'No matter,' Richard Fischer remarked. 'I myself lost this arm on the Somme.' He waved his right arm.
'What bad luck,' Freddy said. 'If I'd been there I'd have helped you look for it.'
'Shall we begin?' Christian suggested. They all went over to the courts.
After a certain amount of deferring to each other, the Germans decided that Otto Krafft and Richard Fischer should play Julie and Freddy. Christian offered to umpire.
Everyone else wandered over to the seats behind the umpire's perch and made themselves comfortable while the players knocked-up. Luis smiled and chatted. It was a scene straight out of a magazine illustration: lustrous turf, each blade of grass sharp in the golden light of evening; the sidelines as sharp as tape; the young men dapper in their snowy flannels, the young women bright and brisk; and all around, the trees and flowers and cultured slopes of an ancient estate. It symbolised the triumph of style over savagery. It was a reminder that even in the Europe of 1941, civilised encounters were possible. Luis noticed Christian's shadow stretching huge and long across the grass. The silhouette of his arm swung up enormously, brushed his elongated head, and fell away. Luis felt his stomach muscles trembling. He wondered how good the Germans were at tennis. Somebody was going to lose. Luis wished he could, simply disappear and take Julie with him. That being impossible, he made the most out of watching her move around the court, as lithe and definite as a gymnast. What a creature, he thought, what a lovely animal, what a body, what the hell are 'we doing here with this gang when we could be in bed together? Lust romped through him and left him weak with unsatisfied desire. This is your last week in Madrid, he told himself angrily. Your last bloody week, for God's sake. Is this how you want to remember it?
'Play,' Christian said.
The first game proceeded quietly. The Germans were no more than competent. Freddy and Julie played down to their level, carried the score to deuce, and discreetly lost.
'Game to the embassy,' Christian announced.
Midway through the second game, Freddy hit a forehand shot deep to Otto's backhand and made him stretch. The best Otto could do was to dredge up the tamest sort of lob. Julie was at the net, waiting. Her overhead smash was perfectly timed, a full-blooded winner all the way, even if it hadn't hit Fischer on the head. The two sounds almost merged: whang- blonk! The ball rebounded high over the net and Freddy volleyed it neatly past Fischer's collapsing body.
Julie walked back to the baseline and waited for Fischer to recover. It was two minutes before he got helped back to his feet and another two minutes before his vision cleared.
'Sorry,'Julie called.
She hit Otto powerfully in the stomach during the next rally. He pretended that he was not hurt, but it was obvious that his breathing was difficult.
'Sorry,'she said.
Fischer very nearly got out of the way of her next short-range blast. It clipped him on the elbow and made him drop his racket. A little later Otto was obliged to charge forward to retrieve a shot which Freddy had chipped over the net. As Julie pounced on the return, Otto swung sideways and covered his face, and stopped la cannonball in the kidneys.
'Sorry,' she said. 'Is that game to us?'
'Game to the visitors,' Christian said stonily.
She hit Fischer three times during the next game, including a scorching sweep, with every ounce of her body and every inch of her swing in it, which scored the tender flesh inside his thigh. Otto was struck again on the stomach (and winded), on the ear, and in the ribs. The Germans tried to play a safe, long-range game but Freddy's chipped returns kept drawing them to the net where there was no escape from Julie's bruising blows. She no longer apologised. The spectators were silent. Christian kept score in a voice like tarnished brass.
The Germans lost the third game. As they changed ends, Julie called out to Christian in a clear, cold voice: 'Please ask your players to make some effort to get out of the way of the ball.'
Christian leaned forward, and forced his shaggy eyebrows into an angry overhang. ' I beg your pardon,' he growled. •
'God damn it, they're deliberately running into the ball,' she complained. 'It's obviously an attempt to put me off my game.'
Christian said nothing. His body remained hunched in the umpire's chair, his fingers squeezing the woodwork.
There were no injuries in the next game. Christian awarded every point to Krafft and Fischer long before they could be lured to the net. None of the points was good; Christian simply called all of Freddy's or Julie's shots out, the instant they touched the ground, wherever they landed. It was a very quick game.
