Free The White Schooner by Antony Trew

going to use her. He realised that this was in a sense special pleading, but he intended to be objective and methodical about what had to be done and, as to her, he had no conscience. The means would justify the end. That covered a multitude of sins.
    Towards noon he made for the Montesol. As he crossed the paseo he saw her at a table with Kyriakou, Ilse Berch—a young Norwegian artist he’d met before—and a young man, bearded and scruffy, whom he didn’t know. He left the paseo ,crossed over by the Cine Serra and turned back along the pavement. When he reached the tables outside the Cristal and the Alhambra he slowed down and stopped once or twice to greet people, his senses keyed and alert, his eyes searching ceaselessly for Hassan.
    He had chosen a route which would ensure that Manuela saw him as he neared her table. The strategy succeeded. She smiled and when he waved a hand in acknowledgement she called ‘Hi.’ Kyriakou turned, switched on a big smile and said, ‘’Allo there, Charles.’
    Nodding to the Greek, Black stopped at the table. ‘Hallo, Ilse. Hallo, Manuela,’ he said.
    ‘You busy?’ asked Ilse Berch. ‘Writing?’
    He patted his bulging basket. ‘Shopping.’
    ‘You should have a wife.’ Kyriakou winked at the Norwegian girl.
    Manuela pointed to the empty chair next to her. ‘Sit down.’
    Black looked at her, thought how handsome she was, andsmiled with a pleasure he made no effort to conceal. Kyriakou pushed himself back in his chair and aimed his cigar at the untidy young man. ‘You know George?’
    Black shook his head.
    ‘George Madden,’ said Kyriakou describing a figure of eight with the cigar. ‘Charles Black.’
    Madden said ‘Hi,’ and Black nodded a response, wondering if this pallid-faced, pouchy-eyed young American was one of the Greek’s pushers.
    A waiter came to the table.
    ‘What you like?’ asked Kyriakou.
    Black had been long enough on Ibiza to know that one paid for one’s own drinks under these circumstances. He shook his head. ‘Thanks. But I’ll buy my own.’
    Kyriakou shrugged his shoulders and with his teeth tilted the cigar. Black ordered a coñac. Manuela was drinking orange juice. Junkies drink soft, a part of his mind nagged. Why the hell shouldn’t she, the other replied.
    The conversation became general. Ilse Berch wanted to know how things were in Madrid, and what de Salla’s ver nismge had been like. She’d just got back from seeing her parents in Bergen. They still didn’t approve of her way of life.
    ‘Why worry,’ said Kyriakou. ‘As long as you approve, what the hell.’
    Black saw him nudge Manuela. ‘What you say, leetle one?’
    ‘I don’t say,’ said Manuela.
    Kyriakou slapped his thigh. ‘Ha, aha, ha.’
    ‘Very funny,’ said Black.
    The Greek saw that the Englishman was not amused. ‘What’s that?’ he said leaning forward, his white teeth gleaming . ‘You no like, hey?’
    Black shook his head. ‘On the contrary. I think you’re very funny.’ He saw Manuela’s eyes signalling him to be careful. When he winked back he realised that the Greek had seen the private exchange and wasn’t pleased.
    Adroitly Manuela changed the subject to de Salla’s painting, and that led to a general discussion on art. Black steered it round to the Impressionists and the post- and neo- Impressionists , and the level of discussion rose over the heads of George and the Greek. It was left to Black and the two girls to fight out his thesis that contemporary art owed its greatest debt to those who had first departed from solid form and thesubservience of the eye. Then, when the argument was at its height, it shifted suddenly to hilarity and Kyriakou and George Madden came into their own again.
    But Black had introduced the subject with a purpose he’d no intention of abandoning. ‘You know,’ he said, frowning as he thought about how to get the thing going. ‘We sit here and talk about these things. Yet I’m prepared to bet that not