_Chapter eight_
Shortly after eight in the morning, Hall sat down at a table in awaterfront cafe and ordered coffee and rolls. It was a small place witha zinc bar in one corner, patronized largely by longshoremen and pettycustoms officials. Hall chose a table which gave him a good view of theCompania Transatlantica Espanola dock diagonally across the street.
On the dock there were the unmistakeable signs that the _Marques deAvillar_ was coming in on time. Minor customs officials in their blueuniforms stood around in small, important looking knots, their handsfilled with papers and bundles of official forms. The passengergangplank, with the line's name splashed on its canvas sides in crimsonand gold letters, had been hauled on to the pier and lay waiting like arigid, outstretched hand for the incoming ship. A row of motley cabswere lined up facing the pier, their drivers dozing or reading themorning papers behind their wheels as they waited for the business fromthe ship. Pepe was not only one of these drivers, but through thetransport union he had arranged to fill the cab line with trustworthyanti-fascist drivers.
Hall could see Pepe slouched behind the wheel of the LaSalle, his whitecap pushed way to the back of his massive head. The cab strategy wasPepe's inspiration. It did away with the necessity of following any ofthe cabs which picked up passengers whose moves might be of interest toHall. As a further precaution, Souza had arranged through members of hisunion to get an instant line on any of the _Marques de Avillar_passengers who registered at a San Hermano hotel that day.
A letter written in Spanish with purple ink in a fine, delicate woman'shand lay on the metal table between the butter pat and the carafe ofwater. Hall read it again as he stirred his coffee.
"Beloved Mateo," the letter began, and Hall chuckled at Santiago'scurrent dodge, "Why did you leave me so suddenly without even giving mea chance to explain? It is you and you alone whom I love, _carino_, andany thoughts that you have to the contrary you must banish from yourdear head at this instant. Oh, _carino_, since you left without afurther word I have had no rest, no peace, no sleep...." He skimmedthrough the first two pages of such protestations, then carefully rereadthe casual lines: "You are so wrong; it is true that I did know thedoctor before, but he was never my lover. I knew him only because hetreated dear Carlos, but as a man I hate and detest him. How can I tellyou again that you are wrong, that he is an abomination not only in myeyes but also in the eyes of my entire beloved family?"
Nearly three lachrymose pages of love frustrated followed these lines."And so before I close my letter, I must beg you to drop everything ifyou love me and fly back to Havana, even if only for a day. Oh, mybeloved, if you would only come back to Havana for one day, I am surethat I can resolve all the doubts that are in your mind, Mateo. In thename of all that we have shared, of all that is dear and sacred to us,please fly back to my arms, my love, my kisses--and then you will know!"The letter was signed, "Maria."
Hall folded the letter carefully and put it in his wallet. It told himwhat he wanted to know about Ansaldo. _He treated dear Carlos--he is anabomination in the eyes of my beloved family._ Santiago's style as awriter of love letters might be a little on the turgid side, but he knewhow to make himself clear. And nothing could be clearer than his line onAnsaldo. An abomination. A man who marched with the men who put thatfascist bullet through the throat of Uncle Carlos. A bastard.
The dock was growing more crowded. Over the near horizon, a ship pointedits high white face at San Hermano. A long throaty whistle came from itsfront funnel. Then five short blasts, and in a moment the tugs which hadbeen getting up steam in the harbor were heading out toward the growingship.
"The _Marques de Avillar_," someone at the bar said. A customs man at anear-by table gulped the remainder of his coffee and bolted to the pier.At the bar, a laughing longshoreman pushed a five-centavo coin into thenickeled red juke box, pressed the "_Besame_" button. Johnny Rodrigues_y su_ Whoopee Kids. Two guitars, a cornet, maracas, sticks and alugubrious baritone. "_Besame, besame mucho_ ..." the raucous blaring ofa klaxon at the pier ... "_la ultima vez_" ... again the horn drownedout the words.
Hall looked up at the cabs, ignoring the Whoopee Kids' baritone. Aslender young man in a green jacket and cream-colored slacks wasstanding near the foot of the gangplank. Pepe had taken off his whitehat. Hall kept his eyes glued on Pepe until the man in the green jacketturned around, revealing himself as Dr. Marina.
