Дональд Уэстлейк - Castle in the Air

After the first embrace, Lida and Manuel held one another at arm’s length, gazing at one another, drinking one another in. Speaking in Spanish, so that Manuel could understand her, Lida said, “Oh, Manuel! I had given you up for dead.”

“Even death could not keep me from my swan, my Lida,” said Manuel, who in his own language was some shucks.

“Manuel,” Lida asked, “how did you escape the terrors of El Presidente?”

“The jungle befriended me,” he explained simply. “I had many adventures, and have at last found my way to Paris, and to you, my beloved.”

“My heart!”

“My life!”

“My all!”

“My own!”

Again they flung their arms around one another, but before they could continue with whatever had been their intentions a discreet tapping sounded at the door.

Instantly, Manuel was suspicious. Pushing Lida from himself, glaring at the door like a bantam rooster, he said, “Who is that? What man is that?”

Frightened, innocent, Lida told the truth: “I don’t know.”

But an instant later she did know, because it was clearly the voice of Eustace that sounded through the door, calling in that hoarse voice peculiar to people who are trying to shout without speaking loudly, “Lida? Are you decent?”

Manuel bristled. “A male!” he said.

Trying to calm him, Lida whispered, “It’s my benefactor, Eustace Dench. I told you about him.”

“Lida?” Eustace’s hoarse voice sounded again. “Are you awake, dear?”

Switching to English, Lida called, “Just one moment, please.” Then, reverting to Spanish, she told Manuel, “I have told him you are my cousin.”

“Cousin?” Twice as suspicious as before, Manuel glowered upon his true love. “What hanky-panky is this?”

“I wasn’t sure he would help me,” she explained, “if he knew I was betrothed. Besides, I thought you dead.” Then, hastily, she added, “Though I never gave up hope, of course.”

With another tapping at the door, Eustace called again: “Hurry, Lida. Hurry.”

“Be good now,” Lida warned Manuel, worriedly. “And you’re my cousin. We need the assistance of these people.”

Manuel growled, but his face showed he would go along.

Tremulous, Lida at last opened the door, and Eustace entered, wearing a red smoking jacket and carrying a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other. Lida closed the door, and the broad smile on Eustace’s face disappeared when he caught sight of Manuel. Eustace stared at Manuel, who stared at the champagne.

“Hello,” said Eustace, in a tone of unwelcome surprise. “And what have we here?”

“My cousin,” Lida told him. “Miraculously restored to life.”

“That,” Manuel said, in his South American Spanish, “is an alcoholic beverage.”

“I take it,” Eustace said, “this is another one who doesn’t speak English.”

“Sadly, no,” Lida agreed. “Manuel has no English.” Then, in Spanish, she made the formal introduction: “Manuel Cornudo, may I present Eustace Dench.” Back in English, she said, “Eustace Dench, my cousin, Manuel Cornudo.”

Manuel sullenly but manfully stuck out his hand. Eustace dithered a bit, not quite sure what to do with the bottle and glasses. In a sullen monotone, Manuel said, “I am very pleased to meet you.”

Eustace extended the champagne bottle toward Lida: “My dear?” She took the bottle from him, and he took Manuel’s horny hand, gesturing with the hand holding the two glasses. “How do you do,” he said. “Any cousin of Lida’s is a cousin of mine. Welcome back from the dead.”

As they continued to shake hands, Manuel gazed grimly at Eustace and said, “How would you like me to punch you in the face?”

“Charming,” Eustace said, released Manuel’s hand, and turned to Lida to say, “I take it we’re going to put up with — put — that is, put your cousin up.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you,” Lida said, as there came a sudden brisk knocking at the door.

Manuel bristled: “ Another lover?”

“Manuel,” Lida cried, “how can you say such a thing? You know I have always been true to you.”

“Even when you thought me dead?”

The knocking was repeated at the door, this time accompanied by the loud whisper of Angelo, calling in Italian, “Lida? My heart? Are you there?”

Eustace frowned. “That sounds like Angelo.”

Fitfully, Lida handed the champagne bottle to Manuel and opened the door. Immediately, in bounded Angelo, with a huge smile, a big bottle of red wine, and a couple of glasses. His smile wrinkled like a snake when he saw the other two men.

“Yes, indeed,” Manuel said, gazing at the bottle of wine and struggling toward sarcasm. “I have heard that one should not drink the water”

Eustace, apparently deciding a stern manner was the best way to survive this experience, turned on Angelo, saying, “Well, Angelo? May I ask the meaning of this?”

Ignoring Eustace, turning the full mellifluous power of his Italian upon Lida, Angelo said, “I feared you might have given your heart to another, but I had no idea you entertained groups.”

To Manuel, Lida explained, “This is Angelo. He doesn’t speak Spanish.”

“He doesn’t need to,” Manuel said bitterly.

Turning to Angelo, Lida said in her halting Italian, “Thank you. But. Tired. Me.”

Disillusioned, Angelo said, “Well, that’s only to be expected.”

Retaining the social niceties of her convent upbringing, though distractedly, Lida made the introductions: “Manuel, Angelo. Angelo, Manuel.”

Manuel stuck out his hand as though he wished there were a knife in it. Angelo fidgeted briefly with bottle and glasses, then handed the bottle to Lida and shook Manuel’s hand.

Said Manuel, in Spanish, with a tight smile, “May the dogs tear your heart out.”

Said Angelo, in Italian, with a tight smile, “May your mother get the mange.”

There came another knock at the door. Lida raised imploring eyes to Heaven.

“The United States Marines, no doubt,” Eustace commented.

Speaking in English, Lida said, “I really wish none of this would happen.”

Dazedly, she handed the wine bottle to Manuel, who stood there holding the two bottles as though they were Indian clubs and he was about to go into his act. Lida opened the door and in strode Rudi, carrying a bottle of Rhine wine and two glasses. Before noticing the other men, he said, in his native German (what else?), “A preliminary celebration, eh?” Then, seeing the other three, he stopped dead, saying, “What’s this, a lineup for Interpol?”

Fatalistic, Lida closed the door, while Manuel stared at her. “I cannot believe,” he said, “that you have taken up with a German.”

In desperate Spanish, she told him, “I haven’t taken up with anyone!”

Gesturing with the champagne and red wine bottle, Manuel said, “You seem to have taken up with everyone!”

Rudi glowered at Manuel. “A Spaniard,” he commented inaccurately. “I thought I told you to wait in the ditch.”

“Why does no one speak English?” Eustace asked plaintively. “It’s such a pleasant language.”

Hopelessly, Lida made the introductions: “Manuel, Rudi. Rudi, Manuel.”

Rudi fidgeted briefly with his bottle and glasses, then handed the bottle to Lida, who was already reaching for it, not even bothering to look, knowing it was coming. With grim correct politeness, Rudi stuck his hand out toward Manuel. Manuel was about to respond, then noticed his hands were now full of wine bottles. He glared at them, glared at Rudi, glared at the wine bottle in Lida’s hand, glared at the two wine bottles in his own hands, then suddenly reared back with the champagne bottle, obviously planning to let Rudi have it across the head; launching him, as it were.