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Authors: Philip McCutchan
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hall off which opened many rooms; beyond, visible through a big, high, trellised grille, was a sun-filled courtyard where a fountain played, and round the yard the house, built round this hollow square, sprouted wrought-iron balconies on which the boy caught a glimpse of some of the young ladies. A burst of high laughter came from one of the balconies, and from somewhere in the house there was a faint strumming of a guitar, and a clear young voice sang of love in ancient Spain.
The crone took the boy up a flight of stairs and along to a door at the end of a passage. As they entered this passage the boy sniffed. A heavy, lingering, indescribably wonderful scent on the air . . . the boy didn’t know what it was called, but he had expected that smell, for he had been here before. The black eyes shone in the small pixy face. There was something in that smell that excited the senses, and it drowned the other smells of the house, overlaid its general seediness with a hint of the romance of the big world beyond the boy’s present knowing, turned the shabby, almost derelict house into a kind of fairyland in his imagination.
The old woman knocked at the door. “Señorita?”
The voice—low, sensual—came muffled: “Yes?”
“The boy. He has come again.”
“Good! If you will send him in?”
The old woman opened the door and the boy went in. The smell of the perfume was strong now as he entered that room which, though faded and stained, and barren except for the couch, a low table and chairs, an oil-lamp, and thick velvet window-curtains, was to him rich and splendid—almost paradise. He went in with heightened colour and a queer constriction in his throat, for there was little the boy didn’t know about these things, and he knew quite well what this room was used for, and it never failed to excite
his immature yet oddly knowing imagination. The señorita—that enigmatic woman who had come to La Linea and this house out of the blue not so very long before—was in the boy’s eyes beautiful. She was beautiful in anyone’s eyes, with that supple figure and the thick mass of hair which crowned the pale-gold oval of her face, the way she looked at men with that open invitation in her expression; but to the boy she was more than beautiful, for his eyes had seen mainly the sad drabs of the La Linea brothels, the old crones like Madame who had let him in, the ‘sisters’ whose ‘brothers’ sold them so regularly in the streets—and only occasionally, and remotely, the prettier girls on their balconies. Never mind the señorita’s trade: that was of no account, and anyway she was different from the rest. To the boy, of course, she should have been old; instead, she had no more than the seductive bloom of maturity, of an exciting experience; and, young as he was, the hot blood of the promiscuous and yet Victorian land of surprising contrasts, and its hot sun which sent that hot blood pounding, had filled him with a romantic love for the señorita from a distant country, the señorita whom La Linea knew as Rosia del Cuatro Caminos.
To-day all the boy could see was the mass of auburn hair on which, above a screen, the sun streaming through the window-grille cast broken bars of radiance; and two small, pale-golden hands which patted that hair into place before a glass.
The low voice came from behind the screen: “Pablo?”
“ Si, señorita .” He stood there awkwardly, breathing a little fast.
“Well?”
“Señorita, the ship has entered Gibraltar. The man—the Englishman you described to me—he has come ashore and has gone to the Bristol Hotel.”
There was a soft laugh; the hands went on patting the hair. “Well done, Pablo. Anything else?”
“No.” The boy hesitated, wrinkling his nose. “Señorita— I think it is the man.” His black eyes looked unblinkingly towards the screen. “He is almost as you told me . . . and yet somehow he looked—different.”
Again the low laugh; there was something
The crone took the boy up a flight of stairs and along to a door at the end of a passage. As they entered this passage the boy sniffed. A heavy, lingering, indescribably wonderful scent on the air . . . the boy didn’t know what it was called, but he had expected that smell, for he had been here before. The black eyes shone in the small pixy face. There was something in that smell that excited the senses, and it drowned the other smells of the house, overlaid its general seediness with a hint of the romance of the big world beyond the boy’s present knowing, turned the shabby, almost derelict house into a kind of fairyland in his imagination.
The old woman knocked at the door. “Señorita?”
The voice—low, sensual—came muffled: “Yes?”
“The boy. He has come again.”
“Good! If you will send him in?”
The old woman opened the door and the boy went in. The smell of the perfume was strong now as he entered that room which, though faded and stained, and barren except for the couch, a low table and chairs, an oil-lamp, and thick velvet window-curtains, was to him rich and splendid—almost paradise. He went in with heightened colour and a queer constriction in his throat, for there was little the boy didn’t know about these things, and he knew quite well what this room was used for, and it never failed to excite
his immature yet oddly knowing imagination. The señorita—that enigmatic woman who had come to La Linea and this house out of the blue not so very long before—was in the boy’s eyes beautiful. She was beautiful in anyone’s eyes, with that supple figure and the thick mass of hair which crowned the pale-gold oval of her face, the way she looked at men with that open invitation in her expression; but to the boy she was more than beautiful, for his eyes had seen mainly the sad drabs of the La Linea brothels, the old crones like Madame who had let him in, the ‘sisters’ whose ‘brothers’ sold them so regularly in the streets—and only occasionally, and remotely, the prettier girls on their balconies. Never mind the señorita’s trade: that was of no account, and anyway she was different from the rest. To the boy, of course, she should have been old; instead, she had no more than the seductive bloom of maturity, of an exciting experience; and, young as he was, the hot blood of the promiscuous and yet Victorian land of surprising contrasts, and its hot sun which sent that hot blood pounding, had filled him with a romantic love for the señorita from a distant country, the señorita whom La Linea knew as Rosia del Cuatro Caminos.
To-day all the boy could see was the mass of auburn hair on which, above a screen, the sun streaming through the window-grille cast broken bars of radiance; and two small, pale-golden hands which patted that hair into place before a glass.
The low voice came from behind the screen: “Pablo?”
“ Si, señorita .” He stood there awkwardly, breathing a little fast.
“Well?”
“Señorita, the ship has entered Gibraltar. The man—the Englishman you described to me—he has come ashore and has gone to the Bristol Hotel.”
There was a soft laugh; the hands went on patting the hair. “Well done, Pablo. Anything else?”
“No.” The boy hesitated, wrinkling his nose. “Señorita— I think it is the man.” His black eyes looked unblinkingly towards the screen. “He is almost as you told me . . . and yet somehow he looked—different.”
Again the low laugh; there was something
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