Читать книгу Marivosa - Baroness Orczy - Страница 12

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While Fra Martino came stumping up the short flight of stone steps which led to the front entrance of the Hotel d’Angola, Tim suddenly remembered that he had not finished dressing. He turned to the mirror and busied himself with a recalcitrant collar-stud.

‘Come in, my holy friend,’ he called, in response to a knock at his door; ‘one more struggle with this d— save your reverence!—stud, and I am entirely at your service.’

Tim was airing his best Portuguese, but Fra Martino, it seemed, spoke English fluently, with a throaty accent which would have been unpleasant had it not been so comical. He loved to hear it and, above all, to air his knowledge of it. It reminded him of the days of his youth, when in the seminary he had made friends with two young Irish students. He pushed open the door and halted for a moment under the lintel. The room felt almost cool as it faced east, and outside the heat had been unbearable. Fra Martino mopped his damp, expansive forehead with a gaudy red-and-yellow handkerchief. Then he came forward and extended a large and very sticky hand to Tim, who shook it cordially.

‘Good of you to come, Padre,’ he said.

‘A pleasure, Major O’Clerigh, I assure you,’ the old priest responded pleasantly. He had put down his amazing hat, and his stiff white hair under the action of the cooler air slowly rose from his cranium until it stood up like a round mop encircling a pink bald place which was all that was left of his tonsure.

‘Sit down, Padre, while I finish dressing,’ Tim went on; ‘and let me get you a drink and a cigarette—or would you prefer a cigar?’

Fra Martino preferred a cigarette. He sat down and beamed on the whisky and soda which Tim carefully mixed for him.

‘Your very good health, my friend,’ he said jovially, raising his glass, ‘and may your stay in our city be a long and happy one.’

He insisted on Timothy drinking too, and on the clicking of glasses:

‘Wish me luck, Padre,’ Tim said with a slight touch of earnestness in his cheery voice.

‘But of course I wish you luck,’ the old priest responded, after he had taken a long drink, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You cannot want much more,’ he said, with a short sigh, ‘neither here nor elsewhere; you have all the best luck in the world, I’m sure. You are young. You are very handsome. The ladies will always be on your side.’

No man dislikes being told that he is handsome, and Tim O’Clee was no exception to the rule. But as he was not lacking in humour he was without personal vanity; nevertheless the frank admiration of the old priest pleased him. Amiability—the power to please—was going to be one of his most important assets in the adventure.

‘You look splendid in that black coat,’ Fra Martino continued with that naïve flattery which passes for courtesy among several Latin races, ‘and what a lovely white shirt! You will not see another like it in Monsataz, not even at the Club Nacional.’

Tim looked politely incredulous.

‘Ah, no!’ the old priest continued with a sigh. ‘What would you? The people here—what do they know of style or fashion? Even the young men— The officers perhaps, sometimes. But these others— Municipality? Government?’ And Fra Martino shrugged his shoulders and sniffed. Sniffed again and said with solemn emphasis, as if stating an indisputable and all-important fact: ‘Plebeians, my friend. That’s what they are. All of them. You will see. No manners. No style. No what the French call tenue.’ (He pronounced it tenoo.)

Timothy was intent on tying his tie. A black one, new from Bond Street, as was the soft-fronted exquisitely pleated and laundered shirt, the high collar slightly winged, not to mention the perfectly-cut smoking suit—fourteen guineas, and cheap at that—made in Savile Row.

In the glass he could see the pot-bellied figure of the old priest, sipping whisky, his short fat legs, the huge feet encased in those awful Wellington boots, and his round forehead exuding moisture.

‘No tenoo!’ Tim murmured. ‘Oh, my God!’ and turned to look elsewhere. The sight of Fra Martino perspiring copiously, and sniffing, was certainly not encouraging. Tim hoped that it was not customary in Brazil—as it is in some outlandish countries—for men to salute one another with a kiss. But now he stood up, ready, as straight and clean a figure of a man as ever came out of the Creator’s hands. Irish eyes, blue, grey, sometimes green as the varying moods of a mercurial temperament swayed him. Crisp, brown hair inclined to be unruly. A clear skin, splendid teeth. No features to speak of, for the nose too was Irish, as was the upper lip, distinctly too long for classical taste, effectually disguised, however, by a small tooth-brush moustache. But the mouth below it redeemed every defect of the face, for it appeared always ready for a smile. Fra Martino looked at him with approval, and then drew a short sigh. Of regret? Perhaps. He, too, had been young once—and handsome—at any rate in some women’s eyes.

‘Senhor da Lisbao,’ he said presently, ‘is sending his car round. As I already had the honour to tell you, he hopes that you will do him the honour, Major O’Clerigh, of dining with him at our Club Nacional.’

‘That is more than kind. I had thought of getting some dinner at the Hotel Americano and then—’

‘No, no. We will dine with Senhor da Lisbao. He is the president of our club. An influential man in the social world of Monsataz. You would like to know him. Not?’

‘Of course I should. I do not intend to lead the life of a hermit.’

‘You will stay here long, my dear Major?’

‘Some considerable time. Yes! Unless—’

‘Unless?’

