Sleeping Tiger by Rosamunde Pilcher

Author:Rosamunde Pilcher
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

8

After the quiet, tree-shaded cool of Cala Fuerte, San Antonio that afternoon seemed hot and dusty and inordinately full. The streets were packed with traffic. Hooting cars and motor scooters, wooden donkey carts and bicycles. The narrow pavements were so crowded that pedestrians, careless of life, overflowed into the road, and George found that it was impossible to make any sort of progress without the heel of his hand more or less permanently on the horn.

The cable office and his own bank were both situated in the main plaza of the town, facing each other across the tree-lined walks and the fountains. George parked his car in a shady spot, lit a cigarette, and went, first, into the bank to see if by any chance his own money had come through from Barcelona. If it had, he planned to collect the lot in cash, tear up Selina’s cable, and go then and there to the airport and buy her return ticket to London.

But the money had still not come. The cashier suggested kindly that if George would like to sit and wait for perhaps four or five hours, he would endeavour to get through to Barcelona and find out what had happened. George, in fascinated interest, asked why he would have to wait four or five hours, only to be told that the telephone was broken and had not yet been repaired.

After six years of living in the island, he was still torn between exasperation and amusement at the local attitude to time, but he said that it didn’t matter, he would do without the money, and he went out of the bank, and across the square, and up the impressive stairway to the soaring marble halls of the cable office.

He copied the message out on to an official form, and then joined a slow-moving shuffling queue. When at last he reached the wire grille and it was his turn, his patience was running short. The man behind the grille had a polished brown head and a wart on his nose and spoke no English. It took him a long time to read the message, to count the words, and consult manuals. Eventually he stamped the form, and told George that it would cost ninety-five pesetas.

George paid him. “When will it get to London?”

The man eyed the clock. “To-night … maybe.”

“You’ll send it off right away?”

The wart-nosed man did not deign to reply. He looked over George’s shoulder. “Next, please.”

There was nothing more to be done. He went back outside, lit another cigarette, and debated on his next move. In the end he decided that it would be worth going to the Yacht Club to pick up his mail, but not worth taking the car. He started to walk.

The crowds made him feel claustrophobic. He stayed in the middle of the streets, stepping aside every now and then to let the motor traffic brush by. Overhead, small balconies bulged with humanity. Enormous, black-clad grannies sat with their embroidery, enjoying the spring sunshine.

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