In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea.
The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square, and the streets wet and dark and deserted; yet the fiesta kept up without any pause. It was only driven under cover.
The covered seats of the bull-ring had been crowded with people sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding hollow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, the horses' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the cafés and the dancers came in, too, and sat, their tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside.
I left the crowd in the café and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door.
"Come in," I called.
Montoya walked in.
"How are you?" he said.
"Fine," I said.
"No bulls to-day."
"No," I said, "nothing but rain."
"Where are your friends?"
"Over at the Iru?a."
Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile.
"Look," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?"
"Yes," I said. "Everybody knows the American ambassador."
"He's here in town, now."
"Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them."
"I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving.
"Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink."
"No, I have to go."
I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed.
"Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner."
"Well," I said, "it can't hurt Marcial any."
"Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back tonight."
Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something.
"Don't give Romero the message," I said.
"You think so?"
"Absolutely."
Montoya was very pleased.
"I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said.
"That's what I'd do."
"Look," said Montoya. "People take a boy like that. They don't know what he's worth. They don't know what he means. Any foreigner can flatter him. They start this Grand Hotel business, and in one year they're through."
"Like Algabeno," I said.
"Yes, like Algabeno."
"They're a fine lot," I said. "There's one American woman down here now that collects bull-fighters."
"I know. They only want the young ones."
"Yes," I said. "The old ones get fat."
"Or crazy like Gallo."
"Well," I said, "it's easy. All you have to do is not give him the message."
"He's such a fine boy," said Montoya. "He ought to stay with his own people. He shouldn't mix in that stuff."
"Won't you have a drink?" I asked.
"No," said Montoya, "I have to go." He went out.
I went down-stairs and out the door and took a walk around through the arcades around the square. It was still raining. I looked in at the Irufla for the gang and they were not there, so I walked on around the square and back to the hotel. They were eating dinner in the down-stairs dining-room.
They were well ahead of me and it was no use trying to catch them. Bill was buying shoe-shines for Mike. Bootblacks opened the street door and each one Bill called over and started to work on Mike.
"This is the eleventh time my boots have been polished," Mike said. "I say, Bill is an ass."
The bootblacks had evidently spread the report. Another came in.
"Limpia botas?" he said to Bill.
"No," said Bill. "For this Se?or."
The bootblack knelt down beside the one at work and started on Mike's free shoe that shone already in the electric light.
"Bill's a yell of laughter," Mike said.
I was drinking red wine, and so far behind them that I felt a little uncomfortable about all this shoe-shining. I looked around the room. At the next table was Pedro Romero. He stood up when I nodded, and asked me to come over and meet a friend. His table was beside ours, almost touching. I met the friend, a Madrid bullfight critic, a little man with a drawn face. I told Romero how much I liked his work, and he was very pleased. We talked Spanish and the critic knew a little French. I reached to our table for my winebottle, but the critic took my arm. Romero laughed.
"Drink here," he said in English.
He was very bashful about his English, but he was really very pleased with it, and as we went on talking he brought out words he was not sure of, and asked me about them. He was anxious to know the English for _Corrida de toros_, the exact translation. Bull-fight he was suspicious of. I explained that bull-fight in Spanish was the _lidia_ of a _toro_. The Spanish word _corrida_ means in English the running of bulls--the French translation is _Course de taureaux_. The critic put that in. There is no Spanish word for bull-fight.
Pedro Romero said he had learned a little English in Gibraltar. He was born in Ronda. That is not far above Gibraltar. He started bull-fighting in Malaga in the bull-fighting school there. He had only been at it three years. The bull-fight critic joked him about the number of _Malagueno_ expressions he used. He was nineteen years old, he said. His older brother was with him as a banderillero, but he did not live in this hotel. He lived in a smaller hotel with the other people who worked for Romero. He asked me how many times I had seen him in the ring. I told him only three. It was really only two, but I did not want to explain after I had made the mistake.
"Where did you see me the other time? In Madrid?"
"Yes," I lied. I had read the accounts of his two appearances in Madrid in the bull-fight papers, so I was all right.
"The first or the second time?"
"The first."
"I was very bad," he said. "The second time I was better. You remember?" He turned to the critic.
He was not at all embarrassed. He talked of his work as something altogether apart from himself. There was nothing conceited or braggartly about him.
"I like it very much that you like my work," he said. "But you haven't seen it yet. To-morrow, if I get a good bull, I will try and show it to you."
