Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name.
"We've been thrown out," Edna said.
"By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me."
"I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me."
Bill's face was red.
"Come back in, Edna," he said. "Go on in there and dance with Mike."
"It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row."
"Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said.
"Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub."
"Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta."
"They're so bloody," Mike said. "I hate the English."
"They can't insult Mike," Bill said. "Mike is a swell fellow. They can't insult Mike. I won't stand it. Who cares if he is a damn bankrupt?" His voice broke.
"Who cares?" Mike said. "I don't care. Jake doesn't care. Do _you_ care?"
"No," Edna said. "Are you a bankrupt?"
"Of course I am. You don't care, do you, Bill?"
Bill put his arm around Mike's shoulder.
"I wish to hell I was a bankrupt. I'd show those bastards."
"They're just English," Mike said. "It never makes any difference what the English say."
"The dirty swine," Bill said. "I'm going to clean them out."
"Bill," Edna looked at me. "Please don't go in again, Bill. They're so stupid."
"That's it," said Mike. "They're stupid. I knew that was what it was."
"They can't say things like that about Mike," Bill said.
"Do you know them?" I asked Mike.
"No. I never saw them. They say they know me."
"I won't stand it," Bill said.
"Come on. Let's go over to the Suizo," I said.
"They're a bunch of Edna's friends from Biarritz," Bill said.
"They're simply stupid," Edna said.
"One of them's Charley Blackman, from Chicago," Bill said.
"I was never in Chicago," Mike said.
Edna started to laugh and could not stop.
"Take me away from here," she said, "you bankrupts."
"What kind of a row was it?" I asked Edna. We were walking across the square to the Suizo. Bill was gone.
"I don't know what happened, but some one had the police called to keep Mike out of the back room. There were some people that had known Mike at Cannes. What's the matter with Mike?"
"Probably he owes them money," I said. "That's what people usually get bitter about."
In front of the ticket-booths out in the square there were two lines of people waiting. They were sitting on chairs or crouched on the ground with blankets and newspapers around them. They were waiting for the wickets to open in the morning to buy tickets for the bull-fight. The night was clearing and the moon was out. Some of the people in the line were sleeping.
At the Café Suizo we had just sat down and ordered Fundador when Robert Cohn came up.
"Where's Brett?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"She was with you."
"She must have gone to bed."
"She's not."
"I don't know where she is."
His face was sallow under the light. He was standing up.
"Tell me where she is."
"Sit down," I said. "I don't know where she is."
"The hell you don't!"
"You can shut your face."
"Tell me where Brett is."
"I'll not tell you a damn thing."
"You know where she is."
"If I did I wouldn't tell you."
"Oh, go to hell, Cohn," Mike called from the table. "Brett's gone off with the bull-fighter chap. They're on their honeymoon."
"You shut up."
"Oh, go to hell!" Mike said languidly.
"Is that where she is?" Cohn turned to me.
"Go to hell!"
"She was with you. Is that where she is?"
"Go to hell!"
"I'll make you tell me"--he stepped forward--"you damned pimp."
I swung at him and he ducked. I saw his face duck sideways in the light. He hit me and I sat down on the pavement. As I started to get on my feet he hit me twice. I went down backward under a table. I tried to get up and felt I did not have any legs. I felt I must get on my feet and try and hit him. Mike helped me up. Some one poured a carafe of water on my head. Mike had an arm around me, and I found I was sitting on a chair. Mike was pulling at my ears.
"I say, you were cold," Mike said.
"Where the hell were you?"
"Oh, I was around."
"You didn't want to mix in it?"
"He knocked Mike down, too," Edna said.
"He didn't knock me out," Mike said. "I just lay there."
"Does this happen every night at your fiestas?" Edna asked. "Wasn't that Mr. Cohn?"
"I'm all right," I said. "My head's a little wobbly."
There were several waiters and a crowd of people standing around.
"Vaya!" said Mike. "Get away. Go on."
The waiters moved the people away.
"It was quite a thing to watch," Edna said. "He must be a boxer."
"He is."
"I wish Bill had been here," Edna said. "I'd like to have seen Bill knocked down, too. I've always wanted to see Bill knocked down. He's so big."
"I was hoping he would knock down a waiter," Mike said, "and get arrested. I'd like to see Mr. Robert Cohn in jail."
"No," I said.
"Oh, no," said Edna. "You don't mean that."
"I do, though," Mike said. "I'm not one of these chaps likes being knocked about. I never play games, even."
Mike took a drink.
"I never liked to hunt, you know. There was always the danger of having a horse fall on you. How do you feel, Jake?"
"All right."
"You're nice," Edna said to Mike. "Are you really a bankrupt?"
"I'm a tremendous bankrupt," Mike said. "I owe money to everybody. Don't you owe any money?"
"Tons."
"I owe everybody money," Mike said. "I borrowed a hundred pesetas from Montoya to-night."
"The hell you did," I said.
"I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back."
