CHAPTER 8

FROM BILLY ABBOTT’S NOTEBOOK—

SHE IS STILL HERE.

SHE HASN’T MADE A SIGN THAT SHE KNOWS ME. SHE AND HER FROZEN-FOOD MANUFACTURER FROM DUSSELDORF SPEAK, AS FAR AS I CAN TELL, TO NO ONE. I NEVER SEE THEM WITH ANYONE ELSE. HE PLAYS GOLF EVERY DAY. THEY ARE NOT AT ANY OF THE PARTIES TO WHICH I AM INVITED. I HAVE FOUND OUT THAT SHE IS REGISTERED AT THE HOTEL AS “SENORITA” MONIKA HITZMAN, WHICH WAS NOT HER NAME WHEN I KNEW HER BEFORE. WHEN WE PASS EACH OTHER BY ACCIDENT, WHETHER SHE IS ALONE OR WITH HER FRIEND, WE PASS AS STRANGERS, ALTHOUGH I FEEL A GLACIAL CURRENT OF AIR, VERY MUCH LIKE THE CHILL YOU MIGHT FEEL SAILING PAST AN ICEBERG.

OCCASIONALLY, SOMETIMES ALONE, SOMETIMES WITH HER FRIEND, SHE PASSES BY THE TENNIS COURTS. MORE OFTEN THAN NOT SHE STOPS FOR A MOMENT OR TWO TO WATCH THE SPORT, AS DO MANY OTHER OF THE GUESTS.

MY GAME IS DETERIORATING DAILY.

THERE IS ANOTHER COMPLICATION. I AM BEING WOOED, IF THAT IS THE WORD, BY A YOUNG SPANISH GIRL, BY NAME CARMEN (IS THERE NO ESCAPING THAT MELODIC ECHO?) FROM BARCELONA, WHO PLAYS A FIERCE, TIRELESS GAME OF TENNIS, AND WHOSE FATHER, I HAVE LEARNED, WAS IN A HIGH POSITION IN THE FRANCO GOVERNMENT IN BARCELONA. HE IS SOMETIMES WITH HER AND SOMETIMES NOT, AN ERECT, GRAY-HAIRED GENTLEMAN, WITH AN UNFORGIVING FACE.

HIS DAUGHTER IS TWENTY YEARS OLD, WITH DANGEROUS DARK EYES, BLOND HAIR AND A TIGERISH MANNER OF MOVING, OFF THE COURT AND ON, AS THOUGH SHE FEELS IT INCUMBENT UPON HER TO LIVE UP TO THE LIBRETTO OF THE OPERA. SHE EXTENDS ME IN SINGLES. SHE ALSO FINDS OPPORTUNITIES TO OFFER ME A DRINK WHEN WE HAVE FINISHED PLAYING OR AT OTHER MOMENTS, AND ENTRUSTS ME WITH CONFIDENCES THAT I DO NOT WISH TO HEAR. SHE HAS BEEN TO SCHOOL IN ENGLAND AND SPEAKS THE LANGUAGE WELL, ALTHOUGH WITH A STRONG ACCENT. WITH HER I RETREAT INTO MY STUPID ATHLETE ROLE, ALTHOUGH SHE SAYS SHE SEES THROUGH ME, WHICH I’M AFRAID SHE DOES. AMONG THE THINGS SHE HAS TOLD ME IS THAT HER FATHER, ALTHOUGH CATALAN, FOUGHT IN FRANCO’S ARMIES, AND HAS THE OUTLOOK ON LIFE OF THE CAPTAINS OF FERDINAND AND ISABELLA WHO DROVE THE MOORS AND THE JEWS FROM SPAIN. SHE INFURIATES HER FATHER BY SPEAKING CATALAN TO HIM AND SHE LOVES HIM PROFOUNDLY. SHE WILL NOT BE HAPPY, SHE SAYS, UNTIL THE CATALONIAN FLAG FLIES OVER BARCELONA AND THE POETS OF WHAT SHE CALLS HER COUNTRY WRITE IN THAT LANGUAGE. SHE AND MONIKA, WHO ALSO SETS STORE ON THE LINGUISTIC DIVISION OF EUROPE, WOULD HAVE A GREAT DEAL TO SAY TO EACH OTHER, ALTHOUGH I DOUBT THAT CARMEN HAS AS YET THROWN HER FIRST BOMB. SHE DISTRIBUTES PAMPHLETS THAT MAY OR MAY NOT BE AGAINST THE LAW. SHE HAS A MARVELOUS, LITHE BODY AND I DO NOT KNOW HOW LONG I CAN CONTINUE TO RESIST HER, ALTHOUGH I FEAR HER FATHER, WHO WHEN HE LOOKS AT ME, WHICH IS SELDOM, DOES SO WITH THE COLDEST SUSPICION. CARMEN TELLS ME HE LOOKS AT ALL FOREIGNERS, ESPECIALLY AMERICANS, WITH THE SAME SUSPICION, BUT I CANNOT HELP BUT FEEL THAT THERE IS A REPUGNANCE THERE THAT IS NOT PURELY CHAUVINISTIC.

SHE LOOKS LIKE THE KIND OF YOUNG WOMAN YOU SEE STANDING AT THE “BARRERA” IN SPANISH NEWSPAPER PHOTOGRAPHS AS MATADORS DEDICATE BULLS TO THEM. SHE DOES NOT LOOK LIKE THE SORT OF GIRL ONE MEETS IN AMERICA WHO DISTRIBUTES PAMPHLETS.

SHE IS LIKE MONIKA IN AT LEAST ONE RESPECT. SHE WILL NEVER MAKE ANY MAN A GOOD WIFE.

«  »

The next day was a bad one for Billy Abbott. Monika came down to the courts with her friend and signed up for a week of instruction, every day at 11:00 A.M.

Billy gave her her first lesson. She was hopeless. He couldn’t say anything to her, as her friend sat watching during the entire forty-five minutes. She addressed Billy as Mr. Abbott and he addressed her as Señorita Hitzman. As he tossed balls at her, which more often than not she missed, he thought, I must get her aside somehow and ask her just what she is up to; it can’t be coincidence that brought her to El Faro.

In the afternoon he was very nearly beaten by Carmen. She was in a cranky mood and played ferociously.

Later, in the bar of the hotel, where they were alone, he asked her what was the matter.

“Did you read the paper this morning?”

“No.”

“On the front page there was a picture of one of your admirals being decorated by Franco.”

