Horse Under Water Read online

  There was a simple wooden board at the head of it. It said, Here lies the body of a petty officer of the German Navy, name unknown. Washed ashore May 2 1945. May his soul rest with God.

  I went back to where the car was parked high on the verge. I found the car key under a pocketful of almonds and walnuts and the motor buzzed calmly into life. What was that local saying that da Cunha had quoted – ‘Italy, a place to be born, France, a place to live, and here is a place to die.’

  Back at the house I had four small cups of coffee before I felt anything like sober and before anyone had summoned the courage to ask me what I had learned to my advantage.

  ‘It won’t be ready for me until tomorrow,’ I said airily. I could hardly tell them that I had forgotten to bring it. ‘Tomorrow,’ I said to Joe MacIntosh, ‘you and I both return to London.’

  As I went to sleep that night the big grave was fresh in my mind, but the chisel marks on the headboard were even fresher.

  18 Sad song

  I was angry at myself. I went out to da Cunha’s early next morning. His maidservant came to the door and said ‘Bons dias.’ She gave me da Cunha’s engraved business card, on the back of which was written in neat writing, ‘Your small package is quite safe. Please do me the honour of calling at 10 p.m. this evening to collect it. – Yours truly, M. G. R. da Cunha.’

  She held out her hand for the card to be returned. I gave it to her, thanked her and returned to the car.

  There was no diving that morning. The grey wind was breaking the points off the waves and white spray was thrashing the big rocks of the headland. We sat around doing nothing until H.K. invited us to his place for coffee. We went.

  ‘Maria Teresa de Noronha,’ H.K. was saying, ‘the greatest little fado singer in Portugal.’ A glass coffee machine was bubbling away on the blue-and-white tiled hearth and Charly, in her bronze toreador pants, was sitting cross-legged like some special sort of Buddha. Around her were scattered the brightly coloured record sleeves that are the folk art of the new world.

  The walls were hung with brilliant striped local blankets and photos of H.K. standing with his gun underarm and his foot in the ear of various large quadrupeds.

  Singleton and Joe were listening to H.K. doing a quick rundown on Portugal (Joe had lived there over fifteen years). Giorgio was gazing across the balcony to the grey sea. I was looking at H.K.’s books, chest expander, the nicely kept 7-mm. Mauser sporting rifle and its beautiful Zeiss x 4 telescopic sight in a leather case. I looked at his modern lithographs and listened to the strange lament of the fado records. H.K. commented on each as he selected it. ‘This is a song about a girl who rents a room in a house on the cliffs to watch her lover’s return. One day the news comes that her lover is drowned at sea and will never return. So she sings to the old lady whose house it is. “Faz um preço,” she sings. “Faz um preço mais barato para longa estadia?”’ H.K. said it in an impassioned and melancholy voice. Singleton nodded dolefully, Giorgio didn’t even turn his face, but Charly clapped her hands and wore the sort of smile she wore when she was thinking about how the smile looked.

  ‘Did you understand?’ said Charly. ‘It means, is there a lower price for a longer stay? It’s what you hear the tourists in Lisbon saying all the time. You are a terrible tease, Mr Kondit.’

  H.K. laughed. He poured big cups full of coffee and I took mine back to the shelves.

  In them he had Fodor’s Spain and Portugal, almost every D. H. Lawrence in print, including the Olympiad edition of Lady Chatterley and the Penguin book of the Lady Chatterley trial. There was Koestler’s Spanish Testament, A Guide to the World’s Great Art Treasures for Children, Art Since 1945, and a selection of books on modern painters illustrated in colour.

  We made appreciative noises over the coffee and then Singleton said, ‘What made you come to live in Europe, Mr Kondit?’