"That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said.
I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play.
"I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me.
"Is he all right?" Edna asked.
"We'd better walk with him."
"I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later."
I walked away from the café. They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands.
Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town football game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall.
"Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you."
"The hell with him."
"Go on. Go on up and see him."
I did not want to climb another flight of stairs.
"What are you looking at me that way for?"
"I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape."
"You were drunk a little while ago," I said.
"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you."
"All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hail to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked.
"Who is it?"
"Barnes."
"Come in, Jake."
I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark.
"Hello, Jake."
"Don't call me Jake."
I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in.
"Where's the bathroom?" I asked.
Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying.
He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton.
"I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me."
"Forgive you, hell."
"Please forgive me, Jake."
I did not say anything. I stood there by the door.
"I was crazy. You must see how it was."
"Oh, that's all right."
"I couldn't stand it about Brett."
"You called me a pimp."
I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water.
"I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy."
"That's all right."
He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt.
"I'm going away in the morning."
He was crying without making any noise.
"I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more."
He lay there on the bed.
"Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath."
"You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so."
"Well," I said, "so long."
"I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use."
"What?"
"Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake."
"Sure," I said. "It's all right."
"I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything."
"Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go."
He rolled over sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up.
"So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?"
"Sure. Why not?"
We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well.
"Well," I said, "see you in the morning."
"I'm going away in the morning."
"Oh, yes," I said.
I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the room.
"Are you all right, Jake?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right."
I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found it. There was a deep stone tub. I turned on the taps and the water would not run. I sat down on the edge of the bath-tub. When I got up to go I found I had taken off my shoes. I hunted for them and found them and carried them down-stairs. I found my room and went inside and undressed and got into bed.
I woke with a headache and the noise of the bands going by in the street. I remembered I had promised to take Bill's friend Edna to see the bulls go through the street and into the ring. I dressed and went down-stairs and out into the cold early morning. People were crossing the square, hurrying toward the bull-ring. Across the square were the two lines of men in front of the ticket-booths. They were still waiting for the tickets to go on sale at seven o'clock. I hurried across the street to the café. The waiter told me that my friends had been there and gone.
"How many were they?"
"Two gentlemen and a lady."
That was all right. Bill and Mike were with Edna. She had been afraid last night they would pass out. That was why I was to be sure to take her. I drank the coffee and hurried with the other people toward the bull-ring. I was not groggy now. There was only a bad headache. Everything looked sharp and clear, and the town smelt of the early morning.
The stretch of ground from the edge of the town to the bull-ring was muddy. There was a crowd all along the fence that led to the ring, and the outside balconies and the top of the bull-ring were solid with people. I heard the rocket and I knew I could not get into the ring in time to see the bulls come in, so I shoved through the crowd to the fence. I was pushed close against the planks of the fence. Between the two fences of the runway the police were clearing the crowd along. They walked or trotted on into the bull-ring. Then people commenced to come running. A drunk slipped and fell. Two policemen grabbed him and rushed him over to the fence. The crowd were running fast now. There was a great shout from the crowd, and putting my head through between the boards I saw the bulls just coming out of the street into the long running pen. They were going fast and gaining on the crowd. Just then another drunk started out from the fence with a blouse in his hands. He wanted to do capework with the bulls. The two policemen tore out, collared him, one hit him with a club, and they dragged him against the fence and stood flattened out against the fence as the last of the crowd and the bulls went by. There were so many people running ahead of the bulls that the mass thickened and slowed up going through the gate into the ring, and as the bulls passed, galloping together, heavy, muddy-sided, horns swinging, one shot ahead, caught a man in the running crowd in the back and lifted him in the air. Both the man's arms were by his sides, his head went back as the horn went in, and the bull lifted him and then dropped him. The bull picked another man running in front, but the man disappeared into the crowd, and the crowd was through the gate and into the ring with the bulls behind them. The red door of the ring went shut, the crowd on the outside balconies of the bull-ring were pressing through to the inside, there was a shout, then another shout.
The man who had been gored lay face down in the trampled mud. People climbed over the fence, and I could not see the man because the crowd was so thick around him. From inside the ring came the shouts. Each shout meant a charge by some bull into the crowd. You could tell by the degree of intensity in the shout how bad a thing it was that was happening. Then the rocket went up that meant the steers had gotten the bulls out of the ring and into the corrals. I left the fence and started back toward the town.
Back in the town I went to the café to have a second coffee and some buttered toast. The waiters were sweeping out the café and mopping off the tables. One came over and took my order.
"Anything happen at the encierro?"
"I didn't see it all. One man was badly cogido."
"Where?"
"Here." I put one hand on the small of my back and the other on my chest, where it looked as though the horn must have come through. The waiter nodded his head and swept the crumbs from the table with his cloth.
"Badly cogido," he said. "All for sport. All for pleasure."
He went away and came back with the long-handled coffee and milk pots. He poured the milk and coffee. It came out of the long spouts in two streams into the big cup. The waiter nodded his head.