One of the white sedans of the Ministry of Health pulled up at the pier.A doctor and two assistants, the three men wearing the light tan uniformof their service, got out and started to talk to a customs man. Hepointed at the white ship being shoved toward the pier by the littletugs.
Hall drank in the tableau, his eyes following Marina's every move, hisears deaf to the next record being played in the juke box.
"_Otro cafe, senor?_"
"_Si, gracias._"
But the fresh pot of hot coffee remained untouched. Hall was stillwatching Marina, but Marina did nothing except shift from foot to footwhile he watched the Spanish liner draw nearer the pier with every turnof the heroic little engines in the two tugs. Hall thought of Jerry. Hehad missed her again last night, but they had a date for dinner atseven. Doctor had promised her a night off. The messages at the hotel:Jose Fernandez had phoned, wanted Hall to call him back this morning.O.K., Don Jose, as soon as I get a good look at the rats Marina isawaiting. I want to hear more about the Red menace hanging over my head.And Souza had an interesting tab on Androtten. The little Dutchman hadstayed out all night. Naughty, naughty, Wilhelm, gadding about with_putas_ the whole night through and God knows where you are sleeping itoff but I guess your little dog is watching to see that no one rolls youfor your wad. Or wasn't it a debauch that kept you out all night?Anyway, I'll bet you made your rounds in a Renault you rented from thePhoenix Garage.
The _Marques de Avillar_ was being eased into its dock. The cab driverswere waving at the passengers lined up at the rail, and Marina washopping up and down, shouting and waving a big yellow handkerchief likea banner. The coffee _por favor_ has grown cold and _por favor_ a pot ofhot _por favor_ and that's the idea _muchas gracias_ and you could havedocked the _Marques_ in my last yawn. Hall drank a steaming cup of hotcoffee.
The gangplank was being wheeled to the ship. There was a knot of ship'sofficers on the lower deck. They shook hands with the customs men andthe medicos who trotted up the gangplank, led them inside to the mainsalon. Men in blue uniforms with official papers under their arms. Apress photographer and a bald roly-poly reporter. They'll be out in aminute, and damn it the morning sun is growing too bright for a pair oftired old eyes, and dipping his napkin in the fresh cold water on thetable Hall shoved the cold compress against his heavy eyes.
Two cups of coffee later, the first of the passengers from the _Marquesde Avillar_ emerged from the salon and walked down the gangplank.Priests--Hall counted twenty--followed by scrawny stewards with theirbags. A few of the priests were old, but most of them were young men whocarried themselves erect, their shoulders squared well back, their walkthe off-duty walk of the officer on leave from the front. Hall wonderedhow many of the younger men in clerical collars were really priests andhow many of them were used to wearing other uniforms. He remembered theday, less than two months earlier, when the C.T.E. liner _Cabo deHornos_ had docked in Havana and one of General Benitez' men had grownsuspicious of two of the Spanish priests on board; a brief discussion oftheology had been followed by a thorough search of their luggage, andthe young travelers woke up the next morning to find themselves learningtheology in the concentration camp on the Isla de Pinas.
Hall was humming "Onward, Christian Soldiers." He watched two youngpriests get into Pepe's cab and be driven away. The priests, and laterfour nuns, entered the cabs in pairs. Then, following some customs men,one of the ship's officers came out of the salon with a man in a blacksuit and a Panama hat. They carried thick portfolios under their arms,and behind them followed a steward with two heavy hand trunks.
There was a blur o
f green and yellow on the gangplank, and then Marinawas on the lower deck, exchanging wild embraces with the ship's officerand the man in the Panama hat. The three men walked down the gangplank,Marina happily bringing up the rear behind the officer. He darted infront of his friends when they reached the pier and signaled one of thecabs. The first cab in line rolled up to the curb and picked them up.
The sun shone into Hall's face. He washed his eyes with cold water, hadanother cup of coffee. Thick, the air is growing thick and heavy. Hellwith it. Olive oil and garlic, coffee, squids, mussels, saffron,mackerel, heat. "_Besame_" on the juke box again. Don't run off justyet. Look at the watch. Start to get impatient. _Hombre de negocios_waiting for a colleague to work out a deal. A ton of coffee, three boxcars of ore, a round ton of sugar. He's way overdue and you're gettingimpatient, but you don't leave yet. You don't leave and show the littledog wherever he or his partners are hiding that you had breakfast herethis morning just to keep an eye on the _Marques de Avillar_. No, senor,you would not be as careless as the faggot. No, senor, oh no, senor,only the air is getting thicker and somewhere in the kitchen someone islooking at me and laughing I swear it I swear it only I can't help itthis is the only face I have.