  ‘Well,’ said H.K., ‘I was eating Milltown to sleep, Dexamyl to wake up and Seconal to get through to bed-time. Here I drink champagne all day and what’s more, it’s cheaper!’ H.K. was lacing the coffee with Portuguese cognac. Joe declined.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and he took a swig from the bottle before recorking it, ‘there I was, you see, up to the back teeth in credit cards and Milltown, and worrying about what sort of season the Yankees were likely to have. How to break out of it? I knew there were jobs for Americans abroad but I was already too old for the big corporations, and Uncle Sam’s got no job for an illiterate bum like me that don’t involve an M.1 rifle. So one day I am standing in the bar car of the 5.11 out of Grand Central looking at all these commuting crums and thinking about how I would like the New Haven railroad not to play a part in my life-cycle every a.m. and p.m. and I think: what are all these narrow-lapelled nuts looking for that I could get them in exchange for money? And what do I conclude?’

  He looked at his audience, picked up the Silex and poured coffee, enjoying the pause before answering.

  ‘Culture.’ He distributed the coffee and the sugar bowl. ‘Now that handed a laugh to every crew-cut creep out in Flatbush where I was raised, because culture ain’t something to put your arms into like an Abercrombie & Fitch overcoat.

  ‘But me and a guy named Leo Williams-hyphen-Cohen, who was an old buddy of mine from way back and a would-be refugee from the sheet-music racket, had struck it rich with a couple of flags* at the beginning of the Korean War. I said it’s now or never, “Wilco” baby – everybody calls him “Wilco” – we are going to snap out of being disorganization men and cut ourselves into the team tapped for the 1975 Time magazine covers.’

  It was about 11.30 a.m.

  I walked to where Giorgio was standing looking out of the balcony doors. There were occasional smacks of warm raindrops on the balcony tilework. On the beach two long lines of men were pulling at each end of a U-shaped net.

  H.K. was saying, ‘Nerts to the big-time art guys, I said, I’m for Mr Average Feller every time. And so we set up “Art for the Average Guy, Inc.”, just a little stash on East 12th at first, with Wilco borrowing his brother-in-law’s truck for deliveries once a week.’

  ‘Harry, you are priceless,’ said Charly, ‘whatever were you delivering?’

  ‘Well, we printed a little sheet called “Art for Aay-Gees”; Average Guys, see. We put it out to the coffee joints on McDougall and Bleecker and a few ads in the egg-head weeklies. We do all right – we don’t have to buy vicuna coats for the Government – but we do all right. But one day my buddy Leo Williams-Cohen (with a hyphen) says to me, “Nerts to these Average Guys, Harry, they’re just a set of peanut-circuit nogoodniks. What we need is a class angle.” And he thinks of one there and then: “Art for Cognoscenti,” he says.’

  Harry Kondit walked across to the bookshelf and removed a pale-blue leather folder.

  ‘It worked out?’ Joe MacIntosh asked. He was still lounging back on the bright sofa holding an empty coffee cup on his knee.

  Harry Kondit flipped open a copy of Esquire to a full-colour Modigliani nude. The caption read,

  Art for Cognoscenti Club are honoured to present as ‘Pic. of the Month’ for January this fine colour reproduction of one of the world’s masterpieces. Join this month and receive two full-colour reproductions of famous nudes from the world’s great works of art, each suitable for framing as exquisite decor for office, workshop, or den.

  Receive each month a beautiful portrayal of unadorned womanhood, chosen by a panel of famous artists, teachers, and educationalists and accompanied by clear concise explanatory notes, criticism and description by Henri Zahn.

  Charly started to clap her hands and Singleton, Giorgio, Joe and I all joined in. H.K. didn’t take offence.

  ‘But,’ said Joe, ‘how come you can live here in Albufeira?’

  ‘Simple. I look through these here books …’H.K. grabbed three large books of art reproductions from the shelf, ‘and choose the Pic. of the Month.’

  The removal of the art books revealed three small ones that had fallen down the
back of the row of books.

  ‘But,’ said Joe, ‘it says …’ Joe’s face bloomed red in embarrassment. I quickly plucked out the books.

  ‘Sure it says there’s a panel of artists and jokers like that,’ H.K. agreed.

  One book was called Formulae for the Physicist, the next Setting up a Lab.

  ‘… they choose it …’ H.K. went on.

  The third book was called Molecular Structure. I couldn’t help thinking of the ice-melting theories. They rearranged molecular structure of water to make it ice.