Fischer got ready to serve the fifth. He was not in the best shape to play tennis but he knew now that all he had to do was get the ball over the net and the colonel would take care of the rest. He took a deep breath and served. The ball wandered over the net and bounced generously. Julie took a pace back and walloped her return wide down the sidelines: too wide. It biffed Christian just behind the ear and sent the umpire's chair rocking madly. The non-playing embassy staff rushed forward to steady it. All the players stood motionless. Luis felt Angela's fingers squeezing his arm. He suddenly felt very sleepy. It was a sensation he remembered from the Civil War, from occasions when he had watched the smoke drift away after a bombing raid or an artillery attack, and he had registered the dead flat silence and had not wanted to find out any more about it. He yawned enormously, uncontrollably.
'Did I hurt you?' Julie asked.
Christian climbed down. His head was still twitching from the blow. 'That was an insult,' he said thickly.
'So was the bombing of Warsaw and Rotterdam and London.'
'You stupid American bitch,' he snapped.
'Arrogant Nazi bastard,' she snapped back.
Luis heard voices behind him, and turned to see a passing group of tennis-players, all Spaniards, who had paused to watch. 'Que pasa?' someone called. One of the Germans went over, smiling excessively. 'Es ist alles in Ordnung,' he assured, but they kept coming forward. 'Es ist alles in Ordnung!' he said again.
'Colonel, you owe Mrs Conroy an apology,' Freddy Ryan said.
'I shall report you both to the club committee.' Rage or shock, or both, made Christian's voice tremble.
'Will you? Why?' Freddy walked towards him, whanging his racket against his leg. 'You huns have never given a two penny damn for other people's laws, so why start now? You didn't report Warsaw to the club committee, did you? Or Rotterdam.'
The Spanish spectators repeated the cities to each other, seeking a hint about the nature of the argument.
You will regret your insolence, Ryan,' Christian barked. Luis could see the beginning of a circular red weal on his neck.
Freddy hooted with laughter. 'What are you going to do? Seize my bank account in London? You'll have to conquer England first, you beastly boche.'
'England? That irrelevance? England is no longer an obstacle to the Third Reich.'
'And the Third Reich is the biggest joke in Europe. Call yourself the master race?' Freddy scoffed. 'You'd lose a talent contest with the hole in the elephant's bottom.'
And you have a mouth like a toilet seat, Ryan, with a brain to match.' Christian was making a huge effort to get his anger under control. He held himself very stiff and upright, and his mouth was set in scorn, but a yearning for revenge narrowed and sickened his eyes. 'You need to be taught manners, Ryan.' He began to walk away. His men followed.
'Listen, you squalid hun!' Freddy called. 'I'm British, you hear? British! That makes me worth fifty of your square-headed Teutonic robots!'
Christian paused. 'I promise you an early opportunity to put that to the test,' he said, and went on. More onlookers had been attracted by the noise. They stood aside to let the Germans through.
'We smashed you in 1918,' Freddy shouted, 'and we'll bloody well pulverise you again!'
The embassy party trailed away, across the lawns. The spectators stood staring for a while and then drifted off, discussing the melodrama. Luis and Angela went over to Freddy and Julie. She was sitting on the grass, watching a small, hairy caterpillar crawl up her finger.
'What on earth was all that for?' Luis asked.
'Well, he started it,' Freddy said. 'Foulmouthed sod.'
'No, you start it,' Angela said. 'Remember?'
They looked down at Julie. She raised her finger. The caterpillar had reached the tip and was standing, waving, looking. 'Imagine what a hell of a view that must be,' she said. She swung her hand around so that the caterpillar could see the others. 'Get a load of them hideous monsters. Did you ever see three such hulking fiends?'
'Come on, Julie,' Luis said. 'Be serious.'
'And they're on our side,' Julie told the caterpillar. 'Imagine what the baddies must look like!'
Freddy turned away and performed a graceful handstand. 'Anyway, who cares?' he said, upside-down. 'It's all over now.' He toppled gently and cartwheeled onto his feet.
'Are you sure?' Luis asked, but Freddy looked the other way.
The caterpillar turned and crawled down the finger. 'Okay,'Julie said, 'time to hit the hay, friend.' She placed it gently on a daisy, and stood up. 'What now? A little alligator-wrestling before dinner?'
'I thought you were going to kill those two men," Luis said.
