Authors: Graham Greene
‘Only cheroots,’ she said.
Now that he heard the whistles warning him of her approach he wondered why Milly was coming up Lamparilla from the direction of the harbour instead of from the Avenida de Belgica. But when he saw her he saw the reason too. She was followed by a young shop assistant who carried a parcel so large that it obscured his face. Wormold realized sadly that she had been shopping again. He went upstairs to their apartment above the store and presently he could hear her superintending in another room the disposal of her purchases. There was a thump, a rattle and a clang of metal. ‘Put it there,’ she said, and, ‘No, there.’ Drawers opened and closed. She began to drive nails into the wall. A piece of plaster on his side shot out and fell into the salad; the daily maid had laid a cold lunch.
Milly came in strictly on time. It was always hard for him to disguise his sense of her beauty, but the invisible duenna looked coldly through him as though he were an undesirable suitor. It had been a long time now since the duenna had taken a holiday; he almost regretted her assiduity, and sometimes he would have been glad to see Earl burn again. Milly said grace and crossed herself and he sat respectfully with his head lowered until she had finished. It was one of her longer graces, which probably meant that she was not very hungry, or that she was stalling for time.
‘Had a good day, Father?’ she asked politely. It was the kind of remark a wife might have made after many years.
‘Not so bad, and you?’ He became a coward when he watched her; he hated to oppose her in anything, and he tried to avoid for so long as possible the subject of her purchases. He knew that her monthly allowance had gone two weeks ago on some ear-rings she had fancied and a small statue of St Seraphina.
‘I got top marks today in Dogma and Morals.’
‘Fine, fine. What were the questions?’
‘I did best on Venial Sin.’
‘I saw Dr Hasselbacher this morning,’ he said with apparent irrelevance.
She replied politely, ‘I hope he was well.’ The duenna, he considered, was overdoing it. People praised Catholic schools for teaching deportment, but surely deportment was intended only to impress strangers. He thought sadly, But I
am
a stranger. He was unable to follow her into her strange world of candles and lace and holy water and genuflections. Sometimes he felt that he had no child.
‘He’s coming in for a drink on your birthday. I thought we might go afterwards to a night-club.’
‘A night-club!’ The duenna must have momentarily looked elsewhere as Milly exclaimed, ‘O Gloria Patri.’
‘You always used to say Alleluia.’
‘That was in Lower Four. Which night-club?’
‘I thought perhaps the Nacional.’
‘Not the Shanghai Theatre?’
‘Certainly not the Shanghai Theatre. I can’t think how you’ve even heard of the place.’
‘In a school things get around.’
Wormold said, ‘We haven’t discussed your present. A seventeenth birthday is no ordinary one. I was wondering …’
‘Really and truly,’ Milly said, ‘there’s nothing in the world I want.’
Wormold remembered with apprehension that enormous package. If she had really gone out and got everything she wanted … He pleaded with her, ‘Surely there must be something you still want.’
‘Nothing. Really nothing.’
‘A new swim-suit,’ he suggested desperately.
‘Well, there is one thing … But I thought we might count it as a Christmas present too, and next year’s and the year after that …’
‘Good heavens, what is it?’
‘You wouldn’t have to worry about presents any more for a long time.’
‘Don’t tell me you want a Jaguar.’
‘Oh no, this is quite a small present. Not a car. This would last for years. It’s an awfully economical idea. It might even, in a way, save petrol.’
‘Save petrol?’
‘And today I got all the etceteras – with my own money.’
‘You haven’t got any money. I had to lend you three pesos for Saint Seraphina.’
But my credit’s good.’
‘Milly, I’ve told you over and over again I won’t have you buying on credit. Anyway it’s my credit, not yours, and my credit’s going down all the time.’
‘Poor Father. Are we on the edge of ruin?’
‘Oh, I expect things will pick up again when the disturbances are over.’
‘I thought there were always disturbances in Cuba. If the worst came to the worst I could go out and work, couldn’t I?’
‘What at?’
‘Like Jane Eyre I could be a governess.’
‘Who would take you?’
‘Senor Perez.’
‘Milly, what on earth are you talking about? He’s living with his fourth wife, you’re a Catholic. …’
‘I might have a special vocation to sinners,’ Milly said.
‘Milly, what nonsense you talk. Anyway, I’m not ruined. Not yet. As far as I know. Milly, what have you been buying?’
