boy.’
A flicker of surprise shone in Santiago’s eyes and the mask cracked for one brief moment.
Siglinde thought: You poor wretch you. It’s hell that you can’t find anyone who wants to. Good God, there should be a rescue corps of sensible women set up, women who could be sent here as instructors and sweep out all this hypocrisy and stupidity and complexes, before those fat masturbating priests and nuns have time to destroy this generation too.
When she looked at Santiago his face had changed yet again. His look was calm and reflective, and he moistened his lips with his tongue as he systematically sorted out the things on the floor.
A moment later they heard the truck start up and come nearer.
Dan Pedersen and Willi Mohr had been forced to take the bed to pieces to get it on the vehicle. Now they had to carry the sections upstairs and put it together again. When they had done it, Siglinde went up to look and burst out laughing. It was a huge wooden bedstead of stained oak with carved ornamentation along the sides. It would have held four people with comfort and it was a miracle that in a country so short of wood it had not been broken up years ago. Presumably no one had had the energy toset about the task. Siglinde tried it out and pronounced it creaking, dignified and pretentious.
Then they all went up to the Café Central and drank a bottle of white wine. The place was large and poor and almost empty. Near the door sat a few civil guards playing cards and at the far end was a rickety ping-pong table.
Dan Pedersen and Santiago played for a while. Dan was the better player and won in three straight sets, each time with a secure margin. When they changed ends for the last game, he said: ‘How’s things with Ramon?’
‘Not too good. Concussion, I think. But he got up and went out with the boat.’
‘With concussion? He shouldn’t have done that.’
‘He’s very strong.’
‘Yes, but there are limits.’
Half an hour later, they parted at the cross-roads, Santiago shaking hands with them, one after another.
‘You’ll be stopped by the patrols,’ said Dan.
‘They’ve stopped me so many times I think they’re sick of it now,’ said Santiago.
He drove all the way without once being stopped.
The others stood outside the house in Barrio Son Jofre. The cobblestones felt warm and friendly under their feet, and the star-studded sky arched over them between the mountains.
‘Apropos that corporal,’ said Siglinde. ‘Why doesn’t Santiago work like the others?’
‘It’s not just a matter of hauling up a whole lot of fish,’ said Dan Pedersen. ‘The problem is to sell it and get a decent price. If there were enough people like Santiago, then this country wouldn’t look as it does.’
‘You two are good friends, aren’t you?’ said Willi Mohr.
‘We’ve known each other a long time. Yes, we’re friends. Friendship is something special here, something to do with sacred principles, something important and meaningful. You’ll understand after a while.’
‘Genuine friendship isn’t something you pick up in the street,’ he added. ‘It’s as rare as love.’
He pushed open the creaking door and they stepped into their new home.
While Willi Mohr was undressing, he heard Dan and Siglinde moving about and talking upstairs. After a while the bed creaked and the wavering light on the stairs went out.
Willi Mohr thought about Barbara Heinemann.
‘Good-night, Willy, sleep well,’ called Dan and Siglinde from above.
‘Good-night, sleep well,’ said Willi Mohr.
He smiled in the darkness and tried to think: Perhaps after all …
Tomorrow he would paint.
8
Dan Pedersen was outwardly a man without inhibitions, whether physical or spiritual. He found it easy to make friends, easy to work, easy to love. He was outward-looking and open to impulses and impressions, had a mobile intellect and a quick temper, often falling victim to occasional weaknesses and depressions. Like his wife,
A flicker of surprise shone in Santiago’s eyes and the mask cracked for one brief moment.
Siglinde thought: You poor wretch you. It’s hell that you can’t find anyone who wants to. Good God, there should be a rescue corps of sensible women set up, women who could be sent here as instructors and sweep out all this hypocrisy and stupidity and complexes, before those fat masturbating priests and nuns have time to destroy this generation too.
When she looked at Santiago his face had changed yet again. His look was calm and reflective, and he moistened his lips with his tongue as he systematically sorted out the things on the floor.
A moment later they heard the truck start up and come nearer.
Dan Pedersen and Willi Mohr had been forced to take the bed to pieces to get it on the vehicle. Now they had to carry the sections upstairs and put it together again. When they had done it, Siglinde went up to look and burst out laughing. It was a huge wooden bedstead of stained oak with carved ornamentation along the sides. It would have held four people with comfort and it was a miracle that in a country so short of wood it had not been broken up years ago. Presumably no one had had the energy toset about the task. Siglinde tried it out and pronounced it creaking, dignified and pretentious.
Then they all went up to the Café Central and drank a bottle of white wine. The place was large and poor and almost empty. Near the door sat a few civil guards playing cards and at the far end was a rickety ping-pong table.
Dan Pedersen and Santiago played for a while. Dan was the better player and won in three straight sets, each time with a secure margin. When they changed ends for the last game, he said: ‘How’s things with Ramon?’
‘Not too good. Concussion, I think. But he got up and went out with the boat.’
‘With concussion? He shouldn’t have done that.’
‘He’s very strong.’
‘Yes, but there are limits.’
Half an hour later, they parted at the cross-roads, Santiago shaking hands with them, one after another.
‘You’ll be stopped by the patrols,’ said Dan.
‘They’ve stopped me so many times I think they’re sick of it now,’ said Santiago.
He drove all the way without once being stopped.
The others stood outside the house in Barrio Son Jofre. The cobblestones felt warm and friendly under their feet, and the star-studded sky arched over them between the mountains.
‘Apropos that corporal,’ said Siglinde. ‘Why doesn’t Santiago work like the others?’
‘It’s not just a matter of hauling up a whole lot of fish,’ said Dan Pedersen. ‘The problem is to sell it and get a decent price. If there were enough people like Santiago, then this country wouldn’t look as it does.’
‘You two are good friends, aren’t you?’ said Willi Mohr.
‘We’ve known each other a long time. Yes, we’re friends. Friendship is something special here, something to do with sacred principles, something important and meaningful. You’ll understand after a while.’
‘Genuine friendship isn’t something you pick up in the street,’ he added. ‘It’s as rare as love.’
He pushed open the creaking door and they stepped into their new home.
While Willi Mohr was undressing, he heard Dan and Siglinde moving about and talking upstairs. After a while the bed creaked and the wavering light on the stairs went out.
Willi Mohr thought about Barbara Heinemann.
‘Good-night, Willy, sleep well,’ called Dan and Siglinde from above.
‘Good-night, sleep well,’ said Willi Mohr.
He smiled in the darkness and tried to think: Perhaps after all …
Tomorrow he would paint.
8
Dan Pedersen was outwardly a man without inhibitions, whether physical or spiritual. He found it easy to make friends, easy to work, easy to love. He was outward-looking and open to impulses and impressions, had a mobile intellect and a quick temper, often falling victim to occasional weaknesses and depressions. Like his wife,
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