Soft laughter. Eyes looking in his direction. The now blazing sun. Theflags on the mast of the white ship; crimson and gold of Fernando eIsabel, the triangular pennant of the C.T.E., and the mucking fivearrows of the Falange floating insolently in the breeze over the heartof a democracy. Don't leave too soon. Look at your watch again and cursethe mucking _hombre de negocios_ who's holding up your big deal. Andwhat was the name of the C.T.E. radio officer from the _Ciudad deSevilla_ whom poor old Fielding had in his report? Jimenez, EduardoJimenez, thank God, my memory for names is like a sponge and what wouldyou say if the ship's officer who got that _abrazo de amor_ from thefaggot was C.T.E. Radio Officer Jimenez and damn the sun and damn theolive oil on the hot stove chunks of garlic and squid floating in thehot oil and stinking up the thick murky air and it's cooler with thecollar open.
Eyes looking at him from the kitchen. Soft laughter. Some joke. Hall iscockeyed on _cafe con leche_ and what's that it's the cup you lug andwhat's that it's the coffee spilling all over your pants and if thoseempty-faced bastards in the kitchen don't stop laughing I'll get rightup from the floor and put a right cross through their lousy guts. That'sjust the ticket. Clip them with the old right, like the time in SanSebastian when the gonzo with the feather in his hat made the mistake ofgetting within range. Watch the old right, keed, watch the old K.O.sockeroo. Watch it, watch it, don't forget to duck. WATCH IT!
* * * * *
The driver of the rickety four-wheeled bus was thumping time with fatbrown fingers on the rim of the heavy wheel. He didn't sing, just sat inhis bucket seat with the faded flowered cretonne slip cover (bet you agood dinner his wife sewed it for him when he got the job) and thumpedtime. The kid with the guitar in the front seat was doing the singing."Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco." He was a nice kid and drunk as a loon, but sweetand happy drunk. Nothing ugly about the kid. "Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco."
"Why is he singing?" Hall asked.
Behind him, someone in the rear seat answered, "He's happy. His favoritebaseball team won the San Hermano tournament."
Hall turned with a start, faced an impassive-looking farmer in bluejeans.
"You were fast asleep, senor," the farmer said.
"Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco." A bad dream. Go back to sleep. Or better yet,wake up and put the light on. But the light was on. The dim yellowlights inside the bus. "Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco." Scots wha hae wi' Wallacefled. Scots wha ... God, no! A new song. No more Jalisco. The farmercame into the town his cheeses ripe his mangoes brown he spied a maidenby her stall she ... God, no!
"Ay, Muchachita, Muchachita." The kid was still in the groove.Four-string chord, six-string chord. _Un beso, un beso! Reflecciones deotros tiempos._ More nice chords. The farmer remembers other times,other maidens who pursed their lips and gave him _un beso_ when hebegged. What am I to the farmer and what is he to Hecuba?
"For a _borracho_ he sings well."
"Yes, with a skinful he is a virtuoso." The sound of his own wordsstartled Hall. He turned around to the man who had spoken to him. Thefarmer smiled.
"Pardon me, senor," the farmer smiled, "but tonight you are a little ofthe virtuoso yourself, no?"
"No." God, no!
"I apologize, senor. You are not well?"
"No. I am well." But where in hell am I? _Ay, muchachita, muchachita._Cigars in the coat pocket. Broken, all of them. Smashed to shreds. Ifell on them. When I fell they were smashed. Cigarettes in the sidepocket. Black tobacco, thicker than the cigarettes back home,brown-paper package. _Bock, La Habana._
"Have you a match?" That's a good one. Felipe's been waiting three yearsfor J. Burton Skidmore to say it. "_Tiene usted un fo'foro?_" Verywelcome. Yes, they are Cuban. No, I am not Cuban myself. I dropped the_s_ in _fosforo_? I have recently spent some time in Cuba. Yes, Batistais a fine man. Where are you going? Is this your village?
