The yellow Land-Rover came in along the Figuretes road, turned left at the end and made for the harbour, keeping north of the paseo.
‘Not so fast, Juan.’ The tall man looked straight ahead, his lips barely moving, his thin body rigid.
The driver mumbled, ‘Si, señor‚’ and slowed down. He was wearing the striped vest and bell-bottoms of a sailor.
When the Land-Rover reached the harbour it swung round opposite the customs shed and made up the quay, stopping close to where the Snowgoose was berthed. Astern of her lay the inter-island schooners, rust-streaked white hulls contrasting with red upperworks, yellow bowsprits and green sails. Farther up the quay, the fishing boats had hoisted nets to their mastheads to dry.
There was an odour of fish, of tar and paint and fuel oil in the air; and the noise of winches, of shouting stevedores, of chipping hammers, of throbbing diesels, and the cry of seabirds.
The Land-Rover stopped and the men in her looked over the water to the motor-cruiser coming across from the yacht moorings in front of the Nautico clubhouse. Van Biljon tapped his watch. ‘Pedro is five minutes late.’
Juan nodded. ‘Si, señor. I expect he had trouble starting the engines.’
‘He should have been alongside when we arrived. The children will be here soon.’
‘Si, señor. Do not worry.’
The motor-cruiser turned in towards the quay and the note of her engines fell. Van Biljon sat motionless, watching the manœuvre, giving no sign to the man next to him of his elation, of the sensual pleasure he derived from the Nordwind’s fine lines, the gleam of her enamelled hull as it reflected the light from the water, and the sparkle of sunlight from the windows of the deck-house. Built by Vospers, she had cost him thirty-five thousand pounds, but she had been worth every pound of it for she gave him many things: the thrill of high speed over water, the satisfaction—to him almost a sublimation—of catching fish (Juan and Pedro had been fishermen before they came to him, and they knew the fishing banks as they knew the streets and alleys of the barrio sa Peña); the means to give pleasure to children; to get away from the island at any time he chose and to have privacy outside Altomonte. Above all, the boat satisfied his insatiable desire to possess fine things.
Juan got out of the Land-Rover. The motor cruiser was almost alongside now, fenders over the side, her bows coming up so fast on the stern of the Snowgoose that collision seemed inevitable. Then a deep throb reverberated over the water as her engines were reversed, water cascaded from her stern and she lay parallel to the quay, a few feet from it. Juan took a bow-line from Pedro and slipped it over a bollard, then a stern-line, and the boat was warped alongside. The two men called to each other, laughing at something in a ribald way. Juan went back to the Land-Rover. He opened a door and van Biljon passed him his duffel coat, binoculars and camera. Stiffly, awkwardly, the old man got out of the car and, helped by his servants, climbed aboard the motor-cruiser. He went at once to the after cabin, where the curtains were drawn.
The two sailors stayed on the quay, enjoying the warm sunshine. They talked about the Snowgoose, admiring with the professional eyes of seamen her fine lines and high masts and rigging. In the bows of the schooner Dimitri was sewing canvas. Kamros sat on a box beside him, legs crossed, smoking a pipe.
‘She must have big engines,’ said Juan. ‘See the size of the exhaust outlets.’
Pedro grunted. ‘She is the boat of rich people. They always have the best.’
‘Nordwind is a fine boat,’ said Juan. ‘But I wish she also had sails. Such are more of the sea.’
‘Nordwind has mighty engines. Great speed. Radar. A boat cannot have everything.’
From behind them came the sound of children singing. A bus drew up and the singers swarmed out. The driver, a gnarled bent man, called to Pedro and Juan. They went over and he handed down baskets of food. Having undertaken to be back on the quay at five, he drove off.
A teenage boy and girl were in charge of the children from whom came a happy clamour. The teenagers marshalled them into some sort of order and Juan addressed them, outlining the plans for the day and the disciplines which had to be observed: no climbing on to bulwarks or guard-rails, and no visits to engine-room or wheelhouse unless by invitation. When he’d finished, the teenagers led their charges across to the Nordwind and helped them aboard. Soon the motor-cruiser was overrun with children and their shouts and laughter drowned most other sounds.
Juan and Pedro carried the lunch baskets on board. After reporting to van Biljon, Juan went to the wheelhouse. Pedro cast off the bow and stern ropes, and bore off the bows with a boat-hook. Slowly Nordwind drifted clear of the quay, the note of her engines rose and a bow-wave formed as she gathered speed and made for the sea. Only when they had passed Botofoc lighthouse and altered course to the southeast, did van Biljon come out of the owner’s suite and join the children.
Many of them knew him, some well enough to run to him and hold their arms round his legs, reaching as high as they could, and since he could not smile he would touch their heads with the only gesture of affection left to him. He spoke to them in Spanish, asking what they had been doing at home and school and how their parents were. If they were new to him he would ask their names and question them about their families, and they would look at him with wide eyes, uncertain as yet of this old man with the scarred face whose eyes they could not see behind the dark glasses. But there was something in his voice which reassured them and soon they would forget their shyness and call him tio‚ uncle, and run off shouting to their friends.