When he said this he smiled, anxious that neither the bull-fight critic nor I would think he was boasting.
"I am anxious to see it," the critic said. "I would like to be convinced."
"He doesn't like my work much." Romero turned to me. He was serious.
The critic explained that he liked it very much, but that so far it had been incomplete.
"Wait till to-morrow, if a good one comes out."
"Have you seen the bulls for to-morrow?" the critic asked me.
"Yes. I saw them unloaded."
Pedro Romero leaned forward.
"What did you think of them?"
"Very nice," I said. "About twenty-six arrobas. Very short horns. Haven't you seen them?"
"Oh, yes," said Romero.
"They won't weigh twenty-six arrobas," said the critic.
"No," said Romero.
"They've got bananas for horns," the critic said.
"You call them bananas?" asked Romero. He turned to me and smiled. "_You_ wouldn't call them bananas?"
"No," I said. "They're horns all right."
"They're very short," said Pedro Romero. "Very, very short. Still, they aren't bananas."
"I say, Jake," Brett called from the next table, "you _have_ deserted us."
"Just temporarily," I said. "We're talking bulls."
"You _are_ superior."
"Tell him that bulls have no balls," Mike shouted. He was drunk.
Romero looked at me inquiringly.
"Drunk," I said. "Borracho! Muy borracho!"
"You might introduce your friends," Brett said. She had not stopped looking at Pedro Romero. I asked them if they would like to have coffee with us. They both stood up. Romero's face was very brown. He had very nice manners.
I introduced them all around and they started to sit down, but there was not enough room, so we all moved over to the big table by the wall to have coffee. Mike ordered a bottle of Fundador and glasses for everybody. There was a lot of drunken talking.
"Tell him I think writing is lousy," Bill said. "Go on, tell him. Tell him I'm ashamed of being a writer."
Pedro Romero was sitting beside Brett and listening to her.
"Go on. Tell him!" Bill said.
Romero looked up smiling.
"This gentleman," I said, "is a writer."
Romero was impressed. "This other one, too," I said, pointing at Cohn.
"He looks like Villalta," Romero said, looking at Bill. "Rafael, doesn't he look like Villalta?"
"I can't see it," the critic said.
"Really," Romero said in Spanish. "He looks a lot like Villalta. What does the drunken one do?"
"Nothing."
"Is that why he drinks?"
"No. He's waiting to marry this lady."
"Tell him bulls have no balls!" Mike shouted, very drunk, from the other end of the table.
"What does he say?"
"He's drunk."
"Jake," Mike called. "Tell him bulls have no balls!"
"You understand?" I said.
"Yes."
I was sure he didn't, so it was all right.
"Tell him Brett wants to see him put on those green pants."
"Pipe down, Mike."
"Tell him Brett is dying to know how he can get into those pants."
"Pipe down."
During this Romero was fingering his glass and talking with Brett. Brett was talking French and he was talking Spanish and a little English, and laughing.
Bill was filling the glasses.
"Tell him Brett wants to come into--"
"Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake!"
Romero looked up smiling. "Pipe down! I know that," he said.
Just then Montoya came into the room. He started to smile at me, then he saw Pedro Romero with a big glass of cognac in his hand, sitting laughing between me and a woman with bare shoulders, at a table full of drunks. He did not even nod.
Montoya went out of the room. Mike was on his feet proposing a toast. "Let's all drink to--" he began. "Pedro Romero," I said. Everybody stood up. Romero took it very seriously, and we touched glasses and drank it down, I rushing it a little because Mike was trying to make it clear that that was not at all what he was going to drink to. But it went off all right, and Pedro Romero shook hands with every one and he and the critic went out together.
"My God! he's a lovely boy," Brett said. "And how I would love to see him get into those clothes. He must use a shoe-horn."
"I started to tell him," Mike began. "And Jake kept interrupting me. Why do you interrupt me? Do you think you talk Spanish better than I do?"
"Oh, shut up, Mike! Nobody interrupted you."
"No, I'd like to get this settled." He turned away from me. "Do you think you amount to something, Cohn? Do you think you belong here among us? People who are out to have a good time? For God's sake don't be so noisy, Cohn!"
"Oh, cut it out, Mike," Cohn said.
"Do you think Brett wants you here? Do you think you add to the party? Why don't you say something?"
"I said all I had to say the other night, Mike."
