"Absolutely. To the last word, old man. To the last word."
"May I have a copy of your report?"
"Of course. I hope you will get better results, though."
"May I ask an impertinent question, sir?"
"Be as impertinent as you wish. I'm sixty-four years old, Hall, and if I
can't put up with Yank impertinence in this late stage, I deserve no
sympathy."
"Well then, and don't answer if you think me too brash, Fielding, it's
simply ..."
"Hold on!" Fielding held up a restraining hand. "Let me write your
question out on this slip of paper and after you ask it, I'll show you
what I've written." He scribbled a few words on the paper, covered them
with his left hand.
"Are you British Intelligence?" Hall asked him.
Fielding handed Hall the slip of paper. On it was written: _Q. Fielding,
old man, are you a British agent? A. No, my fine impertinent friend.
Believe it or not, I am not a British agent._
He was not smiling when he put a lighted match to the slip of paper and
watched it burn to ashes in the bronze tray. "As a matter of fact," he
said, soberly, "I am not in very good repute at the British Embassy. I
organized a dinner of the more sensible people in the British colony
here in '38 and, after I'd made a blistering speech against Munich and
non-intervention in Spain we all signed a row of a cable to Nellie
Chamberlain. They have me down as a sort of an eccentric and a Red.
Perhaps I am eccentric, but I'm no more a Red than poor Professor Tabio
or your own Mr. Roosevelt."
"I've been called both things before myself."
"I'll bet you have, Hall. I'll bet you have. Let's have another jug of
coffee and look through some more reports. Can you stay awake for an
hour or so?"
"I can stay up all night."
"Well, maybe you can. But I'm not as young as I used to be. We'll finish
the reports in this folder and call it a night. But first--the coffee."
The aroma from the jug warmed Hall's senses. In the cell at San
Sebastian he would awake at night dreaming that he was smelling the
sweet vapors of a fresh pot of coffee boiling away near his pallet.
"God," he said, "I must tell you about what this smell means to me some
day."
"There's nothing like it," Fielding agreed. "Now let me see, here's a
photostat of a letter from the Embassy acknowledging the receipt of the
report I just read, and here ... Ah...." He started to turn the next
letter over, but Hall, reading the letter-head, laid a hand on the
sheet.
"May I?" he asked.
Fielding handed him the letter. It was on the stationery of the
International Brigade Association in London, dated January, 1938.
"The action on the Jarama front ... bitter ... your son Sergeant Harold
Fielding leading squad of volunteer sappers ... missing in action ...
thorough check on records of hospitals and field stations on that
front ... no record of Sergeant Fielding ... we therefore regret ... must
be presumed dead...."
The father of Sergeant Fielding held the picture of the boy in front of
Hall. "This photograph," he said, heavily. "It was taken a year before
he went to Spain. You didn't, by any chance, happen to know the lad, did
you, Hall? He was my only child. Completing work on his Master's in
biochemistry at Cambridge when the Spanish show started. You didn't
happen to know him, eh, Hall?"
Hall studied the photograph.
"He fought with the British Battalion," Fielding offered.
"I was with them in the fighting for Sierra Pedigrosa," Hall said.
"There was Pete Kerrigan, and a boy named Patterson I knew pretty well.
And--but that was after the Jarama fighting."
"The boy is not alive," Fielding said. "I checked with the International
Red Cross after the war, and he was not taken prisoner by the fascists.
I just wanted to find someone who could tell me--who could tell me how
my boy died."
Hall returned the red-leather frame. "I wish from the bottom of my heart
I could help you. But I just can't. I'm afraid I never did meet the
boy."
Roger Fielding read the letter from London for perhaps the thousandth
time, sighed, and placed it face down on top of the pile to the left of
the letters and reports in the folder. "Ah, well," he said. "Now for the
living. Now here's a report I made three weeks ago. Some day those young
stuffed shirts in the Embassy will have to read my reports seriously,
Hall. Perhaps this is the report that will do it."
The second report bore the heading: "Neutrality or Belligerence:
Gamburdo or Tabio."
Hall started. "What's this?" he asked.
"Let's look it over, old man." Fielding cleared his throat and began to
read aloud.
"It is no secret, or it should be no secret to our vigilant intelligence
services, that President Anibal Tabio is a warm friend of the cause for
which the United Nations are fighting. It is no secret that Tabio,
before being stricken with his present tragic illness, was planning to
go before the Havana Conference himself to lead the continental campaign
to declare war on the Axis powers.
"However, the views of Vice-President Gamburdo, who now has assumed the
control of the government, are less well known. Gamburdo's views,
however, are not among the best kept secrets of this war." Fielding
chuckled, waved his pipe in the direction of the Presidencia, and added
the comment, "I should say not! They are far from secret.
"Gamburdo's ties to the Cross and the Sword are very discreet. I have
reason to believe that Gamburdo believes his link with the ATN is not
known by anyone except a few chosen fascist leaders."
Fielding looked up at Hall. "Oho," he laughed. "That must have been hard
to swallow. They don't like to call the Cross-and-Sword bandits
'fascists.' Oh, no. Not the Embassy. They've got them tabbed as
'conservatives' opposed to the extremes of the Red Tabio regime. The
fools!
"Well, now, to continue. Ah--chosen fascist leaders. Oh, yes. But twice
within the past two weeks, for three hours on the twelfth and for a full
day on the fourteenth, Gamburdo was at the ranch of his brother Salvador
in Bocas del Sur conferring with Cross and Sword leaders Jorge Davila,
Segundo Vardenio, Carlos Antonio Montes, and Jose Ignacio del Llano. The
second meeting was also attended by Ramos, the Spanish Consul General in
San Hermano."
"Ramos," Hall commented. "I know something about him. Two years ago
Batista gave him twelve hours to get the hell out of Cuba before the
diplomatic courtesies were forgotten and a cot reserved for Ramos in the
concentration camp for Axis nationals on the Isle of Pines."
"He did come to San Hermano from Havana," Fielding said. "So I'm not so
crazy after all."
"You're not crazy at all."