"Good-bye, friend." This from outside, the farmer standing on the dirtroad, Hall's gift cigarette glowing in his mouth. A tiny village.Houses, store, the whitewashed village school, a cast-iron statue of SanMartin and Bolivar shaking hands, an open-front cafe, the small church.
"Hello, friend." The kid with the guitar waved at Hall. "When did youget on the bus?"
"I don't remember," Hall said.
"Good. Neither do I. What's your favorite song?"
"_No Pasaran._"
"I know it," the kid said. "It is a good song." His fingers flew overthe strings, found the right chords. Hall joined him in the words of theSpanish Republic's song of resistance.
Night, deep-blue night, the yellow mazdas of the farmers' village waybehind them now, and the _gua-gua_ rolling down the highway betweenplowed fields and fields of sugar and nothing in sight but the broadfields.
"Hey, driver!" That was me. I can talk now. I can stand, too. If I gripthe tops of the seats I can walk to the front without taking a prattfall. "Driver, _gua-guero_ ..."
"Jump, it's not high, senor ..."
Feet on the ground once more. Black blue soft chill night air. Theregoes the _gua-gua_. Red tail light bouncing around the bend in the road.No ship. No sun. No garlic broiling in olive oil. Nothing. Get off theroad. Get up. Off the road. Get to the fence. Get up, get up, here comesthe blackout again, here it comes, watch it, men, this is it.
He remembered the kid with the guitar, the rich voice of the driver._Jump, it's not high._ It was still night. He was lying in a field,about fifteen yards from the highway. The taste of black earth at hislips had awakened him.
He turned his mouth away from the plowed earth. There was no sense intrying to get up. He knew that much. All in. He was all in. Every bone,every muscle ached. He closed his eyes, sank into a deep dreamlesssleep.
Thirst wakened him. It was a thirst that started in his throat, spreadto his dry cottony mouth, sank deep into his drying insides. They weredrying out, drying out fast. He had to have water, or they would dry upcompletely, and then he would be dead.
I am now an animal, he thought. I must have animal cunning. I must sensewater and then I must get to it. Where things grow there must be water.A stream. A well.
He got to his knees, started to crawl deeper into the plowed field,putting another few yards between himself and the road. He crawled intoa clump of weeds. The dew on their leaves brushed against his face."It's water," he said, and he licked the dew from the weeds. The thirstremained.
Fire. Build a fire and attract a watchman, a farmer, another bus rollingalong the deserted road. No, don't build a fire. Cane burns like oil.Remember what poor old Fielding said? No fire. You'll be roasted alive.Find water. It's a sugar field. Must be an irrigation ditch around. Findthe ditch.
More ground gained by crawling. Then the sleep of exhaustion, no dreamsonly sleep until the thirst becomes stronger than the exhaustion andthen more crawling
until ... God! there is a ditch. Hear it, smell it.Must be water, couldn't be this much mulepiss. Now drink your fill andbathe your face and get your head away from the top of the ditch beforeyou fall asleep again and drown in two inches of it. It has a name. It'swater.
This time Hall rolled over on his back when he felt that sleep wasovertaking him.
There were a million bugs on the mud walls of the ditch. They crawled onHall's hands, on his face, and one column of intrepid bugs slitheredinto his mouth and got caught in his throat and he was sick. He movedaway from the mess, tried to sit up. He could see a mound of rocks nearthe road. With all his remaining strength, he started to crawl towardthe mound.
It took him two hours to negotiate the twenty yards between the ditchand the rocks. He lost count of the number of times he collapsed to hisface and fell asleep on the journey. All he knew was that when he wokeup, he had to get to the rocks. He could sit on the rocks and wait for atruck or a bus to pass by. Then he could hail the driver.
But when he reached the fence, he saw that the mound was on the otherside of the road. Fall asleep in the middle of the road and the nexttruck that rolls along crushes you like a roach. _Putas y maricones!Maricones y putas!_ Blood will run in the streets of the city when I getup, the brown blood, the black blood, the blue blood. _Arriba Espana_ ina pig's eye. You mean _Deutschland Erwache_, senor, and come a littlecloser, you with the yoke and the five arrows on your cap, come a littlecloser and get your filthy head bashed in. God, when I get up I'll killthem I'll kill them if these chills ever go away I'll kill them I'llkill all the baby killers when these chills go away oh God look at thebaby killers marching through Burgos with the holy men shaking holywater on their lousy heads. Whores and faggots! Faggots and whores! I'mgetting up!
