In the morning it was all over. The fiesta was finished. I woke about nine o'clock, had a bath, dressed, and went down-stairs. The square was empty and there were no people on the streets. A few children were picking up rocket-sticks in the square. The cafés were just opening and the waiters were carrying Out the comfortable white wicker chairs and arranging them around the marble-topped tables in the shade of the arcade. They were sweeping the streets and sprinkling them with a hose.
I sat in one of the wicker chairs and leaned back comfortably. The waiter was in no hurry to come. The white-paper announcements of the unloading of the bulls and the big schedules of special trains were still up on the pillars of the arcade. A waiter wearing a blue apron came out with a bucket of water and a cloth, and commenced to tear down the notices, pulling the paper off in strips and washing and rubbing away the paper that stuck to the stone. The fiesta was over.
I drank a coffee and after a while Bill came over. I watched him come walking across the square. He sat down at the table and ordered a coffee.
"Well," he said, "it's all over."
"Yes," I said. "When do you go?"
"I don't know. We better get a car, I think. Aren't you going back to Paris?"
"No. I can stay away another week. I think I'll go to San Sebastian."
"I want to get back."
"What's Mike going to do?"
"He's going to Saint Jean de Luz."
"Let's get a car and all go as far as Bayonne. You can get the train up from there to-night."
"Good. Let's go after lunch."
"All right. I'll get the car."
We had lunch and paid the bill. Montoya did not come near us. One of the maids brought the bill. The car was outside. The chauffeur piled and strapped the bags on top of the car and put them in beside him in the front seat and we got in. The car went out of the square, along through the side streets, out under the trees and down the hill and away from Pamplona. It did not seem like a very long ride. Mike had a bottle of Fundador. I only took a couple of drinks. We came over the mountains and out of Spain and down the white roads and through the overfoliaged, wet, green, Basque country, and finally into Bayonne. We left Bill's baggage at the station, and he bought a ticket to Paris. His train left at seven-ten. We came out of the station. The car was standing out in front.
"What shall we do about the car?" Bill asked.
"Oh, bother the car," Mike said. "Let's just keep the car with us."
"All right," Bill said. "Where shall we go?"
"Let's go to Biarritz and have a drink."
"Old Mike the spender," Bill said.
We drove in to Biarritz and left the car outside a very Ritz place. We went into the bar and sat on high stools and drank a whiskey and soda.
"That drink's mine," Mike said.
"Let's roll for it."
So we rolled poker dice out of a deep leather dice-cup. Bill was out first roll. Mike lost to me and handed the bartender a hundred-franc note. The whiskeys were twelve francs apiece. We had another round and Mike lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip. In a room off the bar there was a good jazz band playing. It was a pleasant bar. We had another round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and let them stay. He handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill rattled them and rolled, and there were three kings, an ace. and a queen.
"It's yours, Mike," Bill said. "Old Mike, the gambler."
"I'm so sorry," Mike said. "I can't get it."
"What's the matter?"
"I've no money," Mike said. "I'm stony. I've just twenty francs. Here, take twenty francs."
Bill's face sort of changed.
"I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damned lucky to have it, too."
"I'll cash you a check," Bill said.
"That's damned nice of you, but you see I can't write checks."
"What are you going to do for money?"
"Oh, some will come through. I've two weeks allowance should be here. I can live on tick at this pub in Saint Jean."
"What do you want to do about the car?" Bill asked me. "Do you want to keep it on?"
"It doesn't make any difference. Seems sort of idiotic."
"Come on, let's have another drink," Mike said.
"Fine. This one is on me," Bill said. "Has Brett any money?" He turned to Mike.
"I shouldn't think so. She put up most of what I gave to old Montoya."
"She hasn't any money with her?" I asked.
"I shouldn't think so. She never has any money. She gets five hundred quid a year and pays three hundred and fifty of it in interest to Jews."
"I suppose they get it at the source," said Bill.
"Quite. They're not really Jews. We just call them Jews. They're Scotsmen, I believe."
"Hasn't she any at all with her?" I asked.
"I hardly think so. She gave it all to me when she left."
"Well," Bill said, "we might as well have another drink."
"Damned good idea," Mike said. "One never gets anywhere by discussing finances."
"No," said Bill. Bill and I rolled for the next two rounds. Bill lost and paid. We went out to the car.
"Anywhere you'd like to go, Mike?" Bill asked.
"Let's take a drive. It might do my credit good. Let's drive about a little."
"Fine. I'd like to see the coast. Let's drive down toward Hendaye."
"I haven't any credit along the coast."
"You can't ever tell," said Bill.
We drove out along the coast road. There was the green of the headlands, the white, red-roofed villas, patches of forest, and the ocean very blue with the tide out and the water curling far out along the beach. We drove through Saint Jean de Luz and passed through villages farther down the coast. Back of the rolling country we were going through we saw the mountains we had come over from Pamplona. The road went on ahead. Bill looked at his watch. It was time for us to go back. He knocked on the glass and told the driver to turn around. The driver backed the car out into the grass to turn it. In back of us were the woods, below a stretch of meadow, then the sea.
At the hotel where Mike was going to stay in Saint Jean we stopped the car and he got out. The chauffeur carried in his bags. Mike stood by the side of the car.
"Good-bye, you chaps," Mike said. "It was a damned fine fiesta."
"So long, Mike," Bill said.
"I'll see you around," I said.
"Don't worry about money," Mike said. "You can pay for the car, Jake, and I'll send you my share."
"So long, Mike."
"So long, you chaps. You've been damned nice."
