It pleased Manuela that van Biljon proved over dinner to be a charming host, for it confirmed the judgment she had made when they’d met at the airport. He was a good though restrained conversationalist, always producing openings for his guests, ever solicitous of their needs. He listened with interest to Manuela’s description of life in Puerto Rico, and to Black on the subject of contemporary art, to whom he explained courteously why he preferred the older school of painters. To Manuela his wide knowledge of the subject was impressive, yet he never sought to imply that it was in any way superior to theirs.
The French dishes, elegantly served and delicious, had been cooked by Techa, van Biljon told them. Manuela barely tasted the wines but she gathered Black was impressed. It was after he had remarked upon the excellence of the white Montrachet that van Biljon said, ‘The things that have given me most pleasure have come from France. Her wines, her cooking, above all her art.’ That led him on to the general statement that he had devoted much of his life to collecting the French Impressionists and post-Impressionists.
But Manuela noticed that he made no further reference to his pictures other than to say that they would see them after dinner when they could judge for themselves.
‘Are you pleased with your latest acquisition?’ she asked.
He hesitated for a moment. ‘Ah. You mean the picture I collected on Thursday. When we met in the harbour. Yes. I am delighted with it.’
‘What is it, Mr. van Biljon?’ said Black.
The old man held up a hand. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘You shall see.’ He turned to Manuela, changing the subject. ‘Have you seen my motor-cruiser, the Nordwind?’
‘Oh, yes. A fabulous boat.’ She leant forward, clasping her hands together. ‘Once I watched her go to sea on a rough day. It was beautiful. She cut through the waves. Such clouds of spray.’
‘She is a fine boat,’ said van Biljon. ‘Built in England.’
‘But you give her a Dutch name.’
‘Yes. I am Dutch.’
She smiled apologetically. ‘Of course.’
‘There is another fine boat in the harbour. A recent arrival.’ Van Biljon looked down at his side plate as he broke a roll with his fingers. ‘The Snowgoose. A staysail schooner from the Piraeus. She has magnificent lines. I am too old for sail, but I must concede that it has something, a je ne sais quoi, that power-driven craft lack.’
They agreed with him and he went on: ‘The Snowgoose has a most interesting mission, I am told. Two young men have chartered her for six months. They are cruising round the Mediterranean gathering material for a yachtsman’s guide to the islands.’
‘Yes,’ said Manuela. ‘I have met them. Helmut and Francois.’
‘Really,’ said van Biljon. He turned to Black. ‘You know them?’ he asked casually.
‘Not really. I’ve bumped into them once or twice in bars. Haven’t really sorted them out. I gather Manuela likes them.’
‘Perhaps they are more attractive to young ladies.’
To Manuela it seemed that the Dutchman’s voice reflected an amusement which contradicted the impassivity of the scarred face.
‘And the Snowgoose?’ Again van Biljon addressed Black. ‘What do you think of her?’
‘Looks all right. I’m no judge really.’
The old man worked the pepper-grinder vigorously over the cheese soufflé. ‘I hear she has unusually powerful auxiliary engines.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Black. ‘Never been on board.’
Van Biljon turned to Manuela. ‘Do you approve of the soufflé, señorita?’
‘It’s fabulous,’ she said. ‘Delicious. Your housekeeper’s a super cook.’
‘She’s a remarkable woman,’ said van Biljon.
It seemed to Manuela that Black was unusually hesitant in replying to remarks addressed to him, and she had the feeling that his mind was not on what he was saying so much as on what he was thinking.
For the rest of the meal their host had to do most of the talking, telling them of life in South America and of the manner in which his family had left the Transvaal and settled in the Argentine as refugees after the Boer War.
‘To my parents it must have seemed a disaster of the first magnitude. To me it really meant nothing. I was born and brought up in South America.’ He looked up at them quickly. ‘You know it is my belief that all that happens in our lives is in the end for the best. It was in the Argentine that I made my fortune, and it was that which enabled me to collect my pictures and they …’ he paused, to finish the sentence in a low voice … ‘are my life.’
After dinner he took them to the drawing-room where Juan stood by a table with coffee and liqueurs.
While these were being handed round, van Biljon said, ‘Normally I have coffee and liqueurs in the gallery. But to-night Techa insisted they be served here.’ He chuckled. ‘She is a great believer in the conventions. It is very much to her sorrow that I do not entertain. When I told her I was going to have a dinner party to-night, she looked at me as if I had gone out of my mind. But she was happy. Ah, yes, I could see that.’
When Juan had gone, van Biljon brought up the subject of Ibiza and its growing flood of tourists. While he spoke his eyes travelled round the room as if he were searching for something. Presently, he said, ‘Please excuse me. I must have left the cigars in my study. I shall not be a moment.’
