Dark Interlude

2: Tanga-1

2: Tanga

O'MARA lay on the ground, his back resting against the white-washed wall that bounded the Garage Volanon. He seemed to regard the broken shoe of his right foot with interest, but he did not see the shoe. When a lizard scuttled from a crevice in the sunlit wall, disappeared into another crevice, O'Mara jerked spasmodically. He relaxed after his brain realised that he had really seen the lizard.

There had been no work that day. After last night when Volanon had given him the rough edge of his tongue, O'Mara had decided it would be a good thing to remain as sober as possible for a few days; as sober as possible—possible being the operative word. He concluded that he did not like lizards. He thought that life would go on in exactly the same way as it was going on at the moment. It would go on like that permanently, except that each day he would be a little more drunken—a little more stupid. And then in the winter it would rain and he would probably die of pneumonia.

O'Mara, who had never considered the possibilities of death, found himself vaguely amused at the thought. He concluded that there was never a chance of anything happening; that he was part of a picture that was constant; that would continue. A rather dreary picture in the beautiful setting created by the sunlight which flooded this side of the estuary; which illuminated the red roof and white walls of the garage.

And then it happened.

The Typhoon car shot round the corner out of the narrow main street of the little fishing village. The driver was expert, for the car was long and at the speed at which it was going it was necessary to skid the car. It came round the corner at a good thirty-five; accelerated down the dirt road that led towards the arm of the estuary; slowed down; stopped directly outside the garage.

O'Mara did not move. The pain had come in his left arm. His left leg was beginning to tremble. These were the usual symptoms for this time of the day. They called it all sorts of names. A doctor from a neighbouring town had been nice enough to describe it as a sort of false angina. Actually, it was drink, more drink, and Caporal cigarettes—lots of them. That and not eating and nerves.

O'Mara regarded the broken shoe on his right foot with even more interest. Now he felt a little cold. Supposing this was it! Was he good enough? Had he got the guts? Out of the corner of his eye he watched the car. The door opened and a woman's leg emerged—a beautiful leg; superbly clad; the stocking of the sheerest silk. O'Mara knew the leg. He thought: My God... it's happened! Tanga!

So it was to be she. Tanga de Sarieux, whom he had met once and remembered often. He remembered the slow, quiet voice, the delightful French accent.

She got out of the car. She walked towards the garage. She disappeared through the open sliding doors into the cool shadows. She walked with the supreme aplomb, the grace of carriage, that was part of her make-up. O'Mara thought: What a hell of a woman! He found himself trembling a little.

The afternoon was very quiet. There was no breeze from the sea. There was the buzzing and droning of flies—the noises that come with the hot summer; that make the silence more definite. Inside the garage, O'Mara could hear Tanga's cool, clear voice demanding attention from somebody. He looked at the car. The front near-side tyre was nearly flat. So that was it!

Some minutes passed. Tanga came out of the garage. She walked towards the car, followed by Volanon. Volanon was fat, greasy and sweating. His stained linen trousers were tied round his middle with a piece of cord. His belly sagged over the top.

He said: "If that's all it is, Madame, we'll soon fix it for you. If I can get this drunken imbecile to work." He looked towards O'Mara. He called: "Hi, Philippe... come along, my drunken sot. Change this wheel. The spare is on the back."

Tanga looked at O'Mara. She said coldly: "Do you think he could change a wheel? He looks drunk to me."

Volanon shrugged his shoulders. He said: "Madame has reason. He is drunk. He has never been sober. He has everything—a variety of maladies. One looks at him and imagines that also he has the cafard. But always he is able to work after a style."

Tanga said: "Why don't you change the tyre?"

Volanon said with dignity: "But, Madame, I am the proprietor."

Tanga began to laugh. Volanon, a shadow crossing his face and with a final scowl at O'Mara, turned; went towards the garage. Inside the doors, he turned. He called back:

"Madame is requested to pay me—not to give money to the drunken Philippe."

Tanga nodded. O'Mara could hear the rope-soled shoes of Volanon pattering away into the recesses of the garage. He planned to get up. He got up. He got up by the process of turning over on his knees, pushing himself up into a kneeling position, putting his two hands on the top of the low wall and pulling. With difficulty he achieved a vertical position. He stood for a moment leaning against the wall; then walked slowly towards the car. She looked at him with distaste.

She said: "The jack is in the back. There is a lock on the spare wheel. Here is the key. Also I am in a hurry. You will be quick?"

O'Mara said: "But of course. That is understood." He continued more formally: "Madame, speed is the essence of our work in this supreme and high-class organisation. It will not take me very long to change the wheel."

She said: "Good."

O'Mara went on: "But it would seem to me that you have a puncture. If you want the puncture repaired before you go on—and I would advise you to have it repaired—it will take a little time."

She asked: "How much time?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "A half an hour," he said.

Tanga looked across the estuary. She looked across to the other side, to the green hill with the tiny church and graveyard on the top.

