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  It was the high walls that were most striking. Each was lined with small doors on four levels, evenly spaced. A gap in the far wall led into another square in which there was another town surrounded by walls with doors. It seemed to William like the physical embodiment of an imaginary scene someone had once described to him, his reactions to which were supposedly revealing of character.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ she said.

  ‘Beautiful?’

  She stared at the clean black and white tombs. ‘It is my big ambition. If I can get enough money I will have all my family and myself buried here. But it is very expensive.’

  William tried to view it more sympathetically. The place was well kept, which was all he could bring himself to say for it. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes, it is only for the rich people.’

  The elaboration and the expense, the attempt to make permanent what had gone for ever, were to William grotesque and depressing. ‘I expect there are flowers here in the summer.’

  ‘Many, many flowers, all so beautiful. I come here and walk with Ines. It is the best part of the city. Where would you like to be buried?’

  ‘I’ve never thought about it.’

  She laughed. ‘Die here.’

  ‘My predecessors have.’

  ‘Then you can have a box in the wall, if your company will pay.’

  He looked up at the doors. ‘What are they?’

  ‘They’re graves. Most of them take whole families. That is why the walls are big.’

  ‘And they have numbers?’

  ‘Yes. There are thousands. Nearly everyone has to go in the wall now because the ground is full.’

  The cobbles and bricks of the little streets had been worn smooth by generations of mourners. Her heels clicked on them. William’s rubber shoes made him move without sound.

  ‘It’s very quiet in here,’ he said. ‘You can’t hear any traffic’

  ‘All the dead people are enjoying themselves in heaven.’

  ‘All of them?’

  She smiled. ‘Nearly all. Nearly all are Catholic, you see. You are Protestant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘I’m not really anything.’

  ‘William, you must be something.’

  It was tempting to pretend that he was agonised by the issue. At one time he had felt vaguely that he might be something but it seemed more honest not to be anything.

  ‘Look – English,’ she said. ‘They must have been something.’

  In one corner was a row of six Imperial War Graves Commission headstones, plain and unadorned, the grass around them neat and trim. Four commemorated Scottish sailors killed in action on a cruiser off the coast during the Second World War, the other two Welsh soldiers from the Great War. ‘Not quite English,’ he said, ‘but yes, probably they were something.’

  From the next square of the cemetery he could see another beyond that. The graves in the wall were now in the 1,000 series. He hoped number 1066 wasn’t one of the high ones.

  ‘I like your furs,’ he said.

  ‘They were given me but I had to sell them.’

  ‘But you’ve still got them.’

  ‘They were given me again.’

  ‘By someone else?’

  ‘No, by the same person. He bought them back. He was always giving me things.’

  ‘He doesn’t now, then?’

  She nodded at the next square. ‘He is through there.’

  ‘He must have been very rich.’

  ‘He was the governor of the national bank.’

  He remembered the great doors of the treasury and the bank. ‘Did you visit him at work?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Did he die long ago?’

  ‘Not long.’

  Number 1066 was one of the bottom doors and was obviously old, made of black wood and studded with heavy metal. As Box had said, it was the grave of the family Bustillo. The door was about four feet high and three wide. Through a small iron grille William could just make out the corner of a coffin. The chill damp of the tomb seemed to reach into the sunlight. Anything to do with death horrified him.

  He turned to Theresa. ‘I am a British spy and I love you very much.’

  ‘They have made a new cemetery near the river but it is not as nice as this.’

  She had continued walking. He hurried after her. ‘Theresa, did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Of course.’ She looked down at the points of her shoes.

  ‘I know you can’t love me but I wanted you to know.’ He didn’t know what to do with his hands. They had never been a problem before. She had hers in the pockets of the banker’s fur coat. He clasped his behind his back and walked in step beside her, head lowered like hers. He thought they probably looked like a couple who had been visiting a dear departed – the banker, for instance – and were now subject to intimations of mortality. ‘I could lose some weight,’ he offered.

  She smiled without looking up. ‘No, no. You are William. That’s enough.’

  ‘We could run away. We could go to England. I could work there and support you and then you wouldn’t have to be – to go through with tonight. Or we could go somewhere else. Anywhere.’

  ‘You are very romantic.’

  ‘I am very important – I mean, serious.’ His Spanish was breaking down under pressure. ‘You’re laughing at me.’

  She looked at him. ‘It’s funny, don’t you think? We are here, in the cemetery, you are a British spy and tonight you are going to help the woman you love to be the mistress of the president. It is too ridiculous to be serious. It must be funny.’

  ‘But you do not love me.’

  ‘I didn’t say so.’

  ‘If you did, how could you do this with the president?’

  ‘I could say, how could you take me to him if you loved me? But you will, won’t you? And it won’t mean you do not love me.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘It’s quite funny, isn’t it, this love?’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  She nudged him with her elbow, as Ines had. ‘William, please do not be so important.’

  The next square was like the others but the walls were thinner, the doors smaller and apparently made of tin.

  ‘They look like left-luggage lockers,’ he said. ‘They even have locks like them.’

