Read Online The White Schooner by Antony Trew - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Antony Trew
Ads: Link
é and the descent became steeper he began to whistle Colonel Bogey. His stride lengthened and in his mind he saw Alec Guinness at the head of the tattered battalion.
A group of children playing in the street called to him and he answered and told them to be good and obey their mothers, and when he’d passed they turned to watch him go and then, with a burst of laughter, went on with their games. He followed the cobbled road where it wound through one hundred and eighty degrees towards El Portal de Las Tablas, past La Carbonera, the Bodega D’Alt Vila, the Vitoria Bar, and the Sandal Shop. Each reminded him of something orsomeone. There were few bars in Ibiza he’d not visited. He turned right, passed through the gate and went down the ramp, turning into Calle Antonio Palau when he reached the market.
There was in the air that smell of recently baked bread and freshly ground coffee beans which he could never resist, so he stopped on the corner at the Bar Maravilla and drank coffee and ate ensaimadas and felt refreshed. It was after ten when he reached the post office and joined the lista de correos queue. Two American girls ahead of him talked incessantly and he listened in a casual offhand way, wondering who and what they were. In front of him a young German, tall with flaxen hair and broad leather-jacketed shoulders, shook his head in disbelief when the clerk said there was nothing for him. What was he expecting, wondered Black. Love letter, editorial slip, remittance? That was the most important mail for many on the island. It was difficult to be a drop-out for long if there wasn’t a patron somewhere in the background: a parent, a lover, a mistress, a family firm. It didn’t matter so long as the remittance came. There was no mail for him, so Black went out into the Paseo Vara de Rey, looking uncertainly up and down the street and then set off towards the telegraph office. Beyond it, outside the curio shop, he saw Werner Zolde leaning against the wall reading a letter. As he passed him, the German gave an affirmative nod. Black did not stop, nor did he acknowledge the other man, but he knew his letter had been received, its contents understood, that it would be acted upon expeditiously.
While he shopped he thought about the time-table. It was the twenty-seventh—three more weeks. Now that the time for action was approaching he felt a keying up, an apprehension, heightened by the unexpected presence of Hassan on Ibiza, which he’d not experienced for a long time. He was tired of acting a part and feared that somehow both his health and resolve might weaken if he played it too long. Not only had he to remain physically fit for what lay ahead, but he had to be psychologically tough. And that sort of fitness and toughness was difficult in a soft environment.
After posting the letter to Werner Zolde he had spent a good deal of the previous night studying the plan of Altomonte made from the notes taken in Haupt’s office. The gallery was in the west wing. The lights there had gone on atten o’clock. Was that a pattern or was it variable? Better to assume it was variable. The thing was to get into the house. It was difficult, probably impossible, to do it alone. He would need assistance. He thought of Manuela. He knew she liked him. Why, he couldn’t imagine. Perhaps she just liked people. She liked Kyriakou and he was a creep if ever there was one. But he was rich, and there were the drugs. If she were hooked, there was the explanation, ugly and uncomplicated. He couldn’t imagine why he felt bitter about that, He tried to laugh it off and knew he wasn’t succeeding and felt diminished. Surely to God he couldn’t allow himself to be influenced by this girl he didn’t know, whose only claim on him was that he had responded reluctantly to a cry for help because a drunken Cypriot had made a pass at her.
But since there was not much time left he would have to see something of her in the next few weeks if he was
A group of children playing in the street called to him and he answered and told them to be good and obey their mothers, and when he’d passed they turned to watch him go and then, with a burst of laughter, went on with their games. He followed the cobbled road where it wound through one hundred and eighty degrees towards El Portal de Las Tablas, past La Carbonera, the Bodega D’Alt Vila, the Vitoria Bar, and the Sandal Shop. Each reminded him of something orsomeone. There were few bars in Ibiza he’d not visited. He turned right, passed through the gate and went down the ramp, turning into Calle Antonio Palau when he reached the market.
There was in the air that smell of recently baked bread and freshly ground coffee beans which he could never resist, so he stopped on the corner at the Bar Maravilla and drank coffee and ate ensaimadas and felt refreshed. It was after ten when he reached the post office and joined the lista de correos queue. Two American girls ahead of him talked incessantly and he listened in a casual offhand way, wondering who and what they were. In front of him a young German, tall with flaxen hair and broad leather-jacketed shoulders, shook his head in disbelief when the clerk said there was nothing for him. What was he expecting, wondered Black. Love letter, editorial slip, remittance? That was the most important mail for many on the island. It was difficult to be a drop-out for long if there wasn’t a patron somewhere in the background: a parent, a lover, a mistress, a family firm. It didn’t matter so long as the remittance came. There was no mail for him, so Black went out into the Paseo Vara de Rey, looking uncertainly up and down the street and then set off towards the telegraph office. Beyond it, outside the curio shop, he saw Werner Zolde leaning against the wall reading a letter. As he passed him, the German gave an affirmative nod. Black did not stop, nor did he acknowledge the other man, but he knew his letter had been received, its contents understood, that it would be acted upon expeditiously.
While he shopped he thought about the time-table. It was the twenty-seventh—three more weeks. Now that the time for action was approaching he felt a keying up, an apprehension, heightened by the unexpected presence of Hassan on Ibiza, which he’d not experienced for a long time. He was tired of acting a part and feared that somehow both his health and resolve might weaken if he played it too long. Not only had he to remain physically fit for what lay ahead, but he had to be psychologically tough. And that sort of fitness and toughness was difficult in a soft environment.
After posting the letter to Werner Zolde he had spent a good deal of the previous night studying the plan of Altomonte made from the notes taken in Haupt’s office. The gallery was in the west wing. The lights there had gone on atten o’clock. Was that a pattern or was it variable? Better to assume it was variable. The thing was to get into the house. It was difficult, probably impossible, to do it alone. He would need assistance. He thought of Manuela. He knew she liked him. Why, he couldn’t imagine. Perhaps she just liked people. She liked Kyriakou and he was a creep if ever there was one. But he was rich, and there were the drugs. If she were hooked, there was the explanation, ugly and uncomplicated. He couldn’t imagine why he felt bitter about that, He tried to laugh it off and knew he wasn’t succeeding and felt diminished. Surely to God he couldn’t allow himself to be influenced by this girl he didn’t know, whose only claim on him was that he had responded reluctantly to a cry for help because a drunken Cypriot had made a pass at her.
But since there was not much time left he would have to see something of her in the next few weeks if he was
Similar Books