"Hello!" Fielding exclaimed. "If you know that Ramos was kicked out,
then the Embassy crowd must know it too. Now I begin to see why
Commander New has invited me to have dinner at the Embassy tomorrow." He
took a deep breath, straightened his tie with elaborate mock ceremony.
"Mr. Hall," he said, speaking like an announcer at a royal court, "I
have the pleasure of informing you that Roger Fielding, Esquire, is
about to be released from the insane asylum to which His Majesty's
Ambassador consigned him in September, 1938."
Hall laughed and helped himself to another pipeful of Fielding's
tobacco. "Let's finish this report," he said. "I can't tell you how
important it is to me."
"Here you are, old man." Fielding handed the report to Hall. "I was
reading them aloud to keep you from falling asleep. But I think you're
wide awake now."
Hall smiled warmly at the old man and read the rest of the report. It
was very brief. It described how Gamburdo had shifted nearly the entire
customs staff at San Hermano to other ports or to desk jobs on land, and
replaced them with new customs men who were in many cases proven members
of the Falange or the ATN or both. This move, the report stated, opened
the gates to Axis arsonists assigned to cross the seas on Spanish
liners.
"Cross and Sword members," the report concluded, "are in certain
exclusive bars openly boasting that when Tabio passes away, Gamburdo
will declare the nation a neutral in this war. His family has been
sending copper, hides, beef, coffee, and sugar only to Spanish firms
since 1940. It is an open secret in the Lonja de Comercio that these
shipments do not remain in Spain but are immediately trans-shipped to
Germany. None of the Spanish firms with which the Gamburdo family does
business were in existence before July 18, 1936, the day the Spanish War
started. They are all known in shipping and export circles as German
enterprises. Gamburdo's brother has twice been heard to boast, while in
his cups, that the Nazis are protecting his vast holdings in France.
"The Cross and Sword members in San Hermano business circles speak
highly of Gamburdo and to a man they assert that if Tabio dies, Gamburdo
will impose a foreign policy which in the name of neutrality will bring
prosperity to the landowners and exporters. It will also, of course,
bring vitally needed war supplies from this country to the Axis powers;
a fact they don't even bother to deny."
Hall was puzzled by the report's lack of information on Gamburdo's link
to the Falange during the Spanish War. He remembered that picture of
Gamburdo at the Falange dinner held in San Hermano in 1936, the picture
he had seen in the files of the secret police in Havana. "How much do
you have on Gamburdo?" he asked.
"Gamburdo?" Fielding yawned twice, stretched his arms. "Not as much as I
would like to have, Hall."
"Oh." Hall told him about the picture.
"I'm not surprised," Fielding said. "But it's really news to me. What do
you know that I should know?"
"Nothing much, I'm afraid. How about this doctor who arrived on my
plane, Varela Ansaldo?"
"He's never been in San Hermano before."
"Who sent for him?"
"I don't know. _El Imparcial_ has been giving Gamburdo the credit."
"What do you think of that?"
"I don't know, Hall. I think they might be trying to give Gamburdo
credit for something he doesn't deserve. _El Imparcial_ is very much
pro-Gamburdo, you know."
"Don't I know it! I used to see Fernandez in his Falange uniform in San
Sebastian."
"He's no good."
"Do you think his paper can be right about Ansaldo? I mean about his
being brought to San Hermano by Gamburdo."
"Possibly I can find out."
"What do you think, Fielding? What's your hunch?"
"I have none, old man. But I can see that you have, and I can see what
it is. You think _El Imparcial_ might for once be telling the truth."
"Not the whole truth. I saw _El Imparcial_, too. It also said that
Varela Ansaldo was brought to San Hermano to _cure_ Tabio."
Fielding cocked his head, looked at Hall out of one eye. "And you think
Ansaldo was brought in to kill Professor Tabio?"
"I don't know. I just don't know."
"But you mean to find out?"
"_Quien sabe?_"
"I'll help you. I'll give you all the help I can."
"But you think I'm nuts?"
The Englishman hesitated for a long while. "Ah ... Frankly, old
man--well, damn it all, you could be wrong. But I'd never say you
were--_nuts_ I believe is the word you used."
"Thanks."
"Well, sir, it's been a busy day." Fielding put the letters back in the
folder, then shoved the folder into the portfolio and tied the strings.
"Unless I hear a motion to the contrary, I shall make a move to adjourn.
Ah, the delegate from North America bows. The Ayes have it. Session is
adjourned."
He rose from the desk, put the portfolio back in the filing cabinet,
closed the drawer and tested the lock. "Suppose we meet again after I
have my dinner with Commander New at the Embassy tomorrow night. He's
our new Intelligence man. Understand he took quite a beating from the
Hun at Dunkirk."
"Swell. Same place?"
"I don't know yet, old man. Suppose I give you a ring." The Englishman
suddenly lapsed into a lisping, Castillian Spanish. "Senor Hall? Eh,
Senor Hall? This is Father Arupe. Bless you, my son. Would you care to
come to confession tonight?"
"Then it will be Father Arupe on the phone?"
"Yes, Senor. If I ask you to confession, it means this office in an
hour. If I suggest you attend mass in the morning, drive out to my
house. I'll write the address for you."
"Good."
"Oh, just another word about tonight's reports. If you could help me
bring the facts about the waterfront to your government, I think it
would be most beneficial. Most beneficial, old man."
"I'll do my best."
"I know I can count on you. Knew it before I ever laid eyes on you,
Hall. One of my associates can keep us both posted on the waterfront.
Name's Harrington. Grand chap, Harrington. Straight as a die, and
intelligent."
Hall poured a cup full of cold coffee and swallowed it in a gulp. "God,
that's good coffee," he said.
"How are you going back to the Bolivar?"
"I've got a car waiting downstairs. The driver insisted upon waiting."
"El Gran Pepe?"
"Yeah. I guess it is Big Joe." He described his driver. "And Souza says
he is very reliable."
"Oh, he is, old man. He is. You know, since they turned the bloody
lights down, it's worth your life to cross the streets at night. Awful
lot of traffic accidents and all that, you know. Nothing like a reliable
driver."
"How about you, Fielding?"
