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Men Without Women
Ernest Miller Hemingway was born in 1899 at Oak Park, a highly respectable suburb of Chicago, where his father, a keen sportsman, was a doctor. He was the second of six children. The family spent holidays in a lakeside hunting lodge in Michigan, near Indian settlements. Although energetic and successful in all school activities, Ernest twice ran away from home before joining the Kansas City Star as a cub reporter in 1917. Next year he volunteered as an ambulance driver on the Italian front and was badly wounded. Returning to America he began to write features for the Toronto Star Weekly in 1919 and was married in 1921. That year he came to Europe as a roving correspondent and covered several large conferences. In France he came into contact with Gertrude Stein?later they quarreled?Ezra Pound, and James Joyce. He covered the Greco-Turkish war in 1922. Three Stories and Two Poems was given a limited publication in Paris in 1923. Thereafter he gradually took to a life of bull-fighting, big-game hunting, and deep-sea fishing. He visited Spain during the Civil War. Latterly he lived mostly in Cuba, and he died in July 1961.
He early established himself as the master of a new, tough, and peculiarly American style of writing and became a legend during his lifetime. But, as John Wain wrote in the Observer after his death, ¨Though there were many imitators there was never truly a ˉSchool of Hemingwayˇ, because the standard he set was too severe.〃
His best-known books were A Farewell to Arms (1929), Death in the Afternoon (1932), For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940), and The Old Man and the Sea (1952). In 1954 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Ernest Hemingway had three sons.
MEN
WITHOUT WOMEN
ERNEST HEMINGWAY
PENGUIN BOOKS
Penguin Books Ltd, Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia
First published by Jonathan Cape 1928
Published in Penguin Books 1955
Reprinted 1956, 1957, 1958, 1960, 1962, 1963, 1965, 1967, 1969, 1971, 1972
Made and printed in Great Britain
by Hunt Barnard Printing Ltd, Aylesbury
Set in Monotype Bembo
This book is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise,
be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise. Circulated
without the publisherˇs prior consent at any form of
binding or cover other than that in which it is
published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed
on the subsequent purchaser
Contents
Contents 3
THE UNDEFEATED 3
IN ANOTHER COUNTRY 3
HILLS LIKE WHITE ELEPHANTS 3
THE KILLERS 3
CHE TI DICE LA PATRIA? 3
FIFTY GRAND 3
A SIMPLE ENQUIRY 3
TEN INDIANS 3
A CANARY FOR ONE 3
AN ALPINE IDYLL 3
A PURSUIT RACE 3
TODAY IS FRIDAY 3
BANAL STORY 3
NOW I LAY ME 3
To
EVAN SHIPMAN
THE UNDEFEATED
MANUEL GARCIA climbed the stairs to Don Miguel Retanaˇs office. He set down his suitcase and knocked on the door. There was no answer. Manuel, standing in the hallway, felt there was someone in the room. He felt it through the door.
¨Retana,〃 he said, listening.
There was no answer.
Heˇs there, all right, Manuel thought.
¨Retana,〃 he said and banged the door.
¨Whoˇs there?〃 said someone in the office.
¨Me, Manolo,〃 Manuel said.
¨What do you want?〃 asked the voice.
¨I want to work,〃 Manuel said.
Something in the door clicked several times and it swung open. Manuel went in, carrying his suitcase.
A little man sat behind a desk at the far side of the room. Over his head was a bullˇs head, stuffed by a Madrid taxidermist; on the walls were framed photographs and bullfight posters.
The little man sat looking at Manuel.
¨I thought theyˇd killed you,〃 he said.
Manuel knocked with his knuckles on the desk. The little man sat looking at him across the desk.
¨How many corridas you had this year?〃 Retana asked.
¨One,〃 he answered.
¨Just that one?〃 the little man asked.
¨Thatˇs all.〃
¨I read about it in the papers,〃 Retana said. He leaned back in the chair and looked at Manuel.
Manuel looked up at the stuffed bull. He had seen it often before. He felt a certain family interest in it. It had killed his brother, the promising one, about nine years ago. Manuel remembered the day. There was a brass plate on the oak shield the bullˇs head was mounted on. Manuel could not read it, but he imagined it was in memory of his brother. Well, he had been a good kid.
The plate said: ¨The Bull ˉMariposaˇ of the Duke of Veragua, which accepted 9 varas for 7 caballos, and caused the death of Antonio Garcia, Novillero, April 27, 1909.〃
Retana saw him looking at the stuffed bullˇs head.
¨The lot the Duke sent me for Sunday will make a scandal,〃 he said. ¨Theyˇre all bad in the legs. What do they say about them at the Caf??〃
¨I donˇt know,〃 Manuel said. ¨I just got in.〃
¨Yes,〃 Retana said. ¨You still have your bag.〃
He looked at Manuel, leaning back behind the big desk.
¨Sit down,〃 he said. ¨Take off your cap.〃
Manuel sat down; his cap off, his face was changed. He looked pale, and his coleta pinned forward on his head, so that it would not show under the cap, gave him a strange look.
¨You donˇt look well,〃 Retana said.
¨I just got out of the hospital,〃 Manuel said.
¨I heard theyˇd cut your leg off,〃 Retana said.
¨No,〃 said Manuel. ¨It got all right.〃
Retana leaned forward across the desk and pushed a wooden box of cigarettes toward Manuel.
¨Have a cigarette,〃 he said.
¨Thanks.〃
Manuel lit it.
¨Smoke?〃 he said, offering the match to Retana.
¨No,〃 Retana waved his hand. ¨I never smoke.〃
Retana watched him smoking.
¨Why donˇt you get a job and go to work?〃 he said.
¨I donˇt want to work,〃 Manuel said. ¨I am a bullfighter.〃
¨There arenˇt any bullfighters any more,〃 Retana said.
¨Iˇm a bullfighter,〃 Manuel said.
¨Yes, while youˇre in there,〃 Retana said.
Manuel laughed.
Retana sat, saying nothing and looking at Manuel.
¨Iˇll put you in a nocturnal if you want,〃 Retana offered.
¨When?〃 Manuel asked.
¨Tomorrow night.〃
¨I donˇt like to substitute for anybody,〃 Manuel said. That was the way they all got killed. That was the way Salvador got killed. He tapped with his knuckles on the table.
¨Itˇs all Iˇve got,〃 Retana said.
¨Why donˇt you put me on next week?〃 Manuel suggested.
¨You wouldnˇt draw,〃 Retana said. ¨All they want is Litri and Rubito and La Torre. Those kids are good.〃
¨Theyˇd come to see me get it,〃 Manuel said, hopefully.
¨No, they wouldnˇt. They donˇt know who you are any more.〃
¨Iˇve got a lot of stuff,〃 Manuel said.
¨Iˇm offering to put you on tomorrow night,〃 Retana said. ¨You can work with young Hernandez and kill two novillos after the Charlots.〃
¨Whose novillos?〃 Manuel asked.
¨I donˇt know. Whatever stuff theyˇve got in the corrals. What the veterinaries wonˇt pass in the daytime.〃
¨I donˇt like to substitute,〃 Manuel said.
¨You can take it or leave it,〃 Retana said. He leaned forward over the papers. He was no longer interested. The appeal that Manuel had made to him for a moment when he thought of the old days was gone. He would like to get him to substitute for Larita because he could get him cheaply. He could get others cheaply too. He would like to help him though. Still, he had given him the chance. It was up to him.
¨How much do I get?〃 Manuel asked. He was still playing with the idea of refusing. But he knew he could not refuse.
¨Two hundred and fifty pesetas,〃 Retana said. He had thought of five hundred, but when he opened his mouth it said two hundred and fifty.
¨You pay Villalta seven thousand,〃 Manuel said.
¨Youˇre not Villalta,〃 Retana said.
¨I know it,〃 Manuel said.
¨He draws it, Manolo,〃 Retana said in explanation.
¨Sure,〃 said Manuel. He stood up. ¨Give me three hundred, Retana.〃
¨All right,〃 Retana agreed. He reached in the drawer for a paper.
¨Can I have fifty now?〃 Manuel asked.
¨Sure,〃 said Retana. He took a fifty peseta note out of his pocket-book and laid it, spread out flat, on the table.
Manuel picked it up and put it in his pocket.
¨What about a cuadrilla?〃 he asked.
¨Thereˇs the boys that always work for me nights,〃 Retana said. ¨Theyˇre all right.〃
¨How about picadors?〃 Manuel asked.
¨Theyˇre not much,〃 Retana admitted.
¨Iˇve got to have one good pic,〃 Manuel said.
¨Get him then,〃 Retana said. ¨Go and get him.〃
¨Not out of this,〃 Manuel said. ¨Iˇm not paying for any cuadrilla out of sixty duros.〃
Retana said nothing but looked at Manuel across the big desk.
¨You know Iˇve got to have one good pic,〃 Manuel said.
Retana said nothing but looked at Manuel from a long way off.
¨It isnˇt right,〃 Manuel said.
Retana was still considering him, leaning back in his chair, considering him from a long way away.
¨Thereˇre the regular pics,〃 he offered.
¨I know,〃 Manuel said. ¨I know your regular pics.〃
Retana did not smile. Manuel knew it was over.
¨All I want is an even break,〃 Manuel said reasoningly. ¨When I go out there I want to be able to call my shots on the bull. It only takes one good picador.〃
He was talking to a man who was no longer listening.
¨If you want something extra,〃 Retana said, ¨go and get it. There will be a regular cuadrilla out there. Bring as many of your own pics as you want. The charlotada is over by ten-thirty.〃
¨All right,〃 Manuel said. ¨If thatˇs the way you feel about it.〃
¨Thatˇs the way,〃 Retana said.
¨Iˇll see you tomorrow night,〃 Manuel said.
¨Iˇll be out there,〃 Retana said.
Manuel picked up his suitcase and went out.
¨Shut the door,〃 Retana called.
Manuel looked back. Retana was sitting forward looking at some papers. Manuel pulled the door tight until it clicked.
He went down the stairs and out of the door into the hot brightness of the street. It was very hot in the street and the light on the white buildings was sudden and hard on his eyes. He walked down the shady side of the steep street toward the Puerta del Sol. The shade felt solid and cool as running water. The heat came suddenly as he crossed the intersecting streets. Manuel saw no one he knew in all the people he passed.
Just before the Puerta del Sol he turned into a caf?.
It was quiet in the caf?. There were a few men sitting at tables against the wall. At one table four men played cards. Most of the men sat against the wall smoking, empty coffee-cups and liqueur-glasses before them on the tables. Manuel went through the long room to a small room in back. A man sat at a table in the corner asleep. Manuel sat down at one of the tables.
A waiter came in and stood beside Manuelˇs table.
¨Have you seen Zurito?〃 Manuel asked him.
¨He was in before lunch, the waiter answered. ¨He wonˇt be back before five oˇclock.〃
¨Bring me some coffee and milk and a shot of the ordinary,〃 Manuel said.
The waiter came back into the room carrying a tray with a big coffee-glass and a liqueur-glass on it. In his left hand he held a bottle of brandy. He swung these down to the table and a boy who had followed him poured coffee and milk into the glass from two shiny, spouted pots with long handles.
Manuel took off his cap and the waiter noticed his pigtail pinned forward on his head. He winked at the coffee-boy as he poured out the brandy into the little glass beside Manuelˇs coffee. The coffee-boy looked at Manuelˇs pale face curiously.
¨You fighting here?〃 asked the waiter, corking up the bottle.
¨Yes,〃 Manuel said. ¨Tomorrow.〃
The waiter stood there, holding the bottle on one hip.
¨You in the Charlie Chaplinˇs?〃 he asked.
The coffee-boy looked away, embarrassed.
¨No. In the ordinary.〃
¨I thought they were going to have Chaves and Hernandez,〃 the waiter said.
¨No. Me and another.〃
¨Who? Chaves or Hernandez?〃
¨Hernandez, I think.〃
¨Whatˇs the matter with Chaves?〃
¨He got hurt.〃
¨Where did you hear that?〃
¨Retana.〃
¨Hey, Looie,〃 the waiter called to the next room, ¨Chaves got cogida.〃
Manuel had taken the wrapper off the lumps of sugar and dropped them into his coffee. He stirred it and drank it down, sweet, hot, and warming in his empty stomach. He drank off the brandy.
¨Give me another shot of that,〃 he said to the waiter.
The waiter uncorked the bottle and poured the glass full, slopping another drink into the saucer. Another waiter had come up in front of the table. The coffee-boy was gone.
¨Is Chaves hurt bad?〃 the second waiter asked Manuel.
¨I donˇt know,〃 Manuel said. ¨Retana didnˇt say.〃
¨A hell of a lot he cares,〃 the tall waiter said. Manuel had not seen him before. He must have just come up.
¨If you stand in with Retana in this town, youˇre a made man,〃 the tall waiter said. ¨If you arenˇt in with him, you might just as well go out and shoot yourself.〃
¨You said it,〃 the other waiter who had come in said. ¨You said it then.〃
¨Youˇre right I said it,〃 said the tall waiter. ¨I know what Iˇm talking about when I talk about that bird.〃
¨Look what heˇs done for Villalta,〃 the first waiter said.