  ‘That’s what they are. Waiting for collection on Judgement Day.’

  ‘Only they’re smaller.’

  ‘They take ashes now. You can get many generations of a family in one.’

  ‘More if you mix them all together.’

  She led off to the left, walking faster. They met a portly woman in furs whom Theresa greeted politely.

  ‘That was the banker’s widow,’ she said.

  ‘Is he near here?’

  ‘Number 4010 – up there.’

  William looked at the name. ‘I thought he was still the governor of the bank.’

  ‘That is his son.’

  ‘Does – did she, the widow, know—?’

  ‘Oh, yes. My mother used to work for her. She cleaned the house. That was why.’

  ‘I see.’

  He didn’t, but didn’t want to go on asking. ‘We should arrange where to meet tonight, where I should pick you up. Will you be going home to change?’

  ‘No. Meet me at the club at eight o’clock.’

  ‘Won’t that be a bit obvious?’

  ‘People who don’t know will think I’m going with you. That’s all right.’

  It felt to William as if they were both talking about what they would do after they were dead. ‘Were you surprised when I said I was a British spy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does everyone know?’

  ‘Of course. It’s your job, isn’t it? With the company?’

  ‘Not with the company, no. It’s separate. But no one seems to mind. It doesn’t seem to matter that I’m a spy. No one does anything about it.’

&
nbsp; ‘Why should they? Spying doesn’t do any harm.’

  ‘What do they say about my client – the chap I was with?’

  ‘They don’t say anything. No one has seen him before. Does he work for you?’

  ‘Not really, no, but he is involved. He wants to find out what the president wants.’

  ‘I can tell you and you can tell him.’

  ‘That’s what he suggested.’

  She nudged him again. ‘William, I told you, a funny thing, this love.’

  ‘But that isn’t why I’m seeing you, why I want to go on seeing you.’

  She smiled. ‘Is it not?’

  He smiled despite himself. ‘No, really, it isn’t. Of course it was part of it at first, it gave me an excuse. But I’d drop everything now, as I said. If you want to go, I’ll take you. Anywhere.’ He stared at her with an expression intended to reinforce his seriousness. ‘You have only to say so. I’d rather take you anywhere than to Carlos. I never liked him much, even at school.’

  She laughed and put her hand on his arm. ‘William, you are a perfect English gentleman. But I could not let you take me away. You could never marry someone like me.’

  ‘Why not?’ He remembered Sally as he spoke. It was very odd that he should simply have forgotten her. ‘Why not?’

  ‘You don’t know me.’

  ‘You mean, because of what you do and where you come from? That would all change.’ He felt certain that whatever now happened to him in life would be different as a result of this conversation, for good or ill. ‘I would marry you, Theresa.’

  ‘You cannot speak like this. You do not know me. I do not know you.’

  ‘That’s no problem. We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Or supposed to be.’

  ‘You should not be flippant about this.’

  He stopped walking, making her do the same. ‘Look, Theresa, I’ll do anything to marry you, live anywhere, do any job, go on a diet, anything.’

  She smiled again. ‘That would not be necessary.’

  ‘You mean you don’t mind my being fat?’

  ‘You’re not fat or thin for me. You’re William.’

  This was the best news he had ever had. He wanted to hug and kiss her but she kept the distance between them, not so much physically as by thinking it. He could feel her insisting. Frankness depended on it.

  ‘If I could do it this afternoon, I would,’ he continued. ‘I’d have to get a divorce, of course, but I think it would be unopposed so it shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘You are married?’

  ‘I thought you knew.’

  ‘You never said.’

  ‘I didn’t think. I thought you knew.’ He felt as if he had been caught out in some shabby deceit. ‘Really, I didn’t realise.’

  ‘You propose to one woman when you are married to another?’

  Her dark eyes were impregnable. He would have much preferred her to be hot and angry. ‘It wasn’t like that, Theresa, it isn’t like that. I didn’t mean to deceive you. I am not going to deceive Sally. I just thought you knew. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sally. Her name is Sally?’

  ‘Yes. She’s a teacher. She works at the American School of English.’ He felt that the detail somehow ameliorated it.

  ‘I had thought you were an English gentleman.’

  She walked back up the cobbled path between the graves. William wanted to follow but it was she who dictated distance. He could still feel her insistence. When she had turned the corner he looked up at left-luggage locker number 4010. He hated the graves, the lockers, the people for being dead, for having been alive, the banker for having made Theresa his mistress, the president for being about to do the same, Theresa for always being someone’s mistress but never his, not ever, not now. How could she, the whore, accuse him of not being an English gentleman? What right had she to expect that of him, even supposing that either of them knew what it meant? He had not sought to deceive, he had simply not thought.

  William could not hate or be angry for more than about thirty seconds. He had disappointed, that was the point. He had led her on – not intentionally – but that was what he had done. It mattered not that she was a prostitute nor that they had agreed no definition of a gentleman. The ideal did not need defining for one to know that one had fallen short, nor was it necessary for one to have tried to be a gentleman in order to have failed; being aware of the ideal was sufficient. Gentlemen who wished to marry prostitutes did not forget their wives.

