THE IMPOSTURE AND OTHER TALES

I stood and looked at the villa in which Robert Graves may have spent most of his life; but had he lived in this one?  I recalled that Graves eventually had bought three villas in this, the Deyá area of Mallorca.  This one had a sign proclaiming it as La Posada.  Had I not read somewhere (what had I not read about Graves?) that one of his sons (William?), the executor of the Graves estate, lived at least part of the time at La Posada?

I had just arrived on the island of Mallorca from London, where I had spent a week going over the First World War memorabilia in the Imperial War Museum.  I even had seen one of the footballs which officers of the 8th East Surreys had dribbled toward the German trenches in the Somme attack.  Perhaps I was hoping the spirit of Graves would provide me with inspiration for the formidable task which confronted me.

When I had completed my course work at Princeton, passed my comprehensive examinations, and was faced with writing my doctoral dissertation, I applied for and was granted a year’s “administrative absence” so that I could be closer to my chosen subject.  Although my topic (Robert Graves: Testament of War) had been approved I had been warned by the chairman of my dissertation committee that he felt it was “somewhat loose, unfocused.”  Still, I felt confident that I could produce a creditable, publishable manuscript.

With this thought in mind I noticed a tall, elderly man standing a few yards away, looking at the same villa.  He glanced across at me and held my eyes for a moment, then he walked away with a slight limp.

On my way back to Palma in my rented car I stopped at Sóler for lunch.  I had heard there was a good small restaurant there where Graves sometimes used to eat.  As fate would have it the only place available in the crowded dining room was at a table occupied by the man I’d seen at the Deyá villa.  When I was ushered to his table he welcomed me with an engaging grin.  Well, he said, as I pulled out a chair, at least we had something in common.  He was, undoubtedly, referring to our mutual interest in the Graves place.  Now, at close range I saw a man who though he must have been in his sixties somehow projected a much more youthful, even athletic, if somewhat worn (battered would be more accurate) appearance.  He had rugged features–which were made more memorable by an ample, slightly beaked nose and a number of facial nicks and scars–and a grizzled but still full head of dark hair.  His long arms and large, powerful hands gave him a capable look.  Although I suspected that not all the teeth he exposed when he smiled were his, he must have had a good dentist.  His blue eyes held mine unflinchingly when he spoke.  He was drinking fino, and when he pushed the bottle towards me I accepted a drink.