* * * * *
He was asleep when the army lorry roared by and then stopped down theroad, brakes screeching, rubber biting into macadam.
The sergeant's brandy did no good. Neither did the fresh water theypoured on his face, the brandy they rubbed into his wrists. All thisthey had to tell him later.
He remembered nothing about the lorry. The bus he remembered; thedriver, the flowered-cretonne slip cover on the driver's seat, thefarmer, joining the kid in _No Pasaran_. He remembered jumping from thebus, crawling for water, giving up the ghost when the bugs crawled intohis throat. And the rocks. There was that mound of rocks.
Now there was a narrow bed in a small room. A man's room, obviously aman's room. Desk, lounging chair, worn grass rug. For some reasonFernando Souza was sitting in the lounging chair. Another man wasstanding near the bed, looking down at Hall, his fingers pressed toHall's pulse.
"Is that you, Souza?" Hall asked, and the night clerk of the Bolivarleft the chair and joined the doctor.
"You will be well now," Souza said.
"The pulse is coming back," the doctor said, to Souza. He let go ofHall's wrist. When he went to the desk, Hall could see the militarytrousers beneath his white coat.
"Can you talk, Don Mateo?" Souza asked.
"I think so. Where am I? What day is it?"
The doctor went to the door. He held a whispered conversation with asoldier who was waiting on the other side of the door. Then he tookSouza's chair. "Such cursing," he laughed. "When they brought you in,Senor Hall, you had no pulse, you had the temperature of cold beer, andyour heart had just about three beats left. You were biologically moredead than alive. But I swear, before I gave you the first ampule ofadrenalin, the curses were pouring out of your lips like the waves ofthe ocean. How do you feel now?"
"Very tired."
"Are you hungry?"
"I don't know."
"You'll be able to eat soon. I've been feeding you through a needle forseven hours. How would you like a steak?"
"What time is it?"
"Five o'clock," Souza said. "I've been here with you all afternoon, DonMateo."
"What's this 'Don' business?"
Souza smiled. "I am glad to see that you are making jokes, _companero_."
"Where in hell are we?"
Souza and the doctor took turns in telling the story. The soldiers hadpicked him up in the road some ninety miles from San Hermano. More deadthan alive, they put him in the lorry and rushed him to their garrison.There, while the commandant examined his papers, the doctor, CaptainDorado, moved him into the commandant's room and gave him his first shotof adrenalin.
"Was it a heart attack?" Hall asked.
"No," the doctor said. "You were drugged."
Hall listened to the doctor's technical description of the drug whichhad felled him. He had heard of it before. It worked like an overdose ofinsulin. Burned up the sugar, then the energy in the body, and then blewthe fuses. Something like that, anyway. Another hour without adrenalinand it would have been curtains. That second pot of coffee and the softlaughter in the kitchen. Damn their eyes, that's where it happened. Theneight hours of lying in the commandant's bed, cursing, sleeping, gettingneedles of adrenalin, needles of energy, needles of the stuff that makespulses beat to the right measure.
"Are we tiring you?"
"No, Captain. I'd like something to eat, though."
"I ordered some hot broth."
"Thank you. I'm glad you're here, Fernando."
"The commandant called me," Souza said. "He found your address throughPan American Airways."
"Oh." The letter. It had gone to Pan Am for forwarding. Then it wasstill safe.
"I will return in a few minutes," the doctor said. "I want to see aboutyour broth."
Souza waited until the doctor was out of the room before he spoke."Providence was with you," he said. "The commandant here is a Tabio man.He called me at once to find out who you were. Another man might havecalled your Embassy first."
"Have they called the Embassy yet?"
"Not yet, _companero_."
"What happened to the men the _maricon_ met at the pier?"
"We have them under sharp eyes. They went first to Jorge Davila's home.Then they went to the country. They are in Bocas del Sur at the estateof Gamburdo's brother, the cattle raiser. The _maricon_ left them there.He is now in San Hermano with Ansaldo. They were to be with Don Anibalthis afternoon."
"And the girl?"
"With Ansaldo."
"When are you going back to the Bolivar?"
"In an hour."