It was a fine day, the sea calm under an almost cloudless sky. For these trips the weather was chosen with care, and the disciplines explained by Juan were strictly enforced.
When van Biljon reached the wheelhouse he ordered speed to be increased to twenty knots. Juan advanced the throttle and the Nordwind’s stern settled more deeply in the water, the hull vibrations increased and the deep note of the diesels rose.
They overtook the small ferry making for Formentera, and Punta Tramontana lighthouse on Espardell island grew taller as they approached, and soon fell astern. Fifteen minutes later they passed down the eastern side of Formentera, keeping a few miles off shore. Punta la Creu came out to meet them, and they passed El Pilar and followed round the heel of the island. When the high lighthouse at Mola was abeam, they altered course to the south.
It was midday when they closed Abago, a small uninhabited island to the south of Formentera, and there were shouts of recognition from the children who had done the journey before.
Speed was reduced and they rounded the island and nosed into a bay on its south-western side. The anchor was dropped about fifty yards offshore, and the Nordwind swung head-on to a light breeze from the sea. The motor dinghy was lowered and after several journeys, Juan and Pedro had ferried van Biljon and the children ashore.
On the warm sand strewn with sea-weed, the children made stacks of shoes and socks and discarded items of clothing before splitting up into groups. Some went digging in the sand, others explored the rocky pools, and some played tag or rounders. The two teenagers were everywhere at once, enjoying their authority, encouraging, suggesting, cajoling and scolding. Van Biljon took no part in this but moved among them, saying little, a gaunt figure walking with a stick, the masklike face giving no indication of its owner’s emotions.
Juan and Pedro unpacked the baskets and prepared the lunch: water boiled in pots hung from iron tripods over a driftwood fire, and sausages spluttered and sizzled in big saucepans.
When all was ready Juan reported to van Biljon, then sounded a blast on a whistle. The games petered out and from the rocks and beaches the children came running. Lunch was soon in full swing, with much laughter and chatter and, occasionally, tears. Van Biljon sat on a rock outside the main group, a small boy and girl keeping him company. While they ate from heaped plates he spoke to them, but had no food himself. Juan and Pedro, busy handing out the meal, making coffee, tending the fire, exchanged odd snatches of conversation.
‘He is a strange one,’ said Juan. ‘So stern with men and women. So gentle with children.’
‘It is a madness,’ grumbled Pedro. ‘To spend all this money, to make all this work, for these ungrateful little wretches.’
Juan shook his head. ‘You have no children of your own. You do not understand.’
The other man chuckled. ‘None that know me.’
‘These children are poor. Imagine the joy this gives them.’
‘I imagine only the work it gives me, Juan.’ With a hairy forearm he wiped the sweat from his forehead.
When the last of lunch had been eaten, van Biljon told the children that he would take them inland to explore. There were excited shouts and they gathered about him in groups, asking questions. When they had put on their socks and shoes, he took up his stick and started stiffly up the sandy incline, plodding through the carpet of succulents and grass which bordered the beach. The children followed, crowding behind him at first, but dropping back until a long line had formed, the teenagers at its end rounding up stragglers, the older children close on the old man’s heels.
He would stop at times to point to a shrub or wild flower, telling them its name in Castilian Spanish and then its often different Ibizencan name. He would pick up a stone or touch a rock with his stick, tell them its geological significance and point to the ravages of wind and weather. Switching to the history of Ibiza and the other islands in the group, he would explain that the Greeks had given them the name Pityusas because of the pines which covered them. He recalled the original names of the islands: Augusta, Ibosim, Ebysos, Insula and many others, how their history was made, the comings and goings of sailors and merchants and warriors, the Chaldeans, Phoenicians, Egyptians, Carthaginians, Romans, Vandals, Byzantines, Moors, Turks, and in the end the Spaniards.
Somehow this elderly childless man, stern and remote, was transformed by the children. He seemed so well to understand them, what interested them, and how to communicate it.
The island was small and soon they reached the beach on its far side. There the children paddled and played on the sand while Arturo, the teenage boy, was sent off by van Biljon to lay a paper trail back to the beach where they had landed. While he was away the children gathered round the old man who explained a paper chase. Some had played it before, but to many of the smaller ones the game was new. Presently he sent them off in groups, the youngest first, and soon the chase was on, the children spread out in a long sinuous line, their cries carrying back in the wind. Van Biljon came up behind, two small children with him.
At first they walked in silence, then the little girl said, ‘Why is it called a chase?’
‘Because Arturo is trying to escape and the others are chasing him,’ said van Biljon.
‘Then why does he leave little bits of paper to guide them?’
‘Those who are chased always leave things to guide their pursuers,’ said the old man. ‘Like the fox who leaves his scent.’
The little boy said, ‘Is the fox frightened?’
‘Very,’ said the old man.
‘Why?’
‘He knows if the hounds catch him they will kill him.’
‘Will Arturo be killed?’ said the little girl.
Van Biljon looked at the dark upturned eyes and patted her head. ‘No. It is just a game. They will not harm Arturo.’
‘Why do they kill the fox?’