"Badly cogido through the back," he said. He put the pots down on the table and sat down in the chair at the table. "A big horn wound. All for fun. Just for fun. What do you think of that?"
"I don't know."
"That's it. All for fun. Fun, you understand."
"You're not an aficionado?"
"Me? What are bulls? Animals. Brute animals." He stood up and put his hand on the small of his back. "Right through the back. A cornada right through the back. For fun--you understand."
He shook his head and walked away, carrying the coffee-pots. Two men were going by in the street. The waiter shouted to them. They were grave-looking. One shook his head. "Muerto!" he called.
The waiter nodded his head. The two men went on. They were on some errand. The waiter came over to my table.
"You hear? Muerto. Dead. He's dead. With a horn through him. All for morning fun. Es muy flamenco."
"It's bad."
"Not for me," the waiter said. "No fun in that for me."
Later in the day we learned that the man who was killed was named Vicente Girones, and came from near Tafalla. The next day in the paper we read that he was twenty-eight years old, and had a farm, a wife, and two children. He had continued to come to the fiesta each year after he was married. The next day his wife came in from Tafalla to be with the body, and the day after there was a service in the chapel of San Fermin, and the coffin was carried to the railway-station by members of the dancing and drinking society of Tafalla. The drums marched ahead, and there was music on the fifes, and behind the men who carried the coffin walked the wife and two children.. . . Behind them marched all the members of the dancing and drinking societies of Pamplona, Estella, Tafalla, and Sanguesa who could stay over for the funeral. The coffin was loaded into the baggage-car of the train, and the widow and the two children rode, sitting, all three together, in an open third-class railwaycarriage. The train started with a jerk, and then ran smoothly, going down grade around the edge of the plateau and out into the fields of grain that blew in the wind on the plain on the way to Tafalla.
The bull who killed Vicente Girones was named Bocanegra, was Number 118 of the bull-breeding establishment of Sanchez Taberno, and was killed by Pedro Romero as the third bull of that same afternoon. His ear was cut by popular acclamation and given to Pedro Romero, who, in turn, gave it to Brett, who wrapped it in a handkerchief belonging to myself, and left both ear and handkerchief, along with a number of Muratti cigarette-stubs, shoved far back in the drawer of the bed-table that stood beside her bed in the Hotel Montoya, in Pamplona.
Back in the hotel, the night watchman was sitting on a bench inside the door. He had been there all night and was very sleepy. He stood up as I came in. Three of the waitresses came in at the same time. They had been to the morning show at the bull-ring. They went upstairs laughing. I followed them up-stairs and went into my room. I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed. The window was open onto the balcony and the sunlight was bright in the room. I did not feel sleepy. It must have been half past three o'clock when I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knocked on the door.
"Come in."
It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed.
"Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro."
"I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill."
"What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag."
"What happened inside?"
"Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?"
"There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down."
"And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said.
"I heard them yell."
"That was Edna," Bill said.
"Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts."
"One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over."
"They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said.
"What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls."
"The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said.
"It took about an hour."
"It was really about a quarter of an houi" Mike objected.
"Oh, go to hell," Bill said. "You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."
"Where's that beer?" Mike asked.
"What did you do with the lovely Edna?"
"We took her home just now. She's gone to bed."
"How did she like it?"
"Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning."
"She was impressed," Mike said.
"She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action."
"I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said.
"What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!"
"How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked.
"Sore," I said.
Bill laughed.
"Why didn't you hit him with a chair?"
"You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table."
"Where did he go afterward?" I asked.
"Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer."
The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table.
"Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said.
"Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill.
"Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle.
"Really?" Bill asked.
"Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter."
"No."
"Yes."
"What a night!" Bill said.
"He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene."
He took a long drink of the beer.
"He is an ass."
"What happened?"
"Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good."
"I'll bet she was," Bill said.
"Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too."
"I know. He shook hands with me."
"Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny."
"Where did you hear all this?"
"Brett. I saw her this morning."
"What happened finally?"
"It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't do it. Said it would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap sort of rather staggered over to him. Cohn went back against the wall.
"'So you won't hit me?'
"'No,' said Cohn. 'I'd be ashamed to.'
"So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just as hard as he could in the face, and then sat down on the floor. He couldn't get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cohn helped him he'd kill him, and he'd kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. Cohn was crying, and Brett had told him off, and he wanted to shake hands. I've told you that before."
"Tell the rest," Bill said.
"It seems the bull-fighter chap was sitting on the floor. He was waiting to get strength enough to get up and hit Cohn again. Brett wasn't having any shaking hands, and Cohn was crying and telling her how much he loved her, and she was telling him not to be a ruddy ass. Then Cohn leaned down to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. No hard feelings, you know. All for forgiveness. And the bull-fighter chap hit him in the face again."
"That's quite a kid," Bill said.