He shrugged. “That’s what admirals are for,” he said. “Actually, I don’t mind his getting a medal. What I mind is his being here, him and his ships and our air force with its planes. I was in the army a long time and I’m skeptical about how useful we would be if it came to the crunch.”

Carmen glared at him. “What would you like to see happen—the Russians overrun Europe?”

“If they had wanted to overrun Europe,” he said, “they’d have done it by now. We’re in Europe in just enough numbers to annoy the Russians and not in enough to do much about them. If it came to a war, the missiles would do the fighting, not the men on the ground. They’d just be sacrificed on the first day. I was a man on the ground and I wasn’t too happy about it.”

“I certainly am glad,” Carmen said sarcastically, “that I have my own private American military expert to explain the facts of life to me.”

“It’s all for show,” Billy said. He didn’t know why he was arguing with her. Probably because the last set had gone to eight-six. Maybe because he was tired of being lectured on politics by attractive young women. “A base here and there just gives the military boys a chance to flex their muscles and squeeze more money out of Congress so that they can ride around in big cars and live five times better here than they ever could at home.” Then, more to tease her than because he meant what he was saying, he said, “If we took every American soldier out of uniform and sent him home to do some useful work it would be better for everyone concerned—including the Spaniards.”

“The weak and lazy always find excuses for their weakness and laziness,” Carmen said. “Thank God, all Americans aren’t like you.” Her politics were complicated. She hated Franco and hated the Communists and now, it seemed, she hated him, as well as the American admiral. “Being here is moral,” she said. “Letting a man like Franco pin a medal on your chest if you’re an American is immoral. It’s one thing to be ready to defend a country in your own interest, after all; it’s another to help prop up the reputation of a disgusting regime. If I were an American I’d write to Congress, to the State Department, to the president, to the newspapers, protesting. There—you want to do something useful—at least write a letter to the Herald Tribune.”

“How long do you think I’d last here if that letter was ever published?”

“Twenty-four hours,” Carmen said. “It would be worth it.”

“A boy has to eat, too.”

“Money,” Carmen said disdainfully. “Everything is a question of money for people like you.”

“May I remind you,” Billy said, “that I don’t have a rich father, like some folks I know.”

“That’s a disgraceful thing to say. At least that’s one thing you can say about Spaniards—they don’t measure out their lives in dollars and cents.”

“I see some pretty rich Spaniards around here,” Billy said, “who spend their time making more and more money. Buying up olive groves down here, for example, and turning them into tourist traps. All those big yachts in the harbor aren’t owned by people who’ve taken the vow of poverty.”

“Scum,” Carmen said. “A fraction of the population. Without soul. Doing whatever Franco and his criminals tell them to do just so they can hold on to their fincas, their yachts, their mistresses, while the rest of the country starves. I hate Communism but when I see what the ordinary man or woman has to do to feed a family here, I can understand why they’re attracted to it. Out of despair.”

“What do you want to see—another civil war?” Billy said. “Another million dead? Blood running in the streets?”

“If it comes to that,” Carmen said, “it will be your friends, the yacht owners, who will bring it about. Of course I don’t want to see it. What I want to see is decent, orderly change. If you can do it in America, why can’t it be done here?”

“I’m not a student of the Spanish character,” Billy said, “but somewhere I’ve heard that your fellow citizens, when aroused, are likely to be bloodthirsty and cruel and violent.”

“Oh, I’m so tired of talk like that,” Carmen cried. “As though Spain was all bullfights and flagellants and people taking revenge for the honor of their families. How is it that nobody says how cruel and violent the Germans are as a race—after what they did to Europe? Or the French, after Napoleon? And I won’t say anything about what the Americans have done in their time, you poor, useless tennis player.” They were sitting at the hotel bar during this conversation and Carmen contemptuously signed the chit for their drinks. “There. You’ve saved the price of four gin and tonics. Aren’t you glad you came to cruel and violent Spain and became the lackey of the rich here?”

“Maybe,” Billy said, stung, “we ought not to see each other anymore. Find somebody else to play tennis with.”

“You will play tennis with me,” Carmen said, “because you are paid to play tennis with me. Same time tomorrow.” She strode out of the bar, leaving him sitting alone in the big, empty room. God, he thought, and I believed she was wooing me! First Monika with her bombs and now this.

The next morning Monika came to the courts alone. Billy had to admit that she looked like a tennis player, small and trim, with good legs, and dressed in a becoming short tennis dress, with a band around her head to keep her neatly set hair in place.

As they walked out onto the court together, Billy said in a low voice, “Monika, what sort of game are you up to?”

“My name is Señorita Hitzman,” she said coldly, “Mr. Abbott.”

“If you want the money I took to Paris—and the other—the other part of the package,” Billy said, “I can get it for you. It would take some time, but I could do it …”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Abbott.”

“Oh, come on, now,” he said, irritated. “Mr. Abbott. You didn’t call me Mr. Abbott when we were fucking all afternoon in Brussels.”

“If you go on like this, Mr. Abbott,” she said, “I’ll have to report you to the management for wasting valuable time in conversation instead of doing what you’re supposed to do—which is to teach me how to play tennis.”

“You’ll never learn to play tennis.”

“In that case,” she said calmly, “that will be another failure for you to remember when you grow old. Now, if you please, I would like to start the lesson.”

He sighed, then went to the other side of the court and started lobbing balls onto her racket. She was no better at returning them than she had been the morning before.

When the lesson was over, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Abbott,” and walked off the court.

That afternoon he beat Carmen six-love, six-three, maliciously mixing his game with lobs and dropshots to make her run until she was red in the face. She too walked off the court with one curt phrase: “You played like a eunuch.” She did not invite him to have a drink with her.

Spain, he thought, as he watched her stride toward the hotel, her blond hair flying, is becoming much less agreeable than it used to be.

«  »

Wesley took the train from London to Bath, enjoying looking out the window at the neat green countryside of rural England. After the tensions and uncertainties of America, it had been soothing to walk around London, where he knew no one and no one expected anything of him. He had been having lunch standing up at the bar of a pub when the voice of the barmaid had reminded him of the way Kate spoke. Suddenly he realized how much he had missed her. He finished his sandwich and went to the railroad station and took the first train to Bath. She would be surprised to see him. Pleasantly surprised, he hoped.

When he got to Bath, he gave the address to a taxi driver and sat back and stared curiously at the neat streets and graceful buildings of the town, thinking, This sure has Indianapolis beat.

The taxi stopped in front of a narrow small house, painted white, one of a whole row of similar small houses. He paid the taxi driver and rang the doorbell. A moment later the door opened and a short woman with gray hair, wearing an apron, said, “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Wesley said. “Is Kate home?”