¨And that ainˇt all,〃 the tall waiter said. ¨Look what heˇs done for Marcial Lalanda. Look what heˇs done for Nacional.〃
¨You said it, kid,〃 agreed the short waiter.
Manuel looked at them, standing talking in front of his table. He had drunk his second brandy. They had forgotten about him. They were not interested in him.
¨Look at that bunch of camels,〃 the tall waiter went on. ¨Did you ever see this Nacional II?〃
¨I seen him last Sunday, didnˇt I?〃 the original waiter said.
¨Heˇs a giraffe,〃 the short waiter said.
¨What did I tell you?〃 the tall waiter said. ¨Those are Retanaˇs boys.〃
¨Say, give me another shot of that,〃 Manuel said. He had poured the brandy the waiter had slopped over in the saucer into his glass and drank it while they were talking.
The original waiter poured his glass full mechanically, and the three of them went out of the room talking.
In the far corner the man was still asleep, snoring slightly on the intaking breath, his head back against the wall.
Manuel drank his brandy. He felt sleepy himself. It was too hot to go out into the town. Besides there was nothing to do. He wanted to see Zurito. He would go to sleep while he waited. He kicked his suitcase under the table to be sure it was there. Perhaps it would be better to put it back under the seat, against the wall. He leaned down and shoved it under. Then he leaned forward on the table and went to sleep.
When he woke there was someone sitting across the table from him. It was a big man with a heavy brown face like an Indian. He had been sitting there some time. He had waved the waiter away and sat reading the paper and occasionally looking down at Manuel, asleep, his head on the table. He read the paper laboriously forming the words with his lips as he read. When it tired him he looked at Manuel. He sat heavily in the chair, his black Cordoba hat tipped forward.
Manuel sat up and looked at him.
¨Hullo, Zurito,〃 he said.
¨Hello, kid,〃 the big man said.
¨Iˇve been asleep.〃 Manuel rubbed his forehead with the back of his fist.
¨I thought maybe you were.〃
¨Howˇs everything?〃
¨Good. How is everything with you?〃
¨Not so good.〃
They were both silent. Zurito, the picador, looked at Manuelˇs white face. Manuel looked down at the picadorˇs enormous hands folding the paper to put away in his pocket.
¨I got a favor to ask you, Manos,〃 Manuel said.
Manosduros was Zuritoˇs nickname. He never heard it without thinking of his huge hands. He put them forward on the table self-consciously.
¨Letˇs have a drink,〃 he said.
¨Sure,〃 said Manuel.
The waiter came and went and came again. He went out of the room looking back at the two men at the table.
¨Whatˇs the matter, Manolo?〃 Zurito set down his glass.
¨Would you pic two bulls for me tomorrow night?〃 Manuel asked, looking at Zurito across the table.
¨No,〃 said Zurito. ¨Iˇm not pic-ing.〃
Manuel looked down at his glass. He had expected that answer; now he had it. Well, he had it.
¨Iˇm sorry, Manolo, but Iˇm not pic-ing.〃 Zurito looked at his hands.
¨Thatˇs all right,〃 Manuel said.
¨Iˇm too old,〃 Zurito said.
¨I just asked you,〃 Manuel said.
¨Is it the nocturnal tomorrow?〃
¨Thatˇs it. I figured if I had just one good pic, I could get away with it.〃
¨How much are you getting?〃
¨Three hundred pesetas.〃
¨I get more than that for pic-ing.〃
¨I know,〃 said Manuel. ¨I didnˇt have any right to ask you.〃
¨What do you keep on doing it for?〃 Zurito asked. ¨Why donˇt you cut off your coleta, Manolo?〃
¨I donˇt know,〃 Manuel said.
¨Youˇre pretty near as old as I am,〃 Zurito said.
¨I donˇt know,〃 Manuel said. ¨I got to do it. If I can fix it so that I get an even break, thatˇs all I want. I got to stick with it Manos.〃
¨No you donˇt.〃
¨Yes, I do. Iˇve tried keeping away from it.〃
¨I know how you feel. But it isnˇt right. You ought to get out and stay out.〃
¨I canˇt do it. Besides, Iˇve been going good lately.〃
Zurito looked at his face.
¨Youˇve been in the hospital.〃
¨But I was going great when I got hurt.〃
Zurito said nothing. He tipped the cognac out of his saucer into his glass.
¨The papers said they never saw a better faena,〃 Manuel said.
Zurito looked at him.
¨You know when I get going Iˇm good,〃 Manuel said.
¨Youˇre too old,〃 the picador said.
¨No,〃 said Manuel. ¨Youˇre ten years older than I am.〃
¨With me itˇs different.〃
¨Iˇm not too old,〃 Manuel said.
They sat silent, Manuel watching the picadorˇs face.
¨I was going great till I got hurt,〃 Manuel offered.
¨You ought to have seen me, Manos,〃 Manuel said, reproachfully.
¨I donˇt want to see you,〃 Zurito said. ¨It makes me nervous.〃
¨You havenˇt seen me lately.〃
¨Iˇve seen you plenty.〃
Zurito looked at Manuel, avoiding his eyes.
¨You ought to quit it, Manolo.〃
¨I canˇt,〃 Manuel said. ¨Iˇm going good now, I tell you.〃
Zurito leaned forward his hands on the table.
¨Listen. Iˇll pic for you and if you donˇt go big tomorrow night, youˇll quit. See? Will you do that?〃
¨Sure.〃
Zurito leaned back, relieved.
¨You got to quit,〃 he said. ¨No monkey business. You got to cut the coleta.〃
¨I wonˇt have to quit,〃 Manuel said. ¨You watch me. Iˇve got the stuff.〃
Zurito stood up. He felt tired from arguing.
¨You got to quit,〃 he said. ¨Iˇll cut your coleta myself.〃
¨No, you wonˇt,〃 Manuel said. ¨You wonˇt have a chance.〃
Zurito called the waiter.
¨Come on,〃 said Zurito. ¨Come on up to the house.〃
Manuel reached under the seat for his suitcase. He was happy. He knew Zurito would pic for him. He was the best picador living. It was all simple now.
¨Come on up to the house and weˇll eat,〃 Zurito said.
* * *
Manuel stood in the patio de caballos waiting for the Charlie Chaplins to be over. Zurito stood beside him. Where they stood it was dark. The high door that led into the bullring was shut. Above them they heard a shout, then another shout of laughter. Then there was silence. Manuel liked the smell of the stables about the patio de caballos. It smelt good in the dark. There was another roar from the arena and then applause, prolonged applause, going on and on.
¨You ever seen these fellows?〃 Zurito asked, big and looming beside Manuel in the dark.
¨No,〃 Manuel said.
¨Theyˇre pretty funny,〃 Zurito said. He smiled to himself in the dark.
The high, double, tight-fitting door into the bullring swung open and Manuel saw the ring in the hard light of the arc-lights, the plaza, dark all the way around, rising high; around the edge of the ring were running and bowing two men dressed like tramps, followed by a third in the uniform of a hotel-boy who stooped and picked up the hats and canes thrown down on to the sand and tossed them back up into the darkness.
The electric light went on in the patio.
¨Iˇll climb onto one of those ponies while you collect the kids,〃 Zurito said.
Behind them came the jingle of the mules, coming out to go into the arena and be hitched onto the dead bull.
The members of the cuadrilla, who had been watching the burlesque from the runway between the barrera and the seats, came walking back and stood in a group talking, under the electric light in the patio. A good-looking lad in a silver-and-orange suit came up to Manuel and smiled.
¨Iˇm Hernandez,〃 he said and put out his hand.
Manuel took it.
¨Theyˇre regular elephants weˇve got tonight,〃 the boy said cheerfully.
¨Theyˇre big ones with horns,〃 Manuel agreed.
¨You drew the worst lot,〃 the boy said.
¨Thatˇs all right,〃 Manuel said. ¨The bigger they are, the more meat for the poor.〃
¨Where did you get that one?〃 Hernandez grinned.
¨Thatˇs an old one,〃 Manuel said. ¨You line up your cuadrilla, so I can see what Iˇve got.〃
¨Youˇve got some good kids,〃 Hernandez said. He was very cheerful. He had been on twice before in nocturnals and was beginning to get a following in Madrid. He was happy the fight would start in a few minutes.
¨Where are the pics?〃 Manuel asked.
¨Theyˇre back in the corrals fighting about who gets the beautiful horses,〃 Hernandez grinned.
The mules came through the gate in a rush, the whips snapping, bells jangling, and the young bull plowing a furrow of sand.
They formed up for the paseo as soon as the bull had gone through.
Manuel and Hernandez stood in front. The youths of the cuadrillas were behind, their heavy capes furled over their arms. In black, the four picadors, mounted, holding their steel-tipped push-poles erect in the half-dark of the corral.
¨Itˇs a wonder Retana wouldnˇt give us enough light to see the horses by,〃 one picador said.
¨He knows weˇll be happier if we donˇt get too good a look at these skins,〃 another pic answered.
¨This thing Iˇm on barely keeps me off the ground,〃 the first picador said.
¨Well, theyˇre horses.〃
¨Sure, theyˇre horses.〃
They talked, sitting their gaunt horses in the dark.
Zurito said nothing. He had the only steady horse of the lot. He had tried him, wheeling him in the corrals, and he responded to the bit and the spurs. He had taken the bandage off his right eye and cut the strings where they had tied his ears tight shut at the base. He was a good, solid horse, solid on his legs. That was all he needed. He intended to ride him all through the corrida. He had already, since he had mounted, sitting in the half-dark in the big, quilted saddle, waiting for the paseo, pic-ed through the whole corrida in his mind. The other picadors went on talking on both sides of him. He did not hear them.
The two matadors stood together in front of their three peones, their capes furled over their left arms in the same fashion. Manuel was thinking about the three lads in back of him. They were all three Madrile?os, like Hernandez, boys about nineteen. One of them, a gypsy, serious, aloof, and dark-faced, he liked the look of. He turned.
¨Whatˇs your name, kid?〃 he asked the gypsy.
¨Fuentes,〃 the gypsy said.
¨Thatˇs a good name,〃 Manuel said.
The gypsy smiled, showing his teeth.
¨You take the bull and give him a little run when he comes out,〃 Manuel said.
¨All right,〃 the gypsy said. His face was serious. He began to think about just what he would do.
¨Here she goes,〃 Manuel said to Hernandez.
¨All right. Weˇll go.〃
Heads up, swinging with the music, their right arms swinging free, they stepped out, crossing the sanded arena under the arc-lights, the cuadrillas opening out behind, the picadors riding after, behind came the bullring servants and the jingling mules. The crowd applauded Hernandez as they marched across the arena. Arrogant, swinging, they looked straight ahead as they marched.
They bowed before the president, and the procession broke up into its component parts. The bullfighters went over to the barrera and changed their heavy mantles for the light fighting capes. The mules went out. The picadors galloped jerkily around the ring, and two rode out the gate they had come in by. The servants swept the sand smooth.
Manuel drank a glass of water poured for him by one of Retanaˇs deputies, who was acting as his manager and sword-handler. Hernandez came over from speaking with his own manager.
¨You got a good hand, kid,〃 Manuel complimented him.
¨They like me,〃 Hernandez said happily.
¨How did the paseo go?〃 Manuel asked Retanaˇs man.
¨Like a wedding,〃 said the handler. ¨Fine. You came out like Joselito and Belmonte.〃
Zurito rode by, a bulky equestrian statue. He wheeled his horse and faced him towards the toril on the far side of the ring where the bull would come out. It was strange under the arc-light. He pic-ed in the hot afternoon sun for big money. He didnˇt like this arc-light business. He wished they would get started.
Manuel went up to him.
¨Pic him, Manos,〃 he said. ¨Cut him down to size for me.〃
¨Iˇll pic him, kid,〃 Zurito spat on the sand. ¨Iˇll make him jump out of the ring.〃
¨Lean on him, Manos,〃 Manuel said.
¨Iˇll lean on him,〃 Zurito said. ¨Whatˇs holding it up?〃
¨Heˇs coming now,〃 Manuel said.
Zurito sat there, his feet in the box-stirrups, his great legs in the buckskin-covered armor gripping the horse, the reins in his left hand, the long pic held in his right hand, his broad hat well down over his eyes to shade them from the lights, watching the distant door of the toril. His horseˇs ears quivered. Zurito patted him with his left hand.
The red door of the toril swung back and for a moment Zurito looked into the empty passage-way far across the arena. Then the bull came out in a rush, skidding on his four legs as he came out under the lights, then charging in a gallop, moving softly in a fast gallop, silent except as he woofed through wide nostrils as he charged, glad to be free after the dark pen.
