Stormy Haven Page 7

  “You’ve been misinformed, Ramon,” put in Stephen kindly. “Melanie thrives on the scents of joss sticks and jasmine, and she wouldn’t forgo the second half of the program for anything in the world. We’ve merely been for a stroll in the moonlight, and discussed the things men and women invariably find intriguing in such surroundings.”

  “It pleases you to jest, Mr. Brent!”

  “I’m afraid it does, but you must forgive me. There’s a great deal in human nature that you can’t yet be expected to find in the least funny.” Smoothly, he ended, “We ought to see more of each other, Ramon.”

  It was with relief that Melanie heard the clangor of several cylindrical gongs calling them back to the auditorium of the Tiran Palace.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HARDLY A DAY PASSED but Ramon came to the hotel for lunch, or Elfrida and Melanie had dinner at the Perez villa. Sometimes he drove them through the silk green acres of sugar, the fields of tobacco and tea that terraced the little mountains all around Port Fernando.

  Elfrida was bored by the trips inland. They were all very well for Melanie who desired nothing more ambitious than to dream upon a land or seascape; but mile upon repetitive mile of mountains, luxuriant horticulture and sea views were scarcely Elfrida’s conception of an enjoyable environment. The evenings at the Perez villa were much more to her taste; if Ramon had shown signs of diminishing ardor Melanie would have found them fun, too.

  On better acquaintance, the old senor was proving kindly and paternal. One evening, when Melanie had confessed to an interest in books, he had taken her into his study and opened for her his case of rare editions that he had picked up in various parts of the world.

  “Next time I leave here they will go with me to Cadiz,” he said. “It pleases me that you handle them so reverently, but you may open them, senorita, and examine them thoroughly. That is a book of Hindustani historical records, hand printed. This one is from Persia, and this with the painted wooden cover was given me by a missionary in China.”

  Huskily, she said, “They’re beautiful, senor ... beautiful.”

  Her emotion touched him. “When I was young I, also, was much stirred by such things. Today most young people regard anything that is not mass-produced as junk—except their cars. You are a sensitive girl, Melanie, and have art unusual depth of feeling.”

  Melanie thought it probable that Senor Perez had been unfortunate in his contacts with the young. Ramon was a materialist, and the daughter might have been a disappointment. According to Ramon the women of Spain’s aristocracy were not entirely emancipated. Ramon himself retained a few feudal ideas; the women of other nations might go in for big business and politics in competition with men, girls might be free to choose their own husbands and to work in offices after marriage, but he preferred his womenfolk docile, dependent, and, if possible, worshipping.

  “Senorita,” said Senor Perez gently, “tell me about your father.”

  She was startled. “My father! He’s been dead for many years. He was in the navy.”

  “Always in the navy? Did he train at—what is the name—Dartmouth?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Is this family of Paget old?”

  Mystified but smiling, she replied, “I’ve never asked, but I had a great-grandmother Paget till I was nine.”

  He smiled back at her. “I respect your honesty. You must come again to see my books when we have no other guests. Let us now return to the lounge.”

  These days Melanie often caught the old man gazing at her reflectively and gravely.

  In the privacy of her hotel bedroom Elfrida raised her pencilled brows over Melanie’s conquest. “It’s quite incomprehensible, of course,” she stated, “but by far the most important thing that’s happened to us on this blighted island. The moment Ramon saw you all other women faded into insignificance; there’s nothing striking about you, so it must have been your fairness compared with the Spanish olive skin.” Her shoulders lifted. “Whatever it was, Ramon was sunk. But his father was a more difficult proposition. It’s lucky for you that he thinks you soulful. He’s even wondering whether their piano couldn’t be patched up for you to play.”

  “If we hadn’t made friends with the senor and Ramon there would have been others,” said Melanie.

  “There’s no one else so rich, so lavish with entertaining. If only the proprietress of this damned hotel weren’t so avaricious—” she broke off, then quickly glossed the exclamation. “You ought to wear Ramon’s necklace occasionally.”