  ‘… but I, Henri Zahn, select it.’ H.K. laughed a great boom of a laugh and smashed his thigh with his big hairy fist like he’d collapse in hysterics if he didn’t beat himself serious quickly.

  That Wednesday was one long wasted day as I look back on it. Giorgio and Singleton were to try a dive in the afternoon, but Giorgio’s reducer was defective (which caused the air to blast into the demand valve instead of flowing). They turned back after only a few yards. I suppose I was a bit edgy, cursing myself for overlooking the package the night before and being a little too critical of everything, including the Borbigoes – large cockles – that Charly had cooked with hot paprika and smoked ham sausage for lunch. After lunch she disappeared back to H.K.’s and I had a talk about expenses and car hire with Joe MacIntosh, who was doing all the bookwork as well as being in charge of diving.

  I was concerned about Giorgio. He had been so boisterous and effervescent until we began diving. Joe said all divers are like that after they begin a job.

  ‘They mope around and worry about freshwater currents and whether to remove a bulkhead door. He’ll be O.K. when we complete diving.’

  I looked at the diagram of the U-boat. Giorgio had cross-hatched the sections he had worked and there was a small red blob where the empty canister had been found under the control-room floor.

  The marked area seemed very small compared with the size of the U-boat. I wondered how long it would be before we found the currency or log book, or London gave us permission to cease operations, or Mr Smith appeared on the scene.

  It was when Joe was locking the plan of the submarine back into the writing-desk drawer that he noticed it.

  We checked, sat down and thought about it, but Joe found the broken woodwork and then there was no doubt at all. The empty canister was exactly as we’d left it, still locked into the wardrobe, but someone had stolen the photos of it.

  There is no alternative in situations like this. It wasn’t something that every young intelligence worker finds enthralling. It was a sordid little job of the sort that constitutes much of our work. Joe and I began to search everyone’s room.

  Apart from the usual personality insights that these searches always provide, there was only one remarkable thing. Among the several articles in Charly’s room that a young single girl shouldn’t know how to buy were twenty-five rounds of 7.65 parabellum ammunition.

  Joe had called London and they brought a light civilian plane down to Algarve for me. It was a fine clear night when I went out to the airfield via da Cunha’s house.

  There were lights on, and outside the front door was a black Mercedes and a Seat car. Each had an E-plate and Madrid registration.* Farther along under the almond trees was H.K.’s little deux-chevaux. I knew that, as surely as a tickbird follows a rhino, a two-stroke motorcycle would be somewhere near by. It was. I remembered the Portuguese proverb that says, ‘From Spain, neither fair wind nor good marriage.’

  A bell jangled deep in the interior and echoed back like a belly laugh. I rang again. Finally da Cunha opened the door himself. A gold tooth glinted in the lamplight, and he passed me the package from under his velvet smoking jacket. It was still wrapped in brown paper and string and was as heavy as good advice. Joe had the motor running when I got back to the car.

  The little villages were dark except for the doorways. Low-wattage bulbs shone yellow amid the black furniture and rough whitewashed walls. Here and there a sharp glint of light reflected from a bottle.

  Inevitably there were the laden burros, bicycles, and unlit carts wobbling along the black roads. I drew up at the place marked on my map; palm leaves cut jagged pieces of darkness from the stars. The trees were heavy with olives and the warm night air held their aroma. From near by came the purr of a light aeroplane engine. I got the green canister from the boot and scrambled aboard.

  We were skirting the Bilbao air traffic control zone before I discovered the note that da Cunha had tucked into the package. I showed it to Joe.

  Dear Smith,

  During April 1945 the body of a German sailor was washed ashore a few kilometres to the west of here. I arranged that the body should be afforded a decent Christian burial and the accompanying package, which was the only thing found on the body, was buried with it. Since the fishermen who first discovered the body are now anxious that the package should be given to you, and since in my opinion the British Government has an obvious claim of ownership, I have pleasure in restoring it to you.

  Your obedient servant,

  DA CUNHA

  By 3 a.m. Gatwick airport was grudgingly clearing us for landing among all their big boys. In our little cabin the instruments glowed numbers and with a sudden leap the landing lights, cut through the winter’s rain. I began to worry whether Brown’s Hotel would have a room for Joe.