In the first row of seats, slightly bored, leaning forward to write on the cement wall in front of his knees, the substitute bullfight critic of El Heraldo scribbled: ¨Campagnero, Negro, 42, came out at 90 miles an hour with plenty of gas?〃
Manuel, leaning against the barrera, watching the bull, waved his hand and the gypsy ran out, trailing his cape. The bull, in full gallop, pivoted and charged the cape, his head down, his tail rising. The gypsy moved in a zigzag and as he passed, the bull caught sight of him and abandoned the cape to charge the man. The gyp sprinted and vaulted the red fence of the barrera as the bull struck it with his horns. He tossed into it twice with his horns, banging into the wood blindly.
The critic of El Heraldo lit a cigarette and tossed the match at the bull, then wrote in his notebook, ¨large and with enough horns to satisfy the cash customers, Campagnero showed a tendency to cut into the terrain of the bullfighters.〃
Manuel stepped out on the hard sand as the bull banged into the fence. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Zurito sitting the white horse close to the barrera, about a quarter of the way around the ring to the left. Manuel held the cape close in front of him, a fold in each hand, and shouted at the bull. ¨Huh! Huh!〃 the bull turned, seemed to brace against the fence as he charged in a scramble, driving into the cape as Manuel side-stepped, pivoted on his heels with the charge of the bull, and swung the cape just ahead of the horns. At the end of the cape he was facing the bull again and held the cape in the same position close in front of his body, and pivoted again as the bull recharged. Each time, as he swung, the crowd shouted.
Four times he swung with the bull, lifting the cape so it billowed full, and each time bringing the bull around to charge again. Then, at the end of the fifth swing, he held the cape against his hip and pivoted, so the cape swung out like a ballet dancerˇs skirt and wound the bull around himself like a belt, to step clear, leaving the bull facing Zurito on the white horse, come up and planted firm, the horse facing the bull, its ears forward, its lips nervous, Zurito, his hat over his eyes, leaning forward, the long pole sticking out before and behind in a sharp angle under his right arm, held halfway down, the triangular iron point facing the bull.
El Heraldoˇs second-string critic, drawing on his cigarette, his eyes on the bull, wrote: ˉthe veteran Manolo designed a series of acceptable veronicas, ending in a very Belmontistic recorte that earned applause from the regulars, and we entered the tercio of the cavalry.〃
Zurito sat his horse, measuring the distance between the bull and the end of the pic. As he looked, the bull gathered himself together and charged, his eyes on the horseˇs chest. As he lowered his head to hook, Zurito sunk the point of the pic in the swelling hump of muscle above the bullˇs shoulder, leaned all his weight on the shaft, and with his left hand pulled the white horse into the air, front hoofs pawing, and swung him to the right as he pushed the bull under and through so that the horns passed safely under the horseˇs belly and the horse came down, quivering, the bullˇs tail brushing his chest as he charged the cape Hernandez offered him.
Hernandez ran sideways, taking the bull out and away with the cape, toward the other picador. He fixed him with a swing of the cape, squarely facing the horse and rider, and stepped back. As the bull saw the horse he charged. The picadorˇs lance slid along his back, and as the shock of the charge lifted the horse, the picador was already half-way out of the saddle, lifting his right leg clear as he missed with the lance and falling to the left side to keep the horse between him and the bull. The horse, lifted and gored, crashed over with the bull driving into him, the picador gave a shove with his boots against the horse and lay clear, waiting to be lifted and hauled away and put on his feet.
Manuel let the bull drive into the fallen horse, he was in no hurry, the picador was safe; besides, it did a picador like that good to worry. Heˇd stay on longer next time. Lousy pics! He looked across the sand at Zurito a little way out from the barrera, his horse rigid, waiting.
¨Huh!〃 he called to the bull, ¨Tomar!〃 holding the cape in both hands so it would catch his eye. The bull detached himself from the horse and charged the cape, and Manuel, running sideways and holding the cape spread wide, stopped, swung on his heels, and brought the bull sharply around facing Zurito.
¨Campagnero accepted a pair of varas for the death of one rosinante, with Hernandez and Manolo at the quites,〃 El Heraldoˇs critic wrote. ¨He pressed on the iron and clearly showed he was no horse-lover. The veteran Zurito resurrected some of his old stuff with the pike-pole, notably the suerte?〃
¨Ol?! Ol?!〃 the man sitting beside him shouted. The shout was lost in the roar of the crowd, and he slapped the critic on the back. The critic looked up to see Zurito, directly below him, leaning far out over his horse, the length of the pic rising in a sharp angle under his armpit, holding the pic almost by the point, bearing down with all his weight, holding the bull off, the bull pushing and driving to get at the horse, and Zurito, far out, on top of him, holding him, holding him, and slowly pivoting the horse against the pressure, so that at last he was clear. Zurito felt the moment when the horse was clear and the bull could come past, and relaxed the absolute steel lock of his resistance, and the triangular steel point of the pic ripped in the bullˇs hump of shoulder muscle as he tore loose to find Hernandezˇs cape before his muzzle. He charged blindly into the cape and the boy took him out into the open arena.
Zurito sat patting his horse and looking at the bull charging the cape that Hernandez swung for him out under the bright light while the crowd shouted.
¨You see that one?〃 he said to Manuel.
¨It was a wonder,〃 Manuel said.
¨I got him that time,〃 Zurito said. ¨Look at him now.〃
At the conclusion of a closely turned pass of the cape the bull slid to his knees. He was up at once, but far out across the sand Manuel and Zurito saw the shine of the pumping flow of blood, smooth against the black of the bullˇs shoulder.
¨I got him that time,〃 Zurito said.
¨Heˇs a good bull,〃 Manuel said.
¨If they gave me another shot at him, Iˇd kill him,〃 Zurito said.
¨Theyˇll change the thirds on us,〃 Manuel said.
¨Look at him now,〃 Zurito said.
¨I got to go over there,〃 Manuel said, and started on a run for the other side of the ring, where the monos were leading a horse out by the bridle toward the bull, whacking him on the legs with rods and all, in a procession, trying to get him towards the bull, who stood, dropping his head, pawing, unable to make up his mind to charge.
Zurito, sitting his horse, walking him toward the scene, not missing any detail, scowled.
Finally the bull charged, the horse leaders ran for the barrera, the picador hit too far back, and the bull got under the horse, lifted him, threw him onto his back.
Zurito watched. The monos, in their red shirts, running out to drag the picador clear. The picador, now on his feet, swearing and flopping his arms. Manuel and Hernandez standing ready with their capes. And the bull, the great, black bull, with a horse on his back, hooves dangling, the bridle caught in the horns. Black bull with a horse on his back, staggering short-legged, then arching his neck and lifting, thrusting, charging to slide the horse off, horse sliding down. Then the bull into a lunging charge at the cape Manuel spread for him.
The bull was slower now, Manuel felt. He was bleeding badly. There was a sheen of blood all down his flank.
Manuel offered him the cape again. There he came, eyes open, ugly, watching the cape. Manuel stepped to the side and raised his arms, tightening the cape ahead of the bull for the veronica.
Now he was facing the bull. Yes, his head was going down a little. He was carrying it lower. That was Zurito.
Manuel flopped the cape; there he comes; he side-stepped and swung in another veronica. Heˇs shooting awfully accurately, he thought. Heˇs had enough fight, so heˇs watching now. Heˇs hunting now. Got his eye on me. But I always give him the cape.
He shook the cape at the bull; there he comes; he sidestepped. Awful close that time. I donˇt want to work that close to him.
The edge of the cape was wet with blood where it had swept along the bullˇs back as he went by.
All right, hereˇs the last one.
Manuel, facing the bull, having turned with him each charge, offered the cape with his two hands. The bull looked at him. Eyes watching, horns straight forward, the bull looked at him, watching.
¨Huh!〃 Manuel said, ¨Toro!〃 and leaning back, swung the cape forward. Here he comes. He side-stepped, swung the cape in back of him, and pivoted, so the bull followed a swirl of cape and was then left with nothing, fixed by the pass, dominated by the cape. Manuel swung the cape under his muzzle with one hand, to show the bull was fixed, and walked away.
There was no applause.
Manuel walked across the sand towards the barrera, while Zurito rode out of the ring. The trumpet had blown to change the act to the planting of the banderillos while Manuel had been working with the bull. He had not consciously noticed it. The monos were spreading canvas over the two dead horses and sprinkling sawdust around them.
Manuel came up to the barrera for a drink of water. Retanaˇs man handed him the heavy porous jug.
Fuentes, the tall gypsy, was standing holding a pair of banderillos, holding them together, slim, red sticks, fishhook points out. He looked at Manuel.
¨Go on out there,〃 Manuel said.
The gypsy trotted out. Manuel set down the jug and watched. He wiped his face with his handkerchief.
The critic of El Heraldo reached for the bottle of warm champagne that stood between his feet, took a drink, and finished his paragraph.
¨?the aged Manolo rated no applause for a vulgar series of lances with the cape and we entered the third of the palings.〃
Alone in the centre of the ring the bull stood, still fixed. Fuentes, tall, flat-backed, walking towards him arrogantly, his arms spread out, the two slim, red sticks, one in each hand, held by the fingers, points straight forward. Fuentes walked forward. Back of him and to one side was a peon with a cape. The bull looked at him and was no longer fixed.
His eyes watched Fuentes, now standing still. Now he leaned back, calling to him. Fuentes twitched the two banderillos and the light on the steel points caught the bullˇs eye.
His tail went up and he charged.
He came straight, his eyes on the man. Fuentes stood still, leaning back, the banderillos pointing forward. As the bull lowered his head to hook, Fuentes leaned backward, his arms came together and rose, his two hands touching, the banderillos two descending red lines, and leaning forward drove the points into the bullˇs shoulder, leaning far in over the bullˇs horns and pivoting on the two upright sticks, his legs tight together, his body curving to one side to let the bull pass.
¨Ol?!〃 from the crowd.
The bull was hooking wildly, jumping like a trout, all four feet off the ground. The red shafts of the banderillos tossed as he jumped.
Manuel, standing at the barrera, noticed that he hooked always to the right.
¨Tell him to drop the next pair on the right,〃 he said to the kid who started to run out to Fuentes with the new banderillos.
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. it was Zurito.
¨How do you feel, kid?〃 he asked.
Manuel was watching the bull.
Zurito leaned forward on the barrera, leaning the weight of his body on his arms. Manuel turned to him.
¨Youˇre going good,〃 Zurito said.
Manuel shook his head. He had nothing to do now until the next third. The gypsy was very good with the banderillos. The bull would come to him in the next third in good shape. He was a good bull. It had all been easy up to now. The final stuff with the sword was all he worried over. He did not really worry. He did not even think about it. But standing there he had a heavy sense of apprehension. He looked out at the bull, planning his faena, his work with the red cloth that was to reduce the bull, to make him manageable.
The gypsy was walking out towards the bull again, walking heel-and-toe, insultingly, like a ballroom dancer, the red shafts of the banderillos twitching with his walk. The bull watched him, not fixed now, hunting him, but waiting to get close enough so he could be sure of getting him, getting the horns into him.
As Fuentes walked forward the bull charged. Fuentes ran across the quarter of a circle as the bull charged and, as he passed running backwards, stopped, swung forward, rose on his toes, arms straight out, and sunk the banderillos straight down into the tight of the big shoulder muscles as the bull missed him.
The crowd were wild about it.
¨That kid wonˇt stay in this night stuff long,〃 Retanaˇs man said to Zurito.
¨Heˇs good,〃 Zurito said.
¨Watch him now.〃
They watched.
Fuentes was standing with his back against the barrera. Two of the cuadrilla were back of him, with their capes ready to flop over the fence to distract the bull.
The bull, with his tongue out, his barrel heaving, was watching the gypsy. He thought he had him now. Back against the red planks. Only a short charge away. The bull watched him.
The gypsy bent back, drew back his arms, the banderillos pointing at the bull. He called to the bull, stamped one foot. The bull was suspicious. He wanted the man. No more barbs in the shoulder.
Fuentes walked a little closer to the bull. Bent back. Called again. Somebody in the crowd shouted a warning.
¨Heˇs too damn close,〃 Zurito said.
¨Watch him,〃 Retanaˇs man said.
Leaning back, inciting the bull with the banderillos, Fuentes jumped, both feet off the ground. As he jumped the bullˇs tail rose and he charged. Fuentes came down on his toes, arms straight out, whole body arching forward, and drove the shafts straight down as he swung his body clear of the right horn.
The bull crashed into the barrera where the flopping capes had attracted his eye as he lost the man.
The gypsy came running along the barrera towards Manuel, taking the applause of the crowd. His vest was ripped where he had not quite cleared the point of the horn. He was happy about it, showing it to the spectators. He made a tour of the ring. Zurito saw him go by, smiling, pointing to his vest. He smiled.
Somebody else was planting the last pair of banderillos. Nobody was paying any attention.
Retanaˇs man tucked a baton inside the red cloth of a muleta, folded the cloth over it, and handed it over the barrera to Manuel. He reached in the leather sword-case, took out a sword and, holding it by its leather scabbard, reached it over the fence to Manuel. Manuel pulled the blade out by the red hilt and the scabbard fell limp.
