‘“Durnsford,” I said again, “don’t go out!”
‘Morgan haw-hawed: “Oh, don’t listen to it; come along for a bit of exercise. Leave old Red Nose with his string of sausages and his red-hot poker; he’s not in his best vein these days.”
‘Durnsford hesitated, with one snowshoe already on. He hesitated quite a long time. Finally he took it off again. “Thank you, Mr Johnson,” he said. “I’ll take your advice. I don’t know what you mean about the barometer, but you must certainly understand conditions here better than Major Morgan.”
‘That was good to hear; I had won my game of nap with the man Morgan at last and scooped the kitty. And it wasn’t bluff: the unnatural steadiness of the barometer meant trouble. I had made sure that the shutters were fast some hours before.
‘So Morgan went alone, whistling “Oh, it’s my delight on a starry night in the season of the year,” and two minutes later a creaking and groaning and humming began. Durnsford looked puzzled and thought I was playing a trick. “No,” I said, “it’s only the house moving about a little and the cables taking the strain. A capful of wind. But have a look at that rock-steady barometer.”
‘He went over to it, and behold! the creature had gone quite off its chump and was hopping about like a pea in a saucepan. Durnsford was silent for a minute or two and then he said: “Johnson, I know that the major has behaved abominably to you. But don’t you think – ?”
‘“No, dearie,” I said, “your poor old granny is very, very sleepy at the moment, and simply hasn’t got it in her to think thoughts about troublesome majors and the likes of them.”
‘“Oh, stop your jokes, for once!” he shouted, “I’m going out to look for him.”
‘He grabbed his shoes again. So I spoke to him severely and showed him my gun. I said that I didn’t mind his slaying himself if he felt so inclined, but that I drew the line at his killing Old Papa Johnson too. They were double doors; the outer one was steel and the inner one solid two-inch oak planking, with an airlock between them. The moment he unbolted the outer door the wind would get into the air-lock and blow the inner one in and then tear the shack to pieces in three seconds.
‘“But the major?” he gasped. “Won’t he get frozen to death?”
‘“Your intelligent friend was killed by the first gust of wind a few seconds after leaving the shack,” I said.
‘That blizzard blew without stopping for seventy-two hours; any moment I expected the cables to go. I set myself to learn the Book of Ruth to keep my mind from dwelling on our imminent fate. Then it stopped as suddenly as it began. We found the body only fifty yards from the shack, wedged between two rocks. And you wouldn’t believe it, but that blizzard had got inside one of those big metal cauldrons – twice the size of this room, I’m telling you – and blown it clean into the harbour! As local registrar of births, deaths, and marriages I reported all these occurrences to a distant whaler, a month or two later, and when the tanker eventually turned up, it came with a letter from the man Morgan’s sister, asking me to put her brother’s remains in the lead coffin which she enclosed. So I had to dig them up again, though I had said the burial service over them and left nothing out.
‘As for Pekey Durnsford, he was so full of gratitude to me for saving his life that he slobbered all over me. And soon I found that he liked silly games, just like I did. It was he who first taught Old Papa Johnson how to do this paper-folding business, though Papa’s improved on Pekey’s methods a lot since. And in return Papa showed him where to scare up all the living creatures in our kingdom. Pekey found one quite new species of fresh-water cheese mite which he called Something-or-other Papa-john-sonensis. And you should have seen the letter of thanks that I got from the New York Museum of Natural History!
‘Morgan’s sister – now child, for goodness’ sake don’t remind her who H.H. Johnson is – I recognized her handwriting when she put my name on the fever chart – is not a bad woman in spite of her airs, though it’s taken me three weeks and a lot of patience to coax her to be my playmate. And do you know, little Gravey-spoons? if it hadn’t been for that whisky business I verily believe that Old Papa Johnson could even in time have made a playmate of her ill-tempered brother.’
Interview with a Dead Man
AFTER A WHILE the dead man, recognizing my voice, began to whistle and imitate the masters of his old school, many of whom, bicentenarians, survived him. ‘Though perhaps no longer, ahem, in the active pursuit of pedagogy,’ he intoned in a mock-clerical voice.