"I'm not one of you literary chaps." Mike stood shakily and leaned against the table. "I'm not clever. But I do know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you see when you're not wanted, Cohn? Go away. Go away, for God's sake. Take that sad Jewish face away. Don't you think I'm right?"
He looked at us.
"Sure," I said. "Let's all go over to the Iru?a."
"No. Don't you think I'm right? I love that woman."
"Oh, don't start that again. Do shove it along, Michael," Brett said.
"Don't you think I'm right, Jake?"
Cohn still sat at the table. His face had the sallow, yellow look it got when he was insulted, but somehow he seemed to be enjoying it. The childish, drunken heroics of it. It was his affair with a lady of title.
"Jake," Mike said. He was almost crying. "You know I'm right. Listen, you!" He turned to Cohn: "Go away! Go away now!"
"But I won't go, Mike," said Cohn.
"Then I'll make you!" Mike started toward him around the table. Cohn stood up and took off his glasses. He stood waiting, his face sallow, his hands fairly low, proudly and firmly waiting for the assault, ready to do battle for his lady love.
I grabbed Mike. "Come on to the café," I said. "You can't hit him here in the hotel."
"Good!" said Mike. "Good idea!"
We started off. I looked back as Mike stumbled up the stairs and saw Cohn putting his glasses on again. Bill was sitting at the table pouring another glass of Fundador. Brett was sitting looking straight ahead at nothing.
Outside on the square it had stopped raining and the moon was trying to get through the clouds. There was a wind blowing. The military band was playing and the crowd was massed on the far side of the square where the fireworks specialist and his son were trying to send up fire balloons. A balloon would start up jerkily, on a great bias, and be torn by the wind or blown against the houses of the square. Some fell into the crowd. The magnesium flared and the fireworks exploded and chased about in the crowd. There was no one dancing in the square. The gravel was too wet.
Brett came out with Bill and joined us. We stood in the crowd and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened, caught fire, and fell.
"They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said.
"How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said.
"His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad."
"Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illuminados. That's what the paper said."
The wind blew the band music away.
"I say, I wish one would go up," Brett said. "That Don Manuel chap is furious."
"He's probably worked for weeks fixing them to go off, spelling out 'Hail to San Fermin,' " Bill said.
"Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A bunch of bloody globos illuminados."
"Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here."
"Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said.
"How you know things," Brett said.
Inside, the café was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on.
"Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said.
Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed.
"Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on.
"This is a hell of a place," Bill said.
"It's too early."
"Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this."
"Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English."
"They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?"
"They come from Biarritz," Mike said. "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta."
"I'll festa them," Bill said.
"You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?"
"Come off it, Michael."
"I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English."
"I'll festa them," Bill said. "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?"
"Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill."
Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the café. Rockets were going up in the square.
"I'm going to sit here," Brett said.
"I'll stay with you," Cohn said.
"Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?"
"I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight."
"What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed."
"Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!"
"He doesn't add much to the gayety."
"He depresses me so."
"He's behaved very badly."
"Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well."
"He's probably waiting just outside the door now."
"Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything."
"I know."
"Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too."
"It's been damned hard on Mike."
"Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine."
"Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance."
"You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me.
"I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said.
"Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot."
"All right. Talk about anything you like."
"Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night."
"You've got Mike."
"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"
"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you."
"Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do."
Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall.
"Want to go for a walk?"
"Yes. Come on."
I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender.
"Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten."
We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy.
"Come on," said Brett.
As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade.
"He _was_ there," Brett said.
"He can't be away from you."
"Poor devil!"
"I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself."
"I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering."
We walked arm in arm down the side Street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music.
"Want to go in?"
"No."
We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon.
"Don't feel bad," I said.
"I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk."
We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered.
"It's cold."
"Want to walk back?"
"Through the park."
We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees.
"Do you still love me, Jake?"
"Yes," I said.
"Because I'm a goner," Brett said.
"How?"
"I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think."
"I wouldn't be if I were you."
"I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside."
"Don't do it."
"I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything."
"You ought to stop it."
"How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?"
Her hand was trembling.
"I'm like that all through."
"You oughtn't to do it."
"I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?"
"No."
"I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect."
"You don't have to do that."
"Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?"
"Sure."
"I can't just stay tight all the time."
"No."
"Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this."
"Sure."
"I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him."
Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the Street that led into town.
Pedro Romero was in the café. He was at a table with other bullfighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room.
"Ask him to come over and have a drink."