We all shook hands. We waved from the car to Mike. He stood in the road watching. We got to Bayonne just before the train left. A porter carried Bill's bags in from the consigne. I went as far as the inner gate to the tracks.
"So long, fella," Bill said.
"So long, kid!"
"It was swell. I've had a swell time."
"Will you be in Paris?"
"No, I have to sail on the 17th. So long, fella!"
"So long, old kid!"
He went in through the gate to the train. The porter went ahead with the bags. I watched the train pull out. Bill was at one of the windows. The window passed, the rest of the train passed, and the tracks were empty. I went outside to the car.
"How much do we owe you?" I asked the driver. The price to Bayonne had been fixed at a hundred and fifty pesetas.
"Two hundred pesetas."
"How much more will it be if you drive me to San Sebastian on your way back?"
"Fifty pesetas."
"Don't kid me."
"Thirty-five pesetas."
"It's not worth it," I said. "Drive me to the Hotel Panier Fleuri."
At the hotel I paid the driver and gave him a tip. The car was powdered with dust. I rubbed the rod-case through the dust. It seemed the last thing that connected me with Spain and the fiesta. The driver put the car in gear and went down the street. I watched it turn off to take the road to Spain. I went into the hotel and they gave me a room. It was the same room I had slept in when Bill and Cohn and I were in Bayonne. That seemed a very long time ago. I washed, changed my shirt, and went out in the town.
At a newspaper kiosque I bought a copy of the New York _Herald_ and sat in a café to read it. It felt strange to be in France again. There was a safe, suburban feeling. I wished I had gone up to Paris with Bill, except that Paris would have meant more fiesta-ing. I was through with fiestas for a while. It would be quiet in San Sebastian. The season does not open there until August. I could get a good hotel room and read and swim. There was a fine beach there. There were wonderful trees along the promenade above the beach, and there were many children sent down with their nurses before the season opened. In the evening there would be band concerts under the trees across from the Café Marinas. I could sit in the Marinas and listen.
"How does one eat inside?" I asked the waiter. Inside the café was a restaurant.
"Well. Very well. One eats very well."
"Good."
I went in and ate dinner. It was a big meal for France but it seemed very carefully apportioned after Spain. I drank a bottle of wine for company. It was a Chateau Margaux. It was pleasant to be drinking slowly and to be tasting the wine and to be drinking alone. A bottle of wine was good company. Afterward I had coffee. The waiter recommended a Basque liqueur called Izzarra. He brought in the bottle and poured a liqueur-glass full. He said Izzarra was made of the flowers of the Pyrenees. The veritable flowers of the Pyrenees. It looked like hair-oil and smelled like Italian _strega_. I told him to take the flowers of the Pyrenees away and bring me a _vieux marc_. The _marc_ was good. I had a second _marc_ after the coffee.
The waiter seemed a little offended about the flowers of the Pyrenees, so I overtipped him. That made him happy. It felt comfortable to be in a country where it is so simple to make people happy. You can never tell whether a Spanish waiter will thank you. Everything is on such a clear financial basis in France. It is the simplest country to live in. No one makes things complicated by becoming your friend for any obscure reason. If you want people to like you you have only to spend a little money. I spent a little money and the waiter liked me. He appreciated my valuable qualities. He would be glad to see me back. I would dine there again some time and he would be glad to see me, and would want me at his table. It would be a sincere liking because it would have a sound basis. I was back in France.
Next morning I tipped every one a little too much at the hotel to make more friends, and left on the morning train for San Sebastian. At the station I did not tip the porter more than I should because I did not think I would ever see him again. I only wanted a few good French friends in Bayonne to make me welcome in case I should come back there again. I knew that if they remembered me their friendship would be loyal.
At Irun we had to change trains and show passports. I hated to leave France. Life was so simple in France. I felt I was a fool to be going back into Spain. In Spain you could not tell about anything. I felt like a fool to be going back into it, but I stood in line with my passport, opened my bags for the customs, bought a ticket, went through a gate, climbed onto the train, and after forty minutes and eight tunnels I was at San Sebastian.
Even on a hot day San Sebastian has a certain early-morning quality. The trees seem as though their leaves were never quite dry. The streets feel as though they had just been sprinkled. It is always cool and shady on certain streets on the hottest day. I went to a hotel in the town where I had stopped before, and they gave me a room with a balcony that opened out above the roofs of the town. There was a green mountainside beyond the roofs.
I unpacked my bags and stacked my books on the table beside the head of the bed, put out my shaving things, hung up some clothes in the big armoire, and made up a bundle for the laundry. Then I took a shower in the bathroom and went down to lunch. Spain had not changed to summer-time, so I was early. I set my watch again. I had recovered an hour by coming to San Sebastian.
As I went into the dining-room the concierge brought me a police bulletin to fill out. I signed it and asked him for two telegraph forms, and wrote a message to the Hotel Montoya, telling them to forward all mail and telegrams for me to this address. I calculated how many days I would be in San Sebastian and then wrote out a wire to the office asking them to hold mail, but forward all wires for me to San Sebastian for six days. Then I went in and had lunch.
