I Was Jack Mortimer (Pushkin Collection) Read online

  His thoughts, which were again in a welter of confusion, were interrupted by a knock at the door. Who was it? The waiter? Why didn’t he just enter? Sponer stood there in silence. The knocking was repeated.

  “What’s the matter?” he finally shouted out.

  Somebody was saying something on the outside, and at the same time the door handle moved up and down. He’d forgotten that he had locked the door and, despite his utterly confused state, he suddenly realized he was behaving like a madman; the dead man’s belongings were lying all over the chairs and strewn around on the floor. He picked some of them up quickly and stuffed them into the suitcases.

  “Just a moment!” he called to the person on the other side of the door, smoothed his hair, looked in the mirror to straighten his tie, and was horrified by what he saw. A face stared back at him, for all the world like the dead man’s. Closing his eyes for a second, he smoothed his hair down once more, went to the door, unlocked and opened it, ready to slam it shut immediately if it turned out that he knew the person standing there.

  The waiter who entered was, however, a complete stranger. He was a man of about thirty-eight or forty, clean-shaven, unruffled in appearance, and on the portly side. He asked how he could be of help.

  “Cigarettes!” Sponer said.

  “Khedive, Figaro, Dimitrino, Simon Arzt?” the waiter asked, and looked at Sponer.

  Under the waiter’s gaze Sponer began once more to straighten his tie, and again brushed back his hair from his forehead, but when he looked up and saw the waiter still staring, he felt the blood rush to his head.

  He was gripped by sudden fury.

  “What are you looking at?” he asked the man.

  “I beg your pardon?” the waiter enquired.

  “What are you looking at?” Sponer shouted.

  “Looking at?” the waiter stuttered.

  “Yes, looking at!” Sponer shouted.

  “Nothing,” the startled waiter stammered. “I’m not… looking at anything.”

  “Well then!”

  Sponer swung round and, infuriated, took a couple of steps towards the salon, tugged again at his tie, turned round, approached the waiter and looked at him intently. The man was now gazing at the floor.

  “So what was it you said?” Sponer finally asked.

  The waiter repeated the brands of the cigarettes.

  “Khedive,” Sponer ordered. The others were unfamiliar to him.

  The waiter bowed immediately and left.

  Sponer watched him leave, swore under his breath, and returned to the salon.

  When he entered, he saw the cigarette packet he had been looking for, lying on the table.

  It was Mortimer’s.

  He had no idea how it had got there. It might have dropped out of his pocket when he fell.

  He pulled a cigarette from the packet and lit it.

  It was honey-flavoured.

  He took a couple of puffs and then went up to the mirror again. He was still as pale as a sheet. His pupils were fully dilated and his eyes shone with a black-blue lustre in the glass of the mirror, and everything else that was reflected behind him—the room and the lights—glittered and swam in a kind of vitreous haze. The cigarette smoke stung his eyes, he closed them and took another puff; at the same time, a tingling sensation in his hands began to travel up his arms, and when he opened his eyes again the reflection in the mirror had gone out of shape. Overcome by dizziness, he turned; there was a rushing sound in his ears, the roots of his hair felt as though they were frozen in ice, and the lights in the room faded. A ringing, like a multitude of bells took over, and bright flesh-coloured pinkish objects swam in and out of his field of vision, constantly changing shape; he suddenly felt the carpet rise to meet his hands and knees; he was not aware of collapsing, he just felt that someone had caught him under his arms, was dragging him across the floor and propping up in an armchair.

  It was the waiter, returning with the cigarettes, who had seen him collapse.

  Then followed an interval which he no longer remembered; finally he noted the waiter was saying something repeatedly; yet he understood nothing. At last it dawned on him that the man was asking whether he should fetch a glass of brandy.

  Meanwhile something like an enormous cloud lifted from his consciousness.

  “No, thank you, not brandy,” he murmured in answer to the repeated question.

  It must have been the cigarette that had caused him to faint, he babbled. He hadn’t eaten anything for a long time… on the journey, he added.

  The waiter asked whether he should bring him something from the bar, maybe a cutlet or fillet steak with sliced beans, and white wine and soda?

  “Anything…” Sponer mumbled. The thought of food made him feel sick, but the waiter should bring something, no matter what; he then took his handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The waiter withdrew. Sponer stood up, felt himself swaying, stumbled towards a sofa, threw himself on it and closed his eyes.

  He lay quite still.

  He was no longer conscious of anything, he felt nothing, suddenly he was no longer afraid, he just lay there, his arms dangling lifelessly at his sides, and it felt good just to lie still. After a couple of minutes he even felt an edge of a cushion digging into the back of his neck. He turned over on his side and shut his eyes.

  He felt completely indifferent to everything that happened or could still happen.

  He might have been lying for about a quarter of an hour or even longer and perhaps been dozing off, when he again became aware of a noise. The waiter had opened the door and was now pushing a small food trolley into the room. Sponer sat up. The waiter, however, motioned to him that he should remain where he was, and that he would wheel the trolley up to the sofa.