When the old man had gone, Black went over to Manuela. She looked up inquiringly and he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘You’re worried about something, aren’t you?’
‘And you?’ she challenged. ‘Why are you so silent? You should be excited. You are to see the pictures.’
‘I know I am. Feel all dithery. But what’s on your mind?’
She shook her head.
‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘Tell me.’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said and then, as they heard the sound of footsteps on the landing, she whispered, ‘I’m afraid.’
Black went back to the other side of the room as their host came down the stairs.
‘Please follow me,’ said van Biljon, gesturing with the hand that held a cigar. He was standing before them, tall and elegant, the black velvet smoking-jacket emphasising the white hair which lent a curious distinction to the scarred face.
They followed him into the hall, through french windows and up stone steps to the patio where the long pool reflected the lights of the house and the bright scatter of stars. The tall figure moved ahead, skirting the pool, leading them along the white walls of the west wing on which the patio lights, shining through vine-covered pergolas, cast intricate shadows. The heady perfume of wistaria reminded Manuela of her childhood in Puerto Rico.
The line of windows on their left rose suddenly from eye level to high in the wall above them, and van Biljon stopped before a doorway. He unlocked the wrought-iron gate and swung it open. Beyond was a wooden door, massive and iron bound, and this, too, he unlocked. Touching a light switch, he went into the gallery, beckoning them to follow.
He shut the inner door, and led them across to the furnished recess at that end of the gallery which adjoined the house. Manuela saw many pictures on the walls and screens but since the lights which were on served only the entrance and recess, the greater part of the gallery was dimly lit.
She had a quick impression of leather armchairs and settees, of Persian carpets, walnut bookcases and cabinets, of glossy art journals, a mahogany desk, and a long, low hi-fi with a matching cabinet next to it. ‘How lovely,’ she said. ‘You have done this attractively.’
Van Biljon stood facing them, his eyes invisible behind the dark glasses, but when with quiet modesty he said, ‘I am glad you like it. I spend the happiest hours of my life here,’ she knew he was pleased with her remark.
He lifted the lid of the cabinet. ‘In a moment I shall show you my pictures, but first,’ he paused, the cigar clenched between his teeth as he ran his fingers down the index sheet, ‘but first music. Good music and good pictures. They go together. And now,’ he went on. ‘I look for something which is both Spain and France. Ah! Here it is.’
He straightened up and drew the record from its sleeve, slowly, almost reverently, while they wondered what he had chosen. He put it on the turntable and set the pick-up arm. With his back to them, he said, ‘Ravel. You will know it.’
As the opening chords of Rhapsodie Espagnole broke the silence in the great room, van Biljon went over to the screens, reached for a switch and the pictures in the gallery came to life with dramatic suddenness. He beckoned to them. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Come and see.’
Wall by wall, screen by screen, he showed them the pictures, keeping to the order in which he always viewed them. At each picture he would explain the period in which it had been painted, the history and character of the artist, his changing techniques and the influences to which he had been subject at the time. Van Biljon’s excitement, his emotional involvement, communicated themselves to Manuela, and she felt a curious disquiet, a disturbing surfeit of emotion. It seemed to her that Black, too, might be experiencing the same thing, for she was aware of symptoms of stress: his constant throat clearing, the hands behind his back clenching and unclenching, the skin on his knuckles white where pressure forced the blood away. But he said little and she presumed he was dazzled by the scale and importance of what he was seeing.
Not once, she noticed, did the old man boast in any way about the collection; never did he say what he had paid for a picture, or what it might be worth, and Manuela found this modesty attractive, for she realised the collection was beyond any price she could imagine.
At the recess end of the third screen, van Biljon stopped before the picture of a water-mill at Argenton-sur-Creuse. ‘That Cézanne is the picture I most prize,’ he said. ‘And of the French Impressionists, he is the painter I most admire.’
Manuela was puzzling at his subdued hesitant tone, when things happened of which afterwards she had only a confused recollection: at one moment Black was standing in front of her, chin in hand, silent, considering the picture—the next, she heard the door of the gallery open, then shut, as she turned to see Pedro and Juan come in: at first she thought they were holding out their hands in some sort of greeting, but then she realised that the hands held automatic pistols, aimed at her, and she let out a stifled scream. At much the same time she saw Black lunge towards the end of the screen, and the lights in the gallery went out as he fell to the floor. But the lights in the nearby recess remained on and she saw Pedro jump forward and stand over Black, and van Biljon was shouting, ‘Hands up! Do not resist.’