Archibald Cronin - The Spanish gardener

Suddenly, amidst the indistinct masses of obscurity ahead, the moon came surging through the sea of sky and the outline of the villa loomed whitely before him. The wind, roaring spitefully up the drive, bit into him like a whiplash. A shutter banged loudly at the back premises. Bent double, his arms pressed against his sides, he took advantage of a short lull between two gusts to pass round the side of the house. In the sudden burst of moonlight the luminous shadows of the mimosa trees danced upon the gravel drive and their threadbare foliage was slit by silver blades. Then, all at once, the moon went out, and the blackness was deeper, denser than before. Panting, he gained the shelter of the portico, paused for a moment, his head aslant, listening to the stillness; then, with desperate resolution, pushed open the door.

Inside, the hall was swimming with darkness, a great dark pool filled with the hollow thudding of his heart. Then he became aware of a strange odour, acrid and smoky, which stung his nostrils and drew the moisture to his eyes. Bewildered, he felt himself powerless, seeming to be surrounded by movement yet himself unable to move. This incomprehensible paralysis, which lasted only a few seconds, seemed prolonged for hours. The clang of the shutter freed him. His body emerged from torpor and, unsteadily, he lit a match. It flickered wanly between his shaking fingers, spluttered, and went out.

At that moment, above the howling of the wind, he heard the sound of weeping. Turning with a jerk, his head over one shoulder, he searched the darkness with strained intentness. The sobs continued. He groped his way towards the door of the kitchen and opened it before he succeeded in raising his eyelids. Magdalena was before him, seated at the table, rocking herself to and fro in a passion of despair.

"Magdalena," he said, in a scarcely audible voice.

She looked towards him and he saw her face, disfigured by a great purple weal, hollowed by terror, suddenly aged, unrecognizable.

"What …" he said, and broke off, with a trembling of his shoulders.

Staring at him, as at an apparition, she clutched at her torn black bodice.

His voice came back to him.

“For God's sake … what is the matter?”

A pause, filled by the prowling of the wind without …

"He has gone," she moaned.

"Who has gone?"

"Garcia … after all that I have done for him …" She gave way to little muffled cries that ended in a fit of coughing.

A thin spasm of anger threaded the Consul's apprehension. He went forward and shook her.

"Tell me quickly … where has he gone?"

Head in hands, in a muddled fashion, she seemed to try to think, to remember.

"He has gone where you or any of the others will never find him. He can go fast in your splendid automobile. You will never find that either." As Brande started involuntarily she raised her wounded eyes, kindled now by a spark of bitterness. "What did you expect, my fine master? That Rodrigo would wait until the police came to call upon him? Yes, that's his name, Rodrigo Espantago. He's a thief, a criminal, a maniac, all in one. He fooled you nicely, and me too, as he fools everyone. He's not my husband. I'm only his woman. Teamed up with him in Madrid. He promised me he'd treat me right. He got round me, got me to do all the work, to slave for him, the lazy, filthy devil … and now he's gone." Her voice, tortured, rose to a scream. "Why did you let him know that they were after him? If you had only heard him mock at you! At you and your little Professor! 'The stuffed codfish and the curried shrimp' … that's what he called the pair of you. He planted everything on José. Didn't you guess that? He hated José and swore he'd send him to the cuartel . He hated Nicholas too. Meantime he had all your jewellery, a pretty lot of loot. And now …" She began to shake hysterically, torn between tears and a terrible rending laughter. "Now he's got more. He's done you down properly, like he always said he would. Just wait till you see …"

Completely broken-down, she swayed backwards and forwards, moaning to herself, arms folded over her breasts, features contorted, tears streaming down her cheeks. No persuasion, no amount of shaking could stir her.

Abruptly, Brande gave it up. He turned and lit the candle which stood upon the dresser; then, with a pale desperate face, he left the kitchen, holding the flickering flame aloft. In the hall, shielding the light from the eddying draughts, he glanced round fearfully. Everything seemed in order. He began, slowly, to mount the stairs, with the regular steps of a somnambulist. Outside his own room he paused. The air felt cold, and, besides the reek of melting tallow, was filled with that smoky odour which he had noticed earlier. As though overcoming a strong resistance, breasting an invisible barrier, he entered, and lit the gas.

The stark disorder of the bedroom struck him like a blow. All the drawers were pulled out, the floor was strewn with scattered garments, the wardrobe had been emptied of his best suits. The silver toilet articles were missing from the dressing-table, his heavy ivory brushes, the chased cigar box. The room had been stripped of everything of value, systematically, and with wanton destructiveness. Yet this caused him no distress, barely disturbed the surface of his numbed sensibilities. He looked about him, with darting, hunted glances; then his eye struck downwards to the hearthstone and lit upon a charred and crumbled mass which lay there. At first he did not comprehend, then with a painful indrawing of his breath he bent forward. Yes, it was his manuscript, burnt to shreds, totally destroyed.

He gave a terrible sigh, a lost and gasping sound, straightened himself with that same pale, expressionless face, dusted the sooty fragments from his fingers. The frightful effort which he made to retain control of himself gave to each of his jerky movements a mechanical precision. This was his punishment then, the loss of his life's work; it might be that he had deserved it. His mouth made an imperceptible grimace as though gulping down hot tears. He stood for a moment, apparently in deep thought, actually in a state of blankness; then, like a child seeking consolation, he picked up the candle and turned towards his son's room.

A moment later, he was staring at the empty bed which had not been slept in. A blast of cold air made him spin round. The window was wide open at the foot. His heart beat against his breast in great heavy strokes. He felt his legs give way under him but just saved himself from falling. He pressed his fingers against his eyeballs, withdrew them. But still the room was empty, the window open to the pitch-dark night. Then the cry which he had been forcing back all night burst from his throat. In abject terror he staggered from the room and stumbled downstairs to the kitchen.

"My son …" The words came in a raucous whisper. "Where is Nicholas?"

Magdalena had in part composed herself, but his reappearance caused a sulky anger to flash through the misery in her eyes, which glowered at him from beneath the malignant bruise.

"Where, indeed?" she said tauntingly. "Did you expect to find him sleeping peacefully … after that devil had rampaged through the house?"

The Consul came close to her. Leaning a little to one side, holding on with all his strength, he looked as though he were about to lose his balance.

"Tell me," he shouted.

The housekeeper stirred sullenly. Then her gaze fell, beaten down by the naked torment in his leaden face.

"Garcia didn't touch him," she faltered. "He would have, but Nicholas had gone. This afternoon he made up a little bundle and ran away."

Brande twisted his tongue in his dry mouth.

"Where did he go?"

"How should I know?" Magdalena shot back bitterly—then, as though repenting: "When I saw him running down the drive I called him from the kitchen window. But he would not stop. 'I am in a hurry, Magdalena,' he called back to me. Then, in a crazy sort of way, with his little face very white and desperate, he called again, 'I am going fishing.' "