He looked at Zurito. The big man saw he was sweating.
¨Now you get him, kid,〃 Zurito said.
Manuel nodded.
¨Heˇs in good shape,〃 Zurito said.
¨Just like you want him,〃 Retanaˇs man assured him.
Manuel nodded.
The trumpeter, up under the roof, blew for the final act, and Manuel walked across the arena towards where, up in the dark boxes, the president must be.
In the front row seats the substitute bullfight critic of El Heraldo took a long drink of warm champagne. He had decided it was not worthwhile to write a running story and would write up the corrida back in the office. What the hell was it anyway? Only a nocturnal. If he missed anything he would get it out of the morning papers. He took another drink of the champagne. He had a date at Maximˇs at twelve. Who were these bullfighters anyway? Kids and bums. A bunch of bums. He put his pad of paper in his pocket and looked over towards Manuel, standing very much alone in the ring, gesturing with his hat in a salute towards a box he could not see high up in the dark plaza. Out in the ring the bull stood quiet, looking at nothing.
¨I dedicate this bull to you, Mr. President, and to the public of Madrid, the most intelligent and generous in the world,〃 was what Manuel was saying. It was a formula. He said it all. It was a little too long for nocturnal use.
He bowed at the dark, straightened, tossed his hat over his shoulder, and, carrying the muleta in his left hand and the sword in his right, walked out towards the bull.
Manuel walked toward the bull. The bull looked at him; his eyes were quick. Manuel noticed the way the banderillos hung down on his left shoulder and the steady sheen of blood from Zuritoˇs pic-ing. He noticed the way the bullˇs feet were. As he walked forward, holding the muleta in his left hand and the sword in his right, he watched the bullˇs feet. The bull could not charge without gathering his feet together. Now he stood square on them, dully.
Manuel walked towards him, watching his feet. This was all right. He could do this. He must work to get the bullˇs head down, so he could go in past the horns and kill him. He did not think about the sword, not about killing the bull. He thought about one thing at a time. The coming things oppressed him, though. Walking forward, watching the bullˇs feet, he saw successively his eyes, his wet muzzle, and the wide, forward-pointing spread of his horns. The bull had light circles about his eyes. His eyes watched Manuel. He felt he was going to get this little one with the white face.
Standing still now and spreading the red cloth of the muleta with the sword, pricking the point into the cloth so that the sword, now held in his left hand, spread the red flannel like the jib of a boat, Manuel noticed the points of the bullˇs horns. One of them was splintered from banging against the barrera. The other was sharp as a porcupine quill. Manuel noticed while spreading the muleta that the white base of the horn was stained red. While he noticed these things he did not lose sight of the bullˇs feet. The bull watched Manuel steadily.
Heˇs on the defensive now, Manuel thought. Heˇs reserving himself. Iˇve got to bring him out of that and get his head down. Always get his head down. Zurito had his head down once, but heˇs come back. Heˇll bleed when I〃 start him going and that will bring it down.
Holding the muleta, with the sword in his left hand widening it in front of him, he called to the bull.
The bull looked at him.
He leaned back insultingly and shook the widespread flannel.
The bull saw the muleta. It was a bright scarlet under the arc-light. The bullˇs legs tightened.
Here he comes. Whoosh! Manuel turned as the bull came and raised the muleta so that it passed over the bullˇs horns and swept down his broad back from head to tail. The bull had gone clean up in the air with the charge. Manuel had not moved.
At the end of the pass the bull turned like a cat coming around a corner and faced Manuel.
He was on the offensive again. His heaviness was gone. Manuel noted the fresh blood shining down the black shoulder and dripping down the bullˇs leg. He drew the sword out of the muleta and held it in his right hand. The muleta held low down in his left hand, leaning toward the left, he called to the bull. The bullˇs legs tightened, his eyes on the muleta. Here he comes, Manuel thought. Yuh!
He swung with the charge, sweeping the muleta ahead of the bull, his feet firm, the sword following the curve, a point of light under the arcs.
The bull recharged as the pase natural finished and Manuel raised the muleta for a pase de pecho. Firmly planted, the bull came by his chest under the raised muleta. Manuel leaned his head back to avoid the clattering banderillo shafts. The hot black bull body touched his chest as it passed.
Too damn close, Manuel thought. Zurito, leaning on the barrera, spoke rapidly to the gypsy who trotted out towards Manuel with a cape, Zurito pulled his hat down low and looked out across the arena at Manuel.
Manuel was facing the bull again, the muleta held low and to the left. The bullˇs head was down as he watched the muleta.
¨If it was Belmonte doing that stuff, theyˇd go crazy,〃 Retanaˇs man said.
Zurito said nothing. He was watching Manuel out in the centre of the arena.
¨Where did the boss dig this fellow up?〃 Retanaˇs man asked.
¨Out of the hospital,〃 Zurito said.
¨Thatˇs where heˇs going damn quick,〃 Retanaˇs man said.
Zurito turned on him.
¨Knock on that,〃 he said, pointing to the barrera.
¨I was just kidding, man,〃 Retanaˇs man said.
¨Knock on that wood.〃
Retanaˇs man leaned forward and knocked three times on the barrera.
¨Watch the faena,〃 Zurito said.
Out in the centre of the ring, under the lights, Manuel was kneeling, facing the bull, and as he raised the muleta in both hands the bull charged, tail up.
Manuel swung his body clear and, as the bull recharged, brought around the muleta in a half-circle that pulled the bull to his knees.
¨Why, that oneˇs a great bullfighter,〃 Retanaˇs man said.
¨No, heˇs not,〃 said Zurito.
Manuel stood up and, the muleta in his left hand, the sword in his right, acknowledged the applause from the dark plaza.
The bull had humped himself up from his knees and stood waiting, his head hung low.
Zurito spoke to two of the other lads of the cuadrilla and they ran out to stand back of Manuel with their capes. There were four men back of him now. Hernandez had followed him since he first came out with the muleta. Fuentes stood watching, his cape held against his body, tall in repose, watching lazy-eyed. Now the two came up. Hernandez motioned them to stand one at each side. Manuel stood alone, facing the bull.
Manuel waved back the men with the capes. Stepping back cautiously, they saw his face was white and sweating.
Didnˇt they know enough to keep back? Did they want to catch the bullˇs eye with the capes after he was fixed and ready? He had enough to worry about without that kind of thing.
The bull was standing, his four feet square, looking at the muleta. Manuel furled the muleta in his left hand. The bullˇs eyes watched it. His body was heavy on his feet. He carried his head low, but not too low.
Manuel lifted the muleta at him. The bull did not move. Only his eyes watched.
Heˇs all lead, Manuel thought. Heˇs all square. Heˇs framed right. Heˇll take it.
He thought in bullfight terms. Sometimes he had a thought and the particular piece of slang would not come into his mind and he could not realize the thought. His instincts and knowledge worked automatically, and his brain worked slowly and in words. He knew all about bulls. He did not have to think about them. He just did the right thing. His eyes noted things and his body performed the necessary measures without thought. If he thought about it, he would be gone.
Now, facing the bull, he was conscious of many things at the same time. There were the horns, the one splintered, the other smoothly sharp, the need to profile himself toward the left horn, lance himself short and straight, lower the muleta so the bull would follow it, and, going in over the horns, put the sword all the way into a little spot about as big as a five-peseta piece straight in back of the neck, between the sharp pitch of the bullˇs shoulders. He must do all this, and must then come out from between the horns. He was conscious he must do all this, but his only thought was in words: ¨Corto y derecho.〃
¨Corto y derecho,〃 he thought, furling the muleta. Short and straight. Corto y derecho, he drew the sword out of the muleta, profiled on the splintered left horn, dropped the muleta across his body, so his right hand with the sword on the level with his eye made the sign of the cross, and, rising on his toes, sighted along the dipping blade of the sword at the spot high up between the bullˇs shoulders.
Corto y derecho he lanced himself on the bull.
There was a shock, and he felt himself go up in the air. He pushed on the sword as he went up and over, and it flew out of his hand. He hit the ground and the bull was on him. Manuel, lying on the ground, kicked at the bullˇs muzzle with his splippered feet. Kicking, kicking, the bull after him, missing him in his excitement, bumping him with his head, driving the horns into the sand. Kicking like a man keeping a ball in the air, Manuel kept the bull from getting a clean thrust at him.
Manuel felt the wind on his back from the capes flopping at the bull, and then the bull was gone, gone over him in a rush. Dark, as his belly went over. Not even stepped on.
Manuel stood up and picked up the muleta. Fuentes handed him the sword. It was bent where it had struck the shoulder-blade. Manuel straightened it on his knee and ran towards the bull, standing now beside one of the dead horses. As he ran, his jacket flopped where it had been ripped under the armpit.
¨Get him out of there,〃 Manuel shouted to the gypsy. The bull had smelled the blood of the dead horse and ripped into the canvas cover with his horns. He charged Fuentesˇs cape, with the canvas hanging from his splintered horn, and the crowd laughed. Out in the ring, he tossed his head to rid himself of the canvas. Hernandez, running up from behind him, grabbed the end of the canvas and neatly lifted it off the horn.
The bull followed it in a half-charge and stopped still. He was on the defensive again. Manuel was walking towards him with the sword and muleta. Manuel swung the muleta before him. The bull would not charge.
Manuel profiled toward the bull, sighting along the dipping blade of the sword. The bull was motionless, seemingly dead on his feet, incapable of another charge.
Manuel rose to his toes, sighting along the steel, and charged.
Again there was the shock and he felt himself being borne back in a rush, to strike hard on the sand. There was no chance of kicking this time. The bull was on top of him. Manuel lay as though dead, his head on his arms, and the bull bumped him. Bumped his back, bumped his face in the sand. He felt the horn go into the sand between his folded arms. The bull hit him in the small of the back. His face drove into the sand. The horn drove through one of his sleeves and the bull ripped it off. Manuel was tossed clear and the bull followed the capes.
Manuel got up, found the sword and muleta, tried the point of the sword with his thumb, and then ran towards the barrera for a new sword.
Retanaˇs man handed him the sword over the edge of the barrera.
¨Wipe off your face,〃 he said.
Manuel, running again towards the bull, wiped his bloody face with his handkerchief. He had not seen Zurito. Where was Zurito?〃
The cuadrilla had stepped away from the bull and waited with their capes. The bull stood, heavy and dull again after the action.
Manuel walked towards him with the muleta. He stopped and shook it. The bull did not respond. He passed it right and left, left and right before the bullˇs muzzle. The bullˇs eyes watched it and turned with the swing, but he would not charge. He was waiting for Manuel.
Manuel was worried. There was nothing to do but go in. Corto y derecho. He profiled close to the bull, crossed the muleta in front of his body and charged. As he pushed in the sword, he jerked his body to the left to clear the horn. The bull passed him and the sword shot up in the air, twinkling under the arc-lights, to fall red-hilted on the sand.
Manuel ran over and picked it up. It was bent and he straightened it over his knee.
As he came running towards the bull, fixed again now, he passed Hernandez standing with his cape.
¨Heˇs all bone,〃 the boy said encouragingly.
Manuel nodded, wiping his face. He put the bloody handkerchief in his pocket.
There was the bull. He was close to the barrera now. Damn him. Maybe he was all bone. Maybe there was not any place for the sword to go in. The hell there wasnˇt! Heˇd show them.
He tried a pass with the muleta and the bull did not move. Manuel chopped the muleta back and forth in front of the bull. Nothing doing.
He furled the muleta, drew the sword out, profiled and drove in on the bull. He felt the sword buckle as he shoved it in, leaning his weight on it, and then it shot in the air, end-over-ending into the crowd. Manuel had jerked clear as the sword jumped.
The first cushions thrown down out of the dark missed him. Then one hit him in the face, his bloody face looking towards the crowd. They were coming down fast. Spotting the sand. Somebody threw an empty champagne bottle from close range. It hit Manuel on the foot. He stood there watching the dark, where the things were coming from. Then something whished through the air and struck by him. Manuel leaned over and picked it up. It was his sword. He straightened it over his knee and gestured with it to the crowd.
¨Thank you,〃 he said. ¨Thank you.〃
Oh, the dirty bastards! Dirty bastards! Oh, the lousy, dirty bastards! He kicked into a cushion as he ran.
There was the bull. The same as ever. All right, you dirty, lousy bastard!
Manuel passed the muleta in front of the bullˇs black muzzle.
Nothing doing.
You wonˇt. All right. He stepped close and jammed the sharp peak of the muleta into the bullˇs damp muzzle.
The bull was on him as he jumped back and as he tripped on a cushion he felt the horn go into him, into his side. He grabbed the horn with his two hands and rode backward, holding tight on to the place. The bull tossed him and he was clear. He lay still. It was all right. The bull was gone.
He got up coughing and feeling broken and gone. The dirty bastards!
¨Give me the sword,〃 he shouted. ¨Give me the stuff.〃
Fuentes came up with the muleta and the sword.
Hernandez put his arm around him.