“Who are you, please?”

“Wesley Jordache, ma’am.”

“Well, Good Lord.” The woman smiled widely. She put out her hand and he shook it. It was a callused workingwoman’s hand. “I’ve heard all about you. Come in, come in, boy. I’m Kate’s mother.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Bailey,” Wesley said.

The door opened directly on the small living room. On the floor a baby crawled around in a playpen, cooing to itself. “That’s your brother, Wesley,” Mrs. Bailey said. “Leastwise, your half brother. Tom’s his name.”

“I know,” Wesley said. He eyed the baby with interest. “He seems like a nice, healthy kid, doesn’t he?”

“He’s a love,” Mrs. Bailey said. “Happy all the day long. Can I fix you a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you. I’d like to see Kate if she’s home.”

“She’s at work,” Mrs. Bailey said. “You can find her there. It’s the King’s Arms Pub. It’s just a few blocks away. Lord, she’ll be glad to see you. Will you be staying for supper?”

“I’ll see how things work out with Kate. Hey, Tommy,” he said, going over to the playpen, “how’re you doing?”

The baby smiled up at him and made a gurgling sound. Wesley leaned over and put his hand out to the baby, one finger outstretched. The baby sat up, then grabbed the finger and stood up, wobbling, as Wesley gently raised his hand. The baby laughed triumphantly. Wesley was surprised at how strong the little hand felt around his finger. “Tommy,” he said, “you’ve got one powerful grip.”

The baby laughed again, then let go and flopped back on his behind. Wesley looked down at him, a peculiar emotion, one he had never felt before, seizing him, tender and at the same time obscurely anxious. The baby was happy now. Maybe he himself had been happy at that age, too. He wondered how long it would last for his brother. With Kate as his mother, maybe forever.

“Now,” he said to Mrs. Bailey, “if you’ll tell me how to find the pub …”

“Left as you go out of the house,” Mrs. Bailey said, “for three blocks and you’ll see it on the corner.” She opened the front door for him. She stood next to him, barely coming up to his shoulder, her face sweet and plain. “I must tell you, Wesley,” she said soberly, “the time my daughter was with your father was the loveliest. She’ll never forget it. And now would it be too much to ask if I said I’d like one big hug?”

Wesley put his arms around her and hugged her and kissed the top of her head. When she stepped back, he saw her eyes were wet, although she was smiling. “You mustn’t be a stranger,” she said.

“I’ll be back,” Wesley said. “Somebody’ll have to teach him how to play baseball instead of cricket and it might as well be me.”

Mrs. Bailey laughed. “You’re a good boy,” she said. “You’re just as Kate said you were.”

She stood at the open door watching him as he turned down the sunny street.

The King’s Arms was a small pub, paneled in dark wood, with small casks for sherry and port high up behind the bar. It was almost three o’clock, closing time, and there was only one old man seated at a small round table dozing over a pint of bitter. Kate was rinsing glasses and a man in an apron was putting bottles of beer onto shelves as Wesley came in.

He stood at the bar, not saying anything, waiting for Kate to look up from her work. When she did, she said, “What would you like, sir?”

Wesley grinned at her.

“Wesley!” she cried. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Dying of thirst.”

“Would you really like a beer?”

“No. I just want to look at you.”

“I’m a mess,” she said.

“No, you’re not.” She looked very much as he had remembered her, not as brown perhaps, and a little fuller in the face and bosom. “You look beautiful.”

She looked at him solemnly. “It’s not true,” she said, “but it’s nice to hear.”

The clock over the bar struck three and she called, “Time, gentlemen, please.” The old man at the table shook himself awake, drained his glass, stood up and went out.

Kate came out from behind the bar and stopped a few feet from Wesley to examine him. “You’ve become a man,” she said.

“Not exactly,” Wesley said.

Then she kissed him and held him for a moment. “I’m so glad to see you again. How did you know where to find me?”

“I went to your house. Your mother told me.”

“Did you see the baby?”

“Yes,” he said. “Stupendous.”

“He’s not stupendous, but he’ll do.” Wesley could see she was pleased. “Let me throw on a coat and we’ll go for a nice long walk and you’ll tell me everything that’s happened to you.”

As they went out the door she called to the man behind the bar, “See you at six, Ally.”

The man grunted.

“This is a pretty town,” Wesley said, as they strolled in the mild sunshine, her hand lightly on his arm. “It looks like a nice place to live.”

“Bath.” She shrugged. “It’s seen better days. The quality used to come here for the season and take the waters and marry off their daughters and gamble. Now it’s mostly tourists. It’s a little like living in a museum. I don’t know where the quality goes these days. Or if there’s any quality left.”

“Do you miss the Mediterranean?”

She dropped her hand from his arm and stared reflectively ahead of her as she walked. “Some things about the Med, yes.…” she said. “Other things not at all. Let’s not talk about it, please. Now, tell me what you’ve been up to.”

By the time he had told her about what he’d been doing in America, they had walked over a good part of the small city. She shook her head sadly when he told her about Indianapolis and became pensive when he told her about the people he had talked to about his father and stared at him with a kind of respectful awe when he described his part in Gretchen’s movie.

“An actor,” she said. “Who would have ever thought? You going to keep it up?”

“Maybe later on,” he said. “I have some things I have to attend to in Europe.”

“What parts of Europe?” She stared at him suspiciously. “Cannes, for instance?”

“If you must know,” he said, “yes. Cannes.”

She nodded. “Bunny was afraid that finally you’d come to that.”

“Finally,” Wesley said.

“I’d like to take revenge on the whole fucking world,” she said. “But I serve drinks in a bar. Revenge has to stop somewhere, Wesley.”

“Revenge has to start somewhere, too,” he said.

“And if you get yourself killed, who’ll revenge you?” Her voice was bitter and harsh.

“Somebody else will have to figure that out.”

“I’m not going to argue with you. You’re too much like your father. I never could argue him out of anything. If nothing will stop you, I wish you well. Do it smart, at least. And supposing you do it and suppose you get away with it, which is a lot of supposing, what’ll you do then?”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too,” Wesley said. “With the money I get from the inheritance and the money I may be able to make in the movies, in a couple of years I might have enough to buy a boat, something like the Clothilde, anyway, and charter.…”

Kate shook her head impatiently. “You can be your father’s son,” she said, “but you can’t be your father. Lead your own life, Wesley.”