"He ruined Cohn," Mike said. "You know I don't think Cohn will ever want to knock people about again."
"When did you see Brett?"
"This morning. She came in to get some things. She's looking after this Romero lad."
He poured out another bottle of beer.
"Brett's rather cut up. But she loves looking after people. That's how we came to go off together. She was looking after me."
"I know," I said.
"I'm rather drunk," Mike said. "I think I'll stay rather drunk. This is all awfully amusing, but it's not too pleasant. It's not too pleasant for me."
He drank off the beer.
"I gave Brett what for, you know. I said if she would go about with Jews and bull-fighters and such people, she must expect trouble." He leaned forward. "I say, Jake, do you mind if I drink that bottle of yours? She'll bring you another one."
"Please," I said. "I wasn't drinking it, anyway."
Mike started to open the bottle. "Would you mind opening it?" I pressed up the wire fastener and poured it for him.
"You know," Mike went on, "Brett was rather good. She's always rather good. I gave her a fearful hiding about Jews and bullfighters, and all those sort of people, and do you know what she said: 'Yes. I've had such a hell of a happy life with the British aristocracy!'
He took a drink.
"That was rather good. Ashley, chap she got the title from, was a sailor, you know. Ninth baronet. When he came home he wouldn't sleep in a bed. Always made Brett sleep on the floor. Finally, when he got really bad, he used to tell her he'd kill her. Always slept with a loaded service revolver. Brett used to take the shells out when he'd gone to sleep. She hasn't had an absolutely happy life, Brett. Damned shame, too. She enjoys things so."
He stood up. His hand was shaky.
"I'm going in the room. Try and get a little sleep."
He smiled.
"We go too long without sleep in these fiestas. I'm going to start now and get plenty of sleep. Damn bad thing not to get sleep. Makes you frightfully nervy."
"We'll see you at noon at the Iru?a," Bill said.