"Oh, I'll phone for my own reliable driver. Or better yet, tell Pepe to
come back for me, will you, old man?"
Hall rubbed the right side of his face. "Why don't you ride back with
me, and then continue on out to your house?"
"No. It would be better if you left here alone."
"But how about you?"
"There's no danger, old man. No danger. Besides ..." Fielding reached
into his jacket pocket, took out a small black automatic. "She's loaded,
and I can shoot in the dark, if need be. My Betsy is all I need."
"This is silly," Hall protested.
"Go on, now, old man. No one is going to break in to the office at this
hour of the night. I'm in no danger at all."
"If you say so." Hall got up. "Don't see me to the door. I know my way."
The old man put his arm around Hall's shoulder. "We English," he said,
"we're an undemonstrative tribe. Take pride in our cold hearts. But
underneath the ice some of us have hearts. I'm glad to know you, Hall.
And I'm glad we had this little chat. Good night, and sleep well. You're
all in."
"Good night, Fielding. And thanks. You're swell."
Hall left the office, rode the elevator to the main floor. Outside, the
reliable driver was asleep at the wheel, his right hand under the white
chauffeur's cap which rested on his lap. Hall stood near the open
window, smiling sardonically at Big Pepe. O.K., pal, he thought, we'll
find out about you right now. He cleared his throat, suddenly barked,
"Arriba Espana!"
Big Pepe awoke with a startled growl. The hand under the cap swung up
toward the window. It was clenched around a large nickeled revolver.
"It's me, Pepe," Hall laughed. "Hall."
The driver groaned, shoved the pistol into his trouser-pocket. Then he
also laughed. "Get in," he said. "Get in and thank your stars you're
still alive."
Hall joined him in the front seat.
"Arriba Espana," Pepe muttered, starting the car. "That is no joke in
the heart of any Delgado from the Asturias. That is an abomination."
"You're an Asturiano?"
"Look at me, _companero_. Do I have the face of a Gallego? Do I have the
head of a Catalan? Do I have the eyes of a Madrileno or the soul of a
_puta_?"
"You fought in the war against the fascists?"
"Mother of God, he's asking me if I fought! Always until eternity they
will ask, Delgado, did you fight? And what will I say?"
"Watch out!" Hall screamed. "You'll hit that pole!" He grabbed for the
wheel. Big Pepe's steel arm stopped him.
"_De nada_," the driver laughed. "Didn't Fernando tell you I am a
reliable driver?" The car missed the pole by inches, whirled around a
corner on two wheels, and then rolled casually down the Avenida de la
Liberacion. Another mad turn, and they were at the Bolivar.
"The Englishman, Fielding," Hall said. "He wants you to pick him up at
the office and take him home."
"_Bueno._" Big Pepe put the car in gear.
"How much do I owe you?" Hall shouted.
"_Manana, companero, manana._" Big Pepe had to stick his head out of the
window and look back, while the car moved ahead, to answer Hall. One
more _manana_, the American thought, and the reliable driver would drive
his car through a wall. He watched the car turn the corner on two
wheels.
Souza was still on duty. He handed Hall the key to his room. "You look
very tired, Senor Hall," he said. "I hope you sleep well."
"Thank you. Good night, _amigo_." When he got to his room, he phoned
down to the desk.
"I forgot," he said. "But if that _cabron_ of a waiter is still on duty,
could you send up a bottle of mineral water with the elevator operator?"
"Of course. The operator is no _cabron_."
"Thanks. And by the way, didn't I meet you the last time I was in San
Hermano?"
"No, Senor. But if you will pardon me for presuming, I feel in a sense
as if we are old friends, in a sense."
"Old friends?"
"Yes, Senor. You see, I have read your book."
"My book?"
"_Si, su libro. Buenas noches, companero._"
This time there was no confusion in Hall's mind. He knew which book
Fernando Souza meant. He went to sleep feeling less lonely than he had
in a long time.
_Chapter four_
The alarm in the pigskin traveling clock Bird had given Hall as a
going-away gift went on at eight. Hall shut it off, glanced at the
radium dial, and got out of bed. On the roof tops of the houses in old
San Hermano roosters were crowing. Outside, trolley bells clanged a
block away from the Bolivar. Hall took the half-emptied bottle of
carbonated water into the bathroom, poured it over his toothbrush,
sprinkled the wet brush with powder, and scrubbed his teeth. The charged
water filled his mouth with a vigorous foam. He rinsed his mouth with
the rest of the soda, bathed, shaved and dressed.
There was nothing in his box at the desk. He handed the day clerk the
key and walked out to the street. At a little hole-in-the-wall stand on
Virtudes Street he bought a glass of mouth-puckering tamarind juice. A
few steps down the narrow street there was a newsstand. Hall bought two
morning papers, found a cafe where he had a cup of coffee with hot milk
and a toasted roll. He remained at his table in the soft morning sun,
reading the papers and smoking a cigar, until nearly ten o'clock.
According to both papers, Ansaldo and Marina were to make a preliminary
examination of Tabio, and would then spend the rest of the day
consulting with San Hermano physicians who were attending the President.
There was no hint of what was actually wrong with the President, simply
a repetition of the old statement that Tabio's condition was still
grave.
Jerry was on time for their breakfast appointment. She was wearing a
bright yellow suit of very thin cloth. "Hello," she said. "Still want to
be a tourist guide?"
"More than ever." He caught himself wishing that this could be just an
ordinary date with a girl.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Why?"
"You're scowling."
"Sorry. My mind must have wandered. I'd never scowl at you."
She smiled at him. "Thanks," she said. "I thought for a moment that I'd
pulled a boner. The suit isn't too loud, is it?"
It was his turn to smile. "God, no," he laughed. "It's perfect. Very
hungry? Good. We're eating right here in the hotel."
They took a table near a potted orange tree.
"How do you say ham and eggs in Spanish?" she asked.
"_Jamon y huevos._ Want some?"
"Uh huh. But I want to order them myself."
"O.K. Order some for me, too." Hall hissed for the waiter.
"What's the idea of razzing the guy?"
