better speak the truth about Torremolinos. If you were a young girl trying to make your living as a prostitute, I’d have to warn you that it couldn’t be done, because competition from the amateurs would drive you right out of town. But you being a handsome young man, with a certain physique, attractive hair … Do you speak any language other than English?’

‘Spanish.’

‘That doesn’t count.’

‘In Spain? It doesn’t count?’

‘We’re not in Spain. Now if you put on your tightest pair of trousers and wander down this main street until you find a bar called the Wilted Swan, and go inside and order a lemonade, within fifteen minutes you’ll find somebody
who’ll take care of your expenses for as long as you care to stay in town.’

Joe said nothing. Rummaging through his wallet, he looked for a scrap of paper, found the name he wanted, and turned to Jean-Victor, asking, ‘Inside would I happen to find Paxton Fell?’

‘Oh, you know Paxton Fell!’ the young man cried ecstatically. ‘Splendid! Splendid!’ He insisted upon paying for the drinks and chaperoning Joe to meet Fell at the Wilted Swan. They had walked only a couple of short blocks when Joe saw one of the world’s great barroom signs, a heraldic shield painted in bright primary colors, in the center of which floated a swan whose neck and wings had wilted into a limp design, with a result so languid and degenerate that he had to stop and laugh.

‘That’s a great sign,’ he said admiringly. ‘I’ll bet it looks like Paxton Fell.’

At this the guide slapped his leg and cried, ‘Oh, I’ve got to tell Paxton what you said!’ He led Joe through the brass-studded Renaissance doors and into a dark room ornately decorated with objects of French and English origin. He peered carefully from corner to corner, then pointed to a table at which sat four men who appeared to be in their forties. They were obviously well-to-do, for they were dressed with that austere elegance which only money can sustain, and they spoke in low voices.

Jean-Victor approached the table deferentially, bowed and whispered to the man whose back was to the door. Slowly this gentleman rose, slim and imperious, and when he turned around, Joe saw that he was much more than forty. As if from a considerable height he studied Joe, apparently found him acceptable, and walked slowly toward him, extending a slim, be-ringed hand. ‘I am Paxton Fell,’ he said quietly. ‘And who might you be?’

‘Name’s Joe. I’m from California. The gang at Yale gave me your name.’

‘It must have been Professor Hartford,’ Fell said languidly. ‘He’s very helpful, I understand, when you fellows fall into trouble with the draft.’

Joe nodded and became aware that most of the habitués in the bar, including one table of oddly dressed women, were watching him. On the spur of the moment he extended his hand to Fell and said, ‘Professor Hartford sends his
best wishes. I’ll probably see you around.’ And he walked to the door.

‘Just a minute!’ Fell cried. ‘Join us for a drink.’

‘Later,’ Joe said. ‘I’ve got to find a place to park this gear.’

‘We can always help you find a place to stay. Now if you …’

Joe looked at his watch, snapped his fingers and said, ‘Damn. I told the landlady I’d look at her room at five.’

On the sidewalk he grabbed Jean-Victor by the lapel and asked, ‘What the hell are you trying to peddle?’

‘You brought up his name. I naturally supposed …’

‘You let me do the supposing.’

‘When I first met you … I showed you the pretty girls and you didn’t even look.’

‘I was looking … in my own way.’

‘So I put you down for another American on the make. And when you popped up with Fell’s name, I was positive.’

‘You one of his boys?’

‘Me? I wouldn’t go near the place. For me it’s strictly girls.’

‘Then why peddle me?’

‘Simple! If I cooperate with Paxton Fell … he sees I get a little money.’ Since his manhood had been impugned he felt it necessary to establish his character, so he led Joe down into the oldest part of Torremolinos, a story-book fishing area that had kept out the luxury hotels and skyscrapers. He took Joe past a chain of attractive small bars, each with three or four charming girls waiting on stools, and Jean-Victor said, ‘In Torremolinos … three hundred bars … and they all need bar girls.’ They came finally to a row of very old fishing sheds that had been converted into slap-dash apartments, at whose doors the Mediterranean knocked with knuckles of sea foam.

‘This is the real Torremolinos,’ Jean-Victor said, and as he pushed open the door of his flat, Joe saw two large beds, one empty, the other containing a pair of most attractive girls. ‘Ingrid and Suzanne,’ Jean-Victor said offhandedly. ‘My girl is Sandra, from London, but she’s out shopping, I suppose.’

‘She went to get her hair done,’ Ingrid said in excellent English.

‘She’s always getting her hair done,’ Jean-Victor said
resignedly. ‘Joe’s new in town. From California. No money, test him.’

‘Running away from the draft?’ Suzanne asked with a lilting French accent.

‘Yes.’

‘Any money?’

‘Flat broke.’

‘Who cares. Tonight we take you to dinner. We must all fight like hell for peace.’

‘You mustn’t waste your money,’ he protested.

The girls did not even bother to reply. In their crowd, if someone had a little bread he shared it; when Joe was in the chips they would expect him to do likewise. Jean-Victor went on to say, ‘You can make your bed on the floor. A German left his sleeping bag. It’s that tartan thing in the corner. He probably won’t be back.’

The girls did take Joe to dinner, at a fish restaurant where a solid meal cost less than a dollar. They told approximately the same stories: they had come to Torremolinos on fifteen-day excursions, had fallen in love with the place, had looked everywhere for jobs, and had finally met Jean-Victor, who allowed them to sleep in his extra bed. He had also found them work in one of the bars he frequented, and since he would accept no money, they bought the food. Ingrid thought she might have to return to Sweden at the end of the next month; she had been away a half-year and a young man with a good job in Stockholm wanted to marry her, but Suzanne said, ‘I’m staying. This place was meant for me. Tell you what, Joe! We’ll treat you to the Arc de Triomphe.’