Mike went out the door. We heard him in the next room.
He rang the bell and the chambermaid came and knocked at the door.
"Bring up half a dozen bottles of beer and a bottle of Fundador," Mike told her.
"Si, Se?orito."
"I'm going to bed," Bill said. "Poor old Mike. I had a hell of a row about him last night."
"Where? At that Milano place?"
"Yes. There was a fellow there that had helped pay Brett and Mike out of Cannes, once. He was damned nasty."
"I know the story."
"I didn't. Nobody ought to have a right to say things about Mike."
"That's what makes it bad."
"They oughtn't to have any right. I wish to hell they didn't have any right. I'm going to bed."
"Was anybody killed in the ring?"
"I don't think so. Just badly hurt."
"A man was killed outside in the runway."
"Was there?" said Bill.
在米兰酒吧门外，我找到比尔、迈克和埃德娜。埃德娜是那位姑娘的名字。
“我们给撵出来了，”埃德娜说。
“让警察，”迈克说。“里面有些人看不上我。”
“有四次他们险些跟人打架，都是我给挡住了，”埃德娜说。“你该帮我一把。”
比尔的脸红了。
“回到里面去吧，埃德娜，”他说。“你到里面和迈克跳舞去。”
“别蠢了，”埃德娜说。“只会再闹出一场风波。”
“这帮短命的比亚里茨猪猡，”比尔说。
“进去吧，”迈克说。“这里毕竟是个酒馆。他们哪能独霸整个酒馆啊。”
“我的好迈克，”比尔说。“短命的英国猪猡跑到这儿来，侮辱了迈克，把欢庆活动给毁了。”
“他们太无赖了，”迈克说。“我恨英国人。”
“他们不该这样侮辱迈克，”比尔说。“迈克是个大大的好人。他们不该侮辱迈克。我看不下去了。谁在乎他是个倒霉的破产者啊？”他的嗓门哽住了。
“谁在乎呢？”迈克说。“我不在乎。杰克不在乎。你在乎吗？”
“不在乎，”埃德娜说。“你是个破产者吗？”
“我当然是个破产者。你可不在乎，是不，比尔？”
比尔用一只手臂搂着迈克的肩膀。
“但愿我自己也是个破产者。我好给这帮杂种一点颜色看看。”
“他们只不过是些英国人，”迈克说。“英国人说啥你就把它当耳边风好了。”
“卑鄙的畜牲，”比尔说。“我去把他们都赶出来。”
“比尔，”埃德娜说，眼睛望着我。“请你别再进去了，比尔。他们是些大蠢货。”
“就是嘛，”迈克说。“他们是些蠢货。我早就知道他们的真面目。”
“他们不该说那种话来中伤迈克，”比尔说。
“你认识他们？”我问迈克。
“不认识。从没见过他们。他们说认识我。”
“我忍不下去了，”比尔说。
“走吧。我们到‘苏伊佐’去，”我说。
“他们是一伙埃德娜的朋友，是从比亚里茨来的，”比尔说。
“他们简直就是一帮蠢货，”埃德娜说。
“其中有一个名叫查利.布莱克曼，是从芝加哥来的，”比尔“我从来没在芝加哥待过，”迈克说。埃德娜哈哈大笑起来，怎么也止不住。“带我离开这儿吧，”她说，“你们这些破产者。”“怎么吵起来的？”我问埃德娜。我们正在广场上往“苏伊佐”走去。比尔不见了。
“我不知道怎么吵起来的，只看见有个人找警察把迈克从里屋轰出来了。那边有些人在戛纳就认识迈克。迈克怎么啦？”
“大概他欠他们钱了，”我说。“这种事容易结仇。”
在广场上的售票亭前，排着两行人等买票。他们有的坐在椅子上，有的蜷缩在地上，身上裹着毯子和报纸。他们在等售票口早上开售，好买斗牛票。夜色晴朗起来，月亮出来了。有些排队的人在打瞌睡。
到了苏伊佐咖啡馆，我们刚坐下叫了芬达多酒，科恩就来“勃莱特在哪儿？”他问。“我不知道。”“她方才跟你在一块儿。”“她很可能去睡觉了。”“她没有。”“我不知道她在哪儿。”灯光下，只见他的脸色蜡黄。他站起身来。“告诉我她在哪儿。”“你坐下，”我说。“我不知道她在哪儿。”“你他妈的能不知道！”“你给我住嘴。”“告诉我勃莱特在哪儿。”“我什么也不告诉你。”“你知道她在哪儿。”“即使我知道，我也不会告诉你。”“哼，你滚开，科恩，”迈克在桌子那边喊道。“勃莱特跟斗牛的那个小子跑了。他们正在度蜜月哩。”