‘I have come here on business, Padre,’ Tim said, ‘private business. If I get through with it quickly, I should not be here long.’

‘Ah, you have business here, my friend?’

He spoke quite lightly as if the matter did not greatly concern him; but to Tim’s perceptions, which just now were so very much on the qui vive, it seemed as if an invisible hand had, in the last moment or two, passed over the old priest’s face, blotting out every expression. In its way, and so it had appeared to Tim when first Fra Martino had entered the room, that face was an intriguing one, full of contradictions. The small beady eyes revealed keen intelligence; but the mouth, loose and fleshy with heavy lines drawn down from the corners of nose and lips, the flaccid cheeks and cleft chin, betrayed venality, indolence and sensuality. But in spite of all these defects, there was a distinct trait of kindliness lurking somewhere in the florid face: kindliness born probably of weakness of character, and of indolence—the line of least resistance; nevertheless the old priest gave one the impression that in most circumstances of life he would try and help a lame dog over the stile.

For the moment, then, all these traits had vanished. The lines of intelligence as well as of kindliness had all been merged in a smooth aspect of complete vagueness. Fra Martino did not wait for a reply to his last question; he said nothing for a minute or so, and then gradually his former expression of urbanity and friendly courtesy spread once more over his face. Once more he became suave and voluble, full of protests of unbounded hospitality. He and his presbytery, his servants, his friends and his parishioners were all at the disposal of the most distinguished Major O’Clerigh, and all the while he spoke he did not ask another question that might seem indiscreet. It was a pleasure and an honour, he kept repeating, to have so distinguished an English gentleman in Monsataz.

‘Not English, Padre,’ Tim put in whenever the volubility of the old man allowed; ‘Irish.’

But the difference held no meaning for Fra Martino. He certainly paused a moment as if to recapture the lost threads of his eloquence and then went on placidly, dolefully shaking his head:

‘We see very few English gentlemen out here. Rio? Yes! Pernambuco, even Bahia, but not in Monsataz.’

‘You like to see them, when they come?’

‘Ah! But yes! The great world—you understand—one is so shut away in this poor hole—’

‘A beautiful city, Padre.’

‘Yes!’

‘And the port seems very active—’

The priest gave a slight shrug. ‘All Americanos. The English who come here are all reverends—Protestants, alas! It is so sad that that beautiful country should still be blind to the truth.’

‘Englishmen who come here are not all missonaries, Padre—for I suppose that is what you mean by “reverend”. Many have come here on business and some in search of adventure.’

Fra Martino puffed away for a time at his cigarette; then he had a long drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said finally: ‘Maybe; I don’t know.’

‘I was thinking of a man I knew something about, who came out here quite a good deal,’ Tim said, with well-assumed carelessness; ‘a man named Dudley Stone.’

Tim, being the creature of impulse that he was, had suddenly made up his mind that he would fire off the name abruptly to see what effect it would have on the old priest. He tried his hardest not to appear to be watching the other’s face. But Fra Martino did not flinch. His fleshy eyelids never quivered. He was holding the glass of whisky and soda up to the light, watching its sparkle with unconcealed delight. There was a lump of ice in the glass: it did not so much as click once. But that very indifference sent Tim’s fancy wondering in the land of conjecture: ‘You are playing a part, my friend,’ he said to himself, ‘no one could be as unconcerned as you now look.’

Fra Martino took another long drink, put down his glass, smacked his lips, and then said lightly: ‘Ah! you knew Mr. Stone?’

‘Only by reputation,’ Tim replied. ‘Didn’t you, Padre?’

‘No, my dear Major,’ the priest rejoined lightly. ‘No; I cannot exactly say that I did know Mr.—er—Stone—only like yourself, by reputation.’

‘Now, isn’t that funny?’ was Tim’s dry comment on this; ‘I should have thought that you’d know every stranger who comes to Monsataz.’

Said Fra Martino: ‘I do, mostly; but Mr. Stone didn’t happen to come my way.’

And Timothy decided within himself that this was a lie. A puzzling lie. Seemingly a useless lie, but a lie nevertheless.

However, he left it at that, only said casually: ‘How funny; now, as I say, I should have thought—’

It was at this point that the honk-honk of a motor-car in the road below sounded a second time. Fra Martino struggled to his feet with marvellous alacrity, drained his glass to the bottom, and flung away the stump of his cigarette. He was not a very good actor, this obese old man, and though his florid, round face looked for the moment more like a bladder of lard than a human countenance, there was something in his manner as he picked up his hat and stick and said: ‘There is the car, my dear Major,’ which more than suggested relief.

‘We must not be late for dinner,’ he went on jovially. ‘You will find our cuisine at the club excellent, I may tell you. Our Papa à Bahiana is succulent. You will see ... you will see! We are not so behindhand in luxury and civilization as you Europeans imagine. And then, the ladies, my dear Major! The ladies...!’ He kissed the tips of his podgy fingers and made a gesture as of a butterfly on the wing. But his joviality now appeared forced, and his haste to get away evident. He gathered up his amazing hat and stick and turned to the door. A few more florid compliments and gestures, and he led the way out of the room. Timothy followed him downstairs.