The White Schooner by Antony Trew

Berch was, and after she’d told him he wasn’t walking too well and a few other things, she gave him Manuela’s phone number. That hadn’t helped. A woman had answered after a long wait, a Spanish woman, and she’d said Manuela was out and anyway what was he doing ringing a respectable house at such an hour. So he’d given up and gone back to his room.
    It had been a crazy night anyway, but he’d known that it was in a sense his last chance for Hassan was returning from Palma the next day. Thus it was a night on which he’d been able to let his hair down without risk of encountering the Arab.
    As for this day, he must spend it in the campo ,both to be out of the way while Werner Zolde and Lejeune dealt withHassan, and because there was important work to be done in the hills round San José—and for that to-day would be as good as any, and better than most.
    Now he filled the porcelain wash basin with cold water and bathed his face, spluttering and snorting, drying his head and face roughly as if to rub away the pain.
    In his notebook he found the number Use had given him. He put on a dressing gown and went down to the landing where the phone was and dialled the number. The Spanish woman of the night before answered. He held his fingers against his mouth to distort his voice and asked for Señorita Valez. There was a long wait before Manuela came on the line.
    ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Who is it?’
    ‘Charles Black.’
    ‘Oh, Charles.’ She sounded pleased. ‘How did you know my number?’
    ‘Ilse gave it to me.’
    ‘How are you?’
    ‘Terrible,’ he said. ‘I want your help.’
    ‘Is there something wrong?’
    ‘Yes. My head.’
    ‘Your head? I don’t understand.’
    ‘I went looking for you last night. In just about every bar on the island. When I couldn’t find you I drowned my sorrows.’
    ‘Oh, nonsense,’ she laughed. ‘They all say you drink too much. I heard this before I met you.’
    ‘They lie. Will you help me?’
    ‘How can I help you?’ There was laughter in her voice,
    ‘Come and spend the day with me. In the campo. ’
    ‘In the campo ?What for?’
    ‘To clear my head. Get back to nature.’
    She laughed again. ‘You can do that without me.’
    ‘Much nicer with you,’ he said.
    At first she refused, said she must paint, that she had many things to do. But he persisted and at last she gave in and they agreed to meet outside the tourist office at eleven.
    ‘Wear heavy shoes,’ he said. ‘I’m going to make you walk and climb.’
    ‘Oh. It will be an awful day, I’m sure.’
    ‘No‚’ he said, ‘it will be fabulous. But don’t wear brightcolours. I want to show you some birds.’
     
    Back in his room he made a syrup of sugar and water, smeared the bottom of an empty Kodak carton with it, and put the rest in a saucer which he placed on the window ledge facing the terrace. Then he opened the window and went to the bathroom.
    After his bath he soaked a spill of cotton wool in ink and rubbed it on his left ankle. While it was drying he sat watching the bees at the saucer. Then he rubbed over the inked ankle with a wet handkerchief, leaving a blue stain.
    When he crossed over to close the window, the bees buzzed angrily but stayed at the saucer. Using tissues, he caught four and transferred them to the empty carton, the lid of which he’d punctured with small holes. If that doesn’t work, he thought, there’s always the snake-bite serum.
     
    She was wearing blue denim slacks and a shirt to match when he met her outside the tourist office on the Paseo Vara de Rey. He thought she’d never looked more attractive.
    ‘Do you approve?’ she asked. ‘Not too bright?’
    ‘Not bad. Got a jersey?’
    She patted the straw bag hanging from her shoulder. ‘Here.’
    ‘Raincoat?’
    ‘Also.’ She touched the bag again.
    ‘Good. I have the lunch.’ He showed her the fisherman’s bag. ‘We’ll take a bus to San José. Then walk.’
    She touched his arm impulsively and