“你住嘴。”
“哼，你滚吧！”迈克无精打彩地说。
“她真的跟那小子跑了？”科恩转身问我。
“你滚吧！”
“方才她同你在一起来着。她真的跟那小子跑了？”
“你滚！”
“我会叫你告诉我的，”——他向前迈了一步——“你这该死的皮条纤。”
我挥拳对准他打去，他躲开了。我看他的脸在灯光下往旁边一闪。他击中我一拳，我倒下去，坐在人行道上。我正要站起来，他一连击中我两拳。我仰天倒在一张桌子下面。我竭力想站起来，但发现两条腿不听使唤了。我明白我必须站起来设法还他一拳。迈克扶我起来。有人朝我脑袋上浇了一玻璃瓶水。迈克用一只胳膊搂着我，我发觉自己已经坐在椅子上了。迈克在扯我的两只耳朵。
“嗨，你刚才昏死过去了，”迈克说。
“你这该死的，刚才跑哪儿去啦？”
“哦，我就在这儿啊。”
“你不愿介入吗？”
“他把迈克也打倒在地，”埃德娜说。
“他没有把我打昏，”迈克说。“我只是躺着一时起不来。”
“在节期里是不是天天夜里都发生这种事？”埃德娜问。“那位是不是科恩先生？”
“我没事了，”我说。“我的头还有点发晕。”
周围站着几名侍者和一群人。“滚开！”迈克说。“走开。走啊。”
侍者把人驱散了。“这种场面值得一看，”埃德娜说。“他大概是个拳击手。”
“正是。”
“比尔在这儿就好了，”埃德娜说。“我巴不得看到比尔也给打翻在地。我一直想看看比尔被打倒是什么样的。他的个头那么大。”
“我当时巴望他打倒一名侍者，”迈克说，“给逮起来。罗伯特.科恩先生给关进牢里我才高兴呢。”
“不能，”我说。
“啊，别这么说，”埃德娜说。“你是说着玩儿的。”
“我说的是真心话，，迈克说，“我不是那种甘心挨人家揍的人。我甚至从来不跟人玩游戏。”
迈克喝了一口酒。
“你知道，我从来不喜欢打猎。随时都有被马撞的危险啊。你感觉怎么样，杰克？”
“没问题。”
“你这人不错，”埃德娜对迈克说。“你真是个破产户？”
“我是个一败涂地的破产户，”迈克说。“我欠了不知多少人的债。你没有债吗？”
“多着哪。”
“我欠了许多人的债，”迈克说。“今儿晚上我还向蒙托亚借了一百比塞塔。”“你真糟糕，”我说。“我会还的，”迈克说“我一向有债必还。”“所以你才成为个破产户，对不？”埃德娜说。我站起身来。我刚才听到他们的说话，好象是从远处传来的。完全象是一出演得很糟的话剧。“我要回旅馆去了，”我说。然后我听见他们在谈论我。“他不要紧吗？”埃德娜问。“我们最好陪他一起走。”“我没问题，”我说。“你们不用来。我们以后再见。”我离开咖啡馆。他们还坐在桌子边。我回头望望他们和其余的空桌。有个侍者双手托着脑袋坐在一张桌子边。
我步行穿过广场到旅馆，一路上感到似乎一切都变得陌生了，好象过去我从没见过这些树。过去我从没见过这些旗杆，也没见过这座剧院的门面。一切都面目全非了。有一次我从城外踢完足球回家时有过这种感觉。我提着一只装着我的足球用品的皮箱，从该城的车站走上大街，我前半辈子都住在这城市里，但一切都不认识了。有人拿耙子在耙草坪，在路上烧枯叶，我停住脚步看了好大一阵子。一切都是生疏的。然后我继续往前走，我的两只脚好象离开我老远，一切似乎都是从远处向我逼近的，我听见从遥远的地方传来我的脚步声。我的头部在球赛一开始就被人踢中了。此刻我穿过广场时的感觉就跟那时一个样。我怀着那种感觉走上旅馆的楼梯。费了好长时间我才走到楼上，我感到好象手里提着皮箱。屋里的灯亮着。比尔走出来在走廊里迎着我。“嗨，”他说，“上去看看科恩吧。他出了点事，他正找你来着。”“让他见鬼去吧。”“走吧。上去看看他。”我不愿意再爬一层楼。
“你那么瞧着我干什么？”
“我没在瞧你。上去看看科恩吧。他的情绪很糟糕。”
“你方才喝醉了，”我说。
“现在我还醉着哩，”比尔说。“可是你上去看看科恩。他想见你。”
“好吧，”我说。只不过多爬几层楼梯就是了。我提着幻觉中的皮箱继续上楼。我沿着走廊走到科恩的房间。门关着，我敲了下门。
“谁？”
“巴恩斯。”
“进来，杰克。”
我开门进屋，放下我的皮箱。屋里没开灯。科恩在黑地里趴着躺在床上。
“嗨，杰克。”
“别叫我杰克。”
我站在门边。那次我回家也正是这样的。现在我需要的是洗一次热水澡。满满一缸热水，仰脸躺在里面。
“浴室在哪儿？”我问。
科恩在哭。他就在那里，趴在床上哭。他穿着件白色马球衫，就是他在普林斯顿大学穿过的那种。
“对不起，杰克。请原谅我。”
“原谅你，真见鬼。”
“请原谅我，杰克。”
我什么话也不说。我在门边站着。
“我当时疯了。你应该清楚是什么回事。”
“啊，没关系。”
“我一想起勃莱特就受不了。”
“你骂我皮条纤。”
我实在并不在乎。我需要洗个热水澡。我想在满满一缸水里洗个热水澡。