"Relax, that's the way you call a waiter."
Jerry smiled at the waiter when he reached their table. With a childish
directness, she pointed first at Hall and then to herself. "_Jamon y
huevos_," she said.
"That is all the Spanish the senorita speaks," Hall explained. "I think
we will have toast and coffee, too."
"Well, well," the waiter said in accented English. "The lady speaks
good, no?"
"No," Jerry laughed.
"Well, well," the waiter said, "today is very nice and sunny. Very
nice." He walked into the kitchen.
"I have a perfect itinerary," Hall said. "Old San Hermano first; that's
the historic colonial part of the city. Then, at noon, we take the
funicular railway to the top of the world for lunch. And after
that--well, well, well, as the waiter said."
They walked about San Hermano all morning. Hall showed her through the
old fortress of the Duke of La Runa, which the government had restored
after Segura was overthrown, told her about the early colonial history
of the city. They sat on the old sea wall for a few minutes, while Hall
pointed out the Moorish and Spanish details of the stone houses along
the sea drive above the wharves. The youngest of the houses was a
century old; the tile friezes along their bellies had all been imported
from Spain in sailing ships. Jerry watched the sun do magic tricks of
blue and purple on the surface of the houses. They wandered through the
old market places, deserted that day, but colored by the little stalls
along the sidewalks. Hall bought a large spray of gardenias for the girl
from an itinerant vendor.
"Where are those beaten-silver things you told me about?" she asked.
"Later," he said. "There's plenty of time for that."
"Where do we go now?" Jerry asked. "My feet are killing me."
"From now on we ride." He found a taxi parked near the Cathedral, and
they rode to the funicular railway terminal at the base of Monte Azul.
He told her how the railway was built by Segura, as they rode. "But it
was when the Tabio junta threw the Seguristas out that the damned cable
cars meant anything to the people of the country themselves. You see,
Jerry, Segura gave the concession on top of the mountain to one of his
thugs. The new regime opened it up to the little guys. And wait till you
see what they did to the grounds."
They shared the cable car with an old water colorist, and two other
young couples. "My God," Jerry exclaimed, when she saw the route the
cars followed, "it's like climbing hand over hand up a sheer cliff!"
"Don't worry. It's perfectly safe. In a way, though, I'm sorry this is
such a clear day. On a cloudy day, the tracks just vanish into the soup
up there, and you feel that you are being towed into the clouds."
The cars climbed for five miles, creaking, whining, grunting, but
steadily pushing on toward the peak. From the opened windows, Jerry
could see the Moorish villas at the base of the mountain, then their
red-tiled roofs, then the miles of scraggly wild orange trees. The
sweet, heavy odors of their blossoms filled the car.
"Oh, look," she said, "the town is getting smaller. And the sea is
growing bluer."
"Wait until we get off," he smiled. "Then you'll really see something."
The old artist took out a sketch pad, studied Jerry's excited face, and
made some quick strokes with a charcoal stick. Hall winked at the old
man. "_Hola, viejo. Que pasa?_"
"_La mujer es muy bonita._"
"_Muchas gracias_, Senor. _Es verdad._"
"What are you saying to him?" Jerry asked.
"He said you are very beautiful and I said that's the Lord's gospel
truth. He's sketching you, I think."
"Can we buy it if it's good?"
"I'll speak to him later. Up there."
The car stopped at the terminal on the man-made plateau about a thousand
feet from the actual tip of Monte Azul. A wooden rail ran along the edge
of the plateau for about a quarter of a mile. Within the rail was the
funicular terminal, a souvenir stand, a tiny post office, and a large
open-air restaurant.
"Let's eat," Hall said. "You get hungry as a horse up there."
They took a table with an enameled orange top near the rail. Large
barbecue pits hugged the mountain side of the restaurant, and under a
shed roof three cooks presided over a row of steaming pots. From their
table, they could see the mile-deep belt of mountain flowers which had
been planted in the days of the dictators and expanded by the democrats.
There were flowers of every shape and color, but orange was the color
which spoke most frequently in the cultivated beds. Below the flowers,
the mountainside seemed to be daubed with various shades of green and
brown. "But usually," Hall said, "the mountain is blue. Almost as blue
as the sea."
Jerry looked down at the sea. "I've never seen such a deep blue," she
said.
"I know. This is the bluest water in the world." He hissed for a waiter.
"I'm going to order a hell of a meal, young lady. A side of barbecued
beef and some corn cakes the like of which you never tasted and--just
trust my judgment."
"Can we get drinks here?"
"They have a white wine that beats anything in France."
The food was good and the wine was potent. When they were done eating,
Jerry wanted more wine. "No more wine," Hall smiled. "Nibble on this
cheese, and while you're nibbling I'm going to order a punch I've just
composed in honor of this day. Let's call it Punch _Para Las Mujeres
Bonitas_."
"Whatever that means," Jerry said, dreamily.
"Oh, it's wonderful. Black rum and passion-flower juice and tamarinda
and wild cherry juice and--just wait. I'll be right back." He walked
across the plateau to the outdoor bar and had a long discussion with the
attendants.
Jerry was staring into the sea when he returned. "You know?" she sighed.
"What?"
"Nothing. I was just thinking that I've been looking at the sea and not
thinking at all."
"Cigarette?"
"Uh huh. Thanks for taking me up here. It reminds me of something nice,
but I can't think of what."
"I know," Hall said. "The minute you get here for the first time you
feel as if you've known this place all your life."
The waiter brought a pitcher of scarlet punch and two tall glasses to
the table. Hall paid the check, and added a package of American
cigarettes to his tip.
He filled the two glasses, tried a sip from his before handing one glass
to the girl. "Let's see how this strikes you," he smiled.
"It's delicious!"
"Finish it and then try walking," Hall said, dryly.
"We'll try walking later." They finished the punch in the pitcher, and
then Jerry looked at her face in a pocket mirror.
"Oh, Mr. Hall," she sighed. "It ate away what was left of my lipstick
and I think it gave me a red nose and I suppose I should powder and
paint but I won't."
"Madam," he said, "you are under the influence."
"I may be high, sir, but I'm not drunk."