¨Go on to the infirmary, man,〃 he said. ¨Donˇt be a damn fool.〃
¨Get away from me,〃 Manuel said. ¨Get to hell away from me.〃
He twisted free. Hernandez shrugged his shoulders. Manuel ran toward the bull.
There was the bull standing, heavy, firmly planted.
All right, you bastard! Manuel drew the sword out of the muleta, sighted with the same movement, and flung himself onto the bull. He felt the sword go in all the way. Right up to the guard. Four fingers and his thumb into the bull. The blood was hot on his knuckles, and he was on top of the bull.
The bull lurched with him as he lay on, and seemed to sink; then he was standing clear. He looked at the bull going down slowly over on his side, then suddenly four feet in the air.
Then he gestured at the crowd, his hand warm from the bull blood.
All right, you bastards! He wanted to say something, but he started to cough. It was hot and choking. He looked down for the muleta. He must go over and salute the president. President hell! He was sitting down looking at something. It was the bull. His four feet up. Thick tongue out. Things crawling around on his belly and under his legs. Crawling where the hair was thin. Dead bull. To hell with the bull! To hell with them all! He started to get to his feet and commenced to cough. He sat down again, coughing. Somebody came and pushed him up.
They carried him across the ring to the infirmary, running with him across the sand, standing blocked at the gate as the mules came in, then around under the dark passageway, men grunting as they took him up the stairway, and then laid him down.
The doctor and two men in white were waiting for him. They laid him out on the table. They were cutting away his shirt. Manuel felt tired. His whole chest felt scalding inside. He started to cough and they held something to his mouth. Everybody was very busy.
There was an electric light in his eyes. He shut his eyes.
He heard someone coming very heavily up the stairs. Then he did not hear it. Then he heard a noise far off. That was the crowd. Well, somebody would have to kill his other bull. They had cut away all his shirt. The doctor smiled at him. There was Retana.
¨Hello, Retana!〃 Manuel said. He could not hear his voice.
Retana smiled at him and said something. Manuel could not hear it.
Zurito stood beside the table, bending over where the doctor was working. He was in his picador clothes, without his hat.
Zurito said something to him. Manuel could not hear it. Zurito was speaking to Retana. One of the men in white smiled and handed Retana a pair of scissors. Retana gave them to Zurito. Zurito said something to Manuel. He could not hear it.
To hell with this operating table! Heˇd been on plenty of operating tables before. He was not going to die. There would be a priest if he was going to die.
Zurito was saying something to him. Holding up the scissors.
That was it. They were going to cut off his coleta. They were going to cut off his pigtail.
Manuel sat up on the operating table. The doctor stepped back, angry. Someone grabbed him and held him.
¨You couldnˇt do a thing like that, Manos,〃 he said. He heard suddenly, clearly, Zuritoˇs voice.
¨Thatˇs all right,〃 Zurito said. ¨I wonˇt do it. I was joking.〃
¨I was going good,〃 Manuel said. ¨I didnˇt have any luck. That was all.〃
Manuel lay back. They had put something over his face. It was all familiar. He inhaled deeply. He felt very tired. He was very, very tired. They took the thing away from his face.
¨I was going good,〃 Manuel said weakly. ¨I was going great.〃
Retana looked at Zurito and started for the door.
¨Iˇll stay here with him,〃 Zurito said.
Retana shrugged his shoulders.
Manuel opened his eyes and looked at Zurito.
¨Wasnˇt I going good, Manos?〃 he asked, for confirmation.
¨Sure,〃 said Zurito. ¨You were going great.〃
The doctorˇs assistant put the cone over Manuelˇs face and he inhaled deeply. Zurito stood awkwardly, watching.
IN ANOTHER COUNTRY
IN the fall the war was always there, but we did not go to it any more. It was cold in the fall in Milan and the dark came very early. Then the electric lights came on, and it was pleasant along the streets looking in the windows. There was much game hanging outside the shops, and the snow powdered in the fur of the foxes and the wind blew their tails. The deer hung stiff and heavy and empty, and small birds blew in the wind and the wind turned their feathers. It was a cold fall and the wind came down from the mountains.
We were all at the hospital every afternoon, and there were different ways of walking across the town through the dusk to the hospital. Two of the ways were alongside canals, but they were long. Always, though, you crossed a bridge across a canal to enter the hospital. There was a choice of three bridges. On one of them a woman sold roasted chestnuts. It was warm, standing in front of her charcoal fire, and the chestnuts were warm afterward in your pocket. The hospital was very old and very beautiful, and you entered through a gate and walked across a courtyard and out of a gate on the other side. There were usually funerals starting from the courtyard. Beyond the old hospital were the new brick pavilions, and there we met every afternoon and were all very polite and interested in what was the matter, and sat in the machines that were to make so much difference.
The doctor came up to the machine where I was sitting and said: ¨What did you like best to do before the war? Did you practice a sport?〃
I said: ¨Yes, football.〃
¨Good,〃 he said. ¨You will be able to play football again better than ever.〃
My knee did not bend and the leg dropped straight from the knee to the ankle without a calf, and the machine was to bend the knee and make it move as in riding a tricycle. But it did not bend yet, and instead the machine lurched when it came to the bending part. The doctor said: ¨That will all pass. You are a fortunate young man. You will play football again like a champion.〃
In the next machine was a major who had a little hand like a babyˇs. He winked at me when the doctor examined his hand, which was between two leather straps that bounced up and down and flapped the stiff fingers, and said: ¨And will I too play football, captain-doctor?〃 He had been a very great fencer and, before the war, the greatest fencer in Italy.
The doctor went to his office in the back room and brought a photograph which showed a hand that had been withered almost as small as the majorˇs, before it had taken a machine course, and after was a little larger. The major held the photograph with his good hand and looked at it very carefully. ¨A wound?〃 he asked.
¨An industrial accident,〃 the doctor said.
¨Very interesting, very interesting,〃 the major said, and handed it back to the doctor.
¨You have confidence?〃
¨No,〃 said the major.
There were three boys who came each day who were about the same age I was. They were all three from Milan, and one of them was to be a lawyer, and one was to be a painter, and one had intended to be a soldier, and after we were finished with the machines, sometimes we walked back together to the Caf? Cova, which was next door to the Scala. We walked the short way through the communist quarter because we were four together. The people hated us because we were officers, and from a wine shop someone would call out, ¨A basso gli ufficiali!〃 as we passed. Another boy who walked with us sometimes and made us five wore a black silk handkerchief across his face because he had no nose then and his face was to be rebuilt. He had gone out to the front from the military academy and been wounded within an hour after he had gone into the front line for the first time. They rebuilt his face, but he came from a very old family and they could never get the nose exactly right. He went to South America and worked in a bank. But this was a long time ago, and then we did not any of us know how it was going to be afterwards. We only knew then that there was always the war, but that we were not going to it any more.
We all had the same medals, except the boy with the black silk bandage across his face, and he had not been at the front long enough to get any medals. The tall boy with a very pale face who was to be a lawyer had been a lieutenant of Arditi and had three medals of the sort we each had only one of. He had lived a very long time with death and was a little detached. We were all a little detached, and there was nothing that held us together except that we met every afternoon at the hospital. Although, as we walked to the Cova through the tough part of the town, walking in the dark, with light and singing coming out of the wine shops, and sometimes having to walk into the street when the men and women would crowd together on the sidewalk so that we would have had to jostle them to get by, we felt held together by there being something that had happened that they, the people who disliked us, did not understand.
We ourselves all understood the Cova, where it was rich and warm and not too brightly lighted, and noisy and smoky at certain hours, and there were always girls at the tables and the illustrated papers on a rack on the wall. The girls at the Cova were very patriotic, and I found that the most patriotic people in Italy were the caf? girls?and I believe they are still patriotic.
The boys at first were very polite about my medals and asked me what I had done to get them. I showed them the papers, which were written in very beautiful language and full of fratellanza and abnegazione, but which really said, with the adjectives removed, that I had been given the medals because I was an American. After that their manner changed a little toward me, although I was their friend against outsiders. I was a friend, but I was never really one of them after they had read the citations, because it had been different with them and they had done very different things to get their medals. I had been wounded, it was true; but we all knew that being wounded, after all, was really an accident. I was never ashamed of the ribbons, though, and sometimes, after the cocktail hour, I would imagine myself having done all the things they had done to get their medals; but walking home at night through the empty streets with the cold wind and all the shops closed, trying to keep near the street lights, I knew that I would never have done such things, and I was very much afraid to die, and often lay in bed at night by myself, afraid to die and wondering how I would be when I went back to the front again.
The three with the medals were like hunting-hawks; and I was not a hawk, although I might seem a hawk to those who had never hunted; they, the three, knew better and so we drifted apart. But I stayed good friends with the boy who had been wounded his first day at the front, because he would never know how he would have turned out; so he could never be accepted either, and I liked him because I thought perhaps he would not have turned out to be a hawk either.
The major, who had been the great fencer, did not believe in bravery, and spent much time while we sat in the machines correcting my grammar. He had complimented me on how I spoke Italian, and we talked together very easily. One day I had said that Italian seemed such an easy language to me that I could not take a great interest in it; everything was so easy to say. ¨Ah, yes,〃 the major said. ¨Why, then, do you not take up the use of grammar? So we took up the use of grammar, and soon Italian was such a difficult language that I was afraid to talk to him until I had the grammar straight in my mind.
The major came very regularly to the hospital. I do not think he ever missed a day, although I am sure he did not believe in the machines. There was a time when none of us believed in the machines, and one day the major said it was all nonsense. The machines were new then and it was we who were to prove them. It was an idiotic idea, he said, ¨a theory, like another〃. I had not learned my grammar, and he said I was a stupid impossible disgrace, and he was a fool to have bothered with me. He was a small man and he sat straight up in his chair with his right hand thrust into the machine and looked straight ahead at the wall while the straps thumped up and down with his fingers in them.
¨What will you do when the war is over if it is over?〃 he asked me. ¨Speak grammatically!〃
¨I will go to the States.〃
¨Are you married?〃
¨No, but I hope to be.〃
¨The more of a fool you are,〃 he said. He seemed very angry. ¨A man must not marry.〃
¨Why, Signor Maggiore?〃
¨Donˇt call me ˉSignor Maggioreˇ.〃
¨Why must not a man marry?〃
¨He cannot marry. He cannot marry,〃 he said angrily. ¨If he is to lose everything, he should not place himself in a position to lose that. He should not place himself in a position to lose. He should find things he cannot lose.〃
He spoke very angrily and bitterly, and looked straight ahead while he talked.
¨But why should he necessarily lose it?〃
¨Heˇll lose it,〃 the major said. He was looking at the wall. Then he looked down at the machine and jerked his little hand out from between the straps and slapped it hard against his thigh. ¨Heˇll lose it,〃 he almost shouted. ¨Donˇt argue with me!〃 Then he called to the attendant who ran the machines. ¨Come and turn this damned thing off.〃
He went back into the other room for the light treatment and the massage. Then I heard him ask the doctor if he might use his telephone and he shut the door. When he came back into the room, I was sitting in another machine. He was wearing his cape and had his cap on, and he came directly toward my machine and put his arm on my shoulder.
¨I am so sorry,〃 he said, and patted me, on the shoulder with his good hand. ¨I would not be rude. My wife has just died. You must forgive me.〃
¨Oh?〃 I said, feeling sick for him. ¨I am so sorry.〃
He stood there biting his lower lip. ¨It is very difficult,〃 he said. ¨I cannot resign myself.〃
He looked straight past me and out through the window. Then he began to cry. ¨I am utterly unable to resign myself,〃 he said and choked. And then crying, his head up, looking at nothing, carrying himself straight and soldierly, with tears on both his cheeks and biting his lips, he walked past the machines and out of the door.
The doctor told me that the majorˇs wife, who was very young and whom he had not married until he was definitely invalided out of the war, had died of pneumonia. She had been sick only a few days. No one expected her to die. The major did not come to the hospital for three days. Then he came at the usual hour, wearing a black band on the sleeve of his uniform. When he came back, there were large framed photographs around the wall, of all sorts of wounds before and after they had been cured by the machines. In front of the machine the major used were three photographs of hands like his that were completely restored. I do not know where the doctor got them. I always understood we were the first to use the machines. The photographs did not make much difference to the major because he only looked out of the window.
HILLS LIKE WHITE ELEPHANTS
THE hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went on to Madrid.
¨What should we drink?〃 the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.
¨Itˇs pretty hot,〃 the man said.
¨Letˇs drink beer.〃
¨Dos cervezas,〃 the man said into the curtain.
¨Big ones?〃 a woman asked from the doorway.
¨Yes. Two big ones.〃
The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the felt pads and the beer glasses on the table and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry.
¨They look like white elephants,〃 she said.
¨Iˇve never seen one.〃 The man drank his beer.