‘Because they think he has done wrong. Stolen their fowls and ducks perhaps, and sometimes lambs.’
‘Why does he?’
‘For food. He has to live.’
They walked on in silence, the old man’s stiff gait somehow matching in pace the runs and jumps of the children. The little girl said, ‘I don’t think it is a nice game, tio. It is cruel.’
‘The chase is part of life,’ said the old man. ‘Life is cruel. We are all pursued at times. In many different ways, by many different things. Sometimes it is only in our minds, but we are afraid, and like the fox we suffer.’
A big boy appeared suddenly over a sand dune, running back to them, breathless and excited. ‘They caught Arturo,’ he cried. ‘They caught him. I saw it happen.’ He pointed to the top of the sand dune.
‘Poor Arturo.’ The old man said it heavily, and the children tightened their mouths and were sad.
The Nordwind got back to Ibiza in the late afternoon and made slowly up the harbour, crowded with children who were tired but determined to miss nothing. Van Biljon was in the wheelhouse talking to Juan.
‘When did she arrive?’ He was examining the Snowgoose through binoculars.
‘Three days ago, señor,’ said Juan.
‘To whom does she belong?’
Juan turned the wheel to port and closed both throttles. ‘Two young men. One French, the other German. They are writing a book about the Mediterranean islands.’
‘She is a fine schooner,’ said van Biljon. ‘They must have much money.’
Juan grunted, put his head out of the bridge window and shouted to Pedro who was talking to the children. Pedro left them and began putting fenders over the side. The Nordwind’s bows came round to port. Juan put the port engine half-astern and the starboard engine slow-ahead. The motor-cruiser trembled and the air vibrated with the noise of the exhausts. As the boat closed the quay astern of the Snowgoose, van Biljon looked through a wheelhouse window at the knot of people on the quay.
He muttered an oath. ‘I’m going down to my suite, Juan. When the children have gone tell me.’
Juan replied, ‘Si, señor,’ but his mind was on getting the boat alongside. The old man need not have told him. He always went to the cabin on arrival. So that he should not suffer the inquisitive stares of people who like to catch a glimpse of this rich but curious philanthropist.
Among those on the quay who had been watching the return of the Nordwind were Black and Kyriakou. They had not met by chance. Black had been sitting outside the Bar Pechet when he saw the Nordwind moving across the harbour towards her berth, and he had gone across to have a closer look. On nearing the quay he had seen Kyriakou, and while his first instinct had been to turn away it had occurred to him that it might be wise to make a friendly gesture to the Greek.
That morning Black had found a letter from Werner Zolde at the post office. It had been brief and to the point. Your man went last night to Palma for three days. We will contact him on his return. Do not worry. Black had experienced enormous relief on reading the letter, and now while they stood talking, watching the motor-cruiser manœuvre alongside, he felt relaxed, well-disposed even to the Greek.
The children came ashore and climbed into the waiting bus. The empty lunch baskets were handed up to the driver and the bus moved off. After they had gone, Juan went across to where the yellow Land-Rover was parked and drove it up the quay alongside Nordwind. He got out and went back on board. Presently van Biljon came on deck and walked up the small gangplank. With Pedro following, the old man went towards the Land-Rover. As he approached he nodded briefly to Kyriakou.
Charles Black smiled. ‘You had a lovely day for your outing, sir,’ but van Biljon, looking straight ahead, gave no indication that he had heard.
‘Not madly friendly, is he?’ Black laughed drily.
Kyriakou adjusted the red silk handkerchief in the pocket of his striped coat. ‘You think you make friends and see the pictures, hey?’
‘The thought crossed my mind.’
‘Aha, my friend. Not so easy?’ The Greek seemed to relish the Englishman’s frustration.
‘He knows you?’
Kyriakou examined the end of his cigar. ‘Everybody knows Kirry.’ His complacent smile was boyish.
When Pedro had taken the Nordwind back to its moorings and the Greek had gone, Black walked up the quay past the white schooner and made his way to the Bar Pechet.
In a room above a shop, across the road, the thin man with dark glasses and a christ-beard put down the binoculars he’d been using to watch the arrival of the Nordwind and to check who’d been on the quay to meet her.
It was the hour after dinner at Altomonte. Van Biljon was in his gallery standing before a Renoir—a girl with a lace hat and a green parasol.
As always it evoked memories of a January night, frost on the ground, the smell of snow in the air, the sound of an engine across the lake, its note rising and then, when it seemed upon him, ceasing altogether; the lick and slap of disturbed water and from the darkness the low cry, ‘Joachim, Joachim,’ followed by his answering call, ‘Therèse, Therèse.’
An owl had hooted and quite soon he’d heard the crunch of the boat on the shingles and dark shapes had come splashing through the shallows. First the little girls, then their mother, and finally Kauffman himself, pouring out thanks in a voice broken with emotion. They had gone to the van and it was there that Kauffman had shown him the Renoir. He could still feel the exultation of that moment.
He had disliked the Kauffmans. The man oozed obsequiousness and she kept whining her gratitude. And why did they have to bring the children? Was it to crucify him?