Michael Pearce - A dead man of Barcelona

He blew out his cheeks. ‘I think maybe he guessed that was how I would feel, because it was then that he went on to you, Miss de Lissac. Mentioned your name. Said he’d already talked to you about it and that you’d been very kind. Helpful, he said. And understanding. Well, I’m sure that’s true, Miss de Lissac, but, in my experience, that’s not the sort of thing Arabs would usually say about women. So I think he must have been really impressed by you. Understandably, of course. Understandably.

‘So I don’t think he would mind if — I’m sure he wouldn’t, since he’s spoken so warmly of you — and mentioned it in the first place — if I asked you to give me a bit of help.

‘I wondered if we could go round together and see him? Senor Vasquez, I mean. And you, too, old chap. I mean, the more the merrier. Or, no, I don’t mean that, I mean it would lend weight. And Abou would be pleased.

‘And if you could do the talking. Once I’d introduced you, I mean. The fact is, I wouldn’t really know what to say.’

‘I don’t think it is appropriate,’ said Chantale. ‘For us to be active in this. It is the family’s responsibility.’

‘Yes, but he hasn’t got any family here. Apart from Leila, that is, and he says she is angry with him and wouldn’t do it. And, in any case, is it a thing for women? You would know this better than I, Miss de Lissac. But Abou seems to feel that it is a man’s job. Or would be in Africa. To conduct the negotiations, I mean.’

‘Look, I don’t think it is going to get to negotiations. He’ll turn it down flat,’ said Seymour.

‘Yes, but…’ Hattersley wriggled. ‘All we can do is put it to him. And then find a way of letting Abou down as gently as possible. And you will do this so much better than I would. I feel that now he has asked me, I’ve got to do it. Have a shot, you know. Although I’m sure you’re right, it’s hopeless. Out of the question. But I’ve known the family for so long, the Lockharts, I mean, that I feel I need to do something. But without you, I’d be lost. I wouldn’t know what to do. Miss de Lissac, would you, could you, please…? And you, too, old chap. Because I need some support. By God, I do!’

Seymour and Chantale took the train to Tarragona. Hattersley, and Abou, would have to wait. There were more important things to do. Like seeing Farraj.

From the outside there was little to distinguish the house from all the others in this prosperous district of Tarragona. It was only when you got inside that you realized that this was an Arab house. The floors were tiled and uncarpeted. The carpets were on the walls, thick Persian ones with intricate geometrical decoration, which took the place of pictures. There were, too, some beautiful Persian vases, standing in niches, but otherwise the rooms contained few objects apart from beautifully worked leather cushions which took the place of chairs.

Seymour and Chantale were led, however, through to a tiny inner courtyard in the middle of which was a fountain, and scattered around the courtyard were orange trees in tubs, filling the courtyard with their sweet scent.

Farraj was sitting beside the fountain reading a book. He rose to his feet when Seymour and Chantale were shown in and bowed courteously.

‘Your name was mentioned,’ said Seymour, ‘as that of one who could help me.’

‘The Book tells us that if help is solicited, it should not be refused,’ said Farraj.

‘It is not asked for lightly,’ said Seymour.

He introduced Chantale as someone who was helping him. Farraj, who had deflected his eyes politely so as not to look at her directly, now registered her presence, again with the slight shock that she had noticed in the other Arab men she had met here. He recovered and bowed courteously.

‘And how can I help you, Senor?’

‘I am inquiring into the circumstances in which someone died. An Englishman. From Gibraltar. His name was Lockhart.’

‘I knew Senor Lockhart.’

‘Well, I believe?’

‘Years ago, very well indeed. Of recent years less well. Since our move to Tarragona. We exchanged greetings regularly but seldom met.’

‘What I have to ask now is difficult. For me and perhaps for you.’

Farraj looked at him inquiringly.

‘It concerns your daughter.’

‘Aisha,’ said Farraj: neutrally but, Seymour fancied, guardedly.

‘Who, I understand, is no longer with you?’

‘She returned to Algiers. To get married.’

‘And is she married now?’

‘Happily, yes. To an old friend of mine.’

He looked at Chantale involuntarily. Chantale understood the look and didn’t mind. It wasn’t like the Chief of Police’s looks. This assumed that she was married and noticed only that it was not to an Arab.

She knew that it was improper, as a woman, for her to enter into the conversation herself, but couldn’t resist saying, ‘And are there children?’

She had half expected disapproval, or even reproval. Strangely, however, he seemed to seize on her question with relief.

‘We have indeed been blessed,’ he said. ‘She has two children already!’

‘And both boys?’ said Chantale, somewhat ironically, assuming, from the fact that they were blessed, that they must be boys.

‘One boy, one girl. I know what you are thinking, Senora, and I assure you I would have been nearly as happy if they had both been girls.’

‘This is, perhaps, the great blessing,’ said Chantale.

‘That is what Aisha would have said!’

Talking to Chantale, he seemed to relax.

‘I had feared — she was getting rather old, you see, and showed no inclination to get married. “There is time enough,” she said. But she was nearly thirty! And no one seemed to please her. It didn’t seem to bother her. “It is different here,” she said, and I think she relished her freedom.’ He shrugged. ‘But there came a time when it became expedient for her to go back to Algeria, and then I was able to arrange marriage for her. With some difficulty,’ he added. ‘Since she was so old and so… unbiddable, I was going to say, and that would not be right, because in the end she fell in with my wishes. Independent, shall I say, as young women here, in my experience, seem to be.’ He looked at Chantale again. ‘And you, yourself, Senora? Have you children of your own?’

‘Not yet,’ said Chantale, feeling a bit uncomfortable, as if she was committing herself too far.

‘May you also be blessed!’

‘Your daughter left for Algeria shortly after Tragic Week, I gather?’ said Seymour.

‘That is so, yes.’

‘She was not involved in the events of Tragic Week herself?’

‘No, no, no, no! Certainly not!’

‘I wondered if her sympathies had been involved?’

‘Sympathies?’

‘I wondered what had driven her to try and smuggle a present to Lockhart in his cell.’

There was a long silence.

‘You know that, do you?’ said Farraj eventually.

‘Yes.’

Farraj sighed. ‘I was against it. But… she was persuaded.’

‘Who by?’

Farraj gave no sign of having heard the question.

‘It was little that she was asked to do. And she remembered Lockhart from the old days. He used to sit her on his knee. As a child,’ he added hurriedly. ‘As a child! “I know you don’t think it right, Farraj,” he used to say to me, “but in Scotland it is right!” And I didn’t mind. She was just a child. But she remembered those days, and she felt sorry for him. And, yes,’ he sighed, ‘I suppose she did feel for those involved in Tragic Week. It was hard not to feel caught up in it. Even I, even I…! And you must understand that we had friends in Barcelona. In the docks. I did a lot of business there. And when we heard the dock people were among those being shot down… So, yes, perhaps it was not too difficult to persuade her. Her sympathies were, as you say, involved.’