Free Horse Under Water by Len Deighton

very nice: check on him.’
     
    The Jul-Bar is the most modern bar in Albufeira. It has plastic, chromium, and mosaic, a G.E.C. refrigerator as big as a phone booth, and an Espresso machine. It is situated half-way down a wide stairway that leads to ‘the Gardens’, which is the main market place and square. As we walked Harry Kondit (‘just call me Harry’) explained to us.
    In the market place was a huge ‘transport collectivo’ diesel bus. It had brought farmers and their produce into town. They sat by little heaps of mauve sweet potatoes, green lemons, cabbages, eggs, brown speckled beans and tomatoes.
    The black peasant garb is being relinquished from the feet upwards. Few people wear all black, but almost all have a black trilby hat. The old women wear one on top of their head-scarves. A horse with an embroidered harness set with broken mirror and tinkling bells tapped and tinkled past us like a Salvation Army tambourine. Underthe trees local lads kicked their Perfectas and Dianas into angry roars and they cavorted in angry bravado across the steep cobbles.
    One passed us with a noise like a Cup Final rattle, and Harry Kondit, who seemed to know everyone in this town, shouted to him, ‘George Porgy – how’s about a drink, kid?’
    The little motor bike popped to a halt. On it there sat a white-faced man with a wide moustache and very light blue eyes. He wore the inevitable black trilby with bow at the back, and a grey Spanish-style waistcoat with long sleeves and pointed front.
    Almost before the bike stopped he had whirled his hat off and held it across his chest like a shield.
    ‘Let me do the introductions,’ said H.K. ‘This here is Senhor Jorge Fernandes Tomas. Do I have that right, Fernie?’
    ‘Sim,’ said Fernie.
    Fernie was a thin, neurotic man of perhaps forty years. Although it was late afternoon Fernie was newly shaved, as is the custom in southern Europe. He wore his hair long, and one sideburn half concealed a small scar noticeable around his ear.
    ‘We’re going to the Jul-Bar, Fernie,’ and H.K. walked on, taking it for granted that he would follow. Fernie propped his two-stroke against the baker’s shop. Through the doorway I saw rosy men, lop-sided loaves and flaming tinder.
    We walked up the stone stairway to the café. Brightly painted metal chairs shrieked their protest as H.K. arranged them on the pavement.
    H.K. had Charlotte under his wing by now. It took him no time at all to discover that Charlotte had been called ‘Charly’ at school. From that moment on, no one called her by any other name.
    H.K. was in no way bashful about describing himself. ‘I said Harry you’ll soon be nudging fifty and what are you? A small-time publishing exec. making twenty-five grand and not much chance of pushing it past thirty. And what are you getting in return? Three weeks in Florida once a year and a hunting trip to Canada if, repeat, if you’re lucky. So what did I do?’
    I could see Charly was still converting twenty-five thousand dollars per annum into pounds per week.
    ‘Were you here in Europe in the Army, Mr Kondit?’ she said, cutting across his narrative with feminine disregard.
    ‘No, I was not. You remember how General MacArthur told the people of the Philippines “I’ll be back”? Well I was back about eight hours before he was. They weren’t waiting on the beach with dry pants when I hit the surf. No sir. You’re not drinking – I’ll order some more wine! – Chefe dos mo ç os! Estas Senhoras desejam vinho seco. ’
    I saw the young waiter catch Fernie’s eye, for, quite apart from the extraordinary pronunciation, he had used pompous phrase-book Portuguese. We got the wine.
    We went back to H.K.’s for pre-dinner drinks. He lived a long way down the Praca Miguel Bombarda. It was a simple house with a red-and-white tiled entrance hall. The dark furniture did a heavy dance as we walked across the uneven plank flooring. From the entrance hall one could see right