Hall got up and took her arm. "Shame on you, nurse," he said. "There's
still a thousand sights to see up here."
"Lead on," she commanded. "We'll see who's potted."
Hall pointed to the edge of the restaurant. There was a mountain path at
that end, a graveled path leading into a park of streams and cypresses.
They followed this path until the forest closed in around them, and they
were alone.
"My feet," Jerry said. "These shoes were not meant for serious mountain
climbing."
"My lady." Hall spread his brown gabardine jacket in the moss bank
adjacent to a small stream. She took off her shoes and stretched out on
the jacket, her hands clasped under her head.
"You know," she said, "if I weren't so full of food I'd take my
stockings off and dip my feet in the creek. I just haven't the strength
to move."
Hall lit a cigarette, put it in the girl's mouth. "If you ever dipped
one of your dainty gringo toes in this burbling frigidaire," he said,
"they'd hear your screams twelve miles out at sea."
Jerry sat up and hummed the tune of "Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf."
She took off her stockings, started to edge down toward the stream.
"Here, help me up." She extended a hand to Hall, who pulled her to her
feet. "I'm going wading."
There was no scream when Jerry stepped into the water. Her breath just
stopped. She yanked her foot out of the stream as if it were a blazing
inferno, hopped around on the dry foot with tears in her eyes, and then
lay down on the jacket.
"Well, anyway," she said, when she could catch her breath, "I didn't
scream."
"No. You were brave." He took out a large handkerchief, started to rub
the foot which had been in the water.
"I never thought I'd wind up here when I left New York," she said.
"When do you go to work?"
"Tomorrow, I guess. The President is a pretty sick patient."
"Does Ansaldo think he can pull him through?"
"He didn't say."
"Did he find out what's the matter with Tabio?"
"Not yet. That's what he's doing today."
Hall wanted to ask her further questions about Ansaldo, but he was
afraid to betray his interest too openly. "Let's cut it out," he
laughed. "This is a party, and we're talking shop."
The girl sighed in contentment. "Oh, that's nice," she murmured. "I
don't care what we talk about, as long as we stay here."
"Like it here?"
"Right now, I wish I could stay here forever." She had her hands clasped
under her head, was talking to the tips of the cypresses as well as to
Hall.
"Why don't you?"
"It's like Shangri-La," she said. "We should both be two centuries old.
How old are you, Hall?"
"Thirty-six."
"I'm twenty-eight. Honest. Not twenty-one. Twenty-eight. In two years
I'll be over the borderline. Then I'll be an old lady. But right now I'm
not going to lie about my age."
"Right now I don't think you could tell a lie. Not even a white lie."
"No fair, Hall. First you get me drunk--only I'm not high any more--then
you take me to Shangri-La. Can I call you Matthew? Or is it Matty or
Matt the women in your life call you?"
"My friends call me Matt."
"My friends! There's no Mrs. Matt?"
"No. Never has been."
"I had a husband, once. Only I divorced him and became a nurse."
"That when you left Ohio? Or was it Indiana?"
Jerry turned her eyes from the cypresses and looked at Hall, who sat at
her side, his face over hers. "Ohio," she said. "How did you know?"
Hall bent over and kissed her lightly on the lips. She neither resisted
nor returned his kiss. "You sweet dope," he said. "I'm a Buckeye myself.
Cleveland."
"I'm from Columbus."
"Pleased to know you, Miss Columbus. Did you know you have green eyes
and there are little gold stars in each eye?"
"Nope."
"Nope. Sweet dope. No one ever told you."
"He calls me names!" Jerry sat up and put her arms around Hall's neck.
"He calls me names." She put her slightly opened mouth against his lips
and pulled him closer, and together they sank to the ground. They lay
locked in the one kiss, the girl's full breasts pressing against Hall's
chest.
"Don't," she whispered, "please. Ah, don't. Ah, Matt. Darling."
He found her lips again. They were trembling, and he could feel the
tremors which started in the pit of her stomach and rose to her
shoulders. "Please, Matt," she broke from his grip and turned her face
to the ground. "Darling," she said, biting then kissing his hand. He put
his arm around her and kissed the back of her neck. She shuddered
deliciously. "Let's get up," she said.
"We're alone here," he said.
She smiled and kissed his hand. "I'm getting up," she said. "Let me sit
up, Matt."
"Sure," he said. He sat up with her. She ran her hand lightly over his
face, brushing the scars, the flatness of his nose.
"Gorilla," she said, and she kissed him softly on the mouth. "You tore
off one of my buttons, you ape."
"Hello, Miss Columbus," he said, speaking with a Spanish accent. "It is
a very nice day today. Very sunny."
"Yes," she said.
"Still want to stay here forever?"
"Uh huh. Do I look too messy?"
"No. Your hair could stand some combing."
"Will you get me some more of that punch?"
When she had combed her hair, they stood up and he took her hand and
they walked back along the graveled path.
"Can we phone to town from here?" she asked. "Doctor wanted me to check
in at about five."
"Going to work?"
"Don't know yet."
They had their punch. The light danced in Jerry's hair, gave it the same
orange tint which dominated the flower beds. "I forgot to tell you,"
Hall said. "You're beautiful."
Jerry swirled the scarlet drops on the bottom of her glass. "You don't
know a thing about me," she said.
"What should I know?"
"Nothing. But can I tell you, anyway? I want to, Matt."
"I want to know."
Jerry sighed. "I told you I was married before, didn't I? It didn't
take."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'm not really from Columbus. That is, my home town is nearer
Columbus than to any other city, but it's just a hick village in the
sticks." She told her story in very few words. High school, and then
three years at the State University, and then marriage to a small-town
high-school principal some years older than herself. After five years of
small-town married life, Jerry came into a small inheritance, left the
schoolmaster, and went back to get her degree. "I wanted to study
medicine," she said, "but I didn't have enough money, so I took up
nursing instead. The idea was to earn enough as a nurse to go back to
medical school."
"What happened?"
