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Authors: Antony Trew
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Opening it, he selected a record, drew it from its sleeve and, sliding aside the lid of the second cabinet, placed the record on the turntable. He started the player, adjusted it for tone and volume, and returned to the armchair. Then he held a coffee cup under the tap of the percolator, filled it, and drew the stopper from the decanter, holding it beneath his nose for a moment before pouring the brandy in a thin translucent stream.
The room filled with the mosaic of a Debussy prelude, and the old man leant back in the chair, legs outstretched, his head resting on its back, his arms upon its sides. As his muscles relaxed , he felt the tiredness leave his body and his mindemptied. For several minutes he lay still, sublimated, before leaning forward to taste the coffee and liqueur.
The clock on the desk marked the quarter hour with a single chime. It was the signal to begin the tour of the gallery. He followed always an unchanging route, stopping to admire one picture, examining closely another.
At times he would stand before a picture, arms folded across his chest, cigar smoke gathering about his head, lost in the thoughts it evoked.
The clock on the desk chimed eleven soon after he’d left the last picture and gone back to the recess. From the bookcase he took an art catalogue and from the table a copy of The Connoisseur. He switched on a reading lamp, the red shade gleamed and its light suffused the armchair into which he dropped.
At eleven-thirty there was a knock on the door. It was Juan to announce the time, replace the coffee cup, decanter and liqueur glass on the tray and lift it from the table.
His master sighed, struggled out of the chair, returned the catalogue to the bookcase, the magazine to the table, and began a stiff-legged walk to the gallery doors. The servant went out first, the old man switched off the lights, closed the doors, locked them and pocketed the keys.
Then, with Juan following, he crossed the patio, keeping to the left of the pool, and descended the long flight of steps to the main house. Inside, Juan placed the tray on a side table and followed his master across the hall to the sitting-room in the west wing; there he stood at the foot of the stairs, impassive and sentry-like, as the old man went up them. Juan followed, closing the heavy iron gates on the landing against his master who locked them on the inside, their trellised patterns casting weird shadows on his scarred face.
‘ Buenas noches, Juan ‚’he called through the gates, and the servant answered, ‘ Buenas noches, señor .’
So ended, as always, the ritual of Hendrik Wilhelm van Biljon’s after-dinner visit to the gallery at Altomonte.
Chapter Seven
It was a grey day and from his room in the old town Black looked down on the harbour and saw the wind whip the smoke from the funnels of the steamers at the quays and blow it in rippling swathes across the water to Talamanca, the sea beyond the breakwater tumbling and boiling in distant turmoil.
He grumbled as he put on his socks. His mood needed a fine day, calm with warm sun and blue sea and sky. He pulled on slacks and a heavy woollen jersey, hung a basket over his shoulder, locked the door and went down the stairs. Maria Massa was singing in the kitchen. He stopped and they talked in Spanish. He asked after the children and told her it was time she found a husband, and she laughed toothlessly and said she’d had one and that was enough and a new one would only give her more babies to struggle for and worry about. Silently reproaching the Pope, he reached the lane.
He went along it, turned into Calle Pedro de Tut and carried on past the Plaza de España, the school and seminary, following the sharp turns of Calle General Balanzat into the Avenida del General Franco.
As he passed the glass and picture shop he looked in to see if the dark girl was there. She was. He waved and saw her laugh, but she didn’t wave back.
He felt more cheerful and when he reached the pav
The room filled with the mosaic of a Debussy prelude, and the old man leant back in the chair, legs outstretched, his head resting on its back, his arms upon its sides. As his muscles relaxed , he felt the tiredness leave his body and his mindemptied. For several minutes he lay still, sublimated, before leaning forward to taste the coffee and liqueur.
The clock on the desk marked the quarter hour with a single chime. It was the signal to begin the tour of the gallery. He followed always an unchanging route, stopping to admire one picture, examining closely another.
At times he would stand before a picture, arms folded across his chest, cigar smoke gathering about his head, lost in the thoughts it evoked.
The clock on the desk chimed eleven soon after he’d left the last picture and gone back to the recess. From the bookcase he took an art catalogue and from the table a copy of The Connoisseur. He switched on a reading lamp, the red shade gleamed and its light suffused the armchair into which he dropped.
At eleven-thirty there was a knock on the door. It was Juan to announce the time, replace the coffee cup, decanter and liqueur glass on the tray and lift it from the table.
His master sighed, struggled out of the chair, returned the catalogue to the bookcase, the magazine to the table, and began a stiff-legged walk to the gallery doors. The servant went out first, the old man switched off the lights, closed the doors, locked them and pocketed the keys.
Then, with Juan following, he crossed the patio, keeping to the left of the pool, and descended the long flight of steps to the main house. Inside, Juan placed the tray on a side table and followed his master across the hall to the sitting-room in the west wing; there he stood at the foot of the stairs, impassive and sentry-like, as the old man went up them. Juan followed, closing the heavy iron gates on the landing against his master who locked them on the inside, their trellised patterns casting weird shadows on his scarred face.
‘ Buenas noches, Juan ‚’he called through the gates, and the servant answered, ‘ Buenas noches, señor .’
So ended, as always, the ritual of Hendrik Wilhelm van Biljon’s after-dinner visit to the gallery at Altomonte.
Chapter Seven
It was a grey day and from his room in the old town Black looked down on the harbour and saw the wind whip the smoke from the funnels of the steamers at the quays and blow it in rippling swathes across the water to Talamanca, the sea beyond the breakwater tumbling and boiling in distant turmoil.
He grumbled as he put on his socks. His mood needed a fine day, calm with warm sun and blue sea and sky. He pulled on slacks and a heavy woollen jersey, hung a basket over his shoulder, locked the door and went down the stairs. Maria Massa was singing in the kitchen. He stopped and they talked in Spanish. He asked after the children and told her it was time she found a husband, and she laughed toothlessly and said she’d had one and that was enough and a new one would only give her more babies to struggle for and worry about. Silently reproaching the Pope, he reached the lane.
He went along it, turned into Calle Pedro de Tut and carried on past the Plaza de España, the school and seminary, following the sharp turns of Calle General Balanzat into the Avenida del General Franco.
As he passed the glass and picture shop he looked in to see if the dark girl was there. She was. He waved and saw her laugh, but she didn’t wave back.
He felt more cheerful and when he reached the pav
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