The Sea Break by Antony Trew Page A

him which he knew he’d never be able to describe.
    For what seemed a long time they looked at each other, conscious of the strange thing that had happened. Then he said: “Come and dance,” and they went through the crowdedtables to the small floor where he took her in his arms as if he’d known her all his life.
    “I should not be doing this,” she said, mildly shocked. “I am with other people.” One eyebrow lifted as if she wanted some reassurance from him.
    “You could have refused.”
    “I could not!” Her eyes were serious but there was the hint of a smile. “You shouldn’t have asked me.”
    “I had to. The moment I saw you.”
    “I know. I felt like that. I couldn’t stop looking at you. Is it not strange?” Again the eyebrows registered interrogation.
    “Very strange.” His hand tightened on hers. “I think I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”
    “I too.” She said it serenely, looking away from him, as if the remark were commonplace.
    “Who are you?”
    “Cleo Melanides. I live in Lourenço Marques. We are Greek.” This was added with a proud little tilt of the head.
    He looked at her hand. “You’re not married?”
    “No.”
    “Thank God!”
    “And you?” She laughed gaily.
    “No.”
    “Thank God!” she mimicked. More seriously, she said: “What is your name. Tell me about yourself.”
    She noticed his hesitation before he said: “Stephen Widmark , from Johannesburg.”
    The band stopped and they stood waiting, clapping, hoping that it would begin again, but the lights went up and the floor emptied. She touched his arm. “I shall have to go back to the others.” As she said it she saw his disappointment and her eyes softened. “Shall I see you again?”
    Holding her hand, oblivious of their surroundings, of the people round the empty floor, he said: “Of course. What’s your telephone number?”
    As they walked off the floor she gave him the number and then, before he knew what was happening, she had stopped at a table and was saying: “These are my friends—Mariotta Pereira, David Rohrbach and Johan le Roux.” The three men looked at each other blankly, and Johan bowed. “It was nice of you to bring back our guest.”
    “Not at all,” Widmark smiled remotely and was conscious of the other girl, Mariotta, looking at him.
    Rohrbach pointed to a chair. “Won’t you sit down?” It wasn’t a warm invitation and, embarrassed at the turn of events, and torn between leaving Cleo and staying for what might be an unwise exercise in wits, Widmark shook his head. “I’d love to, but I must be going. It’s late.”
    Johan looked at his watch and said: “Yes, it is,” with heavy emphasis.
    The band started and Johan and Rohrbach took Mariotta and Cleo on to the floor. Widmark watched them go and from what seemed an eternity away Cleo gave him a sad little smile before she was engulfed by Johan.
    Still tingling from the excitement of meeting the girl, Widmark made his way back to the bar. Everything was a pleasant blur until he found himself looking at short range into the face of an oily balding man who sat on a bar stool with his back to the room, smoking a cheroot. Because of the sunglasses Widmark couldn’t be sure that the man was looking at him, but as his face was less than four feet away it seemed highly probable that he was. Widmark gave him the sort of look reserved for bad smells, decided not to have a drink, and went down to the street. There he thought anxiously about this latest encounter, eventually deciding that he was getting jumpy and that it could all be coincidence; even the apparent shadowing in the Rua Araújo. After all, why shouldn’t they both have walked in the same direction at the same time? And while it was true that when he’d stopped the bald man had stopped too, it was probably because he’d been embarrassed by Widmark’s stare in the Polana lounge. And surely there wasnothing odd about his presence in the Casino? After all, he