'What nonsense,' Freddy remarked. 'They were never in danger of anything worse than severe maiming.'
'Where 'ave you learn to 'it so 'ard?' Angela asked.
'I was California ladies singles champion,'Julie said, 'in fact I went to the University of California on a tennis scholarship.'
Luis was amazed. 'American universities give scholar
ships for playing tennis?' !
'Sure. Damn tough to get, too. First you have to hit a tennis ball clean through a sheet of corrugated iron, and then you have to spell "corrugated iron".'
'Which you accomplished?' Freddy asked.
'Well," Julie said, picking up her racket, 'I got fifty per cent, which was considered good enough. I'm hungry. Let's go eat.'
They went eat. Luis tried to relax, but he found it hard to enjoy his food with tomorrow morning getting closer every minute. As it turned out, he was even wrong about that.
The fish were ugly, angry and dangerous. Luis kept catching them and he kept nearly getting bitten when he took them off the hook . The river was big and dirty and cold, but he had to keep fishing until he caught the one he was looking for. He caught another, still not the one he wanted. It was thrashing about with anger. It bit him on the hand. Enraged, he bit the fish back, and was astonished to see it smiling up at him. They were biting each other yet the fish was his friend. You re dreaming again, he told himself, and a bloody silly dream it is too. He made himself wake up, and while his consciousness was dragging itself through the murky surf between sleep and waking he held onto the important details in case they tried to slip away from him. Fishing in dirty waters . . .Jesus Christ, he complained to his subconscious, is that the best you can do? Where's your imagination?
All the lights were on.
Luis struggled up, feeling afraid because he had escaped from a dream to an unreality. The all-white dazzle gradually faded. He was looking at the old man, the caretaker from downstairs. Nightshirt, nightcap, eyes like inkstains.
'Man downstairs wants you,' the caretaker said, and worked his jaws to persuade his dentures to fit.
'Man? What man? What's the time?' Luis found a clock. It was five minutes past two. He wasn't fully awake; the murky river was still running. 'Who is it?'
The old man had a card, already bent and dog-eared by his heavy fingers. He held it close to his eyes and pulled his head back to focus. 'Otto something,' he said.
There had been a shower of rain, which made Madrid seem even darker and emptier. Otto drove fast and said nothing. They reached the embassy in a matter of minutes. Otto put the car in the underground car park and they went up in the lift. Freddy Ryan was waiting in Colonel Christian's anteroom. He was dressed in blue duck trousers and a white poloneck sweater, and he was beginning to need a shave. 'Get us some coffee, Otto, there's good chap,' he said. Otto went out without looking at him.- Freddy sighed. 'They're such damn bad losers. Not like the Italians. If this had been the Italian Embassy we'd be surrounded by coffee and three different flavours of ice cream and a bucket of Chianti per person, but your typical Jerry can't see the funny side of getting pounded with tennis-balls. He goes all bitter and sulky. It's true: they really have no sense of humour. I remember--'
'What's up?' Luis asked. 'What's going on?'
'Good question,' Freddy said. 'My guess is that the colonel is having trouble with The Times crossword, but I could be wrong.'
Ten minutes later Christian strode in, trailed by Otto Krafft and Richard Fischer. His face was brick-hard and his eyes were not looking at anyone. The three men went straight into his room. There was a dark rumble of talk, then silence. Luis looked anxiously at Freddy, but Freddy was occupied with balancing a pencil on his fingertip.
The inner door opened. Otto nodded to them. Luis wiped his palms on his thighs. Freddy flicked the pencil high in the air and caught it behind his back. 'Good Lord!' he said, genuinely surprised. 'I've never been able to do that before.' They went in.
Christian was sitting behind his desk. He glanced sideways at them, groaned his disgust, got up and took off his blue seersucker jacket. He threw it in the corner, the gesture of a man forced to soil his hands on someone else's mess. Luis got a whiff of dried sweat. Christian's shirt was ringed at the armpits. 'You maniacs,' Christian said.
Ryan aimed his thumb at Krafft and Fischer, who were standing by the door. 'Them or us?' he asked.
'You maniacs have endangered the existence of my entire section of the Abwehr,' Christian said. 'Can you begin to realise the significance of that? Do you know what happens to your future when my future is in doubt?'