  “And how are you feeling now?” he asked.

  At that moment the telephone rang.

  Before Sponer’s brain could latch on to what was happening, the waiter had walked to the telephone, lifted the receiver, spoken a few words, and was now passing Sponer the receiver, adding that the call was for him.

  Sponer automatically put out his hand, but withdrew it immediately. The waiter, thinking that Sponer was too weak to come to the phone, tried to help him stand up. He actually helped Sponer to his feet and, before the latter could work out how to communicate to the waiter that he didn’t want to take the call, the receiver was pressed into his hand, and the waiter stood by supporting him.

  He heard a woman’s voice speak in English at the other end of the line.

  She first of all said a few words in the manner of a question, repeated the question after a moment, but in a different word order. Then, after a short pause, the voice became more urgent, fired a brief question a couple of times, and then uttered a fairly long sentence that Sponer understood just as little as the preceding questions.

  After waiting a little, he put the phone down without answering. The waiter looked at him in astonishment.

  “Wrong number,” Sponer mumbled.

  The waiter began serving food on a plate.

  Sponer fell back again on the sofa.

  “So!” he thought, but quite calmly. “So! Someone was phoning Mortimer.” Now he’d have to consider the consequences. However, all of a sudden he could no longer think. His thoughts dissolved before him, they eluded him. Like a paper ball at the end of a string that is thrown to a kitten to play with and is then jerked back at the last moment, he found himself unable to grasp any of them. He stared despondently at the meat and vegetables in front of him, and ate only a meringue pie. The waiter mixed some white wine and soda, moved the table a little closer, bowed, and walked to the door. He had not reached it, however, when the phone rang for the second time.

  The waiter was about to pick it up, but Sponer motioned him aside, as if to say, “Leave it! I’ll get it myself.” The waiter was already about to walk away, but when he saw Sponer still sitting motionless, he approached him again. The telephone continued to r
ing. Sponer got up. The waiter quickly moved the table away from the sofa, and left the room while Sponer was walking to the phone.

  Sponer waited until the door had closed, then lifted the receiver. Again the woman’s voice spoke in English.

  While he was listening, Sponer tried to force himself to think what he should do next, but was unable to dispel the fog that still dulled his senses like a drug; or perhaps the events that had occurred in such rapid succession had exerted their full force on him in such a way that, whatever happened subsequently, they could no longer elicit a proper response from him, at least not for the moment. His nerves simply did not react any more. Even the new danger, this telephone conversation, could not make him decide what to do. The only thing he told himself was that if he so much as uttered a word, he was finished.

  This time he didn’t put the receiver down, but listened as in a trance to the increasingly rapid, imploring and finally threatening voice, which expected answers and received none, which shouted and pleaded for a response, and finally fell silent. He continued holding the receiver to his ear, and after about a minute put it down.

  The voice, which at first was warm and soft like the caress of a hand, had finally risen in pitch to an anxious and shrill tone, tripping over itself; but then, just at the end, it called the name Jack several times in all the tones ranging from anger to anxiety and bewilderment. Sponer frowned as in exasperation. Was this the way they thought they could still get a response from Mortimer? No, not even a voice that shouted, threatened and implored in such a manner would elicit an answer, and he, Sponer, kept silent like Mortimer.

  For Mortimer’s mouth was full of water, and was silent.

  Sponer went to the table, took a few bites of food while standing, and finished off the wine. As he put down the glass, the phone rang again. He glanced at it fleetingly, lit a cigarette and took a couple of puffs. Now the smoke did him good. In the meantime the phone continued ringing at intervals.

  At last he picked it up.

  This time it was the receptionist. He said that a lady wanted to speak to Mr Mortimer. At first Sponer didn’t fully comprehend. Where was the lady? he asked.

  “Downstairs in the hall,” the receptionist replied.

  Sponer’s heart again suddenly missed a beat. He couldn’t come downstairs now! he stammered, and put the receiver down.

  He took a couple of steps. The feeling of confusion that had afflicted him suddenly lifted, and was replaced by nervous anxiety. He was once more fully aware of his predicament.

  He turned, lifted the receiver and, now himself, asked for the receptionist.

  “Reception,” he heard after a few seconds.

  “Listen,” Sponer said, “I don’t want to speak to that lady now. Would you kindly make sure I’m not disturbed again. I’m not available to either that lady or anyone else who wants to speak to me. What on earth do you mean telling me that someone wants to speak to me in the middle of the night! I don’t want to take any calls from anyone! Please also tell the switchboard that there’s no point in taking any calls for me. I’d be obliged if you wouldn’t bother me any more!”

  At that moment he heard the door being torn open behind his back, and he swung around.

  A young, tall, slim platinum-blonde, very pretty, in an evening dress and a fur-trimmed brocade coat entered the room so quickly that when she walked towards him the hem of her dress rustled and swished round her ankles.

  He stared at her and, still holding the receiver behind his back, groped around, missing the cradle each time, but finally he just let it drop anyhow.