“It’ll be my own life,” he said. “I even thought that with the money you’re getting from the estate, maybe you’d like to come in with me as a partner and crew the ship, with me. By the time we can buy a ship, the kid, Tommy …” He stumbled over the name. “He’d be old enough to be safe on board and …”

“Dreams,” she said. “Old dreams.”

They walked in silence for half a block.

“I have to tell you something, Wesley,” she said. “My money’s gone. I don’t have it anymore.”

“Gone?” he said incredulously. “The way you live …”

“I know the way I live,” she said bitterly. “I live like a fool. There’s a man who says he wants to marry me. He’s in business for himself, he owns a small trucking business in Bath. He said he needed what I had to keep from going into bankruptcy.”

“And you gave him the dough?”

She nodded. “I thought I was in love with him. You’ve got to understand something about me. I’m not a woman that can live without a man. I see him just about every afternoon when the pub closes. I was supposed to go to his place this afternoon and he’ll be mortal mad when he comes around this evening and I tell him I spent the afternoon with Tom’s son. He won’t even look at the baby when he comes home to take me out.”

“And you want to marry a man like that?”

“He wasn’t like that until after he lost the money,” she said. “He was plain wonderful until then. With me, the baby, my mother …” She sighed. “You’re young, you think things are black and white.… Well, I’ve got news for you. For a woman my age, my family, working at lousy jobs all my life, not pretty, nothing is easy.” She looked at her watch. “It’s nearly five o’clock. I make a point of having at least an hour with Tommy before I have to go back to work.”

They walked back to her mother’s house in silence. There was a car parked in front of the house, with a man at the wheel. “That’s him,” Kate said. “Waiting and fuming.”

The man got out of the car as Kate and Wesley came up to the house. He was a big, heavy man, red-faced and smelling from drink. “Where the fuck you been?” he said loudly. “I been waiting since three o’clock.”

“I took a little walk with this young gentleman,” Kate said calmly. “Harry, this is Wesley Jordache, he came to visit me. Harry Dawson.”

“Took a little walk, did you?” Dawson ignored the introduction. He slapped her, hard. It happened so suddenly that Wesley had no time to react.

“I’ll teach you to take little walks,” Dawson shouted and raised his hand again.

“Wait a minute, pal,” Wesley said and grabbed the man’s arm and pushed him away from Kate, who was standing, bent over, her two hands up to protect her face.”

“Let go of me, you fucking Yank,” Dawson said, trying to pull his arm free.

“You’ve done all the hitting you’re going to do today, mister.” Wesley pushed Dawson farther back with his shoulder. Dawson wrenched his hand free and punched Wesley high on the forehead. Wesley nearly went down from the force of the blow, then grunted and swung. He hit Dawson square in the mouth and Dawson grappled with him and they both fell, tangled, to the pavement. Wesley took two more punches to the head before he could knee the man in the groin and use his hands on the man’s face. Dawson went limp and Wesley stood up, over him. He kicked Dawson viciously in the head, twice.

Kate, who had been standing, bent over, without making a sound as the men fought, now ran at him and put her arms around him, pulling him away from the man on the ground. “That’s enough now,” she cried. “You don’t want to kill him, do you?”

“That’s just what I want to do,” Wesley said, trembling with rage. But he allowed Kate to lead him away.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, still with her arms around him.

“Nah,” he said, although his head felt as though he had been hit with a brick. “Nothing much. You can let go of me now. I won’t touch your goddamn friend.”

“Wesley,” Kate said, speaking swiftly, “you have to get out of here. Go on right back to London. When he gets up …”

“He won’t do any more harm,” Wesley said. “He learned his lesson.”

“He’ll come back at you,” Kate said. “And not alone. And he’ll bring some of the men from his yard with him. And they won’t come barehanded. Go, please, go right now.…”

“How about you?”

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’ll be all right. Just go.”

“I hate to leave you with that miserable, thieving bastard.” He looked down at Dawson, who was beginning to move, although his eyes were still closed.

“He won’t come near me again,” Kate said. “I’m finished with him.”

“You just saying that to get me out of here?” Wesley said.

“I swear it’s the truth. If he ever tries to come near me again, I’ll have the police on him.” She kissed Wesley on the mouth. “Good-bye, Tommy.”

“Tommy?” Wesley laughed.

Kate laughed, too, putting her hand to her face distractedly. “Too much has happened today. Take care of yourself, Wesley. I’m so sorry you had to get mixed up in this. Now go.”

Wesley looked at Dawson, who was trying to sit up and was fumbling blearily at his bloody lips. Wesley knelt on one knee beside Dawson and grabbed him roughly by his necktie. “Listen, you ape,” he said, his face close to Dawson’s puffed ear, “if I ever hear you touched her again, I’ll be back for you. And what you got today will seem like a picnic compared to what you get. Do you understand?”

Dawson blubbered something unintelligible through his cut lips.

Still holding the man’s tie, Wesley slapped his face, the noise sharp and loud. He heard Kate gasp as he stood up.

“End of chapter,” Wesley said. He kissed Kate on the cheek, then walked down the street without looking back. His head still hurt, but he strode lightly along, feeling better and better, the memory of the fight making him feel wonderfully at peace with the world. He felt wonderful on the train, too, all the way to London.

«  »

Billy was playing with Carmen, this time without malice, when a young man in blue jeans, with streaked blond hair, a backpack on his shoulders, appeared at the court, stood watching the game for a while, then took off the backpack and sat down on the grass outside the court to watch in comfort. Travelers with backpacks were not a usual sight at El Faro and Billy found himself glancing over at the young man with curiosity. The expression on the young man’s face was grave and interested, although he showed no signs of either approval or disapproval when Carmen or Billy made particularly good shots or committed errors.

Carmen, Billy noticed, seemed equally curious and also kept glancing frequently at the spectator sitting on the grass. “Do you know who that boy is?” she asked, as they were changing courts between games.

“Never saw him before,” Billy said, as he used the towel to dry off his forehead.

“He’s an improvement on that Hitzman woman,” Carmen said. Monika had taken to appearing a little after four o’clock, which was the hour at which they started every day, and watching Carmen and Billy play. “There’s something peculiar about that woman, as though she’s not interested in the tennis, but somehow in us. And not in a nice way.”

“I give her a lesson every morning,” Billy said, remembering that his father had also said there was something peculiar about Monika when he had seen her in Brussels. “Maybe she’s decided to become a student of the game.”

They started playing once more and Billy ran out the set, using orthodox, non-eunuch shots.

