A Dead Man in Barcelona by Michael Pearce Page B

‘To warn, perhaps? To warn others not to be too friendly?’
    He suddenly seemed to become nervous at his own frankness.
    ‘Who are you?’ he said.
    ‘I’m British,’ said Seymour. ‘Like Lockhart. A British policeman. Lockhart had British friends. Who are wondering what happened to him.’
    ‘A policeman?’ said the Arab doubtfully.
    ‘A British one,’ said Seymour.
    ‘Not Spanish?’
    ‘No.’
    The Arab seemed relieved.
    ‘The Spanish police came here,’ he said. ‘They wanted to know things about him. But we wouldn’t say anything.’
    ‘What might you have said?’
    But the Arab did not reply.
    Or perhaps he did.
    ‘Lockhart had many friends,’ he said.
    ‘Arab friends?’
    Si .’
    ‘I would like to meet some of those friends.’
    The Arab thought.
    ‘You are British?’ he said, as it seeking reassurance.
    ‘Yes. Cannot you hear it?’
    The Arab smiled.
    ‘Just,’ he said.
    Afterwards, Seymour thought that there was something strange about it: an Arab testing an Englishman’s facility in Spanish. But the Arab seemed to see nothing strange in it. Perhaps he thought of himself as Spanish? He certainly spoke Spanish like a native and seemed confident of his ability to judge Seymour’s Spanish.
    ‘Whenever Señor Lockhart came down here,’ he said, ‘he always used to go to a particular café to play dominoes.’
    ‘Where would I find it?’
    ‘It’s further on along the Calle. On the left.’
    ‘A name, perhaps?’
    The Arab hesitated.
    ‘Mine is Seymour.’
    ‘You could try asking for Ibrahim.’
    As they were going out, the Arab looked at Chantale as if seeing her for the first time. Perhaps he was seeing her for the first time. When in the presence of women, Arabs often didn’t seem to notice them. This was not necessarily rudeness; indeed, to them it was politeness. It was felt offensive to address a woman directly, almost shockingly so, if she was with her husband – as, Seymour suspected, Chantale might well be supposed to be.
    ‘The Señora, perhaps, knew Lockhart?’
    ‘Not directly,’ said Chantale.
    ‘The Señora –’ there it was again, the obliqueness – ‘is perhaps from Algeria?’
    ‘Tangier.’
    ‘Ah, yes. Señor Lockhart knew many people in Tangier.’
    Seymour wondered if he could make use of Chantale’s Arabness when he went to the café. Perhaps her being an Arab would in a way vouch for him. He suggested she go with him.
    Chantale said it wouldn’t do at all. Arab women never entered cafés, even with their menfolk. It was a very bad idea.
    Seymour had to accept this but he was reluctant to abandon the idea altogether. As a foreigner, he felt he needed some kind of entrée into the Arab world, some kind of guarantee that he was a friend. He knew from experience that with immigrants this would be especially important.
    In the end they decided that she would not go into the café with him but they would establish the link outside. They would go into the quarter together and then part. Chantale would go to the little market and make some purchases, as if shopping for a family. Seymour meanwhile would go into the café alone. When she had finished making her purchases she would stand outside the café patiently waiting for him. That, she said, ought to clinch it!
    The café was set slightly below ground, as was usually the case with Arab coffee houses, and to enter it you had to go down some steps. Inside, it was dark. It was the Arab way to retreat from the sun and heat. There were stone benches around the wall and men were sitting on them either drinking coffee from small enamel cups or puffing away at bubble pipes on the ground beside them.
    The men were all Arabs and Seymour at once felt himself to be, or was made to feel, an intruder. He sat down, however, in a corner with a low table in front of him. It was some time before he was served, one of those ways in which a café can make a customer feel he is not wanted. But then a waiter came up and put a