¨No, you wouldnˇt have.〃
¨I might have,〃 the man said. ¨Just because you say I wouldnˇt have doesnˇt prove anything.〃
The girl looked at the bead curtain. ¨Theyˇve painted something on it,〃 she said. ¨What does it say?〃
¨Anis del Toro. Itˇs a drink.〃
¨Could we try it?〃
The man called ¨Listen〃 through the curtain.
The woman came out from the bar.
¨Four reales.〃
¨We want two Anis del Toros.〃
¨With water?〃
¨Do you want it with water?〃
¨I donˇt know,〃 the girl said. ¨Is it good with water?〃
¨Itˇs all right.〃
¨You want them with water?〃 asked the woman.
¨Yes, with water.〃
¨It tastes like liquorice,〃 the girl said and put the glass down.
¨Thatˇs the way with everything.〃
¨Yes,〃 said the girl. ¨Everything tastes of liquorice. Especially all the things youˇve waited so long for, like absinthe.〃
¨Oh, cut it out.〃
¨You started it,〃 the girl said. ¨I was being amused. I was having a fine time.〃
¨Well, letˇs try and have a fine time.〃
¨All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants. Wasnˇt that bright?〃
¨That was bright.〃
¨I wanted to try this new drink. Thatˇs all we do, isnˇt it?look at things and try new drinks?〃
¨I guess so.〃
The girl looked across at the hills.
¨Theyˇre lovely hills,〃 she said. ¨They donˇt really look like white elephants. I just meant the coloring of their skin through the trees.〃
¨Should we have another drink?〃
¨All right.〃
The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table.
¨The beerˇs nice and cool,〃 the man said.
¨Itˇs lovely,〃 the girl said.
¨Itˇs really an awfully simple operation, Jig,〃 the man said. ¨Itˇs not really an operation at all.〃
The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.
¨I know you wouldnˇt mind it, Jig. Itˇs really not anything. Itˇs just to let the air in.〃
The girl did not say anything.
¨Iˇll go with you and Iˇll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then itˇs all perfectly natural.〃
¨Then what will we do afterwards?〃
¨Weˇll be fine afterwards. Just like we were before.〃
¨What makes you think so?〃
¨Thatˇs the only thing that bothers us. Itˇs the one thing thatˇs made us unhappy.〃
The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of two of the strings of beads.
¨And you think then weˇll be all right and be happy.〃
¨I know we will. You donˇt have to be afraid. Iˇve known lots of people that have done it.〃
¨So have I,〃 said the girl. ¨And afterward they were all so happy.〃
¨Well,〃 the man said, ¨if you donˇt want to you donˇt have to. I wouldnˇt have you do it if you didnˇt want to. But I know itˇs perfectly simple.〃
¨And you really want to?〃
¨I think itˇs the best thing to do. But I donˇt want you to do it if you donˇt really want to.〃
¨And if I do it youˇll be happy and things will be like they were and youˇll love me?〃
¨I love you now. You know I love you.〃
¨I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and youˇll like it?〃
¨Iˇll love it. I love it now but I just canˇt think about it. You know how I get when I worry.〃
¨If I do it you wonˇt ever worry?〃
¨I wonˇt worry about that because itˇs perfectly simple.〃
¨Then Iˇll do it. Because I donˇt care about me.〃
¨What do you mean?〃
¨I donˇt care about me.〃
¨Well, I care about you.〃
¨Oh, yes. But I donˇt care about me. And Iˇll do it and then everything will be fine.〃
¨I donˇt want you to do it if you feel that way.〃
The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the other side, were fields of grain and trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees.
¨And we could have all this,〃 she said. ¨And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible.〃
¨What did you say?〃
¨I said we could have everything.〃
¨We can have everything.〃
¨No, we canˇt.〃
¨We can have the whole world.〃
¨No, we canˇt.〃
¨We can go everywhere.〃
¨No, we canˇt. It isnˇt ours any more.〃
¨Itˇs ours.〃
¨No, it isnˇt. And once they take it away, you never get it back.〃
¨But they havenˇt taken it away.〃
¨Weˇll wait and see.〃
¨Come on back in the shade,〃 he said. ¨You mustnˇt feel that way.〃
¨I donˇt feel any way,〃 the girl said. ¨I just know things.〃
¨I donˇt want you to do anything that you donˇt want to do?〃
¨Nor that isnˇt good for me,〃 she said. ¨I know. Could we have another beer?〃
¨All right. But youˇve got to realize?〃
¨I realize,〃 the girl said. ¨Canˇt we maybe stop talking?〃
They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table.
¨Youˇve got to realize,〃 he said, ¨that I donˇt want you to do it if you donˇt want to. Iˇm perfectly willing to go through with it if it means anything to you.〃
¨Doesnˇt it mean anything to you? We could get along.〃
¨Of course it does. But I donˇt want anybody but you. I donˇt want anyone else. And I know itˇs perfectly simple.〃
¨Yes, you know itˇs perfectly simple.〃
¨Itˇs all right for you to say that, but I do know it.〃
¨Would you do something for me now?〃
¨Iˇd do anything for you.〃
¨Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?〃
He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights.
¨But I donˇt want you to,〃 he said, ¨I donˇt care anything about it.〃
¨Iˇll scream,〃 the girl said.
The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put them down on the damp felt pads.
¨The train comes in five minutes,〃 she said.
¨What did she say?〃 asked the girl.
¨That the train is coming in five minutes.〃
The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her.
¨Iˇd better take the bags over to the other side of the station,〃 the man said. She smiled at him.
¨All right. Then come back and weˇll finish the beer.〃
He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the bar-room, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.
¨Do you feel better?〃 he asked.
¨I feel fine,〃 she said. ¨Thereˇs nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.〃
THE KILLERS
THE door of Henryˇs lunch-room opened and two men came in. They sat down at the counter.
¨Whatˇs yours?〃 George asked them.
¨I donˇt know,〃 one of the men said. ¨What do you want to eat, Al?〃
¨I donˇt know,〃 said Al. ¨I donˇt know what I want to eat.〃
Outside it was getting dark. The street light came on outside the window. The two men at the counter read the menu. From the other end of the counter Nick Adams watched them. He had been talking to George when they came in.
¨Iˇll have a roast pork tenderloin with apple sauce and mashed potatoes,〃 the first man said.
¨It isnˇt ready yet.〃
¨What the hell do you put it on the card for?〃
¨Thatˇs the dinner,〃 George explained. ¨You can get that at six oˇclock.〃
George looked at the clock on the wall behind the counter.
¨Itˇs five oˇclock.〃
¨The clock says twenty minutes past five,〃 the second man said.
¨Itˇs twenty minutes fast.〃
¨Oh, to hell with the clock,〃 the first man said. ¨What have you got to eat?〃
¨I can give you any kind of sandwiches,〃 George said. ¨You can have ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver and bacon, or a steak.〃
¨Give me chicken croquettes with green peas and cream sauce and mashed potatoes.〃
¨Thatˇs the dinner.〃
¨Everything we wantˇs the dinner, eh?〃 Thatˇs the way you work it.〃
¨I can give you ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver?〃
¨Iˇll take ham and eggs,〃 the man called Al said. He wore a derby hat and a black overcoat buttoned across the chest. His face was small and white and he had tight lips. He wore a silk muffler and gloves.
¨Give me bacon and eggs,〃 said the other man. He was about the same size as Al. Their faces were different, but they were dressed like twins. Both wore overcoats too tight for them. They sat leaning forward, their elbows on the counter.
¨Got anything to drink?〃 Al asked.
¨Silver beer, bevo, ginger-ale,〃 George said.
¨I mean you got anything to drink?〃
¨Just those I said.〃
¨This is a hot town,〃 said the other. ¨What do they call it?〃
¨Summit.〃
¨Ever hear of it?〃 Al asked his friend.
¨No,〃 said the friend.
¨What do you do here nights?〃 Al asked.
¨They eat the dinner,〃 his friend said. ¨They all come here and eat the big dinner.〃
¨Thatˇs right,〃 George said.
¨So you think thatˇs right?〃 Al asked George.
¨Sure.〃
¨Youˇre a pretty bright boy, arenˇt you?〃
¨Sure,〃 said George.
¨Well, youˇre not,〃 said the other little man. ¨Is he, Al?〃
¨Heˇs dumb,〃 said Al. He turned to Nick. ¨Whatˇs your name?〃
¨Adams.〃
¨Another bright boy,〃 Al said. ¨Ainˇt he a bright boy, Max?〃
¨The townˇs full of bright boys,〃 Max said.
George put down two platters, one of ham and eggs, the other of bacon and eggs, on the counter. He set down two side dishes of fried potatoes and closed the wicket into the kitchen.
¨Which is yours?〃 he asked Al.
¨Donˇt you remember?〃
¨Ham and eggs.〃
¨Just a bright boy,〃 Max said. He leaned forward and took the ham and eggs. Both men ate with their gloves on. George watched them eat.
¨What are you looking at?〃 Max looked at George.
¨Nothing.〃
¨The hell you were. You were looking at me.〃
¨Maybe the boy meant it for a joke Max,〃 Al said.
George laughed.
¨You donˇt have to laugh,〃 Max said to him. ¨You donˇt have to laugh at all, see?〃
¨All right,〃 said George.
¨So he thinks itˇs all right,〃 Max turned to Al. ¨He thinks itˇs all right. Thatˇs a good one.〃
¨Oh, heˇs a thinker,〃 Al said. They went on eating.
¨Whatˇs the bright boyˇs name down the counter?〃 Al asked Max.
¨Hey, bright boy,〃 Max said to Nick. ¨You go around on the other side of the counter with your boy friend.〃
¨Whatˇs the idea?〃 Nick asked.
¨There isnˇt any idea.〃
¨You better go around, bright boy,〃 Al said. Nick went around behind the counter.
¨Whatˇs the idea?〃 George asked.
¨None of your damn business,〃 Al said. ¨Whoˇs out in the kitchen?〃
¨The nigger.〃
¨What do you mean the nigger?〃
¨The nigger that cooks.〃
¨Tell him to come in.〃
¨Whatˇs the idea?〃
¨Tell him to come in.〃
¨Where do you think you are?〃
¨We know damn well where we are,, the man called Max said. ¨Do we look silly?〃
¨You talk silly,〃 Al said to him. ¨What the hell do you argue with this kid for? Listen,〃 he said to George, ¨tell the nigger to come out here.〃
¨What are you going to do to him?〃
¨Nothing. Use your head, bright boy. What would we do to a nigger?〃
George opened the slip that opened back into the kitchen. ¨Sam,〃 he called. ¨Come in here a minute.〃
The door of the kitchen opened and the nigger came in. ¨What was it?〃 he asked. The two men at the counter took a look at him.
¨All right, nigger. You stand right there,〃 Al said.
Sam, the nigger, standing in his apron, looked at the two men sitting at the counter. ¨Yes, sir,〃 he said. Al got down from his stool.
¨Iˇm going back to the kitchen with the nigger and bright boy,〃 he said. ¨Go back to the kitchen, nigger. You go with him, bright boy.〃 The little man walked after Nick and Sam, the cook, back into the kitchen. The door shut after them. The man called Max sat at the counter opposite George. He didnˇt look at George but looked in the mirror that ran along back of the counter. Henryˇs had been made over from a saloon into a lunch-counter.
¨Well, bright boy,〃 Max said, looking into the mirror, ¨why donˇt you say something?〃
¨Whatˇs it all about?〃
¨Hey, Al,〃 Max called, ¨bright boy wants to know what itˇs all about.〃
¨Why donˇt you tell him?〃 Alˇs voice came from the kitchen.
¨What do you think itˇs all about?〃
¨I donˇt know.〃
¨What do you think?〃
Max looked into the mirror all the time he was talking.
¨I wouldnˇt say.〃
¨Hey, Al, bright boy says he wouldnˇt say what he thinks itˇs all about.〃
¨I can hear you, all right,〃 Al said from the kitchen. He had propped open the slit that dishes passed through into the kitchen with a catsup bottle. ¨Listen, bright boy,〃 he said from the kitchen to George. ¨Stand a little further along the bar. You move a little to the left, Max.〃 He was like a photographer arranging for a group picture.
¨Talk to me, bright boy,〃 Max said. ¨What do you thinkˇs going to happen?〃
George did not say anything.
¨Iˇll tell you,〃 Max said. ¨Weˇre going to kill a Swede. Do you know a big Swede named Ole Andreson?〃
¨Yes.〃
¨He comes in here to eat every night, donˇt he?〃
¨Sometimes he comes here.〃
¨He comes here at six oˇclock, donˇt he?〃
¨If he comes.〃
¨We know all that, bright boy,〃 Max said. ¨Talk about something else. Ever go to the movies?〃
¨Once in a while.〃
¨You ought to go to the movies more. The movies are fine for a bright boy like you.〃
¨What are you going to kill Ole Andreson for? What did he ever do to you?〃
¨He never had a chance to do anything to us. He never even seen us.
¨And heˇs only going to see us once,〃 Al said from the kitchen.
¨What are you going to kill him for, then?〃 George asked.