"Not yet. He'll come over."
"I can't look at him."
"He's nice to look at," I said.
"I've always done just what I wanted."
"I know."
"I do feel such a bitch."
"Well," I said.
"My God!" said Brett, "the things a woman goes through."
"Yes?"
"Oh, I do feel such a bitch."
I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands.
"Won't you have a drink?"
"You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face.
"You like cigars?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars."
It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake.
"You fight to-morrow?" I said.
"Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?"
"No," I said. "Badly?"
He shook his head.
"Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart.
"Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?"
"Sometimes. Do you mind?"
"No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire."
He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?"
He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small.
"There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely.
"Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more."
"It's a good hand," Brett said. "I think he'll live a long time."
"Say it to me. Not to your friend."
"I said you'd live a long time."
"I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die."
I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head.
"No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends."
I translated to Brett.
"You kill your friends?" she asked.
"Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table.
"You know English well."
"Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English."
"Why?" asked Brett.
"It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet."
"Why not?"
"They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that."
"What are bull-fighters like?"
He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face.
"Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English."
"Don't forget it, yet," Brett said.
"No?"
"No."
"All right."
He laughed again.
"I would like a hat like that," Brett said.
"Good. I'll get you one."
"Right. See that you do."
"I will. I'll get you one to-night."
I stood up. Romero rose, too.
"Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here."
He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right.
"Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish."
He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the café, twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table.
上午一直在下雨。海上来的雾遮蔽了群山。山顶看不见了。高岗显得阴沉、凄凉，树木和房屋的轮廓也变样了。我走出城外观看天色。海上来的乌云正滚滚涌往山间。
广场上的旗帜湿漉漉地垂挂在白色旗杆上，条幅湿了，粘挂在房屋正面墙上，一阵阵不紧不慢的毛毛雨之间夹着沙沙急雨，把人们驱赶到拱廊下，广场上积起一个个水洼，街道湿了，昏暗了，冷落了；然而狂欢活动仍旧无休止地进行。只是被驱赶得躲起来了。
斗牛场里有顶篷的座位上挤满了人，他们一边坐在那里避雨，一边观看巴斯克和纳瓦拉的舞蹈家和歌手们的汇演，接着卡洛斯谷的舞蹈家们穿着他们的民族服装冒雨沿街舞来，打湿的鼓声音空洞而发闷，各个舞蹈队的领班在队伍前骑着步伐沉重的高头大马，他们穿的民族服装被雨淋湿了，马披也淋湿了。人们挤在咖啡馆里，跳舞的人也进来坐下，他们把紧紧缠着白绑腿的脚伸到桌下，甩去系着铃的小帽上的雨水，打开姹紫嫣红的外衣晾在椅子上。外面的雨下得很急。
我离开咖啡馆里的人群，回到旅馆刮脸，准备吃晚饭。我正在自己房间里刮脸的时候，响起了敲门声。
“进来，”我叫道。
蒙托亚走进屋来。
“你好？”他说。
“很好，”我说。
“今天没有斗牛。”
“是啊，”我说，“什么都没有，只顾下雨。”
“你的朋友们哪儿去啦？”
“在‘伊鲁涅’。”
蒙托亚局促不安地笑了笑。
“听着，”他说。“你认不认识美国大使？”
“认识，”我说。“人人都认识他。”
“现在他就在城里哩。”
“是的，”我说。“人人都看见他们那一伙了。”
“我也看见他们了，”蒙托亚说。他不说下去了。我继续刮我的脸。
“坐吧，”我说。“我叫人拿酒来。”
“不用，我得走了。”
我刮好脸，把脸浸到脸盆里，用凉水洗一洗。蒙托亚显得愈加局促地站在那里。
“听着，”他说。“我刚才接到他们从‘大饭店’捎来的信儿，他们想要佩德罗.罗梅罗和马西亚尔.拉朗达晚饭后过去喝咖啡。”“好啊，”我说，“这对马西亚尔不会有一点儿害处。”
“马西亚尔要在圣塞瓦斯蒂安待整整一天。他和马尔克斯今儿早晨开车子去的。我看他们今儿晚上回不来。”
蒙托亚局促地站着。他等着我开口。
“不要给罗梅罗捎这个信儿，”我说。
“你这么想吗？”
“当然。”
蒙托亚非常高兴。
“因为你是美国人，所以我才来问你，”他说。
“要是我，我会这样办的。”
“你看，”蒙托亚说。“人们竟然这样糊弄孩子。他们不懂得他的价值。他们不懂得他对我们意味着什么。任何一个外国人都可以来捧他。他们从‘大饭店’喝杯咖啡开始，一年后，他们就把他彻底毁了。”
“就象阿尔加贝诺，”我说。
“对了，象阿尔加贝诺那样。”
“这样的人可多着哩，”我说。“现在这里就有一个美国女人在搜罗斗牛士。”
“我知道。她们专挑年轻的。”
“是的，”我说。“老家伙都发胖了。”
“或者象加略那样疯疯癫癫了。”
“哦，”我说，“这个好办。你只要不给他捎这个信儿就完了呗。”“他是个多好的小伙啊，”蒙托亚说。“他应该同自己的人民在一起。他不该参与这种事儿。”“你不喝杯酒？”我问。