  “I don’t care for it,” Melanie answered with a trace of stubbornness.

  “I’m not keen on this ornament, either, but I clip it into my lapel now and then.”

  Melanie looked at the dress pin that her cousin held. It was a diamond-studded lizard with ruby eyes. “Did Ramon give you that?”

  Elfrida nodded, slipped the costly piece into her jewel box and turned the key. “He’s a generous creature,” she said casually.

  Melanie masked her uneasiness by walking out onto the balcony.

  There came some quiet days without Ramon. His father had slightly injured his knee and Ramon dutifully remained at his side and contented himself with writing two notes, one to Elfrida and another, more impassioned, to Melanie. During his defection Elfrida went out alone, to the houses of the senor’s friends and to a party at the Miramar. Melanie read and sewed on the balcony, walked in the thronged streets and went to bed early.

  The third day it was not yet dark when Elfrida, elegant in a wine-red suit, went off in a Port Fernando taxi to one of the residences on the avenue. Happily, Melanie watched her departure and decided to wash her hair. She might even order a salad and fruit up here on the balcony and eat with the first stars winking overhead.

  Zestfully, she set about the shampooing; when it was done she wound a towel around her wet head and dabbed the perspiration from her neck and brow. Back on the balcony, she began desultorily to rub at her hair.

  Idly, she watched a car drive up, and with a quickening of heartbeats she recognized it. Stephen got out, dusted off his shorts. Yes, he had shorts and a bush shirt, immaculately laundered but marvelously careless. He looked as he had that morning in Aden, but with a difference. Then, he had been a stranger.

  She leaned over the wall, called softly, not to attract the servants. “Stephen!”

  He raised his head, gave her a grin. “Let down your hair, Rapunzel!”

  “It’s down, all six inches of it. Elfrida’s out.”

  “I know. You and I are going to the coral reef.”

  “Just we two?” It must be bending so low that made her blood sing. “My hair is still wet.”

  “Bring a towel and we’ll dry it in the car.”

  “But I can’t walk through the lounge like this.”

  He murmured something that sounded like, “To hell with ‘em,” and stood back as if to measure the distance between the balcony and the path.

  “I’m afraid they’ve taken care that all your visitors shall enter the conventional way,” he said, and straightway disappeared into the hotel.

  Melanie only had time to collect her wits and step into the room before Stephen entered by the other door. She laughed helplessly.

  “I’m sure this is terribly irregular. How did you know which room?”

  Second balcony, second room,” he Said. “Give me the towel.” He took it, ran his hand over it. “Soaked. I’ll use this clean one.”

  He had grabbed Elfrida’s bath towel from the rail beside the sink. If Elfrida found out she would be livid, but this was worth the risk of her raving. Melanie clenched her teeth against his vigorous attack.

  “If you had sent a message I’d have been ready,” she managed.

  “This won’t take long. Am I too rough?”

  “I can stand it.” Reluctantly, she had to be candid. “Elfrida won’t be too thrilled about my going alone with you.”

  “Leave her to me. She wouldn’t enjoy it, anyway; she hates getting dirt
y.”

  “How did you guess she wasn’t here?”

  “I didn’t. We were both at the Miramar party last night and she mentioned that she’d be out again this evening. Do you feel neglected when she leaves you here alone?”

  “Good Lord, no. I love it.” Especially tonight, rejoiced her heart.

  “Last night’s binge became rowdy; it was better that you stayed away. You’re too young for some of the celebrations that go on around here.”

  “I’m nineteen.”

  His operations ceased for quite a long moment. “Well, well,” he said. “So you’ve had a birthday. You still look sixteen to me. There!” He flung the towel aside, shook her hair with his fingers. “I’ll wait for you in the car while you comb it. Don’t be long.”

  He left behind a subtle constraint. Automatically and swiftly tidying the room, Melanie reflected again upon that incalculable strain in Stephen; even his most friendly mood seemed cored with enmity. She wished she hadn’t told him she was nineteen.

