him politely but warily.
He sat down at one of the tables outside, where no one would hear them, and asked for a coffee. When she brought it, he said:
‘Dolores, I would like some advice.’
‘From me?’ she said, surprised. She thought for a moment and then said, ‘Well, my advice would be for you to go back home.’
‘Would you like that?’
She considered. ‘No. But it’s good advice.’
‘I’ve been to the prison,’ Seymour said, ‘and I’ve got nowhere.’
‘Well, that’s a surprise.’
‘I talked to the governor. I want to talk to people lower down. Other prisoners. People who were there when Lockhart died and who might know something about it.’
‘I can’t help you,’ said Dolores, dabbing at the table.
‘Can’t?’ said Seymour. ‘Or won’t?’
‘Look,’ said Dolores. ‘I’ve got a life to live and I want to live it. Lockhart told me to stay out of it and I reckon he knew what he was doing. Because he didn’t and now he is dead. I don’t want to be like that. Manuel said the same.’
‘It’s about Manuel that I want to talk.’
‘About Manuel ?’ she said, surprised.
‘Yes. You said that when you couldn’t get into the prison to see Lockhart, Manuel said he would fix it. And later he did. Could he do that for me, do you think?’
‘No. He did it for me because I was one of his girls. He looks after us waitresses, you know, and he knew how things were between me and Lockhart. He wouldn’t do it for just anybody.’
‘This is still Lockhart.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘If you asked him.’
‘He knows that Lockhart is dead. And he’s said, “Now that he’s dead, forget him.”’
‘You can’t forget him, though, can you?’
She moved away and began polishing a little vigorously.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, I can’t.’
‘You told me to see the people in England did not forget him, either. I’m doing that. But I need help. Will you help me?’
She moved away to another table.
He waited but she did not come back.
He finished his coffee and got up to go, putting some coins on the table. At the last moment she came back.
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ she said. ‘He knows you’ve come from England and that you want to know about Lockhart. You could say you were asking on behalf of Lockhart’s father. Manuel is very keen on fathers. He never had one himself and he has this idealistic picture. I’ll take you in to him and say that you’ve come to me and I don’t know what to do.’
‘Ah, Señor,’ said Manuel, ‘it is too late now. No one can do anything.’
His large brown eyes looked at Seymour sadly. He had a big droopy face and, with the eyes, the effect was of a large, doleful spaniel.
‘I know,’ said Seymour. ‘Nevertheless, the father –’
‘Ah, the father,’ sighed Manuel.
Seymour took him confidentially by the arm. ‘All I can hope to do is set his mind at peace.’ ‘Of course. Of course!’
‘It is the uncertainty that is tearing him apart. All he knows is that his son has disappeared in a foreign country. He cannot believe that he is dead. How could he be? How could such a thing happen? In a country like Spain? It must be a mistake.
‘Someone has spoken of prison. But how can that be? His son, he knows, is no criminal. It is, surely, a mistake. A clerical error. You know these clerks, you know these bureaucrats. Well, it will be the same in Spain as it is in England. Some fool of a clerk has got it wrong. It must be so! And so he goes on tearing himself apart.
‘If I could find out something for sure, then perhaps that would help him. If it was only to confirm that he was dead. At the moment, you see, he cannot believe that he is dead. He goes on hoping that he is still alive. And he will until he knows for sure.’
‘Alas,’ said Manuel sympathetically, ‘there can be no doubt.’
‘But told in a notification from a prison! Cold, bald, remote. Can it be relied on? An institution – big, heartless,
He sat down at one of the tables outside, where no one would hear them, and asked for a coffee. When she brought it, he said:
‘Dolores, I would like some advice.’
‘From me?’ she said, surprised. She thought for a moment and then said, ‘Well, my advice would be for you to go back home.’
‘Would you like that?’
She considered. ‘No. But it’s good advice.’
‘I’ve been to the prison,’ Seymour said, ‘and I’ve got nowhere.’
‘Well, that’s a surprise.’
‘I talked to the governor. I want to talk to people lower down. Other prisoners. People who were there when Lockhart died and who might know something about it.’
‘I can’t help you,’ said Dolores, dabbing at the table.
‘Can’t?’ said Seymour. ‘Or won’t?’
‘Look,’ said Dolores. ‘I’ve got a life to live and I want to live it. Lockhart told me to stay out of it and I reckon he knew what he was doing. Because he didn’t and now he is dead. I don’t want to be like that. Manuel said the same.’
‘It’s about Manuel that I want to talk.’
‘About Manuel ?’ she said, surprised.
‘Yes. You said that when you couldn’t get into the prison to see Lockhart, Manuel said he would fix it. And later he did. Could he do that for me, do you think?’
‘No. He did it for me because I was one of his girls. He looks after us waitresses, you know, and he knew how things were between me and Lockhart. He wouldn’t do it for just anybody.’
‘This is still Lockhart.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘If you asked him.’
‘He knows that Lockhart is dead. And he’s said, “Now that he’s dead, forget him.”’
‘You can’t forget him, though, can you?’
She moved away and began polishing a little vigorously.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, I can’t.’
‘You told me to see the people in England did not forget him, either. I’m doing that. But I need help. Will you help me?’
She moved away to another table.
He waited but she did not come back.
He finished his coffee and got up to go, putting some coins on the table. At the last moment she came back.
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ she said. ‘He knows you’ve come from England and that you want to know about Lockhart. You could say you were asking on behalf of Lockhart’s father. Manuel is very keen on fathers. He never had one himself and he has this idealistic picture. I’ll take you in to him and say that you’ve come to me and I don’t know what to do.’
‘Ah, Señor,’ said Manuel, ‘it is too late now. No one can do anything.’
His large brown eyes looked at Seymour sadly. He had a big droopy face and, with the eyes, the effect was of a large, doleful spaniel.
‘I know,’ said Seymour. ‘Nevertheless, the father –’
‘Ah, the father,’ sighed Manuel.
Seymour took him confidentially by the arm. ‘All I can hope to do is set his mind at peace.’ ‘Of course. Of course!’
‘It is the uncertainty that is tearing him apart. All he knows is that his son has disappeared in a foreign country. He cannot believe that he is dead. How could he be? How could such a thing happen? In a country like Spain? It must be a mistake.
‘Someone has spoken of prison. But how can that be? His son, he knows, is no criminal. It is, surely, a mistake. A clerical error. You know these clerks, you know these bureaucrats. Well, it will be the same in Spain as it is in England. Some fool of a clerk has got it wrong. It must be so! And so he goes on tearing himself apart.
‘If I could find out something for sure, then perhaps that would help him. If it was only to confirm that he was dead. At the moment, you see, he cannot believe that he is dead. He goes on hoping that he is still alive. And he will until he knows for sure.’
‘Alas,’ said Manuel sympathetically, ‘there can be no doubt.’
‘But told in a notification from a prison! Cold, bald, remote. Can it be relied on? An institution – big, heartless,
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