run his hand down her naked leg.
Willi Mohr had borrowed some tools and had knocked up an easel. Then he sat by the door, six feet from the staircase, and painted. It took him about a week to paint a picture and then he took the drawing-pins out of the piece of hardboard, pinned the canvas on to the wall and never looked at it again.
Sometimes Dan looked at his pictures and said critically: ‘You must try and get free, Willi. That’s technically skilful but there’s nothing in it. No feeling either, but most of all no content.’
He tapped the heap of typescript with his pipe.
‘This is at least utterly false and repulsive,’ he said, ‘and I also know why I’m doing it.’
He sighed and wrote another sentence.
Willi Mohr smiled sardonically and went on dabbing with his brush.
Now and again Siglinde took out her sketching-block and sat down on the outside steps to draw the cat. She did it quickly and elegantly, with bold simplifications. When Dan told her it was good, she refused to believe him, although he was right. She was talented, but could never see any point in drawing a cat.
‘Things that are quite meaningless can’t possibly be any good,’ she said.
Otherwise she did the housekeeping and that involved the burden of the daily chores. She had to cook all the food on an open fire, and this she did very well. Presumably it was due to her that the house in Barrio Son Jofre bloomed in the middle of its grotesque decay.
The previous tenants, a group of Asturian labourers, who had been taken from their homes and put to assisted work on the roads, had not been so well placed. Inscriptions on the walls bore witness to their despair and hatred.
Siglinde did all the shopping.
Willi Mohr fetched the water.
Dan Pedersen collected the wood.
No one had consciously created this organization. It had just come about.
Dan Pedersen’s royalties did not come and would be some time coming too. Willi Mohr paid. He was relatively well off and kept his money in his wallet at the bottom of his rucksack. Above the wallet lay a 9 mm Walther pistol, an army model, carefully wrapped in a cloth.
As they had no form of lighting except candles and the old paraffin lamp, their working day coincided with the daylight. At dusk they went up to the bar in the square and drank something. Sometimes they played ping-pong, but Dan always won. Willi Mohr usually got beaten by Siglinde too, and this annoyed him a little.
Once, just before falling asleep, he realized that this was a healthy sign.
The people in the house in Barrio Son Jofre had a daily routine, but they did not allow themselves to be enslaved by it. Once or twice a week they started up the old truck and went down to the puerto. When it was warm they bathed from the cliffs or from the breakwater by the pier and they swam in the green salty water. Occasionally they stayed long into the night and knocked about Jacinto’s bar or some other place. On these occasions they were always together with Santiago or Ramon, usually both.
One of the Alemany brothers often used to come up to the town. Then they brought fish with them, which Siglinde cooked on the open fire and which they ate together.
Willi Mohr went out fishing three times with the others. Santiago and Ramon had a motor-boat which was used at night for calamary fishing. It was large and well-made and eminently suitable for pleasure trips.
On these three occasions they went quite far out, to a small archipelago of rocky islands, and they fished with hooks close under the cliff walls. The archipelago was bare and uninhabited, but full of hidden bays.
They bathed there too and once Ramon Alemany looked atDan Pedersen and laughed and said: ‘You’ve a very beautiful wife.’
Siglinde was standing two steps away, dripping wet in her blue bathing-costume. She looked healthy and strong and happy.
Dan Pedersen slapped her jokingly on the backside and said: ‘Siglinde? Oh, her bottom’s far too big.’
Santiago
Willi Mohr had borrowed some tools and had knocked up an easel. Then he sat by the door, six feet from the staircase, and painted. It took him about a week to paint a picture and then he took the drawing-pins out of the piece of hardboard, pinned the canvas on to the wall and never looked at it again.
Sometimes Dan looked at his pictures and said critically: ‘You must try and get free, Willi. That’s technically skilful but there’s nothing in it. No feeling either, but most of all no content.’
He tapped the heap of typescript with his pipe.
‘This is at least utterly false and repulsive,’ he said, ‘and I also know why I’m doing it.’
He sighed and wrote another sentence.
Willi Mohr smiled sardonically and went on dabbing with his brush.
Now and again Siglinde took out her sketching-block and sat down on the outside steps to draw the cat. She did it quickly and elegantly, with bold simplifications. When Dan told her it was good, she refused to believe him, although he was right. She was talented, but could never see any point in drawing a cat.
‘Things that are quite meaningless can’t possibly be any good,’ she said.
Otherwise she did the housekeeping and that involved the burden of the daily chores. She had to cook all the food on an open fire, and this she did very well. Presumably it was due to her that the house in Barrio Son Jofre bloomed in the middle of its grotesque decay.
The previous tenants, a group of Asturian labourers, who had been taken from their homes and put to assisted work on the roads, had not been so well placed. Inscriptions on the walls bore witness to their despair and hatred.
Siglinde did all the shopping.
Willi Mohr fetched the water.
Dan Pedersen collected the wood.
No one had consciously created this organization. It had just come about.
Dan Pedersen’s royalties did not come and would be some time coming too. Willi Mohr paid. He was relatively well off and kept his money in his wallet at the bottom of his rucksack. Above the wallet lay a 9 mm Walther pistol, an army model, carefully wrapped in a cloth.
As they had no form of lighting except candles and the old paraffin lamp, their working day coincided with the daylight. At dusk they went up to the bar in the square and drank something. Sometimes they played ping-pong, but Dan always won. Willi Mohr usually got beaten by Siglinde too, and this annoyed him a little.
Once, just before falling asleep, he realized that this was a healthy sign.
The people in the house in Barrio Son Jofre had a daily routine, but they did not allow themselves to be enslaved by it. Once or twice a week they started up the old truck and went down to the puerto. When it was warm they bathed from the cliffs or from the breakwater by the pier and they swam in the green salty water. Occasionally they stayed long into the night and knocked about Jacinto’s bar or some other place. On these occasions they were always together with Santiago or Ramon, usually both.
One of the Alemany brothers often used to come up to the town. Then they brought fish with them, which Siglinde cooked on the open fire and which they ate together.
Willi Mohr went out fishing three times with the others. Santiago and Ramon had a motor-boat which was used at night for calamary fishing. It was large and well-made and eminently suitable for pleasure trips.
On these three occasions they went quite far out, to a small archipelago of rocky islands, and they fished with hooks close under the cliff walls. The archipelago was bare and uninhabited, but full of hidden bays.
They bathed there too and once Ramon Alemany looked atDan Pedersen and laughed and said: ‘You’ve a very beautiful wife.’
Siglinde was standing two steps away, dripping wet in her blue bathing-costume. She looked healthy and strong and happy.
Dan Pedersen slapped her jokingly on the backside and said: ‘Siglinde? Oh, her bottom’s far too big.’
Santiago
Similar Books