After lunch I went up to my room, read a while, and went to sleep. When I woke it was half past four. I found my swimming-suit, wrapped it with a comb in a towel, and went down-stairs and walked up the street to the Concha. The tide was about half-way out. The beach was smooth and firm, and the sand yellow. I went into a bathing-cabin, undressed, put on my suit, and walked across the smooth sand to the sea. The sand was warm under bare feet. There were quite a few people in the water and on the beach. Out beyond where the headlands of the Concha almost met to form the harbor there was a white line of breakers and the open sea. Although the tide was going out, there were a few slow rollers. They came in like undulations in the water gathered weight of water, and then broke smoothly on the warm sand. I waded out. The water was cold. As a roller came I dove, swam out under water, and came to the surface with all the chill gone. I swam out to the raft, pulled myself up, and lay on the hot planks. A boy and girl were at the other end. The girl had undone the top strap of her bathing-suit and was browning her back. The boy lay face downward on the raft and talked to her. She laughed at things he said, and turned her brown back in the sun. I lay on the raft in the sun until I was dry. Then I tried several dives. I dove deep once, swimming down to the bottom. I swam with my eyes open and it was green and dark. The raft made a dark shadow. I came out of the water beside the raft, pulled up, dove once more, holding it for length, and then swam ashore. I lay on the beach until I was dry, then went into the bathing-cabin, took off my suit, sloshed myself with fresh water, and rubbed dry.
I walked around the harbor under the trees to the casino, and then up one of the cool streets to the Café Marinas. There was an orchestra playing inside the café and I sat out on the terrace and enjoyed the fresh coolness in the hot day, and had a glass of lemonjuice and shaved ice and then a long whiskey and soda. I sat in front of the Marinas for a long time and read and watched the people, and listened to the music.
Later when it began to get dark, I walked around the harbor and out along the promenade, and finally back to the hotel for supper. There was a bicycle-race on, the Tour du Pays Basque, and the riders were stopping that night in San Sebastian. In the dining-room, at one side, there was a long table of bicycle-riders, eating with their trainers and managers. They were all French and Belgians, and paid close attention to their meal, but they were having a good time. At the head of the table were two good-looking French girls, with much Rue du Faubourg Montmartre chic. I could not make out whom they belonged to. They all spoke in slang at the long table and there were many private jokes and some jokes at the far end that were not repeated when the girls asked to hear them. The next morning at five o'clock the race resumed with the last lap, San Sebastian-Bilbao. The bicycle-riders drank much wine, and were burned and browned by the sun. They did not take the race seriously except among themselves. They had raced among themselves so often that it did not make much difference who won. Especially in a foreign country. The money could be arranged.
The man who had a matter of two minutes lead in the race had an attack of boils, which were very painful. He sat on the small of his back. His neck was very red and the blond hairs were sunburned. The other riders joked him about his boils. He tapped on the table with his fork.
"Listen," he said, "to-morrow my nose is so tight on the handlebars that the only thing touches those boils is a lovely breeze."
One of the girls looked at him down the table, and he grinned and turned red. The Spaniards, they said, did not know how to pedal.
I had coffee out on the terrasse with the team manager of one of the big bicycle manufacturers. He said it had been a very pleasant race, and would have been worth watching if Bottechia had not abandoned it at Pamplona. The dust had been bad, but in Spain the roads were better than in France. Bicycle road-racing was the only sport in the world, he said. Had I ever followed the Tour de France? Only in the papers. The Tour de France was the greatest sporting event in the world. Following and organizing the road races had made him know France. Few people know France. All spring and all summer and all fall he spent on the road with bicycle road-racers. Look at the number of motor-cars now that followed the riders from town to town in a road race. It was a rich country and more _sportif_ every year. It would be the most _sportif_ country in the world. It was bicycle road-racing did it. That and football. He knew France. _La France Sportive_. He knew road-racing. We had a cognac. After all, though, it wasn't bad to get back to Paris. There is only one Paname. In all the world, that is. Paris is the town the most _sportif_ in the world. Did I know the _Chope de Negre?_ Did I not. I would see him there some time. I certainly would. We would drink another _fine_ together. We certainly would. They started at six o'clock less a quarter in the morning. Would I be up for the depart? I would certainly try to. Would I like him to call me? It was very interesting. I would leave a call at the desk. He would not mind calling me. I could not let him take the trouble. I would leave a call at the desk. We said good-bye until the next morning.
In the morning when I awoke the bicycle-riders and their following cars had been on the road for three hours. I had coffee and the papers in bed and then dressed and took my bathing-suit down to the beach. Everything was fresh and cool and damp in the early morning. Nurses in uniform and in peasant costume walked under the trees with children. The Spanish children were beautiful. Some bootblacks sat together under a tree talking to a soldier. The soldier had only one arm. The tide was in and there was a good breeze and a surf on the beach.
I undressed in one of the bath-cabins, crossed the narrow line of beach and went into the water. I swam out, trying to swim through the rollers, but having to dive sometimes. Then in the quiet water I turned and floated. Floating I saw only the sky, and felt the drop and lift of the swells. I swam back to the surf and coasted in, face down, on a big roller, then turned and swam, trying to keep in the trough and not have a wave break over me. It made me tired, swimming in the trough, and I turned and swam out to the raft. The water was buoyant and cold. It felt as though you could never sink. I swam slowly, it seemed like a long swim with the high tide, and then pulled up on the raft and sat, dripping, on the boards that were becoming hot in the sun. I looked around at the bay, the old town, the casino, the line of trees along the promenade, and the big hotels with their white porches and gold-lettered names. Off on the right, almost closing the harbor, was a green hill with a castle. The raft rocked with the motion of the water. On the other side of the narrow gap that led into the open sea was another high headland. I thought I would like to swim across the bay but I was afraid of cramp.
I sat in the sun and watched the bathers on the beach. They looked very small. After a while I stood up, gripped with my toes on the edge of the raft as it tipped with my weight, and dove cleanly and deeply, to come up through the lightening water, blew the salt water out of my head, and swam slowly and steadily in to shore.