"Tell her that I telephoned to say that I would be out of the citytonight. I was to see her for dinner. What about the priests from theboat? Are they all really priests?"
"Who knows? Perhaps I shall know more when I return to the city."
"How long will I be on my back?" Hall asked. "Did the doctor say?"
"Not long. You have recovered from the drug, he says. Now you need foodand another day's rest."
The doctor returned followed by a soldier who carried a small tray. "Hotsoup," he said. "And after the soup, some rich beef stew. But first,some brandy. Three glasses, corporal. We'll drink to the memory ofLazarus." He helped Hall sit up in bed, propped some pillows behind hisback. Only when he sat up did Hall notice that a large signed photographof Anibal Tabio hung over the commandant's desk.
"Let's rather drink to the health of Anibal Tabio," Hall proposed.
Souza and the doctor watched with approval as Hall ate the soup and thestew, and then sipped mate through a silver straw. "He's going to bewell in a matter of hours," the doctor said. "Well enough to startcursing again. It is a shame that I do not know English. But yourSpanish curses were enough for me."
"What was I cursing?" Hall asked.
"What didn't you curse, senor? Franco, _putas, maricones_, Hitler,Gamburdo, the Cross and Sword ..."
"God! Who heard me?"
The doctor smiled. "Be tranquil," he said. "Just the commandant andmyself, and one of the soldiers. But you don't have to worry about thesoldier. He is the son of a miner in the north."
"The soldier," Souza said, "is reliable. I have already seen him."
"You are among
friends," the doctor said. "Souza has told us about you."
"I owe my life to you," Hall said.
"From what I have learned," the doctor laughed, "you are not an easy manto kill."
"When can I get out of bed?"
"Tomorrow. That is just as well, senor. The garrison tailor is cleaningyour suit now. Would you like more mate?"
"Could I have another brandy?"
"Of course. But then you must sleep."
"I'm tired of sleeping."
"I am prepared for that." The doctor called for the corporal, orderedhim to prepare a hypodermic syringe. "You must get some sleep, senor,"he said.
In the morning, the doctor pronounced Hall well enough to leave thecommandant's bed. Hall's clothes, the suit cleaned and freshly pressed,the shirt washed and ironed, the shoes polished to a glow, were laid outon a chair near the bed. "We do things thoroughly in the army," thedoctor said.
"I see."
"The commandant would like to join you for breakfast."
"In the officers' mess?"
"No. Here."
"Please tell him that I would be honored."
"Good. Can you dress yourself?"
"I'm all right, thanks to you, Captain. I feel as if I'd had a week'srest on some quiet beach."
"I'll get the commandant, then. The corporal will show you the way tothe washroom. I've laid out my razor and shaving things for you."
It was good to stand on steadied legs again, good to walk erect like aman. The razor had a nice edge. It sliced through the stems of thetwo-day beard without snagging. For some reason, the efficiency of therazor delighted Hall beyond measure. He studied the results of the shavein the wall mirror, then looked for signs of his illness. Two days werelost, he thought, two days of which he could account for but a fewhours. The doctor could fill in most of the second day. The first nightwas something Hall himself could remember. It was like a bad dream onelongs to forget, but he could remember the bus, the field, the ditch,the rock pile. He could remember staggering, crawling, getting sick,passing out and crawling and passing out again. But there were at leastten hours that remained a total blank; that portion of the day betweenthe time he blacked out in the cafe near the Spanish line's pier and themoment he became aware of the kid in the bus.
An enlisted man was cleaning up the commandant's room when Hallreturned. "The major will be here in five minutes," he told Hall. "Andin the meanwhile, he sent you these." He handed Hall a flat tin ofAmerican cigarettes.
Hall offered one of the cigarettes to the soldier. He sat down in theleather chair near the desk, looked at the inscription on Tabio'sphotograph. "To my dear Diego, my comrade in prison and infreedom--Anibal."
"The commandant is a close friend of Don Anibal's," the soldier said. "Ithink I hear him coming now." The soldier stepped out of the room.
A moment later someone rapped gently on the door.
"Come in," Hall shouted.
The door opened. In the doorway, a man in uniform, his hat carriedcorrectly under his left arm, paused, made a soft salute. "Major DiegoSegador," he said. "We are honored to have you as our guest." He shookhands with Hall, sat down in the desk chair facing the portrait ofTabio.
