Free Horse Under Water by Len Deighton Page A

through the house to where the light-grey sea, dark clouds and whitewashed stone balcony hung like a tricolour outside the back door. From the kitchen emerged a smell of olive oil, pimento, cuttlefish, and a wizened woman of sixty who did for H.K. I could detect her feminine hand in the hydrangeas that stood around in terracotta bowls.
    ‘Hi there, Maria – this way folks,’ said Harry, ‘I’m the only American in the world that doesn’t have an icebox.’ He had fixed the patio with green plants and a parasol. From his balcony one could see the new hotel that was being built. H.K. swirled his drink and looked across at it regretfully. ‘This place is going to be way outside my tax bracket when they get that baby finito.’
    Fernie, who hadn’t spoken much until now, asked Giorgio for a cigarette and Giorgio pressed a black cheroot upon him. Fernie’s few words were in clear, fluent Italian, and H.K. noticed me listening. ‘And he speaks German and Spanish just as well as you and I speak our mother tongue, don’t you, Fernie?’ He patted him affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Used to own three boats, Fernie did, but the Government took them away from him. One morning he goes down to the wharf, there’s a padlock onhis office door and two men in grey standing by his boats. No law court – nothing – just seized.’
    Singleton said, ‘What reason did they give?’
    ‘None,’ said H.K.
    ‘They must have said something.’
    H.K. laughed. ‘You’ve not been long in Portugal, sonny. The day the Government hands out explanations is the day after husbands start telling their wives where they’ve been. No sir, there’s nothing like that in this country.’
    ‘Do you think there was a reason?’ Singleton asked.
    ‘Me? Now that’s a different thing entirely. Sure it was because Fernie here fought against that son-of-a-bitch Franco in the Spanish business. He was at the siege of Malaga.’
    ‘Really?’ I said. ‘There weren’t many Portuguese fighting in Spain.’
    ‘They’ve fought everywhere, these Portuguese,’ said H.K. ‘They say, “God gave the Portuguese a small country as their cradle and all the world as their grave.”’ Fernie Tomas gave no sign of understanding the conversation.
    Singleton said, ‘If he fought in Spain I suppose that explains it.’
    ‘Explains it,’ said H.K., ‘you mean makes it understandable.’
    ‘In a way it makes it understandable,’ said Singleton.
    ‘It does, eh?’ said H.K. softly. ‘Let me tell you something, kid. A lot of my buddies were in theAbraham Lincoln brigade and they weren’t Commies either. They were just guys getting themselves dead so that you wouldn’t have to wear a black shirt and kick in the window of a Jewish candy-store on the way to school. Nuestra guerra they call it over there in Spain, but it wasn’t their war, it was his war, my war and, whether you know it or not, your war. It was their war too; the ones that came back Stateside and found a lot of people who’d like to do to them what Fernie’s people did to him – and more. But they didn’t – which was lucky all round – because in 1942 people who would prepare Fascists for wooden overcoats were back in fashion again. So don’t be so tolerant and understanding, you just never know when you might be out of fashion.’ H.K. was still speaking quietly but all other conversation had stopped. The evening Nortrada began to shuffle the leaves of the little palm tree. H.K. touched Singleton on the shoulder in avuncular fashion and said in a different voice, ‘We’re getting a little serious, aren’t we – how’s about another drink? Come and help me fix it, Charly.’
    They disappeared into the kitchen. Fernie began talking Italian to Giorgio across the far side of the balcony.
    ‘What do you know about that?’ said Joe quietly.
    ‘Ask London for an S.8 on him, and check Singleton again. You can’t be too careful, and that Singleton’s just not for real.’
    I