After I was dressed and had paid for the bath-cabin, I walked back to the hotel. The bicycle-racers had left several copies of _L'Auto_ around, and I gathered them up in the reading-room and took them out and sat in an easy chair in the sun toread about and catch up on French sporting life. While I was sitting there the concierge came out with a blue envelope in his hand.
"A telegram for you, sir."
I poked my finger along under the fold that was fastened down, spread it open, and read it. It had been forwarded from Paris:
COULD YOU COME HOTEL MONTANA MADRID
AM RATHER IN TROUBLE BRETT.
I tipped the concierge and read the message again. A postman was coming along the sidewalk. He turned into the hotel. He had a big moustache and looked very military. He came out of the hotel again. The concierge was just behind him.
"Here's another telegram for you, sir."
"Thank you," I said.
I opened it. It was forwarded from Pamplona.
COULD YOU COME HOTEL MONTANA MADRID
AM RATHER IN TROUBLE BRETT.
The concierge stood there waiting for another tip, probably.
"What time is there a train for Madrid?"
"It left at nine this morning. There is a slow train at eleven, and the Sud Express at ten to-night."
"Get me a berth on the Sud Express. Do you want the money now?"
"Just as you wish," he said. "I will have it put on the bill."
"Do that."
Well, that meant San Sebastian all shot to hell. I suppose, vaguely, I had expected something of the sort. I saw the concierge standing in the doorway.
"Bring me a telegram form, please."
He brought it and I took out my fountain-pen and printed:
LADY ASHLEY HOTEL MONTANA MADRID
ARRIVING SUD EXPRESS TOMORROW
LOVE JAKE.
That seemed to handle it. That was it. Send a girl off with one man. Introduce her to another to go off with him. Now go and bring her back. And sign the wire with love. That was it all right. I went in to lunch.
I did not sleep much that night on the Sud Express. In the morning I had breakfast in the dining-car and watched the rock and pine country between Avila and Escorial. I saw the Escorial out of the window, gray and long and cold in the sun, and did not give a damn about it. I saw Madrid come up over the plain, a compact white skyline on the top of a little cliff away off across the sun-hardened country.
The Norte station in Madrid is the end of the line. All trains finish there. They don't go on anywhere. Outside were cabs and taxis and a line of hotel runners. It was like a country town. I took a taxi and we climbed up through the gardens, by the empty palace and the unfinished church on the edge of the cliff, and on up until we were in the high, hot, modern town. The taxi coasted down a smooth street to the Puerta del Sol, and then through the traffic and out into the Carrera San Jeronimo. All the shops had their awnings down against the heat. The windows on the sunny side of the street were shuttered. The taxi stopped at the curb. I saw the sign HOTEL MONTANA on the second floor. The taxi-driver carried the bags in and left them by the elevator. I could not make the elevator work, so I walked up. On the second floor up was a cut brass sign: HOTEL MONTANA. I rang and no one came to the door. I rang again and a maid with a sullen face opened the door.
"Is Lady Ashley here?" I asked.
She looked at me dully.
"Is an Englishwoman here?"
She turned and called some one inside. A very fat woman came to the door. Her hair was gray and stiffly oiled in scallops around her face. She was short and commanding.
"Muy buenos," I said. "Is there an Englishwoman here? I would like to see this English lady."
"Muy buenos. Yes, there is a female English. Certainly you can see her if she wishes to see you."
"She wishes to see me."
"The chica will ask her."
"It is very hot."
"It is very hot in the summer in Madrid."
"And how cold in winter."
"Yes, it is very cold in winter."
Did I want to stay myself in person in the Hotel Montana?
Of that as yet I was undecided, but it would give me pleasure if my bags were brought up from the ground floor in order that they might not be stolen. Nothing was ever stolen in the Hotel Montana. In other fondas, yes. Not here. No. The personages of this establishment were rigidly selectioned. I was happy to hear it. Nevertheless I would welcome the upbringal of my bags.
The maid came in and said that the female English wanted to see the male English now, at once.
"Good," I said. "You see. It is as I said."
"Clearly."
I followed the maid's back down a long, dark corridor. At the end she knocked on a door.
"Hello," said Brett. "Is it you, jake?"
"It's me."
"Come in. Come in."
I opened the door. The maid closed it after me. Brett was in bed. She had just been brushing her hair and held the brush in her hand. The room was in that disorder produced only by those who have always had servants.
"Darling!" Brett said.
I went over to the bed and put my arms around her. She kissed me, and while she kissed me I could feel she was thinking of something else. She was trembling in my arms. She felt very small.
"Darling! I've had such a hell of a time."
"Tell me about it."
"Nothing to tell. He only left yesterday. I made him go."
"Why didn't you keep him?"
"I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing one does. I don't think I hurt him any."
"You were probably damn good for him."
"He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away."
"No."
"Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it."
"All right."
"It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know."
"No."
"Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the café, I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell."
"It's funny."
"He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright."
"What happened?"
"Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long."
"What was it about being in trouble?"
"I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know."
"No."
"Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me a cigarette."
I lit the cigarette.
"He learned his English as a waiter in Gib."
"Yes."
"He wanted to marry me, finally."
"Really?"
"Of course. I can't even marry Mike."
"Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley."
"No. It wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me. So I couldn't go away from him, he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him. After I'd gotten more womanly, of course."
"You ought to feel set up."
"I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn."
"Good."
"You know I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him. We got along damned well."
