Michael Pearce - A dead man of Barcelona

Chantale said it wouldn’t do at all. Arab women never entered cafes, even with their menfolk. It was a very bad idea.

Seymour had to accept this but he was reluctant to abandon the idea altogether. As a foreigner, he felt he needed some kind of entree into the Arab world, some kind of guarantee that he was a friend. He knew from experience that with immigrants this would be especially important.

In the end they decided that she would not go into the cafe with him but they would establish the link outside. They would go into the quarter together and then part. Chantale would go to the little market and make some purchases, as if shopping for a family. Seymour meanwhile would go into the cafe alone. When she had finished making her purchases she would stand outside the cafe patiently waiting for him. That, she said, ought to clinch it!

The cafe was set slightly below ground, as was usually the case with Arab coffee houses, and to enter it you had to go down some steps. Inside, it was dark. It was the Arab way to retreat from the sun and heat. There were stone benches around the wall and men were sitting on them either drinking coffee from small enamel cups or puffing away at bubble pipes on the ground beside them.

The men were all Arabs and Seymour at once felt himself to be, or was made to feel, an intruder. He sat down, however, in a corner with a low table in front of him. It was some time before he was served, one of those ways in which a cafe can make a customer feel he is not wanted. But then a waiter came up and put a cup before him and poured coffee from a coffee pot with a long spout.

As he bent over the table, Seymour said, ‘Is Ibrahim here?’

The waiter inclined his head towards a man with a square-cut beard sitting with two men playing dominoes.

‘Would you whisper a name in his ear? The name is Lockhart.’

The waiter showed no sign of having heard and continued on his round with the pot. Shortly afterwards, however, Seymour saw him bending over the man with the beard. The man sat up with a start. A little later Seymour saw him studying him carefully. Eventually he came across.

‘You wish to speak with me?’

‘About Lockhart.’

‘Lockhart is dead.’

‘I know. That is what I want to talk to you about.’

The Arab hesitated but then slid on to the bench beside Seymour.

‘Who gave you my name?’ he said.

‘Hussein. The man in Lockhart’s office.’

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Seymour and I come from England.’

‘From England?’ said the man, astonished. ‘Why?’

‘Lockhart had friends there.’

‘He had friends here. But-’

‘They are interested in how he came to die.’

‘We, too, are interested in how he came to die. But what business is it of theirs?’

‘Naturally, as friends-’

The Arab shook his head firmly. ‘It is no business of people in England.’

‘Well, it is,’ Seymour insisted. ‘When an Englishman dies in a Spanish prison, the English Government is always interested.’

‘This is nothing to do with Governments.’

‘Did he not die in prison?’

‘Well, yes, but-’

‘And how did he come to be there? Was not that something to do with Government?’

‘I do not think — ’ began the Arab, but stopped.

‘And was he not taken in in Tragic Week when so many others were taken in? Including Arabs? And isn’t that something to do with Government?’

‘Yes. But it had nothing to do with Lockhart.’

‘Nothing to do with Lockhart?’ said Seymour, astonished.

‘No. It was a terrible thing. But it was quite separate.’

‘But did not Lockhart go out on to the streets so that he could bear witness?’

‘Well, yes, and that was the act of a good man. But that was not why he died.’

‘Why did he die, then?’

The Arab was silent for a while. Then he said, ‘Senor, this is really no concern of yours. Nor of people in England. It is a private matter.’

‘Private!’

‘Yes. To him, to us.’

‘As friends you may think that. But if the Government-’

The Arab shook his head. ‘This was nothing to do with the Government, either Spanish or British. It was, as I have told you, a private matter. That it happened during Tragic Week was, well, incidental. The confusion of Tragic Week provided them with an opportunity. But even then they couldn’t take it. They had to wait until he was in prison. Then it became easier.’

‘Easier?’ said Seymour incredulously. ‘To kill a man when he is in prison?’

‘Yes. Because then he didn’t have his bodyguard with him.’

‘What is this about a bodyguard?’

‘You don’t know about his bodyguard? No? Well, he had one. And they were very good, too. My people. People from the Rif. Good fighters, no nonsense. They would have protected him. But, of course, when he was in prison-’

‘Why did he need a bodyguard? Who was it against?’

‘Senor, you ask too many questions, when, really, this is no concern of yours. Go home to England. Leave it to us. We shall see that justice is done.’

He rose to his feet, took Seymour by the arm, and then escorted him firmly to the door. As they stepped up on to the street he caught sight of Chantale, waiting patiently outside, and stopped suddenly.

‘Is she with you?’ he said, surprised.

‘Yes.’

The Arab looked uneasy.

‘Are you from Leila?’ he asked her.

‘Leila? Lockhart’s wife? No.’

The Arab looked again at Chantale, as if he did not believe her.

‘I was thinking of going to see her, though,’ said Seymour.

The Arab shook his head.

‘I do not think that would be wise,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

The Arab disregarded his question. He kept studying Chantale, as if fascinated. ‘Why have you come here, Senora?’ he said abruptly.

Chantale, not unnaturally, was caught for a reply.

‘Because she must,’ said Seymour.

‘I have come to find out,’ said Chantale, cleverly.

‘Leave it to us, Senora. This is not for women. Go back to your own people.’

‘Who are her people?’ said Seymour.

The Arab looked at him.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That is the question, isn’t it? For all of us.’

Seymour and Chantale went for a walk along Las Ramblas. There was a slight breeze, which was very welcome because it was getting towards noon and the heat was already becoming overwhelming. The sunlight seemed to bounce back off the white boulevard. The flowers around the foot of the trees wilted. The onions on their strings seemed to hang more heavily. The piles of melons which had earlier shone green and gold seemed to whiten and lose their glow. The boulevard began to empty.

They found a little restaurant in a back street just off Las Ramblas. It was a humble place, consisting just of bare tables crammed together cheek by jowl, with the legs of the chairs often so interlocking that you could not get up or sit down without disturbing everyone else. But that did not seem to matter. It soon became apparent that most of the people there knew each other. Often they had children with them, who would crawl under the tables to escape or return. No one seemed to mind. In fact, the children appeared to be generally owned. Sometimes when they were very small and creating a hullabaloo an apparent stranger would reach over from one of the adjacent tables with a piece of bread dipped in sauce and give it to the child. Usually it worked and the child would calm down.

Once they had got used to the hubbub, Seymour and Chantale rather enjoyed it. There was so much of human interest going on. And somehow the family atmosphere was just what they needed at the moment.

A man in yellow oilskins came up carrying a bucket of freshly caught fish and the proprietor came out to study them.