Message From Malaga Read Online Free Page A

have thought his imagination was playing tricks. “Ever seen these fellows before?”
    “I’ve seen a thousand like them in the last three years.” Reid was concentrating on Jaime, who was just arriving with expert speed. “Like to try the wine this time? It’s local, out of a barrel, sweet but nourishing. There isn’t much choice, actually. This is grape territory.”
    “I’ll stick with the brandy. Sweet but less nourishing.” And after Reid had given the brief order and Jaime, with a bright smile on his lips and in his eyes, had left them, Ferrier said, “I admire your Spanish. But doesn’t he know English? He seemed to be listening to what I was saying.”
    “He’s learning. And if I know Jaime, he’s fascinated by your jacket. He’s going to save up and get one just like it.”
    “One thing about Jaime—he could teach those fellows back at the corner table how to look cheerful.”
    “You should see the village he comes from, back in the hills. It was one of those that almost starved—”
    From the doorway came the sound of women’s voices, a burst of argument still going on, a quick command, silence. And then a rattle of castanets, light laughter. A clatter of heels came over the wooden threshold as four girls stepped into the open. There was a rustle of silk as wide ruffled skirts swept toward the stage in a mass of floating colour. Smoothly brushed heads, each crowned by one large flower, were held high, long heavy hair caught into a thick knot at the nape of slender white necks. Three profiles were turned just enough to let the courtyard see a long curl pressed closely against a barely pink cheek, dark-red lips softly curving, an elaborate earring dangling. The fourth girl, lagging behind although she walked with equal poise and dignity, paid no attention to anyone, not even to the quick flurry of guitars reminding her, with a sardonic imitation of a grand fanfare, that she was later than late. The male dancer greeted her with a burst of hoarse Spanish that set the others laughing. She tossed her head, drew the small triangle of fringed silk that covered her shoulders more closely around her neck, sat down with her spine straight and a damn-you-all look at the front tables. The longshoremen roared.
    “Constanza,” Reid was whispering. “She’s always in trouble. But her temper improves her dancing.” He looked at his watch. Almost fourteen minutes. Tavita’s exact timing never failed to amaze him.
    To Ferrier’s ear, there seemed to be some slight trouble at the rear of the courtyard, too: an American voice briefly raisedin anger, a sharp hiss from the neighbouring Spaniards that silenced it. He glanced back with annoyance, saw the youngest of the four—the bearded one—heading towards the wineshop, thought that this was a hell of a time to choose to go to the men’s room, looked once more at the stage. The girls, a close cluster of bright colours, were settled in their seats, leaving the last chair free. The singer and the male dancer stood behind the guitarists at the other end of the row. The lamps around the courtyard walls went out. A softer glow, as amber as candlelight, focused on the stage. Suddenly he was aware that another woman had entered from the door beside their table. Silence fell on the courtyard.
    Good God, thought Ferrier as he glimpsed her profile. She brushed past them, paying attention to no one. Reid was no longer looking at his watch. The silence intensified.
    She was taller than the others, Ferrier noted, and moved with a grace that was notable even by the dim light. She reached the stage, mounted it, walked its length toward the empty chair with that same effortless stride. Around him, the silence broke into a storm of welcome. He could almost feel the excitement that filled the courtyard before it swept over him, too. She was worth waiting for, this Tavita. A small delay, it seemed now, not worth noticing; a little time lag that had served to stir the emotions