"Outside of your personal appearance."
"Oh, he'd have gotten used to that."
She put out the cigarette.
"I'm thirty-four, you know. I'm not going to be one of these bitches that ruins children."
"No."
"I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up."
"Good."
She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her.
"Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it."
"Dear Brett."
"I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held her close. "He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing."
She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her shaking.
"I won't be one of those bitches," she said. "But, oh, Jake, please let's never talk about it."
We left the Hotel Montana. The woman who ran the hotel would not let me pay the bill. The bill had been paid.
"Oh, well. Let it go," Brett said. "It doesn't matter now."
We rode in a taxi down to the Palace Hotel, left the bags, arranged for berths on the Sud Express for the night, and went into the bar of the hotel for a cocktail. We sat on high stools at the bar while the barman shook the Martinis in a large nickelled shaker.
"It's funny what a wonderful gentility you get in the bar of a big hotel," I said.
"Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are polite any more."
"No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always nice."
"It's odd."
"Bartenders have always been fine."
"You know," Brett said, "it's quite true. He is only nineteen. Isn't it amazing?"
We touched the two glasses as they stood side by side on the bar. They were coldly beaded. Outside the curtained window was the summer heat of Madrid.
"I like an olive in a Martini," I said to the barman.
"Right you are, sir. There you are."
"Thanks."
"I should have asked, you know."
The barman went far enough up the bar so that he would not hear our conversation. Brett had sipped from the Martini as it stood, on the wood. Then she picked it up. Her hand was steady enough to lift it after that first sip.
"It's good. Isn't it a nice bar?"
"They're all nice bars."
"You know I didn't believe it at first. He was born in 1905. I was in school in Paris, then. Think of that."
"Anything you want me to think about it?"
"Don't be an ass. _Would_ you buy a lady a drink?"
"We'll have two more Martinis."
"As they were before, sir?"
"They were very good." Brett smiled at him.
"Thank you, ma'am."
"Well, bung-o," Brett said.
"Bung-o!"
"You know," Brett said, "he'd only been with two women before. He never cared about anything but bull-fighting."
"He's got plenty of time."
"I don't know. He thinks it was me. Not the show in general."
"Well, it was you."
"Yes. It was me."
"I thought you weren't going to ever talk about it."
"How can I help it?"
"You'll lose it if you talk about it."
"I just talk around it. You know I feel rather damned good, Jake."
"You should."
"You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch."
"Yes."
"It's sort of what we have instead of God."
"Some people have God," I said. "Quite a lot."
"He never worked very well with me."
"Should we have another Martini?"
The barman shook up two more Martinis and poured them out into fresh glasses.
"Where will we have lunch?" I asked Brett. The bar was cool. You could feel the heat outside through the window.
"Here?" asked Brett.
"It's rotten here in the hotel. Do you know a place called Botin's?" I asked the barman.
"Yes, sir. Would you like to have me write out the address?"
"Thank you."
We lunched up-stairs at Botin's. It is one of the best restaurants in the world. We had roast young suckling pig and drank _rioja alta_. Brett did not eat much. She never ate much. I ate a very big meal and drank three bottles of _rioja alta_.
"How do you feel, Jake?" Brett asked. "My God! what a meal you've eaten."
"I feel fine. Do you want a dessert?"
"Lord, no."
Brett was smoking.
"You like to eat, don't you?" she said.
"Yes," I said. "I like to do a lot of things."
"What do you like to do?"
"Oh," I said, "I like to do a lot of things. Don't you want a dessert?"
"You asked me that once," Brett said.
"Yes," I said. "So I did. Let's have another bottle of _rioja alta_."
"It's very good."
"You haven't drunk much of it," I said.
"I have. You haven't seen."
"Let's get two bottles," I said. The bottles came. I poured a little in my glass, then a glass for Brett, then filled my glass. We touched glasses.
"Bung-o!" Brett said. I drank my glass and poured out another. Brett put her hand on my arm.
"Don't get drunk, Jake," she said. "You don't have to."
"How do you know?"
"Don't," she said. "You'll be all right."
"I'm not getting drunk," I said. "I'm just drinking a little wine. I like to drink wine."
"Don't get drunk," she said. "Jake, don't get drunk."
"Want to go for a ride?" I said. "Want to ride through the town?"
"Right," Brett said. "I haven't seen Madrid. I should see Madrid."
"I'll finish this," I said.
Down-stairs we came out through the first-floor dining-room to the street. A waiter went for a taxi. It was hot and bright. Up the street was a little square with trees and grass where there were taxis parked. A taxi came up the street, the waiter hanging out at the side. I tipped him and told the driver where to drive, and got in beside Brett. The driver started up the street. I settled back. Brett moved close to me. We sat close against each other. I put my arm around her and she rested against me comfortably. It was very hot and bright, and the houses looked sharply white. We turned out onto the Gran Via.
"Oh, Jake," Brett said, "we could have had such a damned good time together."
Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly pressing Brett against me.
"Yes," I said. "Isn't it pretty to think so?"
