deal about him. An Englishman fromPortugal, in the family port and sherry business, in South Africa for the firm when war broke out, stayed on and now visiting Lourenço Marques on business.
“Why aren’t you in the war, if you’re an Englishman?” Her eyebrows arched,
“Well,” he frowned in his embarrassment. “Would have been if I’d gone back to England. To be honest, I’ve lived in Portugal too long to feel any emotional involvement. I think it’s an unnecessary war.”
She seemed shocked and looked at him sideways, evidently not quite sure about him.
“War’s a hateful thing.” She said it with much feeling, and he thought she must have lost her husband.
“Let’s forget it,” he said and there was a long silence. Then they walked down the veranda to where the band was playing. It was dark and musky and rather good fun, he thought. He found a table, ordered a bottle of wine, and they danced under subdued lights. A little distantly at first, but not for long, for the Newt felt time floating away on the wings of soft music, and held her close and she seemed to like it.
Next day Rohrbach and Johan worked together, the Newt operating on his own.
That night they met on an empty building site down a dark lane opposite Gigi’s restaurant and swopped news. The Newt had learnt from the mate of the tug that there were about twenty men in the Hagenfels ’s skeleton crew, and that half of them went ashore on three days of the week. He also confirmed that the Hagenfels was lying to two bower anchors. In the afternoon Rohrbach and Johan had hired a small fishing boat and travelled down the Espirito Santo into the bay beyond.
“We caught some fish,” said Johan. “And David was sick.”
Rohrbach made a clicking noise. “Didn’t bring up, but I felt lousy. Small boats, you know.”
“You and Nelson!” the Newt said coldly.
They’d also checked that the Clan McPhilly and Tactician had finished discharging and begun loading,
“To-night,” Johan made a circle with his thumb and forefinger , “is the night.”
“What’s on?”
“We’ve a date with Mariotta and her girl friend.”
“Who’s that?”
“Cleo. The other doll in the launch.”
“Well, enjoy yourselves but watch your libidos.” He thought of Di Brett and his appointment to dine and dance with her that night. “There’s a time for everything,” he added in his chilliest manner.
Johan said: “Yes. We feel it’s to-night.”
The breeze came to them cool and laden with frangipani. A car passed at the top of the lane, gramophone music sounded somewhere and in the distance a dog barked.
Mariotta was a dark, lively Portuguese beauty, with hair and eyes that were almost black. The Greek girl, Cleo Melanides, had that special quality of femininity which makes a woman so attractive to men. Possibly it had to do with her high cheekbones and slanted hazel eyes, which were a curious mixture of interrogation and surprise. She and Mariotta spoke good English.
From the Cardoso they drove in Rohrbach’s Studebaker to Peter’s, a beach roadhouse beyond the Polana. After a meal of prawns, washed down with Serradayres , they danced to a piano, saxophone and drums. Before midnight they drove back into town where the bars, bistros and honky-tonks of the Araújo were doing business with the crews from the ships on the Espirito Santo.
Along the street there was a confused jumble of sound: the deep voices of men, the higher ones of women, the occasional shouts of sailors and the excited shrieks of girls. Taxis hooted, and from somewhere came the steady thump of jazz.
Johan insisted on the Pinguin. He had drunk a good deal and drifted into a euphoria which seemed likely to last the night.
Mariotta complained. “It ees for sailors, Johan. Not for us.” Cleo agreed, but Johan swept their objections aside. The Pinguin was filled with so much smoke that it seemed to be on fire, and the orchestration of many voices, rising and falling
“Why aren’t you in the war, if you’re an Englishman?” Her eyebrows arched,
“Well,” he frowned in his embarrassment. “Would have been if I’d gone back to England. To be honest, I’ve lived in Portugal too long to feel any emotional involvement. I think it’s an unnecessary war.”
She seemed shocked and looked at him sideways, evidently not quite sure about him.
“War’s a hateful thing.” She said it with much feeling, and he thought she must have lost her husband.
“Let’s forget it,” he said and there was a long silence. Then they walked down the veranda to where the band was playing. It was dark and musky and rather good fun, he thought. He found a table, ordered a bottle of wine, and they danced under subdued lights. A little distantly at first, but not for long, for the Newt felt time floating away on the wings of soft music, and held her close and she seemed to like it.
Next day Rohrbach and Johan worked together, the Newt operating on his own.
That night they met on an empty building site down a dark lane opposite Gigi’s restaurant and swopped news. The Newt had learnt from the mate of the tug that there were about twenty men in the Hagenfels ’s skeleton crew, and that half of them went ashore on three days of the week. He also confirmed that the Hagenfels was lying to two bower anchors. In the afternoon Rohrbach and Johan had hired a small fishing boat and travelled down the Espirito Santo into the bay beyond.
“We caught some fish,” said Johan. “And David was sick.”
Rohrbach made a clicking noise. “Didn’t bring up, but I felt lousy. Small boats, you know.”
“You and Nelson!” the Newt said coldly.
They’d also checked that the Clan McPhilly and Tactician had finished discharging and begun loading,
“To-night,” Johan made a circle with his thumb and forefinger , “is the night.”
“What’s on?”
“We’ve a date with Mariotta and her girl friend.”
“Who’s that?”
“Cleo. The other doll in the launch.”
“Well, enjoy yourselves but watch your libidos.” He thought of Di Brett and his appointment to dine and dance with her that night. “There’s a time for everything,” he added in his chilliest manner.
Johan said: “Yes. We feel it’s to-night.”
The breeze came to them cool and laden with frangipani. A car passed at the top of the lane, gramophone music sounded somewhere and in the distance a dog barked.
Mariotta was a dark, lively Portuguese beauty, with hair and eyes that were almost black. The Greek girl, Cleo Melanides, had that special quality of femininity which makes a woman so attractive to men. Possibly it had to do with her high cheekbones and slanted hazel eyes, which were a curious mixture of interrogation and surprise. She and Mariotta spoke good English.
From the Cardoso they drove in Rohrbach’s Studebaker to Peter’s, a beach roadhouse beyond the Polana. After a meal of prawns, washed down with Serradayres , they danced to a piano, saxophone and drums. Before midnight they drove back into town where the bars, bistros and honky-tonks of the Araújo were doing business with the crews from the ships on the Espirito Santo.
Along the street there was a confused jumble of sound: the deep voices of men, the higher ones of women, the occasional shouts of sailors and the excited shrieks of girls. Taxis hooted, and from somewhere came the steady thump of jazz.
Johan insisted on the Pinguin. He had drunk a good deal and drifted into a euphoria which seemed likely to last the night.
Mariotta complained. “It ees for sailors, Johan. Not for us.” Cleo agreed, but Johan swept their objections aside. The Pinguin was filled with so much smoke that it seemed to be on fire, and the orchestration of many voices, rising and falling
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