Giorgio and Singleton got back at 3.30 for a late lunch of grilled red gurnet and butter sauce in the Portuguese manner. I didn’t want to play the heavy father, but I suggested that H.K. was coming too close to the family circle.
‘You don’t suspect him of being a Salazar police spy, do you, sir?’ asked Singleton.
‘I suspect even you, Mr Singleton,’ I said. There were no grins behind the gurnet. They knew I wasn’t kidding.
We continued to eat in silence. Then, as Charly collected up the dishes, she said, ‘H.K. has bought or borrowed a forty-foot cabin cruiser.’
‘No kidding,’ I said. Charly had taken the used plates into the kitchen. She called to us, ‘It’s coming into the bay now.’ We went out on to the balcony to watch. Down below, beating a wake on the gleaming water, the big red-and-white launch cast a long shadow in the afternoon sunlight. From the high wheelhouse a cap, blue, soft, and nautical, peeked over the wrap-around windscreen. H.K.’s bronze face broke into a grin and his lips moved. Charly put her flattened hand behind her ear and H.K. shouted again, but the wind from the sea grabbed the words out of his mouth and tossed them over his shoulder. He disappeared into the inner confines of the launch, which kept just enough power to hold its position without turning beam-to to the swell.
He reappeared with an electronic hailer.
‘C’mon, landlubbers,’ the metallic voice struck across the water. ‘Get off your butts and get out here, kids.’
‘He really is the most vulgar man,’ said Charly.
‘He is insufferable,’ said Singleton.
‘I only said he was vulgar,’ said Charly. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it.’
Giorgio blew on the lighted end of his cheroot. We all went down to the dinghy; the starter cartridge spat, and the outboard roared as we shot out towards the cabin cruiser.
‘Are you sure we can feel quite safe with you, Mr Kondit?’ asked Charly.
‘Holy cow, how many times do I have to tell you to …’
‘Harry.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you, Charly. These guys are safe. You – you aren’t so safe,’ and he pushed his yachting cap back and boomed his big laugh.
Inside the main cabin it was all mahogany veneer, bright curtains and soft music. Nautical procedures had gone overboard. Along the wall was a stainless sink and a refrigerator. In the corner was a seventeen-inch TV set. We sank into the armchairs while H.K. blended vodka and vermouth with ritualistic devotion.
‘What’s that all about, Harry?’ Charly was looking at the mural of signal flags which decorated the cabin wall.
‘It’s kind of talk with flag, see, you haul them …’
‘Yes, Harry, I understand the function of signal flags; what, I mean to ask, do they mean?’
‘Sure, hon. They are international foreign code flags K.U.Z.I.G. and Y., nautical meaning …’ H.K. leaned over close to Charly, ‘“Permission granted to lay alongside.”’
Charly giggled. ‘Oh, that’s very nautical, Harry. I must commit it to memory.’
I noticed Singleton’s lip curl, but whether at H.K.’s suggestiveness or seamanship I couldn’t tell.
‘Step up to the bridge,’ said H.K. The record finished. The stereo player rumbled into a countdown for the next disc. Against the hull the water giggled and gurgled like a fool. I heard Singletpn say, ‘So this is the driver’s seat?’ H.K. replied, ‘Yep.’ I wondered how many of the jibes really bounced off H.K. and how many went deep under the skin like a chigger. Miles Davis began to pump the cabin full of sound.
From the forecastle overhead I heard Charly shouting, ‘I’m falling, I’m falling,’ in a not-very-convincing way, and the sound of Giorgio saving her in an embrace that suited them both. Just behind me on the bridge Singleton was admiring the R.D.F. and the electronic depth-gauge.
‘Yes, sir,’ H.K. said, ‘a powered anchor; right here.’ He pushed one of a series of brightly coloured buttons. There was a faint purr and I felt the big cruiser float free on the outgoing tide. ‘Self-starter, a little choke.’ The big motor suddenly battered the quiet bay. H.K. moved the gear lever, and the screw engaged the water. We slid forward.
H.K. held the steering wheel in firm proprietorial grip, bit on a large cigar and beamed at us all from his high stool. ‘You British have had the monopoly of messing about in boats long enough; here, somebody else steer,’ he said, and poured us all another round of cocktails from the big jug that featured a design of pirates dancing a hornpipe with the words ‘splice the mainbrace me hearties’ around the top. We made a scene as domestic as a beer ad.