I telegraphed to Miss Keene, JOINING MY AUNT IN BUENOS AIRES SHORTLY. WILL WRITE, and set about selling the furniture. The Venetian glass, I am afraid, went for a song[236]. When all was sold at Harrods auction rooms (I had some dispute with the landlord of the Crown and Anchor over the sofa on the landing) I received enough for my return ticket and fifty pounds in travellers cheques, so I did not cash my aunts draft on the Swiss bank and I paid the little that was over into my own account, for I thought it better for her to have no assets in England if she planned not to return.
But as for joining my aunt in Buenos Aires, my forecast had been too optimistic. There was no one to meet me at the airport, and when I arrived at the Lancaster Hotel I found only my room reserved and a letter. I am sorry not to be here to greet you, she wrote, but I have had to move on urgently to Paraguay, where an old friend of mine is in some distress. I have left you a ticket for the river-boat. For reasons too complicated to explain now I do not wish you to take a plane to Asunción. I cannot give you an address, but I will see that you are met.
It was a highly unsatisfactory arrangement, but what could I do? I hadnt sufficient funds to stay in Buenos Aires until I heard from her again, and I felt it impossible to return to England, when I had travelled so far on her money, but I took the precaution of changing her single ticket to Asunción into a return[237].
I propped the photograph of Freetown harbour in its expensive frame at the back of my dressing-table and supported it with books on either side. I had brought with me, among more ephemeral literature, Palgraves Golden Treasury, the collected poems of Tennyson and Browning, and at the last minute I had added Rob Roy, perhaps because it contained the only photograph I possessed of my aunt. When I opened the book now the pages naturally divided at the photograph, and I found myself thinking not for the first time that the happy smile, the young breasts, the curve of her body in the old-fashioned bathing costume were like the suggestion of a budding maternity. The memory of Viscontis son as he took her in his arms on Milan platform hurt me a little, and I looked out of my porthole, to escape my thoughts, into the winter day and saw a tall lean sad grey man gazing back at me. My window gave on to the bows and he turned quickly away to watch the ships wake, embarrassed at having been noticed. I finished my unpacking and went down to the bar.
There was the restlessness of departure about the ship.
Lunch, as I learnt, was to be served at the curious hour of eleven-thirty, but until that time the passengers could no more settle than can the passengers on a Channel crossing. They came up and down the stairs, they looked at the bar and inspected the bottles and went away again without ordering a drink. They streamed into the dining-room and out again, they sat down for a moment at a table in the lounge, then rose to look through a porthole at the monotonous river scene which was to be with us for the next four days. I was the only one to take a drink. There was no sherry, so I took a gin and tonic, but the gin was Argentinian, though the name was English, and had a foreign flavour. The low wooded shore of what I took to be Uruguay unrolled in the misty rain which now began to clear the decks. The water of the river was the colour of coffee with too much milk.
An old man who must have been well into his eighties reached a decision and sat down beside me. He asked me a question in Spanish which I couldnt answer. No hablo español, señor[238], I said, but this scrap of Spanish which I had learnt from a phrase-book he took as an encouragement and at once began to deliver a small lecture, removing from his pocket a large magnifying glass and laying it down between us. I tried to escape by paying my bill, but he grabbed it from my hand and stuck it under his own glass, at the same time ordering the barman to refill mine. I have never been in the habit of taking two drinks before lunch, and I definitely did not like the taste of the gin, but for lack of Spanish I had to submit.
He was making some demand on me, but I could not guess what. The words el favor[239] were repeated several times, and when he saw I didnt understand, he held out his own hand as a demonstration and began to examine it through the magnifying glass. A voice said, Can I be of any help? and turning, I saw the sad lean man who had watched me through my porthole.
I said, I dont understand what this gentleman wants.
His hobby is reading hands[240]. He says hes never had the opportunity to read an Americans.
Tell him Im English.
He says the same applies. I dont think he sees much difference. We are both Anglo-Saxon.
There was nothing I could do but hold out my hand. The old man examined it with extreme care through the magnifying glass. He asks me to translate, but maybe youd rather I didnt. Its kind of personal, a fortune.
I dont mind, I said, and I thought of Hatty and her tea-leaves and how she had foreseen my travels in her best Lapsang Souchong.
He says you have come from a long way off.
Thats a bit obvious, isnt it?
But your travels are nearly over.
That can hardly be true. I have to go back home.
He sees a reunion of someone very close to you. Your wife perhaps.
