The Sea Break by Antony Trew Read Free Book Online

and “ Nāo falo inglés ”; but number four paid off. Eyeing them mournfully, spitting into the water with slow deliberation, he shook his head: “Bastards no bite.”
    Johan was sympathetic. “Must have plenty patience, hey?”
    “Have got. Have got.” The Portuguese lifted his shoulder in a gesture of hopelessness. “Bastards no bite.”
    “Too bad!” said Johan.
    They sat down next to the Portuguese and found that he was friendly, his dismal appearance notwithstanding.
    Cautiously they chatted about this and that: the weather, the prospects of rain, the beauties of Lourenço Marques, its excellent food and wine, its fine buildings, shops and avenidas, and the charm of the Roman Catholic cathedral.
    They exchanged first names—his was Fernando—and worked the conversation towards their subject, via the futility of war and the hardships of those who went down to the sea in ships. Fernando had been a sailor. Spitting for emphasis, he said: “Sea no good. Worka lika sheet. For what?” His eyes rolled. “For what?”
    “Couldn’t agree more,” said Johan. “Sea no good.”
    Fernando nodded gloomily, resigned to this shared truth.
    Slowly but purposefully they steered the conversation to what they wanted. Rohrbach pointed to the German ships. “Lucky, those ships. No war. Stay here all the time. No torpedo. O.K., hey?”
    Fernando looked out over the Espirito Santo. Once again he shrugged his shoulders. “For heem, all right. Plenty food. Plenty wine. Plenty women. No sea. For heem verra good.”
    Diffusely, they led him on. Were there many sailors on board? Did they go ashore often? What were their habitsgenerally? Did people from the shore go off to the ships? If so why, and how, and who were they?
    Colourfully, and with appropriate gestures, Fernando answered them. No! Not plenty men on board. Yes. Come ashore three times a week. No spik Portuguese. The launches which took them to and fro belonged to the Catembe ferry service and were manned by Africans. Sometimes the agents went off to the ships. Sometimes boats took them food and stores.
    Visitors? Yes. Sometimes. Ladies? Of course! Fernando squinted, the tired eyes a mixture of browns and reds. Holding up his hand, he pressed the thumb against the second finger. “Sailor like women too much. Must have.” Soberly he repeated his belief. “ Must have.”
    From him they learnt that the launches berthed in the boat harbour and worked to a simple timetable. With expressions of mutual esteem and a promise to look him up again before long, they went on their way.
    “This afternoon,” said Rohrbach as they walked back towards the dock gates, “we’ll visit the boat harbour and check on Fernando’s timetable.”
    Johan spat on the road. “Worka lika sheet! For what?”
     
    Otto Stauch was a middle-aged man of generous proportions due to an appetite for food and beer which he had indulged without restraint for thirty of his forty-five years. A pink face above a thick neck on rounded shoulders led down to the balloon of his stomach. Towards the ground he tapered off, ending with feet which seemed too small for their load.
    Small deepset eyes and a low hairline gave him a dull, peasant-like expression which was misleading, for he was quick witted and observant. Working at the desk he breathed heavily, mopping at the perspiration which ran down his face in spite of the electric fans. With stolid concentration he deciphered the message, writing with one hand and turning the leaves of the cipher book with the other. A thin angular womanwith steel-rimmed glasses came in from the outer office.
    “Will you be needing me again this evening, Otto?” she asked in German.
    Without raising his head he replied: “No. That is all, Paula. I’ve nearly finished.”
    She stood looking at what he was doing. Undecided,
    “Is it good news, Otto?”
    “It is not bad news.” He was guarded. “They say we must put the ship on twenty-four hours’ notice from Tuesday.