Tango by Alan Judd

stepped sideways from the table so as not to show his profile and walked quickly through the nearest swing-door, which led to the kitchen. There were raised voices in a mixture of
Spanish and German. Box backed out and, still without facing the restaurant, walked smartly down the corridor to the toilets. The waiter, who with his three new customers had been watching the
spectacle, hurried into the kitchen. He came out with another man, went to the till and came across to William with the bill. He stood by while William paid.
    William had to pass the group on his way to the door.
    ‘You like German food?’ Ines asked.
    ‘But your friend does not?’ Manuel held out his hand to be shaken. It was like his face – strong, smooth and confident.
    ‘Client,’ William said. ‘A prospective client.’
    ‘Not an obliging one. Is he all right? He seemed to be hurrying.’
    Ines laughed. ‘The food does not agree with him?’
    ‘He said he was going. Perhaps there’s a back way out.’
    Manuel pursed his lips. ‘Only the window. A very small window. He must be very determined, your client.’
    ‘I don’t know. I don’t know him very well.’ William felt he should be doing better. Theresa stared down at her spoon, edging it backwards and forwards with her little
finger.
    ‘I daresay it would be impolite to follow and find out. Unnecessary, perhaps.’ Manuel smiled.
    ‘I liked your car,’ William said to Theresa. ‘Your Dodge, the old one. It was parked near my shop yesterday. You drove off with a great noise.’
    She looked up. ‘It always makes a great noise. But not now. No more noise.’
    ‘It doesn’t go?’
    ‘Kaput, they would say here.’
    The waiter reappeared with plates. On his way back to the kitchen he hesitated, eyeing the toilet. He took a step towards it, hesitated again, then walked determinedly in.
    Everyone laughed. William felt easier. Anything out of the ordinary was more acceptable now. ‘Would you like me to have a look at it?’ he asked.
    ‘You know about engines?’
    ‘A little.’
    ‘It’s a very big engine.’
    ‘They’re easier to work on.’ One of the company drivers in London had told him that.
    She looked down and touched her spoon again. ‘If you like. It’s very kind. You don’t need to.’
    ‘Where is it and when shall I come?’
    ‘Plaza San Marco. I will meet you there at seven this evening.’ Her tone was definite, as if to conclude the discussion.
    The waiter came out of the toilet and walked thoughtfully into the kitchen. They laughed again.
    ‘I hope you have better luck with cars than with clients,
Señor
Wooding,’ said Manuel.

Chapter 5
    William knew nothing about repairing cars. He knew they had big-ends that went, gaskets that blew, clutches that slipped, brakes that seized, gaps that narrowed or widened,
points that corroded; but he didn’t know what to do about any of them. Also, it was his turn to cook and seven was an awkward time. He couldn’t very well start, rush out, repair the car
and rush back, nor did he want to ask Sally to swap nights at the last minute. Nor did he want to lie to her. He spent the afternoon in wretched and futile indecision.
    He walked home as usual across the golf course and as he came off the hill towards the sea he saw that
Señor
Finn was there again, hunched over his fire in the clump of pampas
grass. The fire flickered uncertainly and a brisk damp breeze worried the small trees and bushes. The clouds were spitting rain and the sea was leaden and surly.
    Señor
Finn, bulky in assorted clothes, sat with his elbows on his knees and poked at the fire. The terrier barked once and got half up before subsiding. The cat sat on the
upturned boat. William raised his hand in greeting.
Señor
Finn did the same.
    ‘Not so good this evening,’ William called.
    ‘Rain is coming.’ The wind in the pampas grass and the waves beyond made the old man’s voice indistinct.
    ‘I didn’t see you the other