I have no wife.
He says it could be your mother.
Shes dead. At least
You have had a great deal of money in your care. But no longer.
At any rate hes scored there. I was in a bank.
He sees a death but its far away from your heartline and your life-line. Its not an important death. Perhaps a strangers.
Do you believe in this nonsense? I asked the American.
No, I guess not, but I try to keep an open mind. My names OToole. James OToole.
Mines Pulling Henry, I said. In the background the old man continued his report in Spanish. He seemed not to care whether it was translated or not. He had pulled out a notebook and was writing things down.
You a Londoner?
Yes.
I come from Philadelphia. He wants me to tell you that yours is the nine hundred and seventy-second hand hes studied. Sorry, nine hundred and seventy-fifth. The old man closed his notebook with an air of satisfaction. Then he shook hands with me and thanked me, paid for the drinks, bowed and departed. The magnifying glass bulged in his pocket like a gun.
Mind if I join you? the American asked. He wore an English tweed coat and a pair of old grey flannel trousers: thin and melancholy, he looked as English as I did; there were small lines bitten by care around the eyes and mouth, and like a man who has lost his way, he had a habit of looking this way and that with anxiety. He had nothing in common with the Americans whom I had met in England, noisy and self-confident, with the young unlined faces of children romping and shouting to one another across the nursery floor.
He said, You going to Asunción too?
Yes.
Theres nowhere else on this trip worth a visit. Corrientes isnt too bad if you dont spend a night. Formosa thats a dump. Only smugglers get off there, though they do talk of the fishing. I guess youre not a smuggler?
No. You seem to know these parts well.
Too well, he said. You on vacation?
I suppose so. Yes.
Going to see the Iguazú Falls? Lots of people go there. If you do, better stay on the Brazilian side. Only good hotel.
Are they worth a visit?
Maybe. If you like that kind of thing. Just a lot of water if you ask me[241].
The barman obviously knew the American well, for he had made him a dry Martini without a word said, and he drank it now morosely and without pleasure. Its not like Gordons, he said. He took a slow look at me, almost as if he were memorizing my features. I took you for a business-man, Henry, he said. Vacationing all by yourself? Not much fun. Strange country. And you dont speak the language not that Spanish is any good outside the city. In the country they all speak Guaraní.
Do you?
A smattering. I noticed he asked questions more than he answered them, and when he gave me information it was the kind of information which I could have obtained from any guide-book. Picturesque ruins, he said, old Jesuit settlements. They appeal to you, Henry?
I felt he wouldnt be satisfied until I had told him more. What was the harm? I wasnt carrying a gold brick or a suitcase stuffed with notes. As he said, I was no smuggler. I am visiting an old relation of mine, I said and added, James. I could see he wanted that too.
My friends call me Tooley, he said automatically, and it was quite a while before in my mind the coin fell.
Are you in business here?
Not exactly, he said. I do research work. Social research. You know the sort of thing, Henry. Cost of living. Malnutrition. Degree of illiteracy. Have a drink.
Two is all I can take, Tooley, I said, and it was only at the repetition of the name that I remembered, remembered Tooley. He pushed his own glass forward for another.
Do you find things easy in Paraguay? Ive read in the papers you Americans have a lot of trouble in South America.
Not in Paraguay, he said. We and the General are like that. He raised his thumb and forefinger and then transferred them to his refilled glass.
Hes quite a tough dictator, so they tell me[242].
Its what the country needs, Henry. A strong hand. Dont mistake me though. I keep out of politics. Simple research. Thats my line.
Have you published anything?
Oh, he replied vaguely, reports. Technical. They wouldnt interest you, Henry.
It was inevitable that when the bell rang we should go into lunch together. We shared the table with two other men. One was a grey-faced man in a blue city suit who was on a diet (the steward, who knew him well, brought him a special dish of boiled vegetables which he looked at carefully before eating, twitching the end of his nose and his upper lip like a rabbit). The other was a fat old priest with rogue eyes who looked rather like Winston Churchill. I was amused to watch OToole set about the two of them. Before we had finished our bad liver pâté[243], he had found that the priest had a parish in a village near Corrientes, on the Argentine side of the border, and before we had eaten our equally bad pasta he had broken a little way into the taciturnity of the man with the nose like a rabbits. He was apparently a businessman returning to Formosa. When he mentioned Formosa, OToole looked at me and gave a little nod of confirmation: he had placed him.