“Thank you,” Carmen said, as she put on a sweater. “That was more like it.” She didn’t ask him to go up to the hotel with her for a drink and smiled at the young man on the grass as she passed him. He didn’t smile back, Billy noticed. Billy didn’t have any more lessons that afternoon, so he put on his sweater and started off the court. The young man stood up and said, “Mr. Abbott?”

“Yes.” He was surprised that the young man knew his name. He certainly didn’t look as though he could afford tennis lessons at El Faro.

“I’m your cousin,” the young man said, “Wesley Jordache.”

“Well, now,” Billy said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” They shook hands. Billy noted that his cousin’s hand was a workingman’s hand, hard and powerful.

“I’ve heard considerable about you, too,” Wesley said.

“Anything favorable?”

“Not particularly.” Wesley grinned. “You play a pretty hot game of tennis.”

“Rosewall isn’t worried,” Billy said, although he was pleased at the compliment.

“That girl, too,” Wesley said. “She really can run, can’t she?”

“She’s in good shape,” Billy said.

“In more ways than one,” Wesley said. “She sure is beautiful.”

“Skin deep,” Billy said. Carmen’s treatment of him since their argument about the admiral still rankled.

“Deep enough,” Wesley said. “That’s not a bad job you have, if all the people you get paid to play with look like that.”

“They don’t. Where’re you staying?”

“Noplace. I’m on the road,” Wesley said.

“What brings you here?”

“You,” Wesley said soberly.

“Oh.”

“I thought it would be a good idea finally to see what the other male half of this generation of Jordaches was like.”

“What do you think so far?”

“You’ve got a good service and you’re a demon at the net.” They both laughed.

“So far, so good,” Billy said. “Listen, I’m dying for a beer. Will you join me?”

“You’re my man,” Wesley said, shouldering his pack.

As they walked toward the hotel, Billy decided he liked the boy, even though he envied him his size and the obvious strength with which he swung his pack onto his shoulders.

“My—our Uncle Rudolph told me you knew my father,” Wesley said, as they walked in the direction of the hotel.

“I met him only once,” Billy said, “when I was a kid. We slept in the same room for a night in our grandmother’s house.”

“What did you think of him?” Wesley’s tone was carefully noncommittal.

“I liked him. He made everybody else I’d known seem soft. He’d lived the sort of life I thought I would like to have—fighting, going to sea, seeing all kinds of faraway places. Then—” Billy smiled. “He didn’t sleep in pajamas. Everybody else I ever knew always slept in pajamas. I suppose that became some crazy kind of symbol for me of a freer way of life.”

Wesley laughed. “You must have been a weird kid,” he said.

“Not weird enough,” Billy said as they went into the bar and ordered two beers.

Carmen was there, sitting with her father at a table. She looked up curiously at them, but made no sign of welcome or recognition.

“The way it turned out,” Billy said, as they drank their beers, “I never had a fight, I never wandered around, and I always sleep in pajamas.” He shrugged. “One other thing impressed me about your father,” he said. “He carried a gun. Boy, oh, boy, I thought when I saw it, there’s at least one person in the family who has guts. I don’t know what he ever did with it.”

“Nothing,” Wesley said. “It wasn’t within reach when he needed it.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“I’m awfully sorry, Wesley,” Billy said gently, “about what happened, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Wesley said.

“What’re your plans?” Billy asked. “I mean from here on in.”

“I don’t have any real plans just yet,” Wesley said. “See what comes up.”

Billy had the impression that Wesley knew what he wanted to do, but was evading the question. “My mother,” Billy said, “writes she thinks you could have a great future as a movie actor.”

“I’m open to offers,” Wesley said, “but not just yet. I’ll wait and see how the picture turns out.”

“My mother writes that it’s being considered for the festival in Cannes this year.”

“That’s news to me,” Wesley said. “I’m glad for her sake. She’s really something, your mother. If you don’t mind my butting in, I think it’s about time you were nice to her. I know if she was my mother, I’d do everything I could for her. Maybe it would be a good idea, if they really are going to show the picture in Cannes, to visit her there.”

“That’s a thought,” Billy said reflectively. “Would you be going?”

“Yes. I have some other business in Cannes, too.”

“Maybe we could drive up together,” Billy said. “When is it?”

“In May. Toward the end of the month.”

“That’d be about six weeks from now. It’s a good season for traveling.”

“Can you get away from here?”

Billy grinned. “You ever hear of tennis elbow?”

“Yes.”

“I feel a bad case of tennis elbow coming on. A crippling case, which would take at least two weeks of absolute rest to cure. What’d you be doing until then?”

Wesley shrugged. “Don’t know. Hang around here for a while, if it’s all the same to you. Maybe take some tennis lessons from you. Maybe get a few weeks’ work down at the harbor.”

“Do you need dough?”

“I’m not down to the bone yet,” Wesley said, “but a little dough would come in handy.”

“The guy who works at the pool here—cleaning it up, putting out the mats, stuff like that, with a little lifeguarding on the side—quit two days ago. Can you swim?”

“Well enough.”

“Want me to ask if the job’s still open?”

“That might be fun,” Wesley said.

“I have two beds in my room,” Billy said. “You could camp in with me.”

“Don’t you have a girl?”

“Not at the moment,” Billy said. “And nothing, as far as I can tell, on the horizon.”

“I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

“That’s what cousins are for,” Billy said. “To be nuisances to each other.”

The next day, Wesley started working at the pool. At night, under the lights, Billy began teaching him how to play tennis. Wesley was very fast and a natural athlete, and soon he was hitting the ball harder than anybody on the courts. He played with abandon, his face intent, his eyes narrowed, and slugged the ball as though he was disposing of enemies. Although Billy was proud of Wesley’s constant improvement under his tutelage, the sober ferocity with which Wesley played made him uneasy and at times he wanted to say, “Remember, it’s only a game.” He had the disturbing impression that nothing in his young cousin’s life was ever a game.

Billy enjoyed having Wesley around and soon discovered that he was an ideal roommate, keeping everything neat and shipshape, which, after Monika’s messy housekeeping, was refreshing. The manager of the hotel was pleased with Wesley’s work and congratulated Billy for having found him. After Billy had introduced Wesley to Carmen, her attitude changed, too, and she soon was inviting them both to dinner at one of the small restaurants on the port when her father wasn’t with her at the hotel. Wesley’s manner with Carmen was grave and courteous, and Billy found that Carmen, who had until then not been addicted to swimming, was spending the best part of the hot mornings at the pool. After Billy had told her that his mother had directed Wesley in a movie, Carmen even began to show a moderate respect for Billy and his opinions, and when a movie that she wanted to see was playing in town, took them both with her to see it. She was partial to gory films, with sad endings, and liked to come out of the theater with her cheeks streaked with tears.