"New York happened. I couldn't take hospital regimentation, and some of
the doctors were so anxious to sleep with me that they got me some snap
jobs. You know, sitting up with rich lushes and hanging onto the girdles
of deserted dowagers who wanted to jump out of windows and handing the
right scalpel to society surgeons while they carved out a million-dollar
gut."
"It must have paid well."
"Too well."
"And so you became a glamour girl."
"That's a pretty cruel way to put it, Matt. I'm not really a dope, you
know."
"I know."
"I guess I just stopped thinking because I was afraid to think."
"Where does Ansaldo fit into the picture?"
"I came with him because I admire his skill as a doctor. I can learn
things by working with him. He's fantastically good, Matt."
"How long do you know him?"
"Not long. He came to New York about six months ago to operate on a
drunk who'd been my patient for months. The patient had fallen down a
flight of stairs on my day off. Ansaldo invited me to be one of the
nurses when he operated on the patient's spine. Are you interested in
operations?"
"A little. Why?"
"It was amazing. I thought I had seen some good surgeons at work. But
Ansaldo is more than good, Matt. He's great. After that first operation,
I was his nurse for all of his New York operations. And naturally, I
jumped at the chance to come along. I'm a perfectionist, Matt. Some day,
some day soon I hope, I'm going to go back to medical school. I've been
saving every spare penny I could. And what I'm learning from Ansaldo
couldn't be taught in any school."
"You amaze me," he said, honestly. It was hard to doubt her. He prodded
her for details of Ansaldo's skill. She answered him earnestly, and with
increased enthusiasm.
"But wait," she protested, finally. "I don't see why I should be telling
all about myself. I haven't talked like this to any man for years."
"I haven't listened like this for just as long," he laughed.
"But it's not good, I know," she said, her voice abruptly breaking.
There were tears in her eyes, and she turned away. "I've gone and made a
fool of myself."
"Why?"
"I know," she said. "You probably have a wife and nine kids in New York.
I bet you carry their pictures in your wallet."
"Do I?" Hall handed his wallet to Jerry. "Look for yourself. Take out
every picture."
There were three photos in all. The first was of Bird, his wife and
their baby. "My publisher," he explained.
There was a sepia photo of Hall pointing the lens of a camera at a bomb
crater in Madrid. "London?" Jerry asked.
"Yeah," he said. "London."
The remaining photo showed Hall talking to an aged couple on a road
packed with refugees. "France?" Jerry asked.
Hall shook his head. "No. Belgium." Again he lied. The picture had been
taken in Spain.
"Don't hurt me, Matt," the girl said. She was dry-eyed now, but
saddened. "Don't hurt me later."
"I won't hurt you," he said. He wondered at that moment if he would be
able to avoid hurting her.
"Are you really alone?"
"Alone?" He did not laugh. "God! I'm the loneliest sonofabitch in the
whole world."
The girl smiled again. "I have half a mind to believe you," she said.
"Shall we get started back?"
"O.K. It's getting late. Have dinner with me?"
"I don't know, yet. Would you call the hotel and ask if there are any
messages for me?"
"There's a phone in the souvenir stand."
The girl bought a batch of picture sets while Hall was on the phone. "Do
we eat?" she asked when he came out of the booth.
"No. They want you in the Marti Memorial Lab at the University at
seven."
"Shucks."
"I phoned for a driver to meet us at the bottom in twenty minutes. We
still have time for a drive around the nicer parts of New San Hermano."
They went to the terminal to wait for their car. The ticket agent
glanced at Jerry and then he reached under his counter and brought up a
large envelope. "Senor," he said, "the painter left this for the lady."
It was the sketch of Jerry, wide-eyed and happy as the car climbed Monte
Azul. In the lower right-hand corner was an inscription Hall translated
for her. "To a charming visitor--a memento of her visit to our free
city. Horacio."
"It was sweet of the old man," Jerry said. "Tell the guy to thank him
for me, will you?"
"I already did. But this is fantastic. An original Horacio water color
is worth a baby fortune. This sketch is valuable, Jerry."
"Didn't you recognize him?"
"Never saw him before in my life."
Big Pepe was waiting for them with his LaSalle when they reached the
bottom of Monte Azul. "How good are you with tourists?" Hall asked. "I
want to show the senorita New San Hermano."
"I can drive you with my eyes closed," Pepe said.
Hall laughed. "Keep your eyes open. And your four wheels on the
pavement," he said. "Or I'll kill you with your own gun."
"I have no fears of you," Pepe said. "Get in."
Hall held onto Jerry's hand as he described the sights that rolled by
their window. Big Pepe handled the car like a model tourists' chauffeur.
It rolled along smoothly, not too quickly, and when Hall tapped him on
the shoulder he would stop, the motor running softly while Hall made his
explanations to Jerry.
At six, Hall and Jerry agreed to have one last drink before parting for
the night. "Let's ask the driver, too," he suggested. "He's a nice guy."
"Sure. So are you."
"Pepe, how about joining us for a drink at that bar near the Libro del
Mundo?"
Pepe turned around and grinned at them. "With many thanks," he said. "I
will join you."
"If we don't all join our ancestors first. Watch the road, you Asturian
murderer!"
"I take it," Jerry laughed, "you were telling him to keep his eyes on
the wheel."
"You're learning the language, _muchachita_."
They found an empty table on the sidewalk. Hall and Jerry had Scotch and
sodas. Big Pepe ordered coffee. He was very happy to be with them. He
beamed continuously at the girl, and to Hall he swore that never had he
seen a more magnificent woman. "Of course," he purred, "she could stand
more meat, but for a gringo, she is most magnificent."
"He says you're a sight for sore eyes," Hall translated.
"Then tell him to look at my face."
"The woman thanks you," Hall said.
Jerry pointed to the bar. "There's the little Dutchman," she said.
Androtten was standing alone at the bar, a wine glass in his hand.
"I'll call him over. He's a lonesome bastard too."
The Dutchman was delighted to see Hall. "This is indeed a damn
surprise," he said. "Join you at the table? Happy as hell to join you,
Mr. Hall. Ah, the nurse of the great doctor. Tell me, nurse, do you
think the doctor could cure my rheumatism?" This, he made clear by his
gesture of holding his side in mock agony and groaning, was meant to be
a joke.