¨Weˇre killing him for a friend. Just to oblige a friend, bright boy.〃
¨Shut up,〃 said Al from the kitchen. ¨You talk too goddam much.〃
¨Well, I got to keep bright boy amused. Donˇt I, bright boy?〃
¨You talk too damn much,〃 Al said. ¨The nigger and my bright boy are amused by themselves. I got them tied up like a couple of girl friends in the convent.〃
¨I suppose you were in a convent.〃
¨You never know.〃
¨You were in a kosher convent. Thatˇs where you were.〃
George looked up at the clock.
¨If anybody comes in you tell them the cook is off, and if they keep after it, you tell them youˇll go back and cook yourself. Do you get that, bright boy?〃
¨All right,〃 George said. ¨What you going to do with us afterwards?〃
¨Thatˇll depend,〃 Max said. ¨Thatˇs one of those things you never know at the time.〃
George looked up at the clock. It was a quarter past six. The door from the street opened. A street-car motorman came in.
¨Hello, George,〃 he said. ¨Can I get supper?〃
¨Samˇs gone out,〃 George said. ¨Heˇll be back in about half an hour.〃
¨Iˇd better go up the street,〃 the motorman said. George looked at the clock. It was twenty minutes past six.
¨That was nice, bright boy,〃 Max said. ¨Youˇre a regular little gentleman.〃
¨He knew Iˇd blow his head off.〃 Al said from the kitchen.
¨No,〃 said Max. ¨It ainˇt that. Bright boy is nice. Heˇs a nice boy. I like him.〃
At six-fifty-five George said: ¨Heˇs not coming.〃
Two other people had been in the lunch-room. Once George had gone out to the kitchen and made a ham-and-egg sandwich ˉto goˇ that a man wanted to take with him. Inside the kitchen he saw Al, his derby hat tilted back, sitting on a stool beside the wicket with the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun resting on the ledge. Nick and the cook were back to back in the corner, a towel tied in each of their mouths. George had cooked the sandwich, wrapped it up in oiled paper, put it in a bag, brought it in, and the man had paid for it and gone out.
¨Bright boy can do everything,〃 Max said. ¨He can cook and everything. Youˇd make some girl a nice wife, bright boy.〃
¨Yes?〃 George said. ¨Your friend, Ole Andreson, isnˇt going to come.
¨Weˇll give him ten minutes,〃 Max said.
Max watched the mirror and the clock. The hands of the clock marked seven oˇclock, and then five minutes past seven.
¨Come on, Al,〃 said Max. ¨We better go. Heˇs not coming.〃
¨Better give him five minutes,〃 Al said from the kitchen.
In the five minutes a man came in, and George explained that the cook was sick.
¨Why the hell donˇt you get another cook?〃 the man asked. ¨Arenˇt you running a lunch-counter?〃 He went out.
¨Come on, Al,〃 Max said.
¨What about the two bright boys and the nigger?〃
¨Theyˇre all right.〃
¨You think so?〃
¨Sure. Weˇre through with it.〃
¨I donˇt like it,〃 said Al. ¨Itˇs sloppy. You talk too much.〃
¨Oh, what the hell,〃 said Max. ¨We got to keep amused, havenˇt we?〃
¨You talk too much, all the same,〃 Al said. He came out from the kitchen. The cut-off barrels of the shotgun made a slight bulge under the waist of his too tight-fitting overcoat. He straightened his coat with his gloved hands.
¨So long, bright boy,〃 he said to George. ¨You got a lot of luck.〃
¨Thatˇs the truth,〃 Max said. ¨You ought to play the races, bright boy.〃
The two of them went out of the door. George watched them, through the window, pass under the arc-light, and cross the street. In their tight overcoats and derby hats they looked like a vaudeville team. George went back through the swinging-door into the kitchen and untied Nick and the cook.
¨I donˇt want any more of that,〃 said Sam, the cook. ¨I donˇt want any more of that.〃
Nick stood up. He had never had a towel in his mouth before.
¨Say,〃 he said. ¨What the hell?〃 He was trying to swagger it off.
¨They were going to kill Ole Andreson,〃 George said. ¨They were going to shoot him when he came in to eat.〃
¨Ole Andreson?〃
¨Sure.〃
The cook felt the corners of his mouth with his thumbs.
¨They all gone?〃 he asked.
¨Yeah,〃 said George. ¨Theyˇre gone now.〃
¨I donˇt like it,〃 said the cook. ¨I donˇt like any of it at all.〃
¨Listen,〃 George said to Nick. ¨You better go see Ole Andreson.〃
¨All right.〃
¨You better not have anything to do with it at all,〃 Sam, the cook, said. ¨You better stay way out of it.〃
¨Donˇt go if you donˇt want to,〃 George said.
¨Mixing up in this ainˇt going to get you anywhere,〃 the cook said. ¨You stay out of it.〃
¨Iˇll go see him,〃 Nick said to George. ¨Where does he live?〃
The cook turned away.
¨Little boys always know what they want to do,〃 he said.
¨He lives up at Hirschˇs rooming-house,〃 George said to Nick.
¨Iˇll go up there.〃
Outside, the arc-light shone through the bare branches of a tree. Nick walked up the street beside the car-tracks and turned at the next arc-light down a side-street. Three houses up the street was Hirschˇs rooming-house. Nick walked up the two steps and pushed the bell. A woman came to the door.
¨Is Ole Andreson here?〃
¨Do you want to see him?〃
¨Yes, if heˇs in.〃
Nick followed the woman up a flight of stairs and back to the end of the corridor. She knocked on the door.
¨Who is it?〃
¨Itˇs somebody to see you, Mr. Andreson,〃 the woman said.
¨Itˇs Nick Adams.〃
¨Come in.〃
Nick opened the door and went into the room. Ole Andreson was lying on the bed with all his clothes on. He had been a heavyweight prize-fighter and he was too long for the bed. He lay with his head on two pillows. He did not look at Nick.
¨What was it?〃 he asked.
¨I was up at Henryˇs,〃 Nick said, ¨and two fellows came in and tied up me and the cook, and they said they were going to kill you.〃
It sounded silly when he said it. Ole Andreson said nothing.
¨They put us out in the kitchen,〃 Nick went on. ¨They were going to shoot you when you came in to supper.〃
Ole Andresen looked at the wall and did not say anything.
¨George thought Iˇd better come and tell you about it.〃
¨There isnˇt anything I can do about it,〃 Ole Andreson said.
¨Iˇll tell you what they were like.〃
¨I donˇt want to know what they were like,〃 Ole Andreson said. He looked at the wall. ¨Thanks for coming to tell me about it.〃
¨Thatˇs all right.〃
Nick looked at the big man lying on the bed.
¨Donˇt you want me to go and see the police?〃
¨No,〃 Ole Andresen said. ¨That wouldnˇt do any good.〃
¨Isnˇt there something I could do?〃
¨No. There ainˇt anything to do.〃
¨Maybe it was just a bluff.〃
¨No. It ainˇt just a bluff.〃
Ole Andresen rolled over towards the wall.
¨The only thing is,〃 he said, talking towards the wall, ¨I just canˇt make up my mind to go out. I been in here all day.〃
¨Couldnˇt you get out of town?〃
¨No,〃 Ole Andresen said. ¨Iˇm through with all that running around.〃
He looked at the wall.
¨There ainˇt anything to do now.〃
¨Couldnˇt you fix it up some way?〃
¨No. I got in wrong.〃 He talked in the same flat voice. ¨There ainˇt anything to do. After a while Iˇll make up my mind to go out.〃
¨I better go back and see George,〃 Nick said.
¨So long,〃 said Ole Andreson. He did not look towards Nick. ¨Thanks for coming around.〃
Nick went out. As he shut the door he saw Ole Andreson with all his clothes on, lying on the bed looking at the wall.
¨Heˇs been in his room all day,〃 the landlady said downstairs. ¨I guess he donˇt feel well. I said to him: ˉMr. Andreson, you ought to go out and take a walk on a nice fall day like this,ˇ but he didnˇt feel like it.〃
¨He doesnˇt want to go out.〃
¨Iˇm sorry he donˇt feel well,〃 the woman said. ¨Heˇs an awfully nice man. He was in the ring, you know.〃
¨I know it.〃
¨Youˇd never know it except from the way his face is,〃 the woman said. They stood talking just inside the street door. ¨Heˇs just as gentle.〃
¨Well, good-night, Mrs. Hirsch,〃 Nick said.
¨Iˇm not Mrs. Hirsch〃 the woman said. ¨She owns the place. I just look after it for her, Iˇm Mrs. Bell.〃
¨Well, good-night, Mrs. Bell,〃 Nick said.
¨Good-night,〃 the woman said.
Nick walked up the dark street to the corner under the arc-light, and then along the car-tracks to Henryˇs eating-house. George was inside, back of the counter.
¨Did you see Ole?〃
¨Yes,〃 said Nick. ¨Heˇs in his room and he wonˇt go out.〃
The cook opened the door from the kitchen when he heard Nickˇs voice.
¨I donˇt even listen to it,〃 he said and shut the door.
¨Did you tell him about it?〃 George asked.
¨Sure. I told him, but he knows what itˇs all about.〃
¨Whatˇs he going to do?〃
¨Nothing.〃
¨Theyˇll kill him.〃
¨I guess they will.〃
¨He must have got mixed up in something in Chicago.〃
¨I guess so,〃 said Nick.
¨Itˇs a hell of a thing.〃
¨Itˇs an awful thing,〃 Nick said.
They did not say anything. George reached down for a towel and wiped the counter.
¨I wonder what he did?〃 Nick said.
¨Double-crossed somebody. Thatˇs what they kill them for.〃
¨Iˇm going to get out of this town,〃 Nick said.
¨Yes,〃 said George. ¨Thatˇs a good thing to do.〃
¨I canˇt stand to think about him waiting in the room and knowing heˇs going to get it. Itˇs too damned awful.〃
¨Well,〃 said George, ¨you better not think about it.〃
CHE TI DICE LA PATRIA?
THE road of the pass was hard and smooth and not yet dusty in the early morning. Below were the hills with oak and chestnut trees, and far away below was the sea. On the other side were snowy mountains.
We came down from the pass through wooded country. There were bags of charcoal piled beside the road, and through the trees we saw charcoal-burnersˇ huts. It was Sunday and the road, rising and falling, but always dropping away from the altitude of the pass, went through the scrub woods and through villages.
Outside the villages there were fields with vines. The fields were brown and the vines coarse and thick. The houses were white, and in the streets the men, in their Sunday clothes, were playing bowls. Against the walls of some of the houses there were pear trees, their branches candelabraed against the white walls. The pear trees had been sprayed, and the walls of the houses were stained a metallic blue-green by the spray vapor. There were small clearings around the villages where the vines grew, and then the woods.
In a village, twenty kilometers above Spezia, there was a crowd in the square, and a young man carrying a suitcase came up to the car and asked us to take him in to Spezia.
¨There are only two places, and they are occupied,〃 I said. We had an old Ford coup?.
¨I will ride on the outside.〃
¨You will be uncomfortable.〃
¨That makes nothing, I must go to Spezia.〃
¨Should we take him?〃 I asked Guy.
¨He seems to be going anyway,〃 Guy said. The young man handed in a parcel through the window.
¨Look after this,〃 he said. Two men tied his suitcase on the back of the car, above our suitcases. He shook hands with every one, explained that to a Fascist and a man as used to traveling as himself there was no discomfort, and climbed up on the running-board on the left-hand side of the car, holding on inside, his right arm through the open window.
¨You can start,〃 he said. The crowd waved. He waved with his free hand.
¨What did he say?〃 Guy asked me.
¨That we could start.〃
¨Isnˇt he nice?〃 Guy said.
The road followed a river. Across the river were mountains. The sun was taking the frost out of the grass. It was bright and cold and the air came through the open windshield.
¨How do you think he likes it out there?〃 Guy was looking up the road. His view out of his side of the car was blocked by our guest. The young man projected from the side of the car like the figurehead of a ship. He had turned his coat collar up and pulled his hat down and his nose looked cold in the wind.
¨Maybe heˇll get enough of it,〃 Guy said. ¨Thatˇs the side our bum tireˇs on.〃
¨Oh, heˇd leave us if we blew out,〃 I said. ¨He wouldnˇt get his traveling clothes dirty.〃
¨Well, I donˇt mind him,〃 Guy said?¨except the way he leans out on the turns.〃
The woods were gone; the road had left the river to climb; the radiator was boiling; the young man looked annoyedly and suspiciously at the steam and rusty water; the engine was grinding, with both Guyˇs feet on the first-speed pedal, up and up, back and forth, and up, and, finally, out level. The grinding stopped, and in the new quiet there was a great churning bubbling in the radiator. We were at the top of the last range above Spezia and the sea. The road descended with short, barely rounded turns. Our guest hung out on the turns and nearly pulled the top-heavy car over.
¨You canˇt tell him not to,〃 I said to Guy. ¨Itˇs his sense of self-preservation.〃
¨The great Italian sense.〃
¨The greatest Italian sense.〃
We came down around curves, through deep dust, the dust powdering the olive trees. Spezia spread below along the sea. The road flattened outside the town. Our guest put his head in the window.