Best of all, after the second week of her lessons, Monika told him she was discontinuing her daily hours, as she was leaving the next morning. But, she said coldly, as she gave him a generous tip, she would be coming back, although she didn’t tell him when. “We look forward to seeing you again,” she said, although she didn’t tell him who the “we” were.

“Don’t you want to hear what happened on the rue du Gros-Cail-lou?” Billy asked her, as she gathered up her things.

“I know what happened on the rue du Gros-Caillou,” she said. “The wrong man got killed. Among several others.”

“I tried to call you,” he said.

“You didn’t leave a forwarding address,” she said. “Don’t make that mistake again. Do you intend to be a small-time tennis pro in this miserable country all your life?”

“I don’t know what I intend,” he said.

“How did you meet that boy at the pool?”

“He just wandered in one day,” Billy lied. He had told no one that Wesley was his cousin and he didn’t want him to get mixed up with a woman like Monika.

“I don’t believe you,” Monika said calmly.

“I can’t help that.”

“He has a good face,” Monika said. “Strong and passionate. Someday I must have a long talk with him.”

“Keep your hands off him.”

“I don’t take instructions from you,” Monika said. “Remember that.”

“I remember a lot of things about you,” he said. “Some of them delicious. How is your memory these days?”

“Bad,” she said, “very bad. Thank you for being so patient with me on the tennis court, even though it wasn’t much help, was it?”

“No,” he said. “You’re hopeless.”

“I hope you have more success with your other pupils. That blond Spanish bitch, for example. How much does she pay you to be her gigolo? Do you have to have a union card for that profession in Spain?”

“I don’t have to listen to crap like that from anybody,” he said angrily.

“You may have to get used to it, laddy,” she said, “after a few years at the game. Adiós! Johnny.”

He watched her walk away. His hands were shaking as he pocketed the tip Monika had given him and picked up his racket to start the next lesson. With it all, he couldn’t help hoping she would turn around and. come back and give him the number of her room and ask him to come up after midnight.

Wesley was writing a letter at the desk in their room as Billy dressed for a party two weeks later. It was to be a flamenco party with a group of gypsies hired for the occasion, and the guests had been asked to dress in Spanish clothes. Billy had bought a frilled shirt and borrowed some tight black pants, a bolero jacket and high-heeled boots from one of the musicians in the band. Wesley had been invited, too, but had said he’d rather write some letters. Besides, he said, he’d feel like a fool in a get-up like Billy’s.

He had received a letter from Gretchen that morning, in which she had written that Restoration Comedy had been chosen for a showing at the Cannes Festival and asking him to come there and take a bow and share in the kudos. Rudolph was coming over with her and David Donnelly. Frances Miller, as the star of the picture, was going to try to come for at least three days. It promised to be an interesting two weeks. She was pleased, Gretchen wrote, that he had finally met Billy and that they liked each other and she wondered if he could influence Billy to come to Cannes, too.

“Billy,” Wesley said as Billy was struggling into the musician’s boots, “I’m writing to your mother. She would like us both to come to Cannes. What should I tell her?”

“Tell her …” Billy hesitated, one boot on, the other still off, “tell her … Okay, why not?”

“She’ll be pleased,” Wesley said.

“What the hell,” Billy said, getting into the second boot and standing up, “I suppose once every ten years a man can do something to please his mother. How do I look?”

“Ridiculous,” Wesley said.

“That’s what I thought,” Billy said agreeably. “Well, I’m off to the gypsies, tra-la, tra-la.” He did a little stamping step and they both laughed.

“Have a good time,” Wesley said.

“If I’m not back by morning, you’ll know I’ve been kidnapped. You know how those gypsies are. Don’t pay more than thirteen dollars and fifty cents in ransom.”

He went out, whistling the toreador song from Carmen.

The gypsies were fine, the guitar and castanets blood-tingling, the music and singing sorrowful, full of wailing passion, the dancing proud and fierce, the wine plentiful. Again, as he had felt when he first crossed the border into Spain, Billy had the feeling he had come to the right country for him.

Why deny it, he thought, as the music boomed around him and the girls with roses in their hair flounced their skirts and advanced erotically toward their partners only to repel them, with a clatter of thick heels, at the last moment, why deny it, the pleasures of the rich are real pleasures. Carmen sat next to him most of the evening, resplendent in a dark dress that showed off her lovely shoulders and full bosom and he could see her eyes gleaming with excitement. It was a long way from the proms at the college in Whitby and Billy was happy that he had put all that distance behind him.

One of the male dancers came over to Carmen and pulled her up from where she was sitting to join him. She danced joyously and very well; as well, Billy thought, as any of the professional dancers, her long bright hair flying, her face set in traditional proud disdain. Whatever else she felt about Spain, Billy saw, its music struck some deep, responsive, racial core in her. The dance finished and the guests applauded loudly, Billy among them. Instead of sitting down again, Carmen came over to him and pulled him up. To general laughter and handclapping, Billy began to dance with her, mimicking the movements of the male dancers. He was a good dancer and he managed to move almost like the gypsies, while at the same moment slyly making fun of his own performance. Carmen caught on to what he was doing and laughed in the middle of one of her wildest passages. When the dance was over she kissed him, although the sweat was streaming down his face.

“I need some air,” he said. “Let’s go outside for a minute.”

Unobtrusively, they left the room and went out onto the terrace. The sky was turbulent and dark, with black, scattered clouds moving across the face of the moon.

“You were wonderful,” Carmen said.

He took her in his arms and kissed her. “Later,” he whispered, “I want to come to your room.”

She stood still in his arms for a moment, then pushed him away from her. “I will dance with you,” she said coldly, “and play tennis with you and argue with you. But I wouldn’t dream of making love to you in a thousand years.”

“But the way you looked at me …”

“That was part of the fun,” she said, wiping her mouth contemptuously. “All of the fun. No more. If I were going to make love to anyone in this corrupt place it would be with the young man at the pool.”

“I see.” His voice was hoarse with anger and disappointment. “Do you want me to tell him that?”

“Yes,” she said. As baldly as that.

“I’ll do just that,” he said. “As always, at your service, ma’am.”

“My room number is 301. Can you remember that?”

“Till my dying day.”