  19 Never say this

  Dawlish picked it up and held it under the Anglepoise lamp. The burnished metal coruscated in the hard artificial light.

  ‘Just gave it to you, did he?’ said Dawlish. He flung me a fresh packet of Gauloises. ‘Very good. A stroke of luck.’

  The phone rang. Alice said she’d run out of coffee, would Nescafé do. It was 6.25 a.m. and Dawlish told her she’d better go home and get some sleep, but she brought it up for us.

  ‘New cups and saucers, eh Alice,’ I said. Her smile was like a shaft of Christmas-afternoon sunshine. Dawlish handed her the block of metal. It was eight inches by six and about two and a quarter inches thick. The arcs of milling shone as she twisted it in her bony hands.

  A large hole was driven through the carbon steel block. Fitting exactly into the hole were three discs. Two of the discs were over an inch thick. Alice shook them into her open palm. The dies carried a fine intaglio design, on one a man on a prancing horse, on the other a portrait of Queen Victoria. Nestling between them was a shiny sovereign.

  Alice studied each one carefully, and looked up at me and then at Dawlish.

  ‘Isn’t it just as I said, Mr Dawlish?’

  ‘Yes, you were right, Alice,’ said Dawlish. ‘Excellent quality die for forging sovereigns.’

  ‘But didn’t I tell you that it would have Queen Victoria on it?’ she asked Dawlish.

  ‘All right, Alice,’ I said, ‘I was wrong, but we aren’t through diving yet.’

  Alice trotted off home at 6.45 a.m. and over our coffee Dawlish and I sat down and talked about staff changes and overseas finance and how many days to Christmas and it didn’t seem like it and it doesn’t interest us but Dawlish’s kids liked it and the expense of it all; until Dawlish suddenly said, ‘You never relax; it’s getting you down, this job?’

  It wasn’t that he’d change it if it was, he just liked to know it all. Outside, dawn was bringing the sky to the colour of a mechanic’s handkerchief.

  ‘I can’t make it fit together,’ I said, ‘and some things are too convenient.’

  ‘Convenience is just a state of mind,’ said Dawlish. ‘It’s understanding that’s important. Understanding the symptoms you encounter will refer you to just one disease. You find a man with a pain in the foot and the finger and you wonder what he could possibly be suffering from with two such disparate symptoms. Then you find that while holding a nail one day he hit his finger with a hammer, then dropped it on to his toe.’

  ‘O.K.,’ I said, ‘so much for Emergency Ward Ten. Now listen to my problems. First, I am signing contracts with these rebels who want to take over in Portugal, and since the F
oreign Office want to help them along a little I have to dive into an old Nazi sub. to find counterfeit money. So far so good, but while I am doing that damned frogman course two cars follow me down the A3. Whose cars? Mr Elusive Smith, British Cabinet Minister. I ask to see a file about him but it never arrives …’

  ‘It will,’ said Dawlish, ‘it’s delayed, that’s all.’

  I gave Dawlish the curly-lip treatment. ‘O.K., then there’s this man Butcher who sold us the ice-melting file.’

  ‘And a lot of rubbish it was too,’ said Dawlish.

  ‘No one thought so at the time,’ I said, ‘and the department paid over six thousand pounds for it.’

  ‘Five thousand seven hundred,’ said Dawlish.

  ‘So you looked it up,’ I challenged. ‘So you think it’s dodgy too.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Dawlish.

  ‘No,’ I agreed, ‘you’d say “inconsistent with departmental precedent”, but you’d think it was dodgy.’

  Dawlish took out a handkerchief and lowered his nose into it, like he was going from a seventh-storey window into something held by eight firemen. He blew his nose loudly. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I am followed by this dark-blue job from Vernon and this man Butcher. When I get to Gib. they are going through our mail …’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t …’

  ‘Well, I would,’ I said loudly. ‘And behind all three there is the paternal Mr Henry Smith. When we finally get something out of the submarine the canister is empty except for a piece of paper money. Out of this American clown’s shirt comes another bill within a dozen serial numbers of it.’

  ‘Yes, that was convenient,’ said Dawlish.