‘Come and see.’ He followed her into her bedroom. A saddle lay on her bed; a bridle and bit were hanging on the wall from the nails she had driven in (she had knocked off a heel from her best evening shoes in doing it); reins were draped between the light brackets; a whip was propped up on the dressing-table. He said hopelessly, ‘Where’s the horse?’ and half expected it to appear from the bathroom.
‘In a stable near the Country Club. Guess what she’s called.’
‘How can I?’
‘Seraphina. Isn’t it just like the hand of God?’
‘But, Milly, I can’t possibly afford …’
‘You needn’t pay for her all at once. She’s a chestnut.’
‘What difference does the colour make?’
‘She’s in the stud-book. Out of Santa Teresa by Ferdinand of Castile. She would have cost twice as much, but she fouled a fetlock jumping wire. There’s nothing wrong, only a kind of lump, so they can’t show her.’
‘I don’t mind if it’s a quarter the price. Business is too bad, Milly.’
‘But I’ve explained to you, you needn’t pay all at once. You can pay over the years.’
‘And I’ll still be paying for it when it’s dead.’
‘She’s not an it, she’s a she, and Seraphina will last much longer than a car. She’ll probably last longer than you will.’
‘But, Milly, your trips out to the stables, and the stabling alone …’
‘I’ve talked about all that with Captain Segura. He’s offering me a rock-bottom price. He wanted to give me free stabling, but I knew you wouldn’t like me to take favours.’
‘Who’s Captain Segura, Milly?’
‘The head police officer in Vedado.’
‘Where on earth did you meet him?’
‘Oh, he often gives me a lift to Lamparilla in his car.’
‘Does Reverend Mother know about this?’
Milly said stiffly, ‘One must have one’s private life.’
‘Listen, Milly, I can’t afford a horse, you can’t afford all this – stuff. You’ll have to take it back.’ He added with fury, ‘And I won’t have you taking lifts from Captain Segura.’
‘Don’t worry. He never touches me,’ Milly said. ‘He only sings sad Mexican songs while he drives. About flowers and death. And one about a bull.’
‘I won’t have it, Milly. I shall speak to Reverend Mother, you’ve got to promise …’ He could see under the dark brows how the green and amber eyes contained the coming tears. Wormold felt
the
approach of panic; just so his wife had looked at him one blistering October afternoon when six years of life suddenly ended. He said, ‘You aren’t in love, are you, with this Captain Segura?’
Two tears chased each other with a kind of elegance round the curve of a cheek-bone and glittered like the harness on the wall; they were part of her equipment too. ‘I don’t care a damn about Captain Segura,’ Milly said. ‘It’s just Seraphina I care about. She’s fifteen hands and she’s got a mouth like velvet, everybody says so.’
‘Milly dear, you know that if I could manage it …’
‘Oh, I knew you’d take it like this,’ Milly said. ‘I knew it in my heart of hearts. I said two novenas to make it come right, but they haven’t worked. I was so careful too. I was in a state of grace all the time I said them. I’ll never believe in a novena again. Never. Never.’ Her voice had the lingering resonance of Poe’s Raven. He had no faith himself, but he never wanted by any action of his own to weaken hers. Now he felt a fearful responsibility; at any moment she would be denying the existence of God. Ancient promises he had made came up out of the past to weaken him.
He said, ‘Milly, I’m sorry …’
‘I’ve done two extra Masses as well.’ She shovelled on to his shoulders all her disappointment in the old familiar magic. It was all very well talking about the easy tears of a child, but if you are a father you can’t take risks as a schoolteacher can or a governess. Who knows whether there may not be a moment in childhood when the world changes for ever, like making a face when the clock strikes?
‘Milly, I promise if it’s possible next year … Listen, Milly, you can keep the saddle till then, and all the rest of the stuff.’
‘What’s the good of a saddle without a horse? And I told Captain Segura …’
‘Damn Captain Segura – what did you tell him?’
‘I told him I had only to ask you for Seraphina and you’d give her to me. I said you were wonderful. I didn’t tell him about the novenas.’
‘How much is she?’
‘Three hundred pesos.’
‘Oh, Milly, Milly.’ There was nothing he could do but surrender. ‘You’ll have to pay out of your allowance towards the stabling.’
‘Of course I will.’ She kissed his ear. ‘I’ll start next month.’ They both knew very well that she would never start. She said, ‘You see, they did work after all, the novenas, I mean. I’ll begin another tomorrow, to make business good. I wonder which saint is best for that.’