She said: "There is a villa somewhere in this place called Côte d'Azur. I believe it is not far. I might go there and return in an hour to collect the car. I take it that the puncture would be mended by then?"

O'Mara said: "Definitely." He was leaning against the bonnet of the Typhoon, looking at Tanga. He looked at her with eyes that were hungry but inoffensive. He looked at her in the way that the old O'Mara could look at a woman and not annoy her—with a peculiar mixture of humility and insolence, admiration and question.

He looked for what seemed to him a long time. He thought: So it's going to be this one. He realised—as he had never realised before; even before the drink business had become necessary—that she had everything—beauty, intelligence, and that peculiar but supremely necessary nous that was an essential part of the make-up of an artiste in the odd profession to which she belonged; to which he belonged—or did he?

She wore a tunic and skirt of buttercup colour crêpe-de-chine, and her mouth was the colour of raspberries. Her face was beautiful and with an alluring dignity that belonged essentially to her. In her ears she wore small amber flower ear-rings that matched her clothes. Her hair was black, dressed in a page-boy bob for driving; tied with an amber ribbon. Her shoes were of white buckskin, and she wore yellow buckskin driving gauntlets.

O'Mara thought to himself that if you saw this woman once or twice you would forget all about Eulalia. He thought that Eulalia would fade into the remote past. That was how he felt at that moment.

He said: "I think that would be an excellent idea, Madame. I should not have to hurry about repairing the puncture."

He went to the back of the car. He returned after a minute or two with the jack. He sat down on the ground; pushed the jack under the front axle; began to turn the jack handle. He turned it slowly.

Tanga said: "I am interested in this puncture. Is it a puncture or do you think there is a defective valve on the tyre?"

O'Mara said: "Let us examine this proposition." Now the wheel was free on the ground. He rolled himself on to his knees, crawled round and sat in front of the wheel. With fingers that were trembling he began to unscrew the valve cover.

He said: "It is very stiff, Madame, or perhaps my fingers are not as good as they used to be."

She looked over the estuary towards the church. She said softly, in English, with her own peculiar and fascinating accent: "Listen, my delightful, drunken sweet. I think you are wonderful." Then in a louder tone, in French: "Valves are always stiff if they have not been unscrewed. Besides, it is your nasty fine Breton dust which clogs them." She said in English under her breath: "I think you are superb. You are so drunk and you are getting fat and paunchy. What has happened to my beautiful O'Mara?"

O'Mara muttered a wicked word. His fingers were still fumbling at the valve.

She went on softly: "A certain Taudrille will telephone at exactly six o'clock. You understand? This is it, my friend. At exactly six o'clock Taudrille will telephone. You understand?"

He nodded. He said: "Yes. Volanon will not be here at six. I shall take the call. Of course he knows the number."

She said: "Of course, my sweet fool." She was smiling and still looking over the estuary towards the church. She dropped the words at him. He tried not to look at her.

He asked quietly: "And then?"

She shrugged her shoulders almost imperceptibly. She said: "Then it is up to you. Things begin to move. Are you good enough, my delightful, my clever, my drunken Shaun?"

He said: "God knows—I don't. But I have a bottle of coramine. When I take a double dose it pulls me together for quite a bit."

She smiled. Now her eyes were wandering round the estuary. She seemed vaguely interested in the sunlight playing on the water.

She said: "You will need that, my sweet. You will need something to put a jerk into you, especially"—she laughed very softly—"if Taudrille is not able to arrive exactly on time."

O'Mara said: "What the hell does that mean?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

O'Mara could hear the plop-plop of Volanon's rope-soled shoes. Now the valve was off. He said: "Madame, it is not the valve. You have a puncture." He got up; went to the back of the car; produced tools. He took the hub cap off the wheel; began to unscrew the screws.

Volanon came to the door of the garage. He stood watching O'Mara.

Tanga moved away. She said to Volanon: "I have friends here at a villa called the Côte d'Azur. Is it far? I propose to go and see them; to come back in an hour's time. By that time this one tells me that the puncture will be mended."

Volanon said: "Excellent, Madame. In an hour's time, I have no doubt the no-good Philippe will have done the job. But as I shall not be here when you return perhaps you would like to settle now. Then I will tell you where the Côte d'Azur is. It is not far."

Out of the corner of his eye O'Mara saw her give some money to Volanon. They spoke for a few moments whilst he told her the way to the Villa. She walked away. Volanon watched her retreating form. He came over; stood above O'Mara.

He said: "There is a woman, mon vieux. It is a long time since I have seen a woman as lovely as that one. Does it not make your mouth water?"

O'Mara said: "It means nothing to me."

Volanon nodded. "See that you mend her puncture with care," he said. "Don't make a mess of that. She may be a good customer."

He went back into the garage.

O'Mara took the heavy wheel by the spokes; pulled it off. The process pleased him. He was doing something definite. He said to himself: So Taudrille will phone at six o'clock. Now maybe this is all over. Maybe there will be some life again. He trundled the wheel away; leaned it against the low wall. He was surprised to find that he was humming to himself.