¨I want to stop.〃
¨Stop it,〃 I said to Guy.
We slowed up, at the side of the road. The young man got down, went to the back of the car and untied the suitcase.
¨I stop here, so you wonˇt get into trouble carrying passengers,〃 he said. ¨My package.〃
I handed him the package. He reached in his pocket.
¨How much do I owe you?〃
¨Nothing.〃
¨Why not?〃
¨I donˇt know,〃 I said.
¨Then thanks,〃 the young man said, not ˉthank you,ˇ or ˉthank you very muchˇ, or ˉthank you a thousand timesˇ, all of which you formerly said in Italy to a man when he handed you a time-table or explained about a direction. The young man uttered the lowest form of the word ˉthanksˇ and looked after us suspiciously as Guy started the car. I waved my hand at him. He was too dignified to reply. We went on into Spezia.
¨Thatˇs a young man that will go a long way in Italy,〃 I said to Guy.
¨Well,〃 said Guy, ¨he went twenty kilometers with us.〃
A MEAL IN SPEZIA
We came into Spezia looking for a place to eat. The street was wide and the houses high and yellow. We followed the tram-track into the centre of town. On the walls of the houses were stenciled eye-bugging portraits of Mussolini, with hand-painted ¨vivas〃, the double V in black paint with drippings of paint down the wall. Side-streets went down to the harbor. It was bright and the people were all out for Sunday. The stone paving had been sprinkled and there were damp stretches in the dust. We went close to the curb to avoid a train.
¨Letˇs eat somewhere simple,〃 Guy said.
We stopped opposite two restaurant signs. We were standing across the street and I was buying the papers. The two restaurants were side by side. A woman standing in the doorway of one smiled at us and we crossed the street and went in.
It was dark inside and at the back of the room three girls were sitting at a table with an old woman. Across from us, at another table, sat a sailor. He sat there neither eating nor drinking. Further back, a young man in a blue suit was writing at a table. His hair was pomaded and shining and he was very smartly dressed and clean-cut looking.
The light came through the doorway, and through the window where vegetables, fruit, steaks, and chops were arranged in a showcase. A girl came and took our order and another girl stood in the doorway. We noticed that she wore nothing under her house dress. The girl who took our order put her arm around Guyˇs neck while we were looking at the menu. There were three girls in all, and they all took turns going and standing in the doorway. The old woman at the table in the back of the room spoke to them and they sat down again with her.
There was no doorway leading from the room except into the kitchen. A curtain hung over it. The girl who had taken our order came in from the kitchen with spaghetti. She put it on the table and brought a bottle of red wine and sat down at the table.
¨Well,〃 I said to Guy, ¨you wanted to eat at some place simple.〃
¨This isnˇt simple. This is complicated.〃
¨What do you say?〃 asked the girl. ¨Are you Germans?〃
¨South Germans,〃 I said. ¨The South Germans are a gentle, lovable people.〃
¨Donˇt understand,〃 she said.
¨Whatˇs the mechanics of this place?〃 Guy asked. ¨Do I have to let her put her arm around my neck?〃
¨Certainly,〃 I said. ¨Mussolini has abolished brothels. This is a restaurant.〃
The girl wore a one-piece dress. She leaned forward against the table and put her hands on her breasts and smiled. She smiled better on one side than on the other and turned the good side towards us. The charm of the good side had been enhanced by some event which had smoothed the other side of her nose in, as warm wax can be smoothed. Her nose, however, did not look like warm wax. It was very cold and firmed, only smoothed in. ¨You like me?〃 she asked Guy.
¨He adores you,〃 I said. ¨But he doesnˇt speak Italian.〃
¨Ich spreche Deutsch,〃 she said, and stroked Guyˇs hair.
¨Speak to the lady in your native tongue, Guy.〃
¨Where do you come from?〃 asked the lady.
¨Potsdam.〃
¨And you will stay here now for a little while?〃
¨In this so dear Spezia?〃 I asked.
¨Tell him we have to go,〃 said Guy. ¨Tell her we are very ill, and have no money.〃
¨My friend is a misogynist,〃 I said, ¨an old German misogynist.〃
¨Tell him I love him.〃
I told him.
¨Will you shut your mouth and get us out of here?〃 Guy said. The lady had placed another arm around his neck. ¨Tell him he is mine,〃 she said.
I told him.
¨Will you get us out of here?〃
¨You are quarreling,〃 the lady said. ¨You do not love one another.〃
¨We are Germans,〃 I said proudly, ¨old South Germans.〃
¨Tell him he is a beautiful boy,〃 the lady said. Guy is thirty-eight and takes some pride in the fact that he is taken for a traveling salesman in France. ¨You are a beautiful boy,〃 I said.
¨Who says so?〃 Guy asked, ¨you or her?〃
¨She does. Iˇm just your interpreter. Isnˇt that what you got me in on this trip for?〃
¨Iˇm glad itˇs her,〃 said Guy. ¨I donˇt want to have to leave you here too.〃
¨I donˇt know. Speziaˇs a lovely place.〃
¨Spezia,〃 the lady said. ¨You are talking about Spezia.〃
¨Lovely place,〃 I said.
¨It is my country,〃 she said. ¨Spezia is my home and Italy is my country.〃
¨She says that Italy is her country.〃
¨Tell her it looks like her country,〃 Guy said.
¨What have you for dessert?〃 I asked.
¨Fruit,〃 she said. ¨We have bananas.〃
¨Bananas are all right,〃 Guy said. ¨Theyˇve got skins on.〃
¨Oh, he takes bananas,〃 the lady said. She embraced Guy.
¨What does she say?〃 he asked, keeping his face out of her way.
¨She is pleased because you take bananas.〃
¨Tell her I donˇt take bananas.〃
¨The Signor does not take bananas.〃
¨Ah,〃 said the lady, crestfallen, ¨he doesnˇt take bananas.〃
¨Tell her I take a cold bath every morning,〃 Guy said.
¨The Signor takes a cold bath every morning.〃
¨No understand,〃 the lady said.
Across from us, the property sailor had not moved. No one in the place paid any attention to him.
¨We want the bill,〃 I said.
¨Oh, no. You must stay.〃
¨Listen,〃 the clean-cut young man said from the table where he was writing, ¨let them go. These two are worth nothing.〃
The lady took my hand. ¨You wonˇt stay? You wonˇt ask him to stay?〃
¨We have to go,〃 I said. ¨We have to get to Pisa, or if possible, Firenze, tonight. We can amuse ourselves in those cities at the end of the day. It is now the day. In the day we must cover distance.〃
¨To stay a little while is nice.〃
¨To travel is necessary during the light of day.〃
¨Listen,〃 the clean-cut young man said. ¨Donˇt bother to talk with these two. I tell you they are worth nothing and I know.〃
¨Bring us the bill,〃 I said. She brought the bill from the old woman and went back and sat at the table. Another girl came in from the kitchen. She walked the length of the room and stood in the doorway.
¨Donˇt bother with these two,〃 the clean-cut young man said in a wearied voice. ¨Come and eat. They are worth nothing.〃
We paid the bill and stood up. All the girls, the old woman, and the clean-cut young man sat down at the table together. The property sailor sat with his head in his hands. No one had spoken to him all the time we were at lunch. The girl brought us our change that the old woman counted out for her and went back to her place at the table. We left a tip on the table and went out. When we were seated in the car ready to start, the girl came out and stood in the door. We started and I waved to her. She did not wave, but stood there looking after us.
AFTER THE RAIN
It was raining hard when we passed through the suburbs of Genoa, and, even going very slowly behind the tramcars and the motor trucks, liquid mud splashed on to the sidewalks, so that people stepped into the doorways as they saw us coming. In San Pier dˇArena, the industrial suburb outside of Genoa, there is a wide street with two car-tracks and we drove down the centre to avoid sending the mud on to the men going home from work. On our left was the Mediterranean. There was a big sea running and waves broke and the wind blew the spray against the car. A riverbed that, when we had passed, going into Italy, had been wide, stony, and dry, was running brown, and up to the banks. The brown water discolored the sea and as the waves thinned and cleared in breaking, the light came through the yellow water and the crests, detached by the wind, blew across the road.
A big car passed us, going fast, and a sheet of muddy water rose up and over our windshield and radiator. The automatic windshield cleaner moved back and forth, spreading the film over the glass. We stopped and ate lunch at Sestri. There was no heat in the restaurant and we kept our hats and coats on. We could see the car outside, through the window. It was covered with mud and was stopped beside some boats that had been pulled up beyond the waves. In the restaurant you could see your breath.
The pasta asciutta was good; the wine tasted of alum, and we poured water in it. Afterwards the waiter brought beef steak and fried potatoes. A man and a woman sat at the far end of the restaurant. He was middle-aged and she was young and wore black. All during the meal she would blow out her breath in the cold damp air. The man would look at it and shake his head. They ate without talking and the man held her hand under the table. She was good-looking and they seemed very sad. They had a traveling-bag with them.
We had the papers and I read the account of the Shanghai fighting aloud to Guy. After the meal, he left with the waiter in search for a place which did not exist in the restaurant, and I cleaned off the windshield, the lights, and the license plates with a rag. Guy came back and we backed the car out and started. The waiter had taken him across the road and into an old house. The people in the house were suspicious and the waiter had remained with Guy to see nothing was stolen.
¨Although I donˇt know how, me not being a plumber, they expected me to steal anything,〃 Guy said.
As we came up on a headland beyond the town, the wind struck the car and nearly tipped it over.
¨Itˇs good, it blows us away from the sea,〃 Guy said.
¨Well,〃 I said, ¨they drowned Shelley somewhere along here.〃
¨That was down by Viareggio,〃 Guy said. ¨Do you remember what we came to this country for?〃
¨Yes,〃 I said, ¨but we didnˇt get it.〃
¨Weˇll be out of it tonight.〃
¨If we can get past Ventimiglia.〃
¨Weˇll see. I donˇt like to drive this coast at night.〃 It was early afternoon and the sun was out. Below, the sea was blue with whitecaps running towards Savona. Back beyond the cape the brown and blue waters joined. Out ahead of us, a tramp steamer was going up the coast.
¨Can you still see Genoa?〃 Guy asked.
¨Oh, yes.〃
¨That next big cape ought to put it out of sight.〃
¨Weˇll see it a long time yet. I can still see Portofino Cape behind it.〃
Finally we could not see Genoa. I looked back as we came out and there was only the sea, and below in the bay, a line of beach and fishing-boats and above, on the side of the hill, a town and then capes far down the coast.
¨Itˇs gone now,〃 I said to Guy.
¨Oh, itˇs been gone a long time now.〃
¨But we couldnˇt be sure till we got way out.〃
There was a sign with a picture of an S-turn and Svolta Pericolosa. The road curved around the headland and the wind blew through the crack in the windshield. Below the cape was a flat stretch beside the sea. The wind had dried the mud and the wheels were beginning to lift dust. On the flat road we passed a Fascist riding a bicycle, a heavy revolver in a holster on his back. He held the middle of the road on his bicycle and we turned out for him. He looked up at us as we passed. Ahead there was a railway crossing, and as we came towards it the gates went down.
As we waited, the Fascist came up on his bicycle. The train went by and Guy started the engine.
¨Wait,〃 the bicycle man shouted from behind the car. ¨Your numberˇs dirty.〃
I got out with a rag. The number had been cleaned at lunch.
¨You can read it,〃 I said.
¨You think so?〃
¨Read it.〃
¨I cannot read it. It is dirty.〃
I wiped it off with the rag. ¨Howˇs that?〃
¨Twenty-five lire.〃
¨What?〃 I said. ¨You could have read it. Itˇs only dirty from the state of the roads.〃
¨You donˇt like Italian roads?〃
¨They are dirty.〃
¨Fifty lire.〃 He spat in the road. ¨Your car is dirty and you are dirty too.〃
¨Good. And give me a receipt with your name.〃
He took out a receipt book, made in duplicate, and perforated, so one side could be given to the customer, and the other side filled in and kept as a stub. There was no carbon to record what the customerˇs ticket said.
¨Give me fifty lire.〃
He wrote in indelible pencil, tore out the slip, and handed it to me. I read it.
¨This is for twenty-five lire.〃
¨A mistake,〃 he said, and changed the twenty-five to fifty.
¨And now the other side. Make it fifty in the part you keep.〃
He smiled a beautiful Italian smile and wrote something on the receipt stub, holding it so I could not see.
¨Go on,〃 he said, ¨before your number gets dirty again.〃
We drove for two hours after it was dark and slept in Mentone that night. It seemed very cheerful and clean and sane and lovely. We had driven from Ventimiglia to Pisa and Florence, across the Romagna to Rimini, back through Forl?, Imola, Bologna, Parma, Piacenza, and Genoa, to Ventimiglia again. The whole trip had only taken ten days. Naturally, in such a short trip, we had no opportunity to see how things were with the country or the people.
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