“我明白过来了。请你别记在心上。我疯了。”
“没关系。”
他在哭。他的哭声很滑稽。他在黑地里穿着白短衫躺在床上。他的马球衫。
“我打算明儿早晨走。”
他在不出声地哭泣。
“一想到勃莱特，我就受不了。我经受了百般煎熬，杰克。简直是活受罪。我在这儿跟勃莱特相会以来，她待我如同陌路人一般。我实在受不了啦。我们在圣塞瓦斯蒂安同居过。我想你知道这件事。我再也受不了啦。”
他躺在床上。
“得了，”我说，“我要去洗澡了。”
“你曾经是我唯一的朋友，我过去是那么爱着勃莱特。”
“得了，”我说，“再见吧。”
“我看一切都完了，”他说。“我看是彻底完蛋了。”
“什么？”
“一切。请你说一声你原谅我，杰克。”
“那当然，”我说。“没关系。”“我心情恶劣透了。我经受了痛苦的折磨，杰克。如今一切已成过去。一切。”“好了，”我说，“再见吧。我得走了。”他翻过身来，坐在床沿上，然后站起来。
“再见，杰克，”他说。“你肯跟我握手，是吧？”
“当然罗。为什么不呢？”
我们握握手。在黑暗中我看不大清他的脸。
“好了，”我说，“明儿早上见。”
“我明儿早晨要走了。”
“哦，对，”我说。
我走出来。科恩在门洞子里站着。
“你没问题吗，杰克？”他问。
“是的，”我说。“我没问题。”
我找不到浴室。过了一会儿我才找到。浴室里有个很深的石浴缸。我拧开水龙头，没有水。我坐在浴缸边上。当我站起来要走的时候，我发觉我已经脱掉了鞋子。我寻找鞋子，找到了，就拎着鞋子下楼。我找到自己的房间，走进去，脱掉衣服上了床。
我醒过来的时候感到头痛，听见大街上过往的乐队的喧闹的乐声。我想起曾答应带比尔的朋友埃德娜去看牛群沿街跑向斗牛场。我穿上衣服，下楼走到外面清晨的冷空气中。人们正穿越广场，急忙向斗牛场走去。广场对面，售票亭前排着那两行人。他们还在等着买七点钟出售的票。我快步跨过马路到咖啡馆去。侍者告诉我，我的朋友们已经来过又走了。
“他们有几个人？”
“两位先生和一位小姐。”
这就行了。比尔和迈克跟埃德娜在一起。她昨天夜里怕他们会醉得醒不过来。所以一定要我带她去。我喝完咖啡，混在人群里急忙到斗牛场去。这时我的醉意已经消失，只是头痛得厉害。四周的一切看来鲜明而清晰，城里散发着清晨的气息。
从城边到斗牛场那一段路泥泞不堪。沿着通往斗牛场的栅栏站满了人，斗牛场的外看台和屋顶上也都是人。我听见发射信号弹的爆炸声，我知道我来不及进入斗牛场看牛群入场了，所以就从人群中挤到了栅栏边。我被挤得紧贴着栅栏上的板条。在两道栅栏之间的跑道上，警察在驱赶人群。他们慢步或小跑着进入斗牛场。然后出现了奔跑的人们。一个醉汉滑了一交，摔倒在地。两名警察抓住他，把他拖到栅栏边。这时候人们飞跑着。人群中发出震耳的呼喊声，我把头从板缝中伸出去，看见牛群刚跑出街道进入这两道栅栏之间的长跑道。它们跑得很快，逐渐追上人群。就在这关头，另一名醉汉从栅栏边跑过去，双手抓着一件衬衫。他想拿它当斗篷来同牛斗一场。两名警察一个箭步上去，扭住他的衣领，其中一名给了他一棍，把他拖到栅栏边，让他紧贴在栅栏上站着，一直到最后一批人群和牛群过去。在牛群前面有那么多人在跑，因此在通过大门进入斗牛场的时候，人群密集起来了，并且放慢了脚步。当笨重的、腰际溅满泥浆的牛群摆动着犄角，一起奔驰过去的时候，有一头牛冲向前去，在奔跑着的人群中用犄角抵中一个人的脊背，把他挑起来。当牛角扎进人体中去的时候，这人的两臂耷拉在两侧，头向后仰着，牛把他举了起来，然后把他摔下。这头牛选中了在前面跑的另一个人，但这个人躲到人群中去了，人们在牛群之前通过大门，进入斗牛场。斗牛场的红色大门关上了，斗牛场外看台上的人们拼命挤进场去，发出一阵呼喊声，接着又是一阵。
被牛抵伤的那人脸朝下躺在被人踩烂了的泥浆里。人们翻过栅栏，我看不见这个人了，因为人群紧紧地围在他周围。斗牛场里传出一声声叫喊。每一声都说明有牛冲进人群。根据叫喊声的强弱，你可以知道刚发生的事情糟到什么程度。后来信号弹升起来了，它表明犍牛已经把公牛引出斗牛场，进入牛栏了。我离开栅栏，动身回城。
回到城里，我到咖啡馆去再喝杯咖啡，吃点涂黄油的烤面包。侍者正在扫地，抹桌子。一个侍者过来，听我吩咐他要什么点心。
“把牛赶进牛栏时可曾出什么事？”
“我没有从头看到底。有个人给抵伤，伤得很重。”
“伤在哪儿？””
“这儿。”我把一只手放在后腰上，另一只手放在胸前，表明那只牛角似乎是从这里穿出来的。侍者点点头，用抹布揩掉桌上的面包屑。
“伤得很重，”他说。“光是为了解闷儿。光是为了取乐。”他走了，回来的时候拿着长把的咖啡壶和牛奶壶。他倒出牛奶和咖啡。牛奶和咖啡从两个长壶嘴里分两股倒入大杯里。侍者点点头。
“扎透脊背，伤得很重，”他说。他把两把壶放在桌上，在桌边的椅子上坐下来。“扎得很深。光是为了好玩。仅仅是为了好玩。，你是怎么想的？”
“我说不上。”
“就是那么回事。光是为了好玩。好玩，你懂吧。”