  6

  JOSÉ MONTEMAYOR was a peon, a shepherd on horseback, in the wild south of the United States. He and the other vaqueros rounded up from the saddle huge herds of semi-wild cattle and horses on the vast plains of New Mexico, and when they chased the stampeding animals, the ends and fringes of their serapes, the colourful Indian shawls, fluttered behind them, and the prairie pollen and dust clouds of the llanos rose high into the sky. In high summer they stripped off their woollen shirts, tied them round their waists, and galloped bareback over the plains. Their hats, blown about by the strong wind, dangled from straps on their brown shoulders, and round their heads they wound coloured silk kerchiefs.

  Small brass bells tingled on their saddles, lassos swayed back and forth, and the hairy strips of bearskin hanging from their stirrups fluttered in the wind. Montemayor also carried a guitar on his saddle. He had a good voice, and of an evening often sang songs to the others—old Spanish melodies and his own tunes that occurred to him from time to time.

  Although he was only a cowboy, he was reputed to be the grandson of Lieutenant José Montemayor, who commanded the platoon that had shot Emperor Maximilian of Mexico.

  One spring day, after collecting their pay, he and a couple of amigos set out on a spree, rode over the border, invaded all the Mexican taverns, flirted with the young women, spent their dollars and pesos on liquor, and generally painted the town red, finally ending up in Monterey, an old baroque hilltop town.

  It was evening when they rode into the town, and the sun was setting like a fading rose behind the green copper cupolas and towers of Monterey. The streets, however, were already almost dark, the hooves clattered over the cobbles, the scent of jasmine wafted from the gardens in the twilight, the finery glinted on their saddles, and the women followed the riders with sparkling eyes.

  They stopped in front of a tavern, tied up the horses, went in, and caroused into the night. They then left, and wandered through the town on foot.

  The scent from the gardens became stronger, even overpowering the smell of cooking oil from the kitchen doorways and the other smells of a southern town. The full moon had long since risen and hung high in the silky blue of the night.

  The peons wandered through the hushed streets, in which the only sound was the clinking of their silver spurs. The smoke of their cigarettes wafted behind them. Montemayor strode in front, strumming his guitar and singing, and the others sang along. Finally he started on a very old song which only he knew, while the others walked behind and listened, the only accompaniment being the strumming of the guitar and the clinking of spurs.

  He had come to the end of a verse and was just about to begin the next when, from above a house cloaked in darkness, there came a woman’s voice singing this very verse. It was a very beautiful, clear voice that floated in the moonlight. Montemayor stopped in his tracks, as did the others, and listened in amazement, accompanying the unfamiliar singer on his guitar. He couldn’t see where the voice was coming from. He was just about to peer into the shadows that enveloped the house when the moon, gliding over the roof with the curved tiles which glistened like white breakers, shone straight in his face, but not before he had made out the outlines of a roof garden or a sort of elevated, enclosed arbour, from which he realized the voice was issuing.

  The song consisted of alternate question and answer verses. The questions were to be sung by a male, the answers, by a female voice; when the invisible singer had come to the end of the maiden’s verse, Montemayor continued singing the man’s part, then came the maiden’s turn, then the man’s voice again, followed by the maiden’s, and so on.

  It was the final verse, and whereas the voice of the invisible singer had, to begin with, sounded shy, timid and reserved, it now changed to an expression of fervour and affection.

  The voice then fell silent. After a moment’s pause during which they savoured the magic sounds that had now ceased, the peons broke into applause. Montemayor then stepped forward and, taking off his hat with a flourish and holding it in his lowered hand so that the tassels touched the ground, enquired whether the best singer in the south would do him and his comrades the honour of showing herself.

  The figure of a woman or girl, silhouetted in the light of the moon shining through the veil on her head, appeared in the arbour above.

  The other peons, too, now took off their hats, their tassels and straps touching the ground.
<
br />   “Who are you?” the girl asked, though since she was Spanish, she actually put it in the Spanish manner: “Whom do I have the honour of addressing?”

  “We are,” Montemayor answered, “cowboys and peons from the States, who’ve ridden across the border to meet the beauties of Mexico. Would you honour us by revealing your name, so that when we return home we can tell everyone what the most beautiful of them all is called.”

  The young woman laughed. “My name is Consuelo,” she said. “And when you return, you can tell your people that in fact you never even saw me. I can see you clearly in the moonlight, but I have the moon behind me. It makes it easier for you to imagine that I’m the most beautiful.”

  “We don’t need the moon,” one of the group shouted, “to know that you must be as enchanting as your voice!”

  “You flatter me too much,” the young woman said. “In fact, my voice is nothing special, I hardly use it, and my mother, who also taught me the few songs that I know, sang much better than I do. I must go now! The people in the house are already asleep, and it’s not right for me to carry on talking to such charming young people as yourselves.”

  This was Spanish courtesy, a matter of etiquette in response to the compliments that had been paid her. However, it was more than courtesy, for she added, “Especially to the singer among you.”