‘What’s the news?’ I asked.
‘News?’ he said. ‘Well, for a start here’s a letter that came last night from my executors informing me that I am expected to write a posthumous Anthem for the League of Nations suitable for translation into at least twenty-seven languages.’
He went on to say that he had indeed already executed the commission: early that morning he had written a marching song of hope, to rhythms heavily stressed for percussion purposes, and poked it up through the letter slit of the stout Welsh-quarried slabs of slate, inscribed ‘he being dead yet liveth’, which formed the roof of his quasi-eternal resting place. He had, however, recollected the nearness of the church, where the song would undoubtedly be sung at Christmas and Easter, on Empire Day, the King’s Birthday, and all similar semi-religious, semi-political feasts; and had slowly pulled the composition back and torn it up before the sexton had caught a glint of it.
‘It was an ironic production,’ he said, ‘but the living can never believe that the dead have a sense of humour, so whenever any reference had been made to the song in my hearing or whenever it was sung or whistled, I should have been forced to chuckle audibly to disprove this popular fallacy.’
‘I am beautifully embalmed,’ he continued. ‘They were obliged, of course, to remove my digestive and sexual organs, which are corruptible, but I still have my fingers free to pick my nose in the old absent fashion, to scratch my head when it itches and to use a pencil thoughtfully when the itch is eased. This is a lidless coffin allowing me plenty of elbow room. My eyes are shut with coins, but that is no handicap in the decent darkness of the vault; even when alive, I always had the knack of writing with my eyes shut. I lay the left hand flat as a margin to the paper and, pricking the skin with my pencil each time, know by sensory indication just where to begin the new line.’
Thus he rattled on, remarking among other things that at least he had no more financial worries. He had benefited handsomely under his own will and paid the lease of the vault and of a small plot of land around it for ninety-nine years in advance. Unfortunately the freehold, the property of the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, was not for sale; he had, however, secured the option for renewal at the same terms when the ninety-nine years should have expired. He asked for news of his wife and children and of their step-father.
In short, he was perfectly dead, and his daily post-bag, because of the recency of his death, was enormous; he used the blank pages of letters and the back of envelopes for his replies. He was in no position to buy stationery, even if his signature to cheques or letters had been valid, which it was not. However, he calculated that the serviceability of his large gold propelling-pencil (which held, screwed in its base, a copious supply of refills) could even at the present extravagant rate of daily use be prolonged for fully another three hundred years.
‘With care, for as long as three thousand years,’ he cried, ‘and by that time who will care for my work except antiquarians?’
His mood was now so hilarious that I had no compunction in leaving him without another word of commiseration or encouragement. His parting joke was one about the legal impossibility of the dead libelling the living.
‘But,’ he said, ‘I am careful not to trade on my immunity. I flatter myself that I died a sportsman and lie buried as such.’
Está En Su Casa
‘Holá – señor!’
The sudden summons came from a thin hook-nosed man in a baggy white shirt, blue striped cotton trousers
, and a black felt hat, who rose suddenly from behind a mastic bush a few yards off. I had been sitting for ten minutes or more on the stone bench of the mirador, a look-out platform built on the cliff edge, idly watching a tall-funnelled Spanish destroyer disengage itself from the horizon and disappear behind the distant headland to the north-east. Below me was a drop of nearly a thousand feet to a glaring white stony beach. I sprang up, startled, and may have answered in English; but I do not remember. He forced a reassuring smile, spread out both hands to show that he was unarmed and said in Spanish: ‘Please forgive my disturbance of your tranquillity. You are an American?’
I answered: ‘No, señor, you must not judge me by my elegant straw hat, a gift from a friend in the United States. Judge me rather by my old shirt and patched trousers. I am one of the victorious but bankrupt English. What a stifling day, is it not?’
This put him at his ease. ‘Yes, it is very hot,’ he said. But he stayed where he was, so I strolled over to him.
‘Your first visit to Majorca?’ he asked.