“你不是个斗牛迷吧？”
“我吗？ 牛是啥？ 畜牲。残暴的畜牲。”他站起来，把一只手按在后腰上。“正好扎透脊背。扎透脊背的抵伤。为了好玩——你明白。”
他摇摇头，拿着咖啡壶走了，有两个人在街上走过。侍者大声喊他们。他们脸色阴沉。一个人摇摇头。“死了！”他叫道。
侍者点点头。两人继续赶路。他们有事在身。侍者走到我桌边来。
“你听见啦？死了！死了。他死了。让牛角扎穿了。全是为了开心一个早晨。真太荒唐了。”
“很糟糕。”
“我看不出来，”侍者说。“我看不出来有什么好玩的。”
当天晚些时候，我们得悉这被抵死的人名叫维森特.吉罗尼斯，是从塔法雅附近来的。第二天在报上我们看到，他二十八岁，有一个农场，有老婆和两个孩子。他结婚后，每年都依旧前来参加节日活动。第二天他妻子从塔法雅赶来守灵，第三天在圣福明小教堂举行丧事礼拜，塔法雅跳舞饮酒会的会员们抬棺材到车站。由鼓手开路，笛子手吹奏哀乐，抬棺木人的后面跟着死者的妻子和两个孩子。……在他们后面列队前进的是潘普洛纳、埃斯特拉、塔法雅和桑盖萨所有能够赶来过夜并参加葬礼的跳舞饮酒会的成员。棺材装上火车的行李车厢，寡妇和两个孩子三人一起乘坐在一节敞篷的三等车厢里。火车猛然一抖动就启动了，然后平稳地绕着高岗边缘下坡，行驶在一马平川的庄稼地里，一路向塔法雅驰去，地里的庄稼随风摆动着。
挑死维森特.吉罗尼斯的那头牛名叫“黑嘴”，是桑切斯.塔凡尔诺饲牛公司的第118号公牛，是当天下午被杀的第三头牛，是由佩德罗.罗梅罗杀死的。在群众的欢呼声中，牛耳朵被割下未，送给佩德罗.罗梅罗，罗梅罗又转送给勃莱特。她把牛耳朵用我的手帕包好，后来回到潘普洛纳的蒙托亚旅馆，就把这两样东西，牛耳朵和手帕，连同一些穆拉蒂牌香烟头，使劲塞在她床头柜抽屉的最里边。
我回到旅馆，守夜人坐在大门里面的板凳上。他整夜守候在那里，已经困倦不堪了。我一进门，他就站起来。三名女侍者和我同时进门。她们在斗牛场看了早场。她们嘻嘻哈哈地走上楼去。我跟在她们后面上楼，走进自己的房间。我脱掉皮鞋，上床躺下。朝阳台的窗子开着，阳光照得屋里亮堂堂的。我并不觉得困。我睡下时想必已是三点半，乐队在六点把我吵醒了。我下巴的两侧感到疼痛。我用手指摸摸疼痛的地方。该死的科恩。他第一次受到了欺侮就应该打人，然后走掉。他是那么深信勃莱特在爱他。他要待下去，以为忠实的爱情会征服一切。有人来敲门了。
“进来。”
是比尔和迈克。他们在床上坐下。
“把牛赶进牛栏，很精彩，”比尔说。“很精彩、”
“嗨，你难道没在那边？”迈克问。“按铃叫人送些啤酒来，比尔。”
“今儿早晨真带劲儿！”比尔说。他抹了下脸。“我的上帝！真带劲儿！可我们的好杰克躺在这儿。好杰克啊，活的练拳沙袋。”
“斗牛场里出了什么事？”
“上帝！”比尔说，“出了什么事，迈克？”
“那些牛冲进场子，”迈克说。“人们就在它们前面跑，有一个家伙绊倒了，接着倒了一大片。”
“可牛群都冲进去，踏过他们的身子，”比尔说。
“我听见他们叫喊。”
“那是埃德娜，”比尔说。
“有人不断地从人群里跑出来，挥舞他们的衬衫。”
“有头公牛沿着第一排座位前的栅栏跑，见人就挑。”
“大约有二十个家伙送医院去了，”迈克说。
“今儿早晨真带劲儿！”比尔说。“多管闲事的警察把那些想自己投身在牛角下自杀的人陆续地都逮起来了。”
“最后是犍牛把它们引进去的，”迈克说。
“延续了一个来钟头。”
“实际上只有一刻钟左右，”迈克反驳说。
“去你的吧，”比尔说。“你参加打架去了。我可认为有两个半钟头。”
“啤酒还没来吗？”迈克问。
“你们把可爱的埃德娜怎么啦？”
“我们刚送她回家。她上床了。”
“她喜欢看吗？”
“非常喜欢。我们告诉她天天早晨如此，”
“给了她很深刻的印象，”迈克说。
“她要我们也下斗牛场去，”比尔说。“她喜欢惊险场面。”
“我说，这样对我的债主们很不利，”迈克说。
“今儿早晨真带劲儿，”比尔说。“夜里也带劲儿！”
“你的下巴怎么样，杰克？”迈克问。
“痛着呢，”我说。
比尔笑了。
“你为什么不拿椅子揍他呢？”
“你说得倒好听，”迈克说。“你在的话也会把你打得晕过去。我没看见他怎么揍我的。我回想起来，只看见他站在我前面，突然间我就坐在马路上了，杰克躺在桌子底下。”
“后来他上哪儿去啦？”我问。
“她来了，”迈克说。“这位漂亮的小姐拿啤酒来了。”
侍女把放啤酒瓶和玻璃杯的托盘放在桌上。
“再去拿三瓶来，”迈克说。
“科恩揍了我以后到哪儿去了？”我问比尔。
“难道你不知道？”迈克动手开一瓶啤酒。他拿一个玻璃杯紧凑着瓶口，往里倒啤酒。
“真的不知道？”比尔问。“啊，他来到这里，在斗牛小伙的房间里找到他和勃莱特在一起，然后他就宰了这可怜而该死的斗牛士。”
“不能！”
“真的。”
“这一夜太带劲儿了！”比尔说。
“他差一点宰了这可怜而该死的斗牛士。然后科恩要带勃莱特一起