Hall translated the joke for Pepe.
The driver nodded. "I understood most of it," he admitted. "One doesn't
drive American tourists for a century and learn nothing."
"Aha," Hall said. "Pepe knows a few words of English, it develops."
Jerry turned to the driver, smiled sweetly at him. "Tell me," she said,
"did you ever have your eyes scratched out?"
Pepe grinned, shrugged his huge shoulders. "Did the senorita say I have
nice eyes?" he asked Hall.
"No, Pepe. She said your eyes can bring you trouble."
The Asturiano closed his eyes and drew his finger across his throat,
making the appropriate sounds. "I understand perfectly," he said.
"Let's sit down one of these days," Androtten said to Hall. "I am
willing as hell to give you the damn story of what the Japanese did to
me in Java, if you are still damn willing to listen."
"Oh, I am. Anxious as hell, Mr. Androtten." He explained to Big Pepe
what had happened to the little man. Pepe's face instantly reflected his
deep sorrow.
"I hate to break up this nice party," Jerry said, "but I have to go to
work."
"Can we take you back to the Bolivar, Mr. Androtten?"
"Not just yet. I have a damn appointment here at seven."
Hall put some money on the table and followed Jerry to the car. "I
forgot to tell you," he said. "There'll be a government car waiting to
pick you up at ten to seven."
"The poor man," Pepe sighed. "The cruel Japanese!"
"It's been a wonderful day, Matt."
"When do we repeat it?"
"Can't tell. I'll leave a message for you tonight when I get back."
Hall ate alone after Jerry went to the laboratory, and then wandered
around the dark streets of the waterfront, thinking how he could
organize his work. That was the damned job, always. Planning your moves.
Deciding exactly what it is you're after and then organizing a method of
getting it. The letter to Santiago. That was a good start. With luck,
there would be an answer in a week. But was a week too far away? How
sick was Tabio, and could he hold out for another week? And anyway, was
Ansaldo a fascist?
The face of Varela Ansaldo would not leave Hall's mind. Maybe Fielding
could find out something, anything. At this moment, Fielding was
probably eating a little crow with his dinner at the British Embassy.
But would they tell Fielding anything? Did they know anything? And who
the hell was Fielding and how in hell did he get the dope in his
reports? _No, my fine impertinent friend, I am not a British agent._ He
was the father of Sergeant Harold Fielding who hopped out of the wicker
pony cart and picked up one of those thin rifles and died at Jarama.
Santiago's answer. There was the best bet. If the boys in Havana had no
dope, at least they would tell him who to contact in San Hermano, and it
was a safe bet that when Pedro de Aragon (or would it be a love letter
from Maria de Aragon?) wrote, the letter would lead him to someone who
would know Souza and Pepe Delgado. They were O.K., but just a little
cautious, and this business of squiring Ansaldo's nurse would not set
too well with them unless Ansaldo was not Gamburdo's man at all.
Hall was turning a corner when he first noticed the little man walking
in the shadows of the opposite sidewalk. A little man in a black suit
and a dirty stiff straw hat. Hall slowed his steps, waited for the man
in the straw hat to walk closer to the yellowed street light. The man
slowed down, too. Hall kept walking. He headed for an avenue, found a
cab, told the driver to take him to La Perrichola. He looked around to
see the little man get into the other cab at the stand.
"I changed my mind," Hall told the driver. "Take me to the Ritz
instead."
He walked slowly into the lobby of the Ritz. It was one of the more
modern hotels in New San Hermano. He found a phone booth and called
Souza. "Where's Pepe?" he asked.
"Right outside. Do you need him?"
"Very much. Tell him to pick me up near the back entrance of the Ritz.
I'm too drunk to trust a strange driver."
Souza laughed. "You Americans," he said. "Pepe will be there in five
minutes."
Hall went to the bar, had a short brandy. The little man was sitting
behind a potted palm near the street doorway, his face buried in a
magazine. Hall looked at his watch and walked to the elevator. "Sixth
floor," he said.
He walked through the sixth-floor hall, took the back stairs to the
fourth floor, and then looked out of the window at the landing. Big
Pepe's LaSalle was parked near the servants' door. Hall listened for the
sound of footsteps on the stairs above him. Quietly, he walked to the
basement, nodded at a waiter relaxing on a bench near the door, and
walked slowly to the LaSalle.
"_Que pasa?_"
"Trouble. Drive a few blocks down and then come back slowly toward the
front of the hotel."
"Sit with me," Pepe said. He tapped the pistol in his pocket.
"No." Hall got down on the floor of the back part of the car. "And take
your white hat off."
The car shot down three streets, then Pepe turned the corner, rode a
block, and started to crawl along the street on which the main entrance
of the Ritz opened. "Souza said you were in trouble," Pepe said. "He
says you are not a _borracho_."
"I was followed. Watch for a little man in a black suit and a stiff
straw hat. Park a block from the entrance to the Ritz and keep your
motor running."
"_Claro._"
"I think he tried to sell me perfume this afternoon when I was walking
with that nurse."
"She needs no perfume," Pepe said.
"She is not my woman," Hall said.
"Did you see that other woman who came with the doctor?" Big Pepe
snorted violently. "I hate _maricones_," he said.
"I hate them too, Pepe. Did you know that Franco is also a homosexual?"
"They are all _maricones_. Hitler, Franco. They are all the same."
"_Putas y maricones_," Hall said. "_La Nueva Espana!_"
Big Pepe cleared his throat and spat out of the window. "Arriba Espana."
Hall could feel the low, toneless laugh in the Asturian's throat.
"I think I see your dog," Pepe said. He described him for Hall. "He acts
as if he lost something."
"Me."
"Falangista?"
"I don't know. Ever seen him before?"
"Who knows? _Mira!_"
"I can't look. What's he doing?"
"Hiring a car."
"Follow him. But ..."
"_Mira, chico_, that I can do with my eyes closed. And he won't know me
for the offal on the streets."
"Don't lose him."
"I'd sooner lose my _cojones_." He started the car, slowly. "I am
magnificent at this," he said.