She laughed. The laugh was not pleasant. “I must go back,” she said. “People noticed we left together. This is a backward country, as you know, and we put great store on appearances. Are you coming in with me?”

“No,” he said. “I have a message to deliver. And then I’m going to sleep.”

“Pleasant dreams,” she said and turned and went back toward the music.

He walked slowly toward his room, the sweat getting suddenly cold on his body in the night wind and making him shiver. Beware the se-ñoritas, his father had written. Good old Dad knew what he was talking about.

Wesley was asleep when he got to the room. He slept restlessly, moving around in sudden jerks, making a tangle of the covers and moaning from time to time, as though at night some ineradicable anguish that he avoided or disguised during the day took hold of him. Billy stood next to the bed, looking down at his new cousin, not knowing whether he pitied him or loved him or hated him.

He nearly started to undress and get into the other bed, leaving Wesley to his sorrowful dreams, but finally he thought, What the hell, it’s all in the family, and shook the boy awake.

Wesley sat up with a start. “What is it?” he asked.

“I just came from the party,” Billy said, “and I have some news for you. If you go to room 301 you will find a lady waiting for you. Her name is Carmen. She asked me to tell you personally.”

Wesley was completely awake now. “You’re kidding,” he said.

“I was never more serious in my life.”

“What in blazes made her say something like that?”

“In your place, I wouldn’t ask any questions,” Billy said. “You’ve told me how beautiful she is. If it were me, I’d grab while the grabbing is good.”

“I don’t love her,” Wesley said. He sounded petulant and unhappy, like a small boy being asked to perform a distasteful chore for the first time, making Billy conscious of the seven-year difference in their ages.

“You’re playing with the grown-ups now,” Billy said. “Love is not always a prime consideration in matters like this. Are you going?”

Wesley swung out of bed and sat on the edge, hunched over. He slept only in pajama bottoms, and the muscles of his torso gleamed in the light of the lamp Billy had turned on when he came into the room. He looks like a beaten fighter, Billy thought, who knows he’s going to be knocked out in the next round.

“I don’t want to sound like a fool,” Wesley said, “but I can’t do it. I’m in love with someone else. A great girl. Back in New York. She’s going to try to come over to Europe to see me in a few weeks. I don’t care what that lady will think of me,” he said defiantly, “I’m waiting for my girl.”

“You may regret this later,” Billy warned him.

“Never. You think she’s beautiful, too, you know her a lot better than I do—why don’t you go?”

“The lady has made it clear,” Billy said, “that she would not be pleased to see me in room 301.”

“Christ,” Wesley said, “who would have thought a lady like that would pick on me?”

“Maybe she likes movie stars.”

“This is nothing to joke about,” Wesley said severely. “I’m no movie star and she knows it.”

“I was just being shitty,” Billy said. “Well, I’ve done my duty. Now I’m going to bed.”

“So am I.” Wesley looked down at the tangled bedclothes. “What a mess,” he said. “Every time I wake up in the morning the bed looks as though I’ve gone twenty rounds during the night.” He straightened the covers a little and lay down under them, his arms raised and his hands under his head. “Someday,” he said, as Billy undressed, “maybe I’ll figure out just what to do about sex and love and other little things like that.”

“Don’t count on it,” Billy said as he put on his pajamas and got into his bed. “Sleep well, Wesley. You’ve had a big night and you need your rest.”

“Yeah,” Wesley said sourly. “Turn off the goddamn light.”

Billy reached over and put out the light. He didn’t try to close his eyes for a long time, but kept staring up at the dark ceiling. After five minutes he heard Wesley’s steady breathing as he slept and an occasional low moan, as his dreams took over once more. Billy lay awake till the light of the dawn filtered into the room. In the distance the throb of the music could still be heard. Spanish hours, he thought, Spanish fucking hours.

«  »

The next day, promptly at four, Carmen appeared at the court looking rested and serene. They were playing doubles that afternoon and the other players were already there and Carmen greeted them and Billy with the same radiant smile. Although the others were men, they were weaker players than Carmen, so she and Billy were on opposing teams. She played better than Billy had ever seen her play before, agile and accurate, poaching at the net and making Billy and his partner work hard for every point. The score was four all when, after a long rally, she lobbed over Billy’s head. He got a glimpse of her ironic smile as he backpedaled at full speed and by leaping into the air, just managed to reach the ball. He hit the overhead viciously, trying to put it at Carmen’s feet, but she had charged the net and the ball whistled toward her head. She stumbled a little, and the smash hit her in the eye and bounced crazily off the court as she dropped her racket and bent over with a cry and put her hands to the eye.

Oh, God, Billy thought, as he jumped over the net to her side, that’s all I needed.

The doctor was grave. The eye was in danger, he said. Carmen had to go to Barcelona immediately to see a specialist. An operation might be necessary.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Billy said as he drove her back from the doctor’s office to the hotel.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Carmen said crisply, although he could see she was in great pain. “It wasn’t your fault. I had no business being at the net. I was trying to psych you into missing the shot. Don’t let anybody make you believe it was your fault.”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. This time she didn’t push him away.

But no matter what she or anybody would say, he knew that it was his fault, that if the night before hadn’t happened, he would never have hit the ball at her so hard and at such a short distance.

The next afternoon, the manager of the hotel called him into his office. “Young man,” he said, “I’m afraid you’re in very deep. The father has just called me. The eye will probably be all right, he said; the specialist doesn’t think he will have to operate, but the father is furious. As for me, I did not pay you to brutalize the guests. The father insists that I dismiss you, and although the daughter called me, too, and said she would never forgive me if I did, I’m afraid I have to bow to the father’s wishes. You’d better pack your bags and leave. The sooner the better for you.” The manager took an envelope out of the drawer of his desk and handed it to Billy. “Here’s your month’s pay. I have deducted nothing.”

“Thank you,” Billy said numbly.

The manager shook his hand. “I’m sorry to see you go. You were well liked here.”

As Billy walked toward the pool to tell Wesley what had happened, he remembered what his father had said about the luck of the Jordaches. It made no difference that his name wasn’t Jordache, but Abbott.

«  »

That same afternoon they were on the road for France, driving in the sunshine in the open Peugeot. Billy had tried to persuade Wesley that it was foolish for him to leave his job, but Wesley had insisted and Billy hadn’t pressed too hard. He had grown fond of the boy and the prospect of driving through the springtime countryside of Spain and France with him was a tempting one. They went at a leisurely pace, sight-seeing and having picnic lunches of sausage and rough bread with a bottle of wine on the side of the road, shaded by olive trees or on the edge of vineyards. They had their tennis gear with them and usually were able to find a court in the towns through which they passed and play a few sets almost every day. “If you keep at it,” Billy said, “you’ll be able to beat me in two years.”