  However, when she joined him five minutes later, her hair curling and sweet smelling, her mouth deliciously and naturally red, he gave her a small wink.

  “You’re the only girl I know who’s as pretty without paint as with it.”

  Which Melanie, sated with the colorful eulogies of Ramon, considered the nicest compliment she had ever received.

  They purred down to the Marine Drive, crawled along to its end, where Stephen parked and locked the car. They jumped down to the beach, rounded the headland and came to a steeper expanse of sand where a single canoe was guarded by a skinny brown boy scantily clad in a dhoti.

  “I paddle, sahib!” he demanded eagerly.

  “No. I’ll do my own paddling. Here’s your money. I’ll tie the boat up when we come back.”

  The payment must have been excessive, for the boy assumed an air of devotion. “I wait till you come, sahib.”

  “You can’t. We’ll be an hour or two.”

  “I will steer for you and swim back.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t. You can help shove off, that’s all.”

  The sun was gone. The turquoise sky had taken a purple tinge, and the distant wisps of cloud had lost their vermilion shroud and become negligible and somber. Waves slapped lazily at the sides of the canoe, ran on to splinter over the receding beach. The palms gestured a benign au revoir, and the pale pinnacles of the coral island seemed to unbend, to beckon.

  Without urgency, Stephen paddled. His strong brown forearms moved rhythmically, and at intervals he turned to check up on Melanie’s steering. As they left Mindoa she saw more canoes making for other islands.

  “They’re going fishing,” Stephen said. “Each island is a sort of preserve. Once your lantern is lighted the island is yours for the rest of the night.”

  She eyed the hurricane lamp and basket that lay between them in the bottom of the boat. “Are we going to fish?”

  His smile was mocking. “Maybe. There’s no end to the possibilities of an evening alone on an island. Are you scared?”

  “Not with you.”

  “Why? Am I too senile to spell danger?”

  She trailed a hand in the water. “I just can’t imagine you having those sort of feelings. Even if you did I think you’d always pull up short of ... of action.”

  He laughed with his head thrown back, and she thought that being here, with Stephen so good-natured, was the next best thing to a miracle.

  The bottom of the canoe grated upon rock. Stephen tore her steering to bits with a few acid syllables, and pushed around into a channel that ran straight alongside a footworn coral bank. He caught an embedded iron ring and looped the rope around it.

  “Here we are,” he said. “Hop out and I’ll haul up the craft.” Melanie obeyed, climbed higher and felt dizzy with the delight of standing upon the thick, white, porous coral. Almost on tiptoe she walked to a tiny promontory and stared into the water. Things of color were moving around down there; on a ledge just under the surface a vivid anemone spread its lacy fans, then closed itself into a prim blossom.

  “Stephen,” she whispered, as though it might hear, “look at that.”

  The anemone performed again. Stephen held her with an impersonal firmness while he watched it over her shoulder. Even as they stood there, the day died; the horizon was swallowed, the humps of Mindoa vanished and more and more lights pierced the night. They were at sea on an unsheltered island, but Melanie felt warm and secure. Her pulses hummed, her skin tingled; she was happier than she had ever been.

  “There’ll be more to see in the water a little later,” said Stephen. “Are you hungry?”

  “Dare I be?”

  “I think you might. I haven’t seen what’s in the basket, but I told my cook it had better be good. I’ll bring the things along there, where the surface is smooth. You stay where you are till I come back with the lantern.”

  The place he had chosen was close to the sea. He spread a blanket, gave Melanie two cushions and took one for himself, set down the basket and hurricane lamp between them. He pulled the skewer from the fastener of the basket and lifted the lid.

  “Get busy,” he said.

  She opened the packets, took out the flask, the plates and cups. Slices of chicken were revealed, and rice meal bread that was close-knit but tasty as it was freshly baked and thickly buttered. Small tomatoes had been quartered and tossed in ground peppers, and fingers of pickled cucumber were spread with soft cheese and sprinkled with herbs. There were peach mangoes and bananas, some shelled pecan and cashew nuts with muscatels. The coffee was rich and dark and plentiful.