  It was markedly colder on his walk home that evening, cold enough to do up his duffel coat and put his hands in the pockets. If it got much colder he would take his gloves down from the wardrobe shelf. They were sheepskin mittens and he hadn’t worn them for a long time. He liked dressing against the cold.

  The wind flattened the grass of the golf course and the stunted trees quivered. Señor Finn sat hunched over his fire. The sea was brown and choppy.

  William had to go close because the noise drowned out conversation from his normal respectful distance. The old man had wrapped a grey blanket around his bulky clothes and the dog was still tied up nearby. The upturned boat looked as if it had been in the water. The dog barked once.

  ‘All right?’ William called.

  ‘Bad weather coming.’

  ‘Feels like it.’

  The old man put his hands to his cheeks and rubbed his white bristles, at the same time sticking out one thumb almost at right-angles. ‘They bring it with them.’

  ‘Who?’ William had to shout above the waves.

  ‘They do. Them.’

  Señor Finn indicated with his thumb and rolled his eyes to the right. When William looked he saw a black Mercedes parked some way down the road. There were some men in it but he could see only the backs of their heads.

  ‘Who are they?’

  Señor Finn’s reply was smothered by a large wave. The cold spray reached as far as William, stinging his cheeks and spattering his glasses.

  ‘They want you,’ Señor Finn called again.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘They ask about the foreigner. You are Inglés?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was in England. I was a sailor. Nice place.’

  ‘What did they ask?’

  ‘I was in Liverpool. Big city.’

  ‘What did they say about me?’

  ‘They asked if you ask questions. I say you ask only for money.’

  ‘For money?’

  ‘You are beggar. You beg from me.’ Señor Finn sat back, clutching his blanket, his red cheeks wobbling with laughter. ‘You beg from me,’ he shouted.

  ‘What did they say then?’

  ‘They don’t say anything. They don’t like me. Also, they don’t like you.’ Señor Finn wiped tears from his eyes with his knuckles. ‘They are waiting for you, I think. They will talk to you.’

  ‘I’ll tell them you had no money.’ Señor Finn nodded, still laughing. A thought struck William. ‘Would you like some?’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Yes. Do you want any?’

  Señor Finn stopped laughing. ‘You have some?’

  William took out all the loose change from his pocket, plus a couple of banknotes. Eyed by the terrier, he walked forward and held out his hand over the fire. Señor Finn’s palm was broad and hard.

  ‘Gracias, señor.’

  It had never before occurred to William that Señor Finn might be in need of money. He could have given him a little every day. He would from now on.

  ‘I’ll see you again soon.’

  ‘Gracias, señor.’

  William approached the black Mercedes with a kind of light-hearted fatalism. He would see Theresa again that night, not all was lost, everything else was peripheral. A soldier wearing the olive-greens of the security police got out of the car and opened the rear door. Manuel Herrera got out. He too wore olive-greens but with a holster and pistol. His boots were polished and he looked spruce and ple
ased with himself. When he smiled, his big even teeth reminded William of the six Imperial War Graves.

  ‘Perhaps your English masochism has a point, Señor Wooding. It is bracing to walk in such weather in such a place.’

  ‘Soldiers’ weather,’ said William.

  The thought seemed to please Manuel. They shook hands and Manuel held out his other arm. ‘Let us walk on the beach for a while. I’m not detaining you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘It is your coat that should be detained, for carrying hammers. Tell me, Señor Wooding, why do you have such an old coat and such a strange one, so unfashionable? Surely you or your company could afford a new one? Your company particularly.’

  ‘I like it. I’ve had it a long time.’

  ‘You are a traditionalist?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘An interesting position in time of revolution.’

  ‘At least people know where I stand.’

  ‘That would be helpful if it were true.’

  William did not respond. His instinct was to leave it to Manuel to say what he wanted. He did not want to be difficult nor to betray himself by being nervously helpful. They crunched along the shingle, heading away from Señor Finn’s hut. The wind and spray whipped in from the sea. It wasn’t easy to walk on the slippery shingle and they plodded for a while with heads down.

  ‘Señor Wooding,’ Manuel began again, now in the politely formal tone he had used when they first met in the covered market. ‘Señor Wooding, I have something to say, something informal – off the record, as journalists say. I like you and you are an asset to our country. We need people like you, foreigners who are sympathetic and understanding to help us build a prosperous and peaceful society. We do not want to drive foreign investment away, we want the opposite so that we can all work together, all be equal, no one poor, everyone happy and internationally peaceful and non-aligned. Do you understand me?’

  The phrases were familiar to William from his readings of the local press. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Non-aligned,’ Manuel repeated deliberately. ‘And fair and prosperous. And we wish to help you so that you can help us. We can help in all sorts of ways. For instance, an order has been placed with your company by the Ministry of Information, has it not? Very good. I imagine your company welcomes business’ – he paused just long enough to glance at William with a slight smile – ‘and no doubt more government business could be arranged. Also, I understand you have a problem with strikes at present. Indeed you went to see for yourself, did you not?’