As they traveled north Billy realized that he was glad they had quit El Faro, although he would always feel guilty for the way it had come about. He regretted leaving Spain but he didn’t regret having to wonder every day if Monika would arrive to chill him with her hopeless tennis and oblique threatening hints of future complications.

Wesley spoke more openly about what he had been doing than he had at El Faro and told him of the people in his father’s life he had searched out. He told Billy a little about his visit to Bath, just mentioning Kate and not saying anything about Dawson and the fight, but describing his half-brother lovingly. “Pretty little kid,” he said. “Strong as a young bull. I think he’s going to turn out to look like his father—our father. He’s a real happy little boy.”

“You don’t seem happy,” Billy said. “You’re young and strong and good-looking and from what my mother writes with a big career ahead of you if you want it, but you don’t act like a happy boy.”

“I’m happy enough,” Wesley said evasively.

“Not when you sleep you aren’t. Do you know that you moan practically all night?”

“Dreams. They don’t mean anything.”

“That isn’t what the psychiatrists say.”

“What do you say?” Wesley’s voice was suddenly harsh.

“I’d say that something is bugging you. Something bad. If you want to talk about it, maybe it would help.”

“Maybe I will,” said Wesley. “Some other time. Now let’s drop the subject.”

When they crossed into France, they spent the first night in a small hotel overlooking the sea just across the border in Port Vendres. “I have a great idea,” Billy said. “We’re not due in Cannes for another two weeks—why don’t we tool up to Paris and give ourselves a holiday there?”

Wesley shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’ve got to get to Cannes. I’ve been avoiding it and now it’s time to go.”

“Why?”

Wesley looked at Billy strangely. “I’ve got to see Bunny, he was on the Clothilde with me. Actually he’s in Saint-Tropez. He may have some information for me. Important information. You drive up to Paris. I’ll hitchhike east.”

“What sort of information?” Billy asked.

Again Wesley looked at him strangely. “I’m looking for someone and Bunny may know where I can find him. That’s all.”

“Can’t whoever it is wait a couple of weeks?”

“He’s waited too long.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s the man who’s responsible for the way I sleep. I dream about him every night. I dream that I keep stabbing him with a knife, over and over again, and that he doesn’t fall, he just stands there laughing at me.… When I wake up I can still hear him laughing.”

“Do you recognize him?” Billy asked. “I mean in the dream?”

Wesley nodded slowly. “He’s the man who had my father killed.”

Billy felt a cold tingle at the base of his neck at the tone of Wesley’s voice. “What are you going to do when you find him?”

Wesley took a deep breath. “I finally have to tell someone,” he said, “and it might as well be you. I’m going to kill him.”

“Oh, Christ,” Billy said.

They sat in silence, looking out at the sea.

“How do you plan to do it?” Billy said finally.

“I don’t know,” Wesley shrugged. “I’ll figure it out when the time comes. A knife, maybe.”

“Have you got a gun?”

“No.”

“Is he likely to have one?”

“Probably.”

“You’ll get yourself killed.”

“I’ll try to avoid that,” Wesley said grimly.

“And if you do manage to knock him off,” Billy said, “you’ll be the first one the cops would come looking for, don’t you know that?”

“I suppose I do,” Wesley admitted.

“You’d be lucky to get off with twenty years in jail. Do you want that?”

“No.”

“And still you want to go to Cannes and do it?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, Wesley,” Billy said, “I can’t let you go charging ahead to your doom. You’ve got to let me help you.”

“How?”

“I have a gun with a silencer stashed away in Paris, for openers.”

Wesley nodded gravely. “That would be useful.”

“I could help you plan it. The … the murder.” Billy stumbled over the word. “After all, I was trained as a soldier. I speak French a lot better than you do. I know how to handle guns. I’m going to tell you something that you’ve got to keep absolutely to yourself—while I was in the army I joined a cell of terrorists in Brussels.…”

“You?” Wesley said incredulously.

“Yes, me. I was in on a job in Amsterdam on the Spanish tourist office. I know how to put together a bomb. Sonny, you couldn’t have found a better partner for the job. I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he went on. “While you head for Saint-Tropez, I’ll go up to Paris and get the gun and I’ll meet you in either Saint-Tropez or Cannes, whichever you say. Fair enough?”

Wesley looked at Billy consideringly. “Are you hustling me?”

“Oh, come on now, Wesley,” Billy said, sounding aggrieved. “I wouldn’t do anything like that. What have you got to lose? I’ll be back down south in a few days. With the gun. And enough ammunition so that you can practice using it. Does that sound like a hustle?”

“I guess not,” Wesley said, but he sounded reluctant to say it. “Okay. You let me know where you’re staying in Paris and I’ll call you and tell you where you can find me.”

“I think we can use a drink,” Billy said.

“I think so, too,” said Wesley.

The next day they drove together to Nimes, where Billy would turn north toward Paris. Billy sat at the wheel in silence under the shade of a poplar while Wesley got his backpack out of the car and slung it over his shoulder. They had agreed that Billy would send him a telegram at Poste Restante in Saint-Tropez to let Wesley know in what hotel he was staying in Paris.

“Well,” Wesley said, “take care of yourself.”

“You, too,” Billy said. “You’re not going to do anything foolish while I’m gone, are you?”

“No. I promise.” They shook hands. “I’m going to miss the tennis.” Billy grinned.

“You’ll remember,” Billy said, “that they play very little tennis in French jails.”

“I’ll remember,” Wesley said and stepped back.

Billy started the motor and waved as the car, built for holidays and sunshine, spurted onto the road from beneath the shadow of the poplar tree. In the rearview mirror he saw the tall, lean figure start trudging in the direction of Cannes.

«  »

When he got to Paris, the first thing Billy did after checking into a hotel on the Left Bank was put in a call to America. When Rudolph came to the phone, Billy said, “Uncle Rudolph, this is Billy Abbott. I’m in Paris at the Hôtel Alembert. I need help. Bad. Something awful is going to happen to Wesley—and maybe to me, too, unless …” He stopped.

“Unless what, Billy?” Rudolph said.

“Unless we can stop certain things from happening,” Billy said. “I can’t tell you over the phone.”

“I’ll be in Paris tomorrow,” Rudolph said.

“God,” Billy said, “those’re sweet words.”

He lay back on the bed wearily and a minute later he was asleep.