  “You must have a sensible cook,” she observed contentedly, “and this is the very best way to eat a meal. I didn’t realize till now how tired I am of living in an hotel.”

  “Not too good, is it, particularly when the hotel is small and the only one. When I’m quartered anywhere for longer than a month I always take a house. My present abode is palatial; you’ll have to come and see it.”

  “The outside of it is brilliant. Wouldn’t you like to stay there for ever?”

  “I’m not the type to become attached to bricks and mortar, or to any one place.”

  “But that’s wrong,” she said decisively. “Don’t you ever want to grow things? You can’t do that without sticking to one spot for a long, long while.” Her voice went quiet and musing. “I hoped that was how it would be at Mindoa—that Elfrida and I would live on the plantation, perhaps even for good.”

  He finished his coffee, rested sideways on an elbow and looked across at her. “Plantation life would suit you. Were you fed up when she sold out?”

  She gazed at him blankly. “Elfrida’s sold the plantation? Are you serious?”

  “Didn’t she tell you? It happened weeks ago. The manager bought the whole works.”

  “Then—” the green eyes were wide and clear “—why are we still at Port Fernando?”

  “If I were to explain,” he said, his tones rather clipped, “you wouldn’t believe me. Are you anxious to leave Mindoa?”

  “Of course not. I love the place and the people.”

  Teasingly he inquired, “And what about me? Am I more likeable now?”

  She slipped back on to a cushion, crossed her arms under her head. Dreamily she answered, “You? You’re a splendid brute.”

  She heard his grunt of laughter, the scrape of a match as he lighted a cigarette. The stars were so thick and close, the sea moved ceaselessly around them. The excellent meal, combined with the sense of exquisite isolation, was too much for her. Melanie drowsed.

  She must actually have slept for a spell. She came awake to hear Stephen exclaim softly, and sat up to see what he was doing. He lay on his front with his head and shoulders out over the sea. In one hand he held aloft a short spear. She twisted quickly, pulled herself along to his side and peered into the water.

  The fish were numerous and dazzling. They had queerly shaped heads, graceful, iridescent fins, round bodies, flat bodies, rosebu
d mouths and nasty-looking jaws. They were pink, green, pale blue, lavender, scarlet and mulberry; every conceivable color shot with silver.

  “They’re not real,” she breathed. “Why can we see them so clearly?”

  “The water’s not very deep and near coral it invariably has a peculiar clarity. The fish themselves give off light.”

  “Do people actually eat them?”

  “You’ve probably eaten relatives of the little mauve chap yourself. He’s tasty.”

  “Don’t catch any now,” she begged.

  “This is part of your education, my child. I’ll harpoon one of the poisonous ones. You see the chocolate boy with green stripes? He’s no good to anyone.”

  A moment of stillness, of tense waiting. The spear flashed into the water and impaled the fish. It flailed weakly and was still. Without drawing it from the water Stephen jerked his wrist; the fish sank and the spear was withdrawn, shining and dripping.

  “You have a go,” he said.

  “Not I. I might stab the wrong fish.”

  “You probably would. In rock fishing and young love it’s common to pick on the wrong victim.”

  Smilingly intent upon the weaving sea creatures, she said, “Is that what you did when you were young and in love?”

  “Frequently. Fortunately, it’s a pastime one outgrows.”

  “You mean you don’t fall in love anymore?”

  “That’s right. Simple, isn’t it?”

  She let a minute drift by. “What would you do if it just ... happened?’

  His tone was sharp and sarcastic. “When a man reaches my age, Melanie, my pet, it doesn’t just ... happen. He sees it coming and doesn’t give it a chance to bud, let alone mature.”

  “You don’t have to bark. I’m entitled to be curious.”

  “If you don’t shift back a bit you’ll be wet, too,” he said tersely. He dragged at her arm, made her move. “You’re getting cold. Shall we go now?”