“不喝，”蒙托亚说，“我得走了。”他走了出去。
我下楼走出门外，沿拱廊绕广场走了一圈。雨还在下。我在“伊鲁涅”门口往里瞧，寻找我的同伙，可是他们不在那里，于是我绕广场走回旅馆。他们正在楼下餐厅里吃饭。
他们已吃了几道菜，我也不想赶上他们。比尔出钱找人给迈克擦鞋。每当有擦鞋的从街上推开大门朝里望，比尔总把他叫过来，给迈克擦鞋。
“这是第十一次擦我这双靴子了，”迈克说。“嗨，比尔真是个傻瓜。”
擦鞋的显然把消息传开了。又进来一个擦鞋的。
“要擦靴子吗？”他对比尔说。
“我不要，”比尔说。“给这位先生擦。”
这擦鞋的跪在那个正擦着的同行旁边，开始擦迈克那只没有人擦的靴子，这靴子在电灯光里已经显得雪亮了。
“比尔真逗人喜爱，”迈克说。
我在喝红葡萄酒，我远远地落在他们后面，因此对这样不断地擦鞋看着有点不顺眼。我环顾整个餐厅。邻桌坐着佩德罗.罗梅罗。看我向他点头，他就站起来，邀请我过去认识一下他的朋友。他的桌子同我们的桌子相邻，几乎紧挨着。我结识了这位朋友，他是马德里来的斗牛评论员，一个紧绷着脸的小个子。我对罗梅罗说，我非常喜欢他的斗牛技艺，他听了很高兴。我们用西班牙语交谈，评论员懂得一点法语。我伸手到我们桌上拿我的酒瓶，但是评论员拉住了我的手臂。罗梅罗笑了。
“在这儿喝吧，”他用英语说。他说起英语来很腼腆，但是他打心眼儿里乐意说英语，当我们接着谈的时候，他提了几个他不太有把握的词让我给解释。他急于想知道Corrida de toros在英语中叫什么， 它的准确翻译是什么。英语翻成bull-fight（斗牛） ，他感到不妥。我解释说，bull-fight在西班牙语中意为对toro的lidia。Corrida这西班牙词在英语中意为the running of bulls（牛群的奔驰）。——法语是Course de taureaux。 评论员插了这么一句。西班牙语中没有和bull-fighi对应的词儿。
佩德罗.罗梅罗说他在直布罗陀学了点英语。他出生于朗达。在直布罗陀北边不远。他在马拉加的斗牛学校里开始斗牛。他到现在才只干了三年。斗牛评论员取笑他说的话里多的是马拉加方言中的措词。他说他十九岁。他哥哥给他当短枪手，但是不住在这个旅馆里。他和另外一些给罗梅罗当差的人住在一家小客栈里。他问我在斗牛场里看过他几次了。我告诉他只看过三次。实在只有两次，可我说错了就不想再解释了。
“还有一次你在哪里看到我的？在马德里？”
“是的，”我撒了个谎。我在斗牛报上读过关于他在马德里那两次表演的报道，所以我能应付过去。
“第一次出场还是第二次？”
“第一次。”
“第一次很糟，”他说。“第二次强一些。你可记得？”他问评论员。
他一点不拘束。他谈论自己的斗牛就象与己无关似的。一点没有骄傲自满或者自我吹嘘的意思。
“你喜欢我的斗牛我非常高兴，”他说。“但是你还没有看到我的真功夫哩。明天我要是碰上一头好牛的话，我尽力给你露一手。”
他说完这番话就微微一笑，唯恐那斗牛评论员和我会以为他在说大话。
“我渴望能看到你这一手，”评论员说。“你用事实来说服我嘛。”
“他不怎么喜欢我的斗牛，”罗梅罗冲我说。他一本正经。
评论员解释说他非常喜欢，但是这斗牛士的技巧始终没有完全发挥出来过。
“等明天瞧吧，如果上来头好牛的活。”
“你看见明天上场的牛了吗？”评论员问我。
“看见了。我看着放出来的。”
佩德罗.罗梅罗探过身来。
“你看这些牛怎么样？”
“非常健壮，”我说。“约莫有二十六阿罗瓦。犄角很短。你没见着？”
“看见了，”罗梅罗说。
“它们不到二十六阿罗瓦，”评论员说。
“是的，”罗梅罗说。
“它们头上长的是香蕉，不是牛角，”评论员说。
“你管那些叫香蕉？”罗梅罗问。他朝我笑笑。“你不会管牛角叫香蕉吧？”
“不，”我说。“牛角总归是牛角。”“它们很短，”罗梅罗说。“非常非常短。不过，它们可不是香蕉。”
“嗨，杰克，”勃莱特在邻桌喊着，“你把我们扔下不管啦。”
“只是一会儿，”我说。“我们在谈论牛呢。”
“你多神气活现啊。”
“告诉他，牛都不长角，”迈克喊着。他喝醉了。
罗梅罗感到莫名其妙地看着我。
“他醉了，”我说。“Borracho！Muy borracho！”
“你给我们介绍一下你的朋友嘛，”勃莱特说。她一直注视着佩德罗.罗梅罗。我问他们，是否愿意同我们一起喝咖啡。他俩站起来。罗梅罗脸色黝黑。他的举止彬彬有礼。