"I am grateful to you for--everything," Hall said.
"It was nothing," Segador said. "After Souza spoke to me about you, Iwas sorry we could not do more."
"What more could you have done?"
The major's lips parted over his long teeth in a mirthless smile. "Wecould have killed the _cabron_ who drugged you, _companero_."
"You know who did it?"
"It could have been anyone in that cafe. What's the matter with Delgado?Didn't he know it is owned by a dirty Falangist?" Color rose to themajor's dark cheeks. He was a man of Hall's own years, shorter, but witha pair of powerful hands capable of hiding the hands of a man twice hissize. The hands were gripping the arms of his chair now, the knuckleswhite as the major fought to control his rage. Hall knew the feeling,sensed the fires that burned in the major's head. He called me_companero_ a moment ago, he thought, he knows what I'm after.
"Pepe is all right," Hall said.
"He should have more brains." The major opened the locked middle drawerof his desk, pulled out a sealed brown envelope. "Your papers," he said."Please examine them and see if everything is present."
Hall tore open the envelope, shook the contents to the desk. Passport,wallet, not more than fifty pesos missing, a book of travelers' checks,some sheets of blank paper, a small leather address book, wrist watch,the Bock cigarettes. Except for the fifty pesos, everything else whichbelonged in the wallet was there, money, pictures, cards, the letterfrom Havana.
"Nothing is missing," Hall said. He took the letter from its envelopeand counted the pages.
"I'm sorry I had to read your love letter," Segador said. "But it wasnecessary."
"I know," Hall said. "But it is not a love letter."
The massive face of the major reflected his surprise. "Not a loveletter?" he asked. "Ah, here's the coffee. Come in, corporal. Set thetrays down on the desk."
Hall waited until the corporal left. "It is not a love letter," herepeated. "I would like very much to interpret it for you. I think itmight explain why I was drugged."
"Before you start," the major said, "there are two things that youshould know. The first is that Souza has given me a fairly good idea ofwhy you came to our country. The second is that for your own sake, andfor ours, I had to notify your Embassy that we had picked you up drunkin a village cafe last night."
"Drunk?"
"I'm sorry, _companero_. I mean no disrespect, but your Embassy is notvery much in sympathy with many things a man like yourself is willing todie defending. Under the circumstances, you can spare yourself someunnecessary trouble if you say merely that you were drunk. If you stickto this story, you can help yourself and, to be very frank, you can helpDon Anibal."
"You are his friend, aren't you?"
The major got to his feet. "His friend?" He undid his tie, then took hisshirt off. His torso was a mass of old and, for the main part,improperly sewn scars. Mementoes of bullets, steel whips, knives. "Myrepublicanism is more than skin deep, my friend."
"Then I can tell you everything." Hall dipped into the tin of Americancigarettes. "It started in San Juan," he began, "or rather it reallystarted in Geneva, when I met Don Anibal for the first time. But it wasin San Juan that I read that Dr. Ansaldo was on his way to San Hermanoto treat Don Anibal. And if I may jump to the end of my story first,this love letter seems to confirm what I suspected about Ansaldo. Do yousee what it says here about the doctor who treated Carlos?"
For an hour, Hall told Segador of what he had learned and experiencedsince arriving in the country. The major interrupted with questionsfrequently, made notes in a small black notebook. "Please," he said,when Hall finished his account, "I am going to repeat the importantparts of the story to you. Correct me if I am wrong or if I leaveanything out."
He recited the story back to Hall, then consulted his watch. "The PressSecretary of your Embassy is due to call for you in a few minutes," hesaid. "Please remember your story. You were drunk."
"Was I with a _puta_?" Hall asked.
The major grinned. "No," he said, "that I did not think necessary.Although if it were, I assure you I would tell your Embassy that youwere with the mangiest _puta_ in six provinces."
"What do we do now?"
"It is hard to say. In the meanwhile, I think there is something youneed." He took a large automatic out of his desk, slipped a clip ofbullets into its grip, and handed the gun and a small box of cartridgesto Hall. "If we could only prove to Don Anibal before it is too latethat Ansaldo ..."
"How?"
"We must find a way. In the meanwhile, stay alive for the next few days.I have friends. They will watch for your safety. Souza, others. Theywill bring you my messages. And be careful in cafes."