Medusa by Hammond Innes

people. Not those who come to end their lifes here, but the summer migration. It is a question of the environment. So you speak about that, hah?’
    He stopped there, waiting for some acknowledgement, and when I made no comment he said brusquely, ‘You speak about the regulations the developers are agreeing to. Also you say this
urbanización
is a good developing; it is small, villas not too close, the environment of Albufera acknowledged, and it is good for our island. It brings work, it brings money, some foreign currency. Okay? You speak first in Spanish, then in English, so very short speaking, but the political point made very clear.’ And he added, ‘I am informed you always have good co-operation with my officials at the
ayuntiamento
. So you agree, hah?’
    He had that explosive way of asking a question and insisting on agreement at the same time. In any case, when you have had a few drinks, and the commitment is over two weeks away, it is easier to say yes than to think up some convincing excuse on the spur of the moment. ‘
Bueno, bueno
.’ He smiled, a glint of gold teeth. ‘So nice to talk with you, señor.’ I was dismissed, and I left the table with the feeling that if I had declined his invitation he would have seen to it that next time I needed a permit for something from the Mahon town hall it would not be forthcoming. But a speech in Spanish – or did he mean the local Catalan, which is very different? In any case, my Spanish was a hybrid of the two, having been picked up quite haphazardly as occasion demanded.
    Somebody had thrown a pile of furze on the fire, the band half-drowned in the crackle of the flames. Florez passed, light on his feet, the young woman in his arms glittering with tinsel, the button eyes in his round facefixed on the table I had just left as though watching for an opportunity to ingratiate himself. I went back to the bar and stood there watching the shadows of the dancers moving against the limestone roofing and the far recesses of the great cavern. The dancers themselves were a flicker of fire-red images, the whole scene so lurid and theatrical that it seemed almost grotesque, the band thumping out a brazen cacophony of sound that ricocheted off the stone walls, the beat so magnified it almost split one’s ears.
    â€˜Manuela has a good idea, no?’ a voice shouted in my ear. It was the Commander of the Naval Base. ‘Why does nobody think to use this place before? It is magnificent, eh?’
    The music stopped abruptly, the dancers coming to a halt. Floodlights either side of the cavern entrance were switched on, spotlighting white-capped cooks and the charcoal fires with their steaming pans of soup and steaks sizzling and flaming on the coals. Lloyd Jones had stopped quite near us and I hailed him over. ‘I’d like you to meet Fernando Perez,’ I said. ‘He’s
Jefe
of the Navy here.’ I introduced him as Lieutenant Lloyd Jones of the Royal Navy, adding, ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
    I sensed a moment’s hesitancy. ‘In fact, I’m now a Lieutenant Commander.’ He laughed, a little embarrassed. ‘I’ve just been promoted.’
    We offered him our congratulations and Perez asked him what he was doing in Menorca. ‘You are on leave per’aps?’ He had a good command of English, particularly sea terminology, having had a short exchange posting to an RN carrier, though quite why they sent him to an aircraft carrier when he was a gunnery officer I don’t know.
    â€˜Yes, on leave,’ Lloyd Jones said.
    â€˜You have a ship, or are you posting ashore, like me?’ And Fernando Perez gave a deprecatory little smile.
    â€˜No, I’m very lucky,’ Lloyd Jones replied. ‘With the promotion I’ve been offered a ship.’
    â€˜And where is that?’
    â€˜I’ll be joining at Gibraltar as soon as my leave is up.’
    Fernando