早晨，一切都过去了。节日活动已经结束。九点左右我醒过来，洗了澡，穿上衣服，走下楼去。广场空荡荡的，街头没有一个行人。有几个孩子在广场上捡焰火杆。咖啡馆刚开门，侍者正在把舒适的白柳条椅搬到拱廊下阴凉的地方，在大理石面的桌子周围摆好。各条街道都在清扫，用水龙带喷洒。
我坐在一张柳条椅里，舒舒服服地背向后靠着。侍者不忙着走过来。把牛群放出笼的白地告示和大张的加班火车时刻表依然贴在拱廊的柱子上。一名扎蓝色围裙的侍者拎着一桶水，拿着一块抹布走出来，动手撕告示，把纸一条条地扯下来，擦洗掉粘在石柱上的残纸。节期结束了。
我喝了一杯咖啡，一会儿比尔来了。我看他穿过广场走过来。他在桌子边坐下，叫了一杯咖啡。
“好了，”他说，“都结束了。”
“是啊，”我说。“你什么时候走？”
“不知道。我想，我们最好弄一辆汽车。你不打算回巴黎？”
“是的，我还可以待一星期再回去。我想到圣塞瓦斯蒂安去。”
“我想回去。”
“迈克打算干什么？”
“他要去圣让德吕兹。”
“我们雇辆车一起开到巴荣纳再分手吧。今儿晚上你可以从那儿上火车。”
“好。吃完饭就走。”
“行。我去雇车。”
我们吃完饭，结了帐。蒙托亚没有到我们这边来。帐单是一名侍女送来的。汽车候在外面。司机把旅行包堆在车顶上，用皮带束好，把其余的放在车子前座他自己的身边，然后我们上车。车子开出广场，穿过小巷，钻出树林，下了山坡，离开了潘普洛纳。路程似乎不很长。迈克带了一瓶芬达多酒。我只喝了两三口。我们翻过几道山梁，出了西班牙国境，驶在白色的大道上，穿过浓荫如盖、湿润、葱郁的巴斯克地区，终于开进了巴荣纳。我们把比尔的行李寄放在车站，他买好去巴黎的车票。他乘的这次列车当晚七点十分开。我们走出车站。车子停在车站正门外。
“我们拿这车子怎么办？”比尔问。
“哦，这车子真是个累赘，”迈克说。“那我们就坐它走吧。”
“行，”比尔说。“我们上哪儿？”
“到比亚里茨去喝一杯吧。”
“挥金如土的好迈克，”比尔说。
我们开进比亚里茨，在一家非常豪华的饭店门口下车。我们走进酒吧间，坐在高凳上喝威士忌苏打。
“这次我做东，”迈克说。
“还是掷骰子来决定吧。”于是我们用一个很高的皮制骰子筒来掷扑克骰子，第一轮比尔赢了。迈克输给了我，就递给酒吧侍者一张一百法郎的钞票。威士忌每杯十二法郎。我们又各要了一杯酒，迈克又输了。每次他都给侍者优厚的小费。酒吧间隔壁的一个房间里有一支很好的爵士乐队在演奏。这是个叫人愉快的酒吧间。我们又各要了一杯酒。第一局我以四个老K取胜。比尔和迈克对掷。迈克以四个J赢得第一局。比尔赢了第二局。最后决定胜负的一局里，迈克掷出三个老K就算数了。他把骰子筒递给比尔。比尔卡嚓卡嚓摇着，掷出三个老K，一个A和一个0。
“你付帐，迈克，”比尔说。“迈克，你这个赌棍。”
“真抱歉，”迈克说。“我不行了。”
“怎么回事？”
“我没钱了，”迈克说。“我身无分文了。我只有二十法郎。给你，把这二十法郎拿去。”
比尔的脸色有点变了。
“我的钱刚好只够付给了蒙托亚。还算运气好，当时身上有这笔钱。”
“写张支票，我兑给你现钱，”比尔说。
“非常感谢，可你知道，我不能开支票了。”
“那你上哪儿去弄钱啊？”
“呃，有一小笔款就要到了。我有两星期的生活费该汇来。到圣让德吕兹去住的那家旅店，我可以赊帐。”
“你说，这车子怎么办呢？”比尔问我。“还继续使吗？”
“怎么都可以。看来似乎有点傻了。”
“来吧，我们再喝它一杯，”迈克说。
“好。这次算我的，”比尔说。“勃莱特身边有钱吗？”他对迈克说。
“我想她不一定有。我付给蒙托亚的钱几乎都是她拿出来的。”
“她手头竟一个子儿也没有？”我问。
“我想是这样吧。她一向没有钱。她每年能拿到五百镑，给犹太人的利息就得付三百五。”
“我看他们是直接扣除的吧，”比尔说。
“不错。实际上他们不是犹太人。我们只是这么称呼他们。我知道他们是苏格兰人。”
“她手头果真是一点钱也没有？”我问。
“我想可以说没有。她走的时候统统都给我了。”
“得了，”比尔说，“我们不如再喝一杯吧。”
“这个主意太好了，”迈克说。“空谈钱财解决不了任何问题。”
“说得对，”比尔说。我们接着要了两次酒，比尔和我掷骰子看该谁付。比尔输了，付了钱。我们出来向车子走去。
“你想上哪儿，迈克？”比尔问。
“我们去兜一下。兴许能提高我的信誉。在这一带兜一下吧。”
“很好。我想到海边去看看。我们一直朝昂代开去吧。”
“在海岸一带我没什么赊帐的信誉可言。”
“你不一定说得准的，”比尔说。
