Sponer waited until the door had closed, then lifted the receiver. Again the woman’s voice spoke in English.
While he was listening, Sponer tried to force himself to think what he should do next, but was unable to dispel the fog that still dulled his senses like a drug; or perhaps the events that had occurred in such rapid succession had exerted their full force on him in such a way that, whatever happened subsequently, they could no longer elicit a proper response from him, at least not for the moment. His nerves simply did not react any more. Even the new danger, this telephone conversation, could not make him decide what to do. The only thing he told himself was that if he so much as uttered a word, he was finished.
This time he didn’t put the receiver down, but listened as in a trance to the increasingly rapid, imploring and finally threatening voice, which expected answers and received none, which shouted and pleaded for a response, and finally fell silent. He continued holding the receiver to his ear, and after about a minute put it down.
The voice, which at first was warm and soft like the caress of a hand, had finally risen in pitch to an anxious and shrill tone, tripping over itself; but then, just at the end, it called the name Jack several times in all the tones ranging from anger to anxiety and bewilderment. Sponer frowned as in exasperation. Was this the way they thought they could still get a response from Mortimer? No, not even a voice that shouted, threatened and implored in such a manner would elicit an answer, and he, Sponer, kept silent like Mortimer.
For Mortimer’s mouth was full of water, and was silent.
Sponer went to the table, took a few bites of food while standing, and finished off the wine. As he put down the glass, the phone rang again. He glanced at it fleetingly, lit a cigarette and took a couple of puffs. Now the smoke did him good. In the meantime the phone continued ringing at intervals.
At last he picked it up.
This time it was the receptionist. He said that a lady wanted to speak to Mr Mortimer. At first Sponer didn’t fully comprehend. Where was the lady? he asked.
“Downstairs in the hall,” the receptionist replied.
Sponer’s heart again suddenly missed a beat. He couldn’t come downstairs now! he stammered, and put the receiver down.
He took a couple of steps. The feeling of confusion that had afflicted him suddenly lifted, and was replaced by nervous anxiety. He was once more fully aware of his predicament.
He turned, lifted the receiver and, now himself, asked for the receptionist.
“Reception,” he heard after a few seconds.
“Listen,” Sponer said, “I don’t want to speak to that lady now. Would you kindly make sure I’m not disturbed again. I’m not available to either that lady or anyone else who wants to speak to me. What on earth do you mean telling me that someone wants to speak to me in the middle of the night! I don’t want to take any calls from anyone! Please also tell the switchboard that there’s no point in taking any calls for me. I’d be obliged if you wouldn’t bother me any more!”
At that moment he heard the door being torn open behind his back, and he swung around.
A young, tall, slim platinum-blonde, very pretty, in an evening dress and a fur-trimmed brocade coat entered the room so quickly that when she walked towards him the hem of her dress rustled and swished round her ankles.
He stared at her and, still holding the receiver behind his back, groped around, missing the cradle each time, but finally he just let it drop anyhow.
6
JOSÉ MONTEMAYOR was a peon, a shepherd on horseback, in the wild south of the United States. He and the other vaqueros rounded up from the saddle huge herds of semi-wild cattle and horses on the vast plains of New Mexico, and when they chased the stampeding animals, the ends and fringes of their serapes, the colourful Indian shawls, fluttered behind them, and the prairie pollen and dust clouds of the llanos rose high into the sky. In high summer they stripped off their woollen shirts, tied them round their waists, and galloped bareback over the plains. Their hats, blown about by the strong wind, dangled from straps on their brown shoulders, and round their heads they wound coloured silk kerchiefs.
Small brass bells tingled on their saddles, lassos swayed back and forth, and the hairy strips of bearskin hanging from their stirrups fluttered in the wind. Montemayor also carried a guitar on his saddle. He had a good voice, and of an evening often sang songs to the others — old Spanish melodies and his own tunes that occurred to him from time to time.
Although he was only a cowboy, he was reputed to be the grandson of Lieutenant José Montemayor, who commanded the platoon that had shot Emperor Maximilian of Mexico.
One spring day, after collecting their pay, he and a couple of amigos set out on a spree, rode over the border, invaded all the Mexican taverns, flirted with the young women, spent their dollars and pesos on liquor, and generally painted the town red, finally ending up in Monterey, an old baroque hilltop town.
It was evening when they rode into the town, and the sun was setting like a fading rose behind the green copper cupolas and towers of Monterey. The streets, however, were already almost dark, the hooves clattered over the cobbles, the scent of jasmine wafted from the gardens in the twilight, the finery glinted on their saddles, and the women followed the riders with sparkling eyes.
They stopped in front of a tavern, tied up the horses, went in, and caroused into the night. They then left, and wandered through the town on foot.
The scent from the gardens became stronger, even overpowering the smell of cooking oil from the kitchen doorways and the other smells of a southern town. The full moon had long since risen and hung high in the silky blue of the night.
The peons wandered through the hushed streets, in which the only sound was the clinking of their silver spurs. The smoke of their cigarettes wafted behind them. Montemayor strode in front, strumming his guitar and singing, and the others sang along. Finally he started on a very old song which only he knew, while the others walked behind and listened, the only accompaniment being the strumming of the guitar and the clinking of spurs.
He had come to the end of a verse and was just about to begin the next when, from above a house cloaked in darkness, there came a woman’s voice singing this very verse. It was a very beautiful, clear voice that floated in the moonlight. Montemayor stopped in his tracks, as did the others, and listened in amazement, accompanying the unfamiliar singer on his guitar. He couldn’t see where the voice was coming from. He was just about to peer into the shadows that enveloped the house when the moon, gliding over the roof with the curved tiles which glistened like white breakers, shone straight in his face, but not before he had made out the outlines of a roof garden or a sort of elevated, enclosed arbour, from which he realized the voice was issuing.
The song consisted of alternate question and answer verses. The questions were to be sung by a male, the answers, by a female voice; when the invisible singer had come to the end of the maiden’s verse, Montemayor continued singing the man’s part, then came the maiden’s turn, then the man’s voice again, followed by the maiden’s, and so on.
It was the final verse, and whereas the voice of the invisible singer had, to begin with, sounded shy, timid and reserved, it now changed to an expression of fervour and affection.
The voice then fell silent. After a moment’s pause during which they savoured the magic sounds that had now ceased, the peons broke into applause. Montemayor then stepped forward and, taking off his hat with a flourish and holding it in his lowered hand so that the tassels touched the ground, enquired whether the best singer in the south would do him and his comrades the honour of showing herself.