The Moors Last Sigh

by the advent of democracy. The young people are trash: addicts, layabouts, plagiarists, whores. They are all dead, the old and the young, but because their pensions and allowances are still paying up they refuse to lie down in their graves. So they walk up and down this street and eat, and drink, and gossip about the hideous minutiae of their lives. Notice, please, that there are no mirrors to be seen here. If there were, none of these trapped shades would be reflected in them. When I understood that this was their Hell, as they are mine, I learned to feel sorry for them.
    ‘Such is Benengeli, my home.’
    ‘And Miranda …’ I repeated, faintly, thinking that it would be best if I did not tell Helsing too much about my own morally compromised life.
    ‘There is not the slightest chance that you will ever meet Señor Vasco Miranda, our greatest and most dreadful inhabitant,’ said Helsing, smiling softly. ‘I hoped you would take the hint I have been dropping by my refusal to answer your persistent questions, but since you have not I must tell you straight that you’re here on a wild-goose chase. As Don Quixote would say, you’re looking for this year’s birds in last year’s nests. Nobody sees Miranda from month to month, not even his servants. There was a woman asking for him recently – pretty little thing! – but she got nowhere and buggered off to God knows where. They say …’
    ‘What woman?’ I interrupted. ‘How long ago? How do you know she didn’t get in?’
    ‘Just a woman,’ he answered, licking his lips. ‘How long ago? – Not long. Just a while. – And she didn’t get in because nobody gets in. Aren’t you listening? They say that everything inside that house has grown stagnant; everything. They wind up the clocks but time doesn’t move. The great tower has been locked up for years. Nobody goes up there except, probably, the old madman himself. They say the dust in the tower rooms comes up to your knees because he won’t let the servants in to clean up. They say a whole wing of that huge palace has been invaded by the creosote bush, la gobernadora . They say … ’
    ‘I don’t care what they say,’ I cried, seeing that it was time for a firmer attitude. ‘It is imperative that I see him. I will use the telephone in the café.’
    ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Helsing. ‘He had the phone cut off years ago.’

    Two handsome, fortyish Spanish women wearing white aprons over black dresses had somehow appeared at my elbow. ‘We couldn’t help overhearing your conversation,’ said the first waitress, in excellent English. ‘And, if you will excuse the interruption, I am obliged to point out that this Nazi is quite incorrect. Vasco maintains both a phone line, with an answering machine attached, and a fax line as well, though he answers none of his messages. However, the proprietor here, a mean-spirited Dane called Olé, does not permit the café’s guests to use the telephone for any reason.’
    ‘Hellcats! Vampires!’ shouted Helsing, in sudden fury. ‘Stakes should be driven through both your hearts!’
    ‘You really should not spend any more time with this old confidence man and cretin,’ said the second waitress, whose English was, if anything, even purer than her companion’s, and whose features, too, were a little more refined. ‘He is well known to us all as a bitter, twisted fantasist, a lifelong fascist who now pretends to have been an opponent of fascism, and an importuner of women, who invariably reject him, and on whom he heaps insults at every opportunity thereafter. He will no doubt have spun you all sorts of yarns, both about himself and our beautiful village. If you wish, you can come with us; we’re just going off duty and can correct the false impression you will have gained from him. Alas, many fantasists have settled in Benengeli, wrapping themselves in lies as if they were winter shawls.’
    ‘My name is Felicitas Larios, and she is my half-sister Renegada,’ said the first waitress. ‘If it is Vasco Miranda you’re after, you should know that we have been his housekeepers ever since he first came to town. We do not really wait table at Olé’s bar; today, we were just doing him a favour, because his regular girls were sick. Nobody can tell you more about Vasco Miranda than we.’
    ‘Sows! Vixens!’ cried Helsing. ‘They’re taking you for quite a ride, you know. They have worked here for pittances these many years, bowing and