我们顺着滨海公路开去。绿茸茸的地头空地，白墙红瓦的别墅，丛丛密林，落潮的海水蔚蓝蔚蓝的，海水依偎在远处海滩边上。我们驶过圣让德吕兹，一直朝南穿过一座座海边的村庄。我们路过起伏不平的地区，望见它后面就是从潘普洛纳来时越过的群山。大道继续向前伸延。比尔看看表。我们该往回走了。他敲了下车窗，吩咐司机向后转。司机把车退到路边的草地上，调过车头。我们后面是树林，下面是一片草地，再过去就是大海了。
在圣让德吕兹，我们把车停在迈克准备下榻的旅店门前，他下了车。司机把他的手提包送进去。迈克站在车子边。
“再见啦，朋友们，”迈克说。“这次节日过得太好了。”
“再见，迈克，，比尔说。
“我们很快就能见面的，”我说。
“别惦着钱，”迈克说。“你把车钱付了，杰克，我那份我会给你寄去的。”
“再见，迈克。”
“再见，朋友们。你们真够朋友。”
我们一一同他握手。我们在车子里向迈克挥手。他站在大道上注视我们上路。我们赶到巴荣纳，火车就要开了。一名脚夫从寄存处拿来比尔的旅行包。我一直送他到通铁轨的矮门前。
“再见啦，伙伴，”比尔说。
“再见，老弟！”
“真痛快。我玩得真痛快。”
“你要在巴黎待着？”
“不。十六号我就得上船。再见，伙伴！”
“再见，老弟！”
他进门朝火车走去。脚夫拿着旅行包在前面走。我看着火车开出站去。比尔在一个车窗口。窗子闪过去了，整列火车开走了，铁轨上空了。我出来向汽车走去。
“我们该付给你多少钱？”我问司机，从西班牙到巴荣纳的车钱当初说好是一百五十比塞塔。
“两百比塞塔。”
“你回去的路上捎我到圣塞瓦斯蒂安要加多少钱？”
“五十比塞塔。”
“别敲我竹杠。”
“三十五比塞塔。”
“太贵了，”我说。“送我到帕尼厄.弗洛里旅馆吧。”
到了旅馆，我付给司机车钱和一笔小费。车身上布满了尘土。我擦掉钓竿袋上的尘土。这尘土看来是联结我和西班牙及其节日活动的最后一样东西了。司机启动车子沿大街开去。我看车子拐弯，驶上通向西班牙的大道。我走进旅馆，开了一个房间。我和比尔、科恩在巴荣纳的时候，我就是睡在这个房间里的。这似乎是很久以前的事了。我梳洗一番，换了一件衬衣，就出去逛大街了。
我在书报亭买了一份纽约的《先驱报》，坐在一家咖啡馆里看起来。重返法国使人感到很生疏。这里有一种处身在郊区的安全感。但愿我和比尔一起回巴黎去就好啦，可惜巴黎意味着更多的寻欢作乐。暂时我对取乐已经厌倦。圣塞瓦斯蒂安很清静。旅游季节要到八月份才开始。我可以在旅馆租一个好房间，看看书、游游泳。那边有一处海滩胜地。沿着海滩上面的海滨大道长有许多出色的树木，在旅游季节开始之前，有许多孩子随同保姆来过夏。晚上，马里纳斯咖啡馆对面的树林里经常有乐队举行音乐会。我可以坐在咖啡馆里听音乐。
“里面饭菜怎么样？”我问待者。在咖啡馆后面是一个餐厅。“很好。非常好。饭菜非常好。”
“好吧。”
我进去用餐。就法国来说，这顿饭菜是很丰盛的，但是吃过西班牙的以后，就显得菜肴的搭配非常精致。我喝了一瓶葡萄酒解闷儿。那是瓶马尔戈庄园牌的好酒。悠悠独酌，细细品味，其乐无穷。可算是瓶酒赛好友。喝完酒我要了咖啡。侍者给我推荐一种巴斯克利久酒，名叫伊扎拉。他拿来一瓶，斟了满满一杯。他说伊扎拉酒是由比利牛斯山上的鲜花酿成。是真正的比利牛斯山上的鲜花。这种酒看来象生发油，闻起来象意大利的斯特雷加甜酒。我吩咐他把比利牛斯山的鲜花拿走，给我来杯陈年白兰地。这酒很好。喝完咖啡我又喝了一杯。
比利牛斯山的鲜花这回事看来是有点把这侍者得罪了，所以我多赏了他一点小费。这使他很高兴。处在一个用这么简单的办法就能取悦于人的国度里，倒是怪惬意的。在西班牙，你事先无法猜测一个侍者是否会感谢你。在法国，一切都建筑在这种赤裸裸的金钱基础上。在这样的国家里生活是最简单不过的了。谁也不会为了某种暧昧的原因而跟你交朋友，从而使关系弄得很复杂。你要讨人喜欢，只要略微破费点就行。我花了一点点钱，这侍者就喜欢我了。他赏识我这种可贵的品德。他会欢迎我再来。有朝一日我要再到那里用餐，他会欢迎我，要我坐到归他侍候的桌子边去。这种喜欢是真诚的，因为有坚实的基础。我确实回到法国了。
第二天早晨，为了交更多的朋友，我给旅馆每个侍者都多给了一点小费，然后搭上午的火车上圣塞瓦斯蒂安。在车站，我给脚夫的小费没有超过该给的数目，因为我不指望以后还会再见到他。我只希望在巴荣纳有几个法国好朋友，等我再去的时候能受到欢迎就够了。我知道，只要他们记得我，他们的友谊会是忠诚的。