‘The first time since the troubles started in 1936, when I had to leave my house and lands. And I remember you well, even if you do not remember me. Surely you are Don Pedro Samper, the proprietor of Ca’n Samper on the other side of the mountain spur?’
We shook hands heartily as I went on: ‘I visited you once in the company of your neighbour Don Pablo Pons, back in 1935. I needed some really good cuttings to graft on two young apricot trees that had proved to be of poor quality, and Don Pablo informed me that you had the best tree on the island. I had the pleasure of meeting your charming and sympathetic wife. I hope she is in good health?’
‘Thanks be to God, we are well, and so are the children.’ He apologized several times for not having recognized me, explaining that my sunglasses, the greying of my hair and the thinness of my face had deceived him. In return he enquired after my health, that of my family, and the condition of my property after ten years’ absence. And of course he wanted to hear about the flying bombs in London. The Spanish Press had played up the havoc of the flying bomb until it was difficult for anyone to believe that there could be a single survivor. ‘And is it true that in England now potatoes sell at a hundred pesetas a kilo?’
‘No, at about one peseta. The farmers are subsidized by the Government.’
‘Well, well!’ he said. ‘Our journalists seem to have been misinformed about many things… But, tell me, did those apricot cuttings take?’
‘Divinely well. I found a barbaric crop of apricots waiting for me – the branches had to be tied up to prevent them from breaking off – and wonderfully tasting apricots they are. Like orange-blossom honey. I sold a great quantity and bottled the remainder.’
‘I am delighted… Have you perhaps visited Don Pablo since your return? You must know that he no longer lives in these parts but has taken a house in Palma?’
‘Between ourselves, I have no intention of calling upon him. When I quitted the island at an hour’s notice with only a suitcase and a wallet, I left a certain small affair for him to settle on my behalf. He neglected it, and his neglect has cost me a thousand pesetas or more. But I do not intend to recall the matter to his memory; it is already ancient history. And, finding my house in perfect condition, with everything in its place, I have reason to be grateful that his conduct is not characteristic of Majorcans in general.’
‘No, indeed! His is a very special case. You know perhaps of my former disagreements with him?’
‘You disputed about some irrigation rights.’
‘We did indeed.’
‘May I ask whether you are still on bad terms with him? In our village I find that the effect of the Troubles has been to end all personal and family feuds and unite the people as never before.’
‘Está en su casa!, as we say here. He is in his own house; I am in mine.’
‘I am sorry. I should be interested to hear the story if it doesn’t inconvenience you to tell it.’
‘It is a long one. But, Don Roberto – may I first ask a favour of you?’
‘Anything that lies in my power.’
‘I wish to seat myself on the bench of the mirador where you have been. I have been trying to reach it all morning since ten o’clock. Will you help me?’
‘But, man, are you lame?’
‘Not in my legs. In my belly.’
‘You mean that you are scared? Then why go? The view is as good from that rock over there as from the mirador itself.’
‘My doctor orders it – Doctor Guasp of Sóller, a specialist. He knows a great deal about psychology, having studied in Vienna as well as in Madrid. Once I have gone there, he says, and remained calmly for a while on the bench, making my peace with a certain important Saint, my nerves will recover and I shall once more sleep all night. He even offered to come with me, but I was ashamed to put him to the trouble. I said: “No, I will go alone. I am no coward.” But now I find that I cannot walk the last few steps.’
He began to stutter and a light sweat broke from his forehead. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘the heat is excessive. You will perhaps take me there in a little while when we have smoked a cigarette or two in the shade of this rock? Meanwhile I will tell you about the irrigation dispute. Have you tobacco?’
‘I stupidly left my pouch at home.’
‘No matter. Here is good tobacco, and cigarette paper.’
‘Contraband?’
‘Did I not say it was good tobacco? You cannot buy this sort at any estanco. Allow me, you seem to have lost the habit of rolling cigarettes. In England you smoke only Luckies and Camels?’