‘I’ve heard that St Jude is the saint of lost causes,’ Wormold said.
CHAPTER 3
1
IT WAS WORMOLD’S
day-dream that he would wake some day and find that he had amassed savings, bearer-bonds and share-certificates, and that he was receiving a steady flow of dividends like the rich inhabitants of the Vedado suburb; then he would retire with Milly to England, where there would be no Captain Seguras and no wolf-whistles. But the dream faded whenever he entered the big American bank in Obispo. Passing through the great stone portals, which were decorated with four-leaved clovers, he became again the small dealer he really was, whose pension would never be sufficient to take Milly to the region of safety.
Drawing a cheque is not nearly so simple an operation in an American bank as in an English one. American bankers believe in the personal touch; the teller conveys a sense that he happens to be there accidentally and he is overjoyed at the lucky chance of the encounter. ‘Well,’ he seems to express in the sunny warmth of his smile, ‘who would have believed that I’d meet you here, you of all people, in a bank of all places?’ After exchanging with him news of your health and of his health, and after finding a common interest in the fineness of the winter weather, you shyly, apologetically, slide the cheque towards him (how tiresome and incidental all such business is), but he barely has time to glance at it when the telephone rings at his elbow. ‘Why, Henry,’ he exclaims in astonishment over the telephone, as though Henry too were the last person he expected to speak to on such a day, ‘what’s the news
of
you?’ The news takes a long time to absorb; the teller smiles whimsically at you: business is business.
‘I must say Edith was looking swell last night,’ the teller said.
Wormold shifted restlessly.
‘It was a swell evening, it certainly was. Me? Oh, I’m fine.
Well now, what can we do for you today?’
‘… … … .’
‘Why, anything to oblige, Henry, you know that … A hundred and fifty thousand dollars for three years … no, of course there won’t be any difficulty for a business like yours. We have to get the O.K. from New York, but that’s a formality. Just step in any time and talk to the manager. Monthly payments? That’s not necessary with an American firm. I’d say we could arrange five per cent. Make it two hundred thousand for four years? Of course, Henry.’
Wormold’s cheque shrank to insignificance in his fingers. ‘Three hundred and fifty dollars’ – the writing seemed to him almost as thin as his resources.
‘See you at Mrs Slater’s tomorrow? I expect there’ll be a rubber. Don’t bring any aces up your sleeve, Henry. How long for the O.K.? Oh, a couple of days if we cable. Eleven tomorrow? Any time you say, Henry. Just walk in. I’ll tell the manager. He’ll be tickled to death to see you.’
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Wormold.’ Surname again. Perhaps, Wormold thought, I am not worth cultivating or perhaps it is our nationalities that keep us apart. ‘Three hundred and fifty dollars?’ The teller took an unobtrusive glance in a file before counting out the notes. He had hardly begun when the telephone rang a second time.
‘Why, Mrs Ashworth, where have you been hiding yourself? Over at Miami? No kidding?’ It was several minutes before he had finished with Mrs Ashworth. As he passed the notes to Wormold, he handed over a slip of paper as well. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Mr Wormold. You asked me to keep you informed.’ The slip showed an overdraft of fifty dollars.
‘Not at all. It’s very kind of you,’ Wormold said. ‘But there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Oh, the bank’s not worrying, Mr Wormold. You just asked, that’s all.’
Wormold thought, If the overdraft had been fifty thousand dollars he would have called me Jim.
2
For some reason that morning he had no wish to meet Dr Hasselbacher for his morning daiquiri. There were times when Dr Hasselbacher was a little too carefree, so he looked in at Sloppy Joe’s instead of at the Wonder Bar. No Havana resident ever went to Sloppy Joe’s because it was the rendezvous of tourists; but tourists were sadly reduced nowadays in number, for the President’s regime was creaking dangerously towards its end. There had always been unpleasant doings out of sight, in the inner rooms of the Jefatura, which had not disturbed the tourists in the Nacional and the Seville-Biltmore, but one tourist had recently been killed by a stray bullet while he was taking a photograph of a picturesque beggar under a balcony near the palace, and the death had sounded the knell of the all-in tour ‘including a trip to Varadero beach and the night-life of Havana’. The victim’s Leica had been smashed as well, and that had impressed his companions more than anything with the destructive power of a bullet. Wormold had heard them talking afterwards in the bar of the Nacional. ‘Ripped right through the camera,’ one of them said. ‘Five hundred dollars gone just like that.’