我得在伊伦换车，并出示护照。我不愿意离开法国。在法国生活是多么简单。我觉得再到西班牙去太蠢。在西班牙什么事情都捉摸不透。我觉得傻瓜才再到西班牙去，但是我还是拿着我的护照排队，为海关人员打开我的手提包，买了一张票，通过一道门，爬上火车，过了四十分钟和穿过八条隧道之后，我来到圣塞瓦斯蒂安。
即使在大热天，圣塞瓦斯蒂安也有某种清晨的特点。树上的绿叶似乎永远露水未干。街道如同刚洒过水一样。在最热的日子里，有几条街道也总是很阴凉。我找到城里过去住过的一家旅馆，他们给了我一间带阳台的房间，阳台高过城里的屋顶。远处是绿色的山坡。
我打开手提包，把我的书堆在靠床头的桌子上，拿出我的剃须用具，把几件衣服挂在大衣柜里，收拾出一包待洗的衣服。然后在浴室里洗了淋浴，下楼用餐。西班牙还没有改用夏令时间，因此我来早了。我把表拨回了一小时。来到圣塞瓦斯蒂安，我找回了一个钟头。
我走进餐厅的时候，看门人拿来一张警察局发的表格要我填。我签上名，问他要了两张电报纸，写了一份打给蒙托亚旅馆的电文，嘱咐他们把我的所有邮件和电报转到现在的住处。我算好将在圣塞瓦斯蒂安待多少天，然后给编辑部发了份电报，叫他们给我保存好邮件，但是六天之内的电报都要给我转到圣塞瓦斯蒂安来。然后我走进餐厅用餐。
饭后，我上楼到自己的房间里，看了一会书就睡觉了。等我醒来，已经四点半了。我找出我的游泳衣，连一把梳子一起裹在一条毛巾里，下楼上街走到康查湾。潮水差不多退掉了一半。海滩平坦而坚实，沙粒黄澄澄的。我走进浴场更衣室，脱去衣服，穿上游泳衣，走过平坦的沙滩到了海边。光脚踩在沙滩上，感到热呼呼的。海水里和海滩上的人不少。康查湾两边的海岬几乎相联，形成一个港湾，海岬外是一排白花花的浪头和开阔的海面。虽然正是退潮时刻，但还是出现一些姗姗而来的巨浪。它们来时好象海面上的滚滚细浪，然后势头越来越大，掀起浪头，最后平稳地冲刷在温暖的沙滩上。我涉水出海。海水很凉。当一个浪头打过来的时候，我潜入水中，从水底泅出，浮在海面，这时寒气全消了。我向木排游去，撑起身子爬上去，躺在滚烫的木板上。另一头有一对男女青年。姑娘解开了游泳衣的背带晒她的脊背。小伙子脸朝下躺在木排上和她说话。她听着，格格地笑了，冲着太阳转过她那晒黑了的脊背。我在阳光下躺在木排上，一直到全身都干了。然后我跳了几次水。有一次我深深地潜入水中，向海底游去。我张着眼睛游，周围是绿莹莹、黑黝黝的一片。木排投下一个黑影。我在木排旁边钻出水面，上了木排，憋足气，又跳入水中，潜泳了一程，然后向岸边游去。我躺在海滩上，直到全身干了，才起来走进浴场更衣室，脱下游泳衣，用淡水冲身，擦干。
我在树荫里顺着港湾走到俱乐部，然后拐上一条阴凉的街道向马里纳斯咖啡馆走去。咖啡馆内有一支乐队在演奏，夭很热，我坐在外面露台上乘凉，喝了一杯加刨冰的柠檬汁和一大杯威士忌苏打。我在“马里纳斯”门前久久地坐着，看看报，看看行人，并听音乐。
后来天开始暗下来了，我在港湾边漫步，顺着海滨大道，最后走回旅馆吃晚饭。“环绕巴斯克地区”自行车比赛正在进行，参加赛车的人在圣塞瓦斯蒂安过夜。他们在餐厅的一边同教练和经纪人等一起坐在长桌边吃饭。他们都是法国人和比利时人，正全神贯注地在吃饭，但是他们情绪很好，过得很愉快。长桌上端坐着两位美貌的法国少女，富有巴黎蒙马特郊区街特有的风韵。我弄不清她们是谁带来的。他们那桌人都用俚语交谈，许多笑话只有他们自己听得懂，在长桌另一头坐着的人说了些笑话，等两位姑娘问他们说什么，他们却不吱声了。车赛将于第二天清晨五点钟继续举行，从圣塞瓦斯蒂安到毕尔巴鄂跑最后一段路程。这些骑自行车的人喝了大量的葡萄酒，皮肤让太阳晒得黑黝黝的。他们只有在彼此之间才认真对待这比赛。他们之间经常举行比赛，所以对谁取得优胜也不怎么在意了。特别是在外国。钱可以商量着分。
领先两分钟的那个人长了热疖，痛得厉害。他踮着屁股坐在椅子上。他的脖子通红，金黄色的头发晒枯了。其他骑车人拿他长的热疖开玩笑。他用叉子笃笃地敲敲桌子。
“听着，”他说，“明天我把鼻子紧贴在车把上，这样只有宜人的微风才能碰到我的热疖。”
一位姑娘从桌子那一头看看他，他咧嘴笑笑，脸都涨红了。他们说，西班牙人不懂得怎样蹬车。
我在外面露台上同一家大自行车工厂的赛车经纪人喝咖啡。他说这次比赛进行得很惬意，要不是博泰奇阿到了潘普洛纳就弃权的活，该是值得一看的。灰尘太碍事，但是西班牙的公路比法国的好。他说世上只有长途自行车比赛才算得上是体育运动。我曾经跟随着看过“周游法国”自行车比赛吗？只在报纸上读到过。“周游法国”是世界上最大的一项体育比赛。跟随并组织长途车赛使他了解法国。很少有人了解法国。他同长途赛车的骑手们在途中度过了