我把他们给大家作了介绍，他们刚要坐下，但座位不够，所以我们全都挪到靠墙的大桌子上去喝咖啡。迈克吩咐来一瓶芬达多酒，外加每人一个酒杯。接着是醉话连篇。
“跟他说，我认为耍笔杆子最没出息，”比尔说。“说吧，告诉他。跟他说我是作家，没脸见人。”
佩德罗.罗梅罗坐在勃莱特身边，听她说话。
“说吧。告诉他！”比尔说。
罗梅罗抬头一笑。
“这位先生，”我说，“是位作家。”
罗梅罗肃然起敬。“那一位也是，”我用手指着科恩说。
“他长得象比利亚尔塔，”罗梅罗望着比尔说。“拉斐尔象不象比利亚尔塔？”
“我看不出来象在哪儿，”评论员说。“真的，”罗梅罗用西班牙语说。“他非常象比利亚尔塔。那位喝醉酒的先生是干什么的？”“无所事事。”“是不是因为这才喝酒的？”“不是。他是等着同这位夫人结婚哩。”“跟他说，牛没有角！”迈克在桌子另一头醉醺醺地大喊大叫。
“他说什么来着？”
“他醉了。”
“杰克，”迈克喊道。“告诉他，牛没有角！”
“你懂吗？”我说。
“懂。”
我明知道他不懂，所以怎么说也没事儿。
“告诉他，勃莱特想看他穿上那条绿裤子。”
“住嘴，迈克。”
“告诉他，勃莱特太想知道那条裤子他是怎么穿上去的。”
“住嘴”
在这时间里，罗梅罗一直在用手指摸弄他的酒杯并且跟勃莱特说话。勃莱特说法语，他在西班牙语里夹杂点英语，边说边笑。
比尔把每人的酒杯斟满。
“告诉他，勃莱特想走进——”
“嘿，住嘴，迈克，看在基督面上！”
罗梅罗笑吟吟地抬眼望望。“不用说了，这个我明白，”他说。
就在这关头，蒙托亚进屋来了。他正要朝我微笑，但是看见了佩德罗.罗梅罗手里拿着一大杯白兰地，坐在我和一个肩膀袒露的女人之间哈哈大笑，同桌的都是醉汉。他甚至连头都没点一下。
蒙托亚走出餐厅。迈克站起来祝酒。“我们都来干一杯，为——”他开了个头。“为佩德罗.罗梅罗，”我说。全桌的人都站起来。罗梅罗很认真地领受了。我们碰杯，一饮而尽，我有意把这事干得利索一点，因为迈克怕就要说明他祝酒的对象完全不是这一个。然而总算太太平平地了结了。佩德罗.罗梅罗和大家一一握手，就和评论员一起走了。
“我的上帝！这小伙多可爱，”勃莱特说。“我多么想看看他是怎么穿上那套衣服的啊。他得用一个鞋拔才行。”
“我正要告诉他，”迈克又开始说了。“可杰克老是打断我。你为什么不让我说完？你以为你的西班牙语说得比我好吗？”“啊，别说了，迈克！谁也没有碍着你说话。”
“不，我得把话说清楚。”他背过身去。“你以为你有什么了不起吗，科恩？你以为你是属于我们这一伙的？你是想出来好好玩玩的那种人吗？看在上帝面上，别这样吵吵嚷嚷的，科恩！”
“啊，别说了，迈克，”科恩说。
“你以为勃莱特需要你在这里？你以为你是来给我们助兴的？你为什么不说话呀？”
“那天晚上，该说的我都说完了，迈克。”
“我可不是你们这号文人中的一分子。”迈克摇摇晃晃地站着，靠在桌子上多。“我头脑不聪明。但是人家嫌我的时候，我却明白。当人家嫌你的时候，你怎么就察觉不到呢，科恩？走吧。走开，看在上帝分上。带走你那忧伤的犹太面孔。难道我说得不对？”
他扫视着我们。
“着啊，”我说。“我们都到‘伊鲁涅’去吧。”
“不。难道我说得不对？我爱那个女人。”
“啊，别再来这一套了。撇开算了，迈克尔，”勃莱特说。
“难道我说得不对，杰克？”科恩仍然在桌边坐着。他每逢受到侮辱，他的脸色就变得蜡黄，但是他似乎也有点自得其乐。酒后夸夸其谈的蠢话。关于他同一位有衔头的夫人之间的私情啊。
“杰克，”迈克说。他几乎在呼喊了。“你知道我没说错。你给我听着！”他朝科恩说：“你走开！马上走！”
“但是我不想走，迈克，”科恩说。”
“那我来叫你走！”迈克绕过桌角向他走去。科恩站起来，摘下眼镜。他站着等待，脸色蜡黄，放低双手，骄做而毅然地迎候攻击，准备为心上人作一番奋战。
我一把抓住了迈克。“到咖啡馆去吧，”我说。“你不能在这儿旅馆里揍他。”
“好！”迈克说。“好主意！”
我们动身走了。当迈克踉踉跄跄地走上楼梯的时候，我回头看见科恩又戴上了眼镜。比尔坐在桌旁又倒了一杯芬达多酒。勃莱特坐着，两眼呆呆地直视着前方。外面广场上雨停了，月亮正努力探出云层。刮着风。军乐队在演奏，人群挤在广场对面焰火制造技师和他儿子试放焰火气球的地方。气球老是一蹦一蹦地以大幅度的斜线升起，不是被风扯破，就是被吹得撞在广场边的房子上。有一些落在人群里。镁光一闪，焰火爆炸了，在人群里乱窜。广场上没有人跳舞。砂砾地面太湿了。勃莱特同比尔走出来跟我们会聚。我们站在人群中观看焰火大王唐.曼纽尔.奥基托站在一个小平台上，小心翼翼地用杆子把气球送出去，他站得高于众人的头顶，趁风放出气球。风把气球一个个都刮下地面：只见唐.曼纽尔.奥基托在他制作的结构复杂的焰火亮光里，汗流满面，焰火落到人堆里，在人们脚下横冲直撞，僻里啪啦。每当发光的纸球着了火，歪歪扭扭地往下落的时候，人们就尖声喊叫起来。