He began his story between puffs. ‘Well, if you know anything of the matter, you will know that I had been for fifteen years the tenant farmer of the estate called Ca’n Sampol, which Don Pablo Pons acquired by his marriage with Doña Binilde.’
I nodded.
‘He dispossessed me, though I had an agreement with Doña Binilde’s late husband that I was secure in my life-tenancy. Don Cristóbal Fuster y Fernández was a caballero, a man of the strictest honour. When he inherited the estate from his brother who was killed in the Rif War, he told me in the presence of his wife: “There will be no changes here. You may cultivate Ca’n Sampol for the rest of your life, friend Pedro. You have transformed the place since you took it over, and I am happy to leave it in your hands.” In the island, as you know, a verbal agreement is sufficient between neighbours, and if there is a witness present it becomes binding in law. To ask to have it put in writing is bad manners. We pride ourselves on being men of our word. Well, a catastrophe! In 1934, Don Cristóbal died in a road accident, and Doña Binilde fell in love, at the funeral itself, with a profligate adventurer – this same Don Pablo – and married him on the very first day that the law permitted.’
‘I did not know that there are restrictions in Spain on immediate marriage in such cases.’
‘There is a law that safeguards the rights of posthumous children. Well, as you can imagine, the marriage caused a scandal, and I, for one, did not attend the wedding – out of respect for the memory of Don Cristóbal. Not a week later Don Pablo served me notice to quit the farm, which he proposed to cultivate himself.’
‘And Doña Binilde?’
‘She was infatuated with the man. He could do nothing wrong. And she was angry with me for my coolness towards her. When I appealed to her about the agreement made in her presence between Don Cristóbal and me, she answered: “Upon my word, peasant, I can remember nothing. I have a bad head for business matters.”’
‘But the Law protected you?’
‘Certainly it did. In those days six years’ notice was necessary. But I chose not to take the case to court. It is an uncomfortable position for a man to be tenant to a landlord who has a grudge against him, especially if the wife has instigated it. So I said to him, mildly enough: “Since Doña Binilde has lost her memory for the sayings of the best husband in Majorca, how can I press the matter? My word is not good enough for you, I see.
Well, then, pay me ten thousand pesetas and I will leave on St Anthony’s Day, when I have passed the olives safely through the mill.” For it was not a bad olive year.
“‘Ka, man! Why should I pay you ten thousand pesetas?” asked Don Pablo.
‘“It is customary to compensate a tenant in lieu of notice. I am asking two years’ rent.”
‘“Two years’ rent! How two years’ rent? You have ruined the estate by your mismanagement!” he yelled.
‘I insisted: “The respected Don Cristóbal – may his soul rest in peace – thought otherwise. He knew that I found Ca’n Sampol in a derelict condition and added many thousands to its value. He told me so in the presence of Doña Binilde.”
“‘I remember nothing of that. I have a bad head for business matters,” the lady said very stubbornly. “And, in the Virgin’s Name, who are you to decide who is the best husband in Majorca and who the worst?”
‘I should not have believed it possible that a decent woman could change so, even with the help of peroxide and red nail-varnish; but some women are as accommodating as chameleons.’
‘But you got some compensation, surely?’
‘Not two reales. I will explain. Don Cristóbal, like so many gentlemen of a generous nature, had been slack about keeping accounts. He had a good memory for sums due, and sums owing, but disliked committing his memory to paper, and either demanding, or making out, receipts. Don Pablo was aware of this peculiarity and therefore asked me to show the rent receipts for the last few years of my Ca’n Sampol tenancy. Four half-yearly receipts were missing. So he set those against the two years’ compensation that I asked, and I had no redress, having always paid in cash, not by cheque, and having no witness to the payments.’
‘What a nasty insect! And then you went to live at Ca’n Samper?’
‘Yes. It had been bequeathed me by my old uncle some three years before: family property descended from my great-grandparents. They had once owned Ca’n Sampol too, though that was before the big house had been built there in Carlist times. You have seen Ca’n Samper. It is a small place but the soil is good, there is plenty of water and the orchard is valuable.’