"Good."
"During the war I did this all the time."
"When he stops, watch where he goes but don't stop yourself. Keep going
after he stops."
"Don't worry," Pepe said. "I am not new at this."
"Very good."
"That girl with the nice hair, _companero_. Why don't you take her into
your bed some night? I think she would be very good there."
"Forget the girl."
"That will be very hard."
"Where are we?"
"Still following the little dog. We're moving toward the Plaza."
"Pepe. The Englishman's son. Did you know him?"
"He was very young. I only saw him once. He was very brave, _companero_.
The Centro Asturiano sent flowers to his father when the boy was killed.
He died for the Republic, you know." Pepe slowed the car.
"What's the matter?"
"He's stopping. We're on the Calle de Virtudes. He's going into a cafe.
I'll keep going."
The car covered another block. Pepe turned the corner and stopped. "You
can sit up now," he said.
Hall saw where he was. "Which bar did he go to?" he asked.
"El Siglo. There's another cafe next door. You can sit behind a hedge at
a table there and watch El Siglo. I have done it many times. I'll park
the car across the street and watch for you."
"Do you think we can do this alone?"
"Why not?"
"What do we have to do?"
"Who knows? It is the little dog's next move."
"But could you get some friends now?"
"Yes. How many?"
"A few. I'll keep an eye on El Siglo."
"All right," Pepe said. "But we shouldn't lose the little dog."
"That is a chance we must take. If we lose him tonight, we will follow
him tomorrow. He will be in my footsteps again."
"That is true," Big Pepe said. "I will be back soon." He drove off down
the back street.
Like El Siglo, the cafe where Hall found a table near a boxed hedge on
the sidewalk faced the entrance to the apartments of the Presidencia.
The lights were on again in the fourth floor. Hall wondered if the
doctors were poking poor Tabio at that moment.
He ordered a pot of coffee and sat back to watch the entrance to El
Siglo. A newsboy sold him a late paper, but Hall gave up trying to read
it after a few minutes. He bought a box of wax matches and some cigars,
turning his back to El Siglo when the tip of his first match flared into
flame.
Less than ten minutes after Hall started his vigil, the little man in
the straw hat walked out of El Siglo and sat down behind the wheel of a
Renault parked at the curb. He sat alone in the car, his face turned
toward the Presidencia. Hall looked nervously up the street for a sign
of Big Pepe. He jotted the license number of the Renault down on the
margin of his newspaper.
There was still no sign of Big Pepe.
The man in the Renault pressed the squeaky rubber horn twice. Another
man walked quickly out of El Siglo and got into the back seat of the
Renault. Hall squirmed in his chair and looked vainly for Big Pepe. The
passenger was Wilhelm Androtten.
Hall watched the Renault start to move up the Plaza. It rode around the
entire Plaza, and, as it started to pass the cafes again, Hall saw that
it was following a black limousine which had just left the Presidencia
after picking up two passengers.
The black limousine was doing about thirty, picking its way out
carefully in the half darkness of the old city. As it passed directly in
front of Hall's table, one of the people sitting in the back seat lit a
cigarette. In the light of the match, Hall could see that it was Varela
Ansaldo.
He had to wait another ten minutes for Big Pepe, who returned with two
young men. "We lost him, Pepe."
"_Hijo de puta!_ I told you."
"Relax. I know who he works for. We can find them on our own terms now.
I saw them."
"Who?"
Hall looked at the two young men sharing the front seat with Pepe.
"Introduce me to your friends," he said.
Big Pepe grinned. "That is your right," he said. "This is my nephew
Miguelito, and this is Juan Antonio Martinez. They're school teachers."
The last he said with almost boastful pride.
The teachers were both slim lads in their early twenties. Hall shook
their hands and got into the back of the car. "Let's drive out to the
beach and talk," he said.
"No," Miguelito said. "It would not be wise. There are too many
strangers there."
His colleague grunted. "Your pistol, Miguelito," he said. "Take it out
of your pocket. It is digging a new hole in my arse."
"They talk that way all the time," Pepe said, tolerantly. "But they are
very educated."
"I am sorry if I talk like a worker," Juan Antonio said to Pepe. "My
father was only a miner. I apologize, Your Eminence."
"He is joking," Pepe said. "Miguelito, you are a Bachelor of Arts. Tell
me, do workers joke, too?"
"Quiet, both of you," Miguelito said. "_Companero_ Hall will think we're
all crazy."
Hall laughed. "I've seen boys like you before," he said.
"We were too young to go then," Juan Antonio said. "But if they try it
here, the streets of San Hermano will run with blood before we let the
fascists win."
"Juan Antonio is a Communist," Big Pepe said.
The boy did not deny it. "Remember my words," he said, "the flag of the
Falange will never fly over San Hermano."
"Not if we are still alive," Miguelito added.
"Will you listen to these children?" Pepe asked. "As soon as you turn
your back they put on the _pantalones_ and make the noises of a man!"
"This little dog of a fascist who followed you," Miguelito said, "who is
his superior?"
"I don't know, _companeros_. It could be Hitler...."
"It could be Franco," Big Pepe said.
"He said that," Juan Antonio said. "He said Hitler, didn't he,
Miguelito?"
"Quiet," Miguelito said. "This is no joke. You said you saw him with his
superior?"
Hall smiled at the boy. "Listen, _chico_," he said, "men with more
pistols than you have tried to put words in my mouth before. All they
got from my mouth was my spit."
"_Ole!_" Juan Antonio punched Miguelito's shoulders with glee.
* * * * *
Souza was reading a fat book at his desk when Hall returned to the
Bolivar. He greeted the boys with familiarity. "They are reliable," he
said after they left.
"I know. I was sober when I called you before. But tonight your reliable
boys nearly drank me under the table trying to find out who was with the
little dog."
"The one who followed you to the Ritz?"
"The same one. They also told me that you are President of the Hotel
Clerks Union."
"I am."
"Got a cigarette? Thanks. No, I've got matches." Hall looked around to
see if he and Souza were alone. Quietly, he said, "Androtten was the man
I saw with the little dog."