BARBARY COAST #2
Soon, the streets grew more crowded. Modern buildings sprang up amongst the old, their signs bellowing for my attention: HOTEL DETROIT, CAFé-BAR POSTO, BOUCHERIE BENSIMON.
Donkeys idled on corners beneath signs for Marlboro and Coca-Cola and Cinzano.
From a rusted basement window, a child’s face looked up at me, gaunt and solemn.
I was shoved by passers-by whenever I stopped on the narrow street, but I couldn’t help it.
I couldn’t stop looking, for here – it seemed – was everything.
Brightness and misery, rope sandals and gleaming shoes, animal dung and French perfume, music and screamed insults.
A boy elbowed past, newspapers bristling on his arms like the feathers of city pigeons.
Edición noche! he bawled at a group of men who sat smoking on a step.
Edition soir! Evening paper, sir! Abendausgabe!
From above, I heard a shriek and jumped to the side just as a splash of liquid came cascading down. Every orifice of every building seemed to be spilling, oozing with life.
A few steps on, the street seemed to take pity and expand a few paces, leaving room to breathe.
Here it was brighter, café awnings marching down the sides of a small square.
I took a step towards one of the bars, my heart squeezing at the thought of fulfilling my dream: of sitting down on my own and ordering a drink, like any young man in a hot foreign city.
But after a moment, I felt someone watching me.
It was a woman at a table near by, an unlit cigarette in her hand.
Her red hair was tightly curled, eyelashes black with mascara, smudged beneath.
She smiled and raised an eyebrow. No one had ever looked at me that way before. Face burning, I turned away, too late.
‘Do you have a light?’ she called in English.
Her accent was strange. American, I realized, looking from her to the two men at her table. I’d never met Americans before. All three of them were young, and deeply tanned, yet the skin of their faces looked waxy and one of the young men had bloodshot eyes. Too much, those faces said, too much.
‘Well?’ she asked again, waving her cigarette.
‘No, senora,’ I muttered. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Senorita, please,’ she said. She looked up at me again through her lashes. ‘And no matter. Are you lost?’
‘No.’ I kept my face lowered.
‘Well, you sure look it. You must be new in town?’
I nodded, glancing over my shoulder, wondering how to escape.
‘I always can tell.’ She began to search through a tiny bag on her lap. ‘Looking for anyone?’
I took a step away, only to hesitate. The Americans looked wealthy enough. And I had to start somewhere. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I am looking for someone. His name is Arthur Langham.’
They looked blank. I repeated my question in broken French, until the blond man made a noise of recognition.
‘Langham? Is that what you’re saying? Langham?’
‘Sí, Langham,’ I tried to swallow the sound as he did. ‘You know him?’
‘Sure. He lives up on the hill.’ He jerked his hand vaguely. ‘Big place, huh, Dolores?’
‘Langham?’ The woman frowned. ‘Oh, him! Yes, what’s his place called? Like a ship, or a goddess.’
‘Dar Portuna,’ the third man said moodily.
‘That’s it! Dar Portuna.’ She looked at me. ‘Why? Do you actually know the man?’
I faltered. I had known that Langham was rich, and upper class; the woman with him had been a Lady after all, but these people spoke about him as if he were a king.
My suit, which had felt so respectable in La Atunara, seemed to be unravelling as I stood there, revealing me for what I was.
A stray dog, trailing along after a scrap of kindness. I firmed my chin.
‘Yes, I know Langham,’ I said, with as much confidence as I could. ‘We were in Gibraltar together. I was going to call on him, but I lost his address. Perhaps you would be kind, and show me the way?’
The woman’s eyes kept landing on parts of my face, my lip, my cheek, the corner of my eye. This close, I could smell the gin she had been drinking, her powder and perfume.
‘Why certainly,’ she said. ‘I’d be delighted to. Join us, won’t you?’
The men seemed none too pleased when she said that, but they shifted their chairs to make room for me.
‘Dolores Moberly.’ She gave me her hand, and I brushed my lips across it. ‘That’s Bobby Tallerton and Jim Clough.’ She gestured at the two men.
‘Glad to meet you,’ I said, not caring which was which. ‘My name is del Potro. Alejandro del Potro.’
‘Well, isn’t this something?’ Dolores was leaning towards me. ‘To meet a friend of Mr Langham’s down here in the socco. I confess I’ve only been up to the house once, so far. It’s the devil’s work to get an invitation. I’m sure we won’t have any trouble, though, with you being a personal friend.’
I almost laughed when I heard her tone. She thought I was her ticket into Langham’s house, when in fact she was mine.
‘Do you know,’ I asked, doing my best impersonation of a gentleman’s bored voice, ‘if Lady de Luca Bailey is here with him?’
Dolores’ eyes grew round. ‘You know Lady Bailey too?’
‘Sí, senorita. I saw her only a few days ago.’
‘I believe she is here, yes. I must say, though, she isn’t what I would call a good hostess. She didn’t do a scrap of entertaining when I was there last, not one introduction—’
‘That’s because she isn’t the hostess,’ one of the men said lazily. ‘She’s just a guest up there.’
‘What trash,’ Dolores laughed. ‘Everyone knows she and Langham are special friends.’
‘Not what I heard,’ the other man said, with a strange, leering smile. ‘I heard he’s one of them.’
‘But the two of them have been seen together,’ Dolores persisted. ‘And people say he was engaged to a Russian heiress, after the war.’
‘Smoke and mirrors, darling,’ the man said, taking a cigarette. ‘It always is.’
Dolores turned her bright eyes on me. ‘Well, which is it? Surely you know whether Langham and Lady Bailey are … au fait.’
‘I—’ I stammered. I had no idea whether Langham and Lady Bailey were a couple. They had certainly seemed close. But I remembered the feel of Langham’s eyes on me, his expression. One of them. My face began to burn.
I was saved from answering by the appearance of a waiter.
‘What’ll we have?’ Dolores asked.
‘Scotch?’ the moody man suggested.
I swallowed. Blood and ice and liquor, pooling on the floorboards …
‘Not Scotch,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘Something else.’
‘Mr del Potro is quite right. Brandy is better. Fundador!’ she said to the waiter. ‘Fundador and a bottle of Apollinaris! Vite!’
She looked back at me and laughed, her knee touching mine beneath the table. And though my guts were kinked with nerves, I smiled back and tried to do the things any young man might, until I could convince her to take me to Dar Portuna, and to Langham.