“他们在嘲笑唐.曼纽尔哩，”比尔说。
“你怎么知道他叫唐.曼纽尔？”勃莱特说，
“节目单上有他的名字。唐.曼纽尔.奥基托，本城的焰火制作技师。”
“照明的气球，”迈克说。“照明气球大展览。节目单上这样写着。”
风把军乐声送到远方去。
“嗨，哪怕放上去一个也好啊，”勃莱特说，“这位唐.曼纽尔急红眼了。”
“为了安排一组气球，爆发时能组成‘圣福明万岁’这些字样，他大概忙了好几个星期，”比尔说。
“照明气球，”迈克说。“一束天杀的照明气球。”
“走吧，”勃莱特说。“我们别在这儿站着。”
“夫人想喝一杯啦，”迈克说。“你真懂事啊，”勃莱特说。
咖啡馆里面很挤，非常吵闹。谁也没注意我们进去。我们找不到空桌子。只听见一片闹嚷嚷的声音。
“走吧，我们离开这里，”比尔说。
在外面，人们在拱廊下散步。有些来自比亚里茨的穿着运动服的英国人和美国人散坐在几张桌子旁。其中有几位妇女用长柄眼镜瞪视着行人。比尔有一个从比亚里茨来的朋友，已加入了我们的一伙。她同另一个姑娘耽搁在“大饭店”。那位姑娘在头痛，已经上床去睡了。
“酒馆到了，”迈克说。这是米兰酒吧，一家低级的小酒吧，在这里可以吃东西，在里屋还有人在跳舞。我们全都在一张桌子旁坐下，叫了一瓶芬达多酒。店堂里没有满座。什么好玩的也没有。
“这是个什么鬼地方，”比尔说。
“还早哩。”
“我们把酒瓶子拿着，一会儿再回来吧，”比尔说。“在这样一个夜晚，我不想在这儿坐着。”
“我们去瞧瞧英国人吧，”迈克说。“我喜欢看英国人。”
“他们真要不得，”比尔说。“他们打哪儿来？”
“从比亚里茨来，”迈克说。“他们来看西班牙这古趣盎然的节庆的最后一天的活动。”
“我来领他们去看吧，”比尔说。
“你是个绝色的姑娘，”迈克对比尔的朋友说。“你什么时候到的？”
“别胡闹了，迈克尔。”
“啊，她的确是位可爱的姑娘。方才我在什么地方呀？我一直在看什么呀？你是个可爱的妞几。我们见过面吗？跟我和比尔走吧。我们领英国人看热闹去。“我领他们去，”比尔说。“他们在这节庆期间到底来干什么呀？”“走吧，”迈克说，“就我们三个人。我们领这帮该死的英国佬看热闹去。希望你不是英国人。我是苏格兰人。我讨厌英国人。我给他们点热闹看看。走吧，比尔。”
透过窗户，我们看见他们三人手臂挽着手臂向咖啡馆走去。焰火弹不断从广场升起。
“我在这儿坐一会，”勃莱特说。
“我陪你，”科恩说。
“呀，不用！”勃莱特说。“看在上帝面上，你到别的地方待着去。你没看见我和杰克想说一会儿话吗？”
“没有，”科恩说。“我想在这里坐着，因为我感到有点醉了。”
“你非要同别人坐在一块。这算个什么理由。你喝醉了就睡觉去。睡觉去吧。”
“我对他太不客气了吧？”勃莱特问。科恩已经走了，“我的上帝！我真讨厌他！”
“他并没有给这欢乐气氛生色。”
“他使我很不痛快。”
“他的行为很不象话。”
“太不象话了。他原是有机会不必这样的。”
“他大概现在就在门外面等着哩。”
“是的。他会这样做的。你知道，我了解他是怎么想的。他不相信那桩事完全是逢场作戏。”
“我知道。”
“谁也不会表现得象他那样糟糕。唉，我对一切都厌倦了。还有迈克尔。迈克尔也叫人够受的。”“这一阵发生的事使迈克太难堪了。”“是的。但是也用不着表现得那么恶劣啊。”“人人都会表现得很恶劣，”我说。“只要一有适当的机会。”“你就不会，”勃莱特望着我说。“我要是科恩，也会象他那样，是头大蠢驴。”
“亲爱的，我们别尽说废话啦。
“好吧。你喜欢说什么就说什么吧。”
“别这样别扭。除了你，我没有别的知心人了，今儿晚上我的情绪特别坏。”
“你有迈克。”
“是的，迈克。可他的表现好吗？”
“啊，”我说，“看到科恩就在旁边，总想和你在一起，实在使迈克太难堪了。”
“难道我还不知道吗，亲爱的？请别弄得我的情绪比现在更坏啦。”
勃莱特急躁不安，过去我从未见过她这样，她的目光避着我，朝前往墙上看。
“想出去走走吗？”
“好。走吧。”
我塞上酒瓶递给管酒吧柜的侍者。”
“让我再喝一杯，”勃莱特说。“我的精神很不好。”
我们每人喝了一杯这种和润的淡味白兰地。
“走吧，”勃莱特说。
我们一出门，我就看见科恩从拱廊下走出来。
“他一直待在那边，”勃莱特说。
“他离不开你。”