aristocrat, who vanished suddenly, left everything. And the Mendozas, here, the bandits -- aren't they all damned? Vicious, cruel. . . wouldn't a man who's sold his soul to the devil feel safest amongst the damned? Amongst whores and murderers?
The Count, shuddering, pours yet another whisky.
Is it true what they used to whisper, that the Count -- this Count, you! old man -- had a reputation as a marksman so extraordinary that everyone thought he had supernatural powers?
The Count, recovering himself, says: They said that of Paganini, that he must have learned how to play the fiddle from the devil. Since no human being could have played so well."
"And perhaps he did," says Johnny.
"You're a musician, not a murderer, Johnny."
"Stranglers and piano-players both need long fingers. But a bullet is more merciful," suggests Johnny obliquely.
Out of some kind of dream into which he's abruptly sunk, the Count says: "The seventh bullet belongs to the devil. That is how you pay --"
But tonight, he won't, can't say any more. He lurches off to bed, to Roxana, who's waiting for him, as she always does. But why, oh why, is the old man crying? The whisky makes you into a baby. . . but Roxana takes care of you, she's always taken care of you, ever since she found you.
Roxana mothers the newcomer, Johnny, too, but she also watches him, with troubled eyes. All he does is play the piano and brood obsessively over the Mendoza gunmen as they sport and play in the bar. Sometimes he inspects the Count's old rifle, hung up on the wall, strokes the barrel, caresses the stock; but he knows nothing about the arts of death at all. Nothing! And he takes no interest in the girls, that's unhealthy.
It seems to Roxana that there's a likeness between her old man and the young one. That crazy, black-clad dignity. They always seem to be chatting to one another and sometimes they talk in German. Roxana hates that, it makes her feel shut out, excluded.
Can he be, can young Johnny be. . . some son the Count begot and then abandoned, a child he'd never known, come all this way to find him?
Could it be?
Old man and young one, with eyes the same shape, hands the same shape. . . could it be?
And if it is, why don't they tell her, Roxana?
Secrets make her feel shut out, excluded. She sits in her room on the rocking-chair in the dusk, sipping tequila.
Voices below -- in German. She goes to her window, watches the Count and the piano-player wander off together in the direction of the little scummy pond in front of the brothel, which is set back off the main street.
She crosses herself, goes on rocking.
"Speak English, we must leave the Old World and its mysteries behind us," says the Count. "The old, weary, exhausted world. Leave it behind! This is a new country, full of hope. . ."
He is heavily ironic. The ancient rocks of the desert lour down in the sunset.
"But the landscape of this country is more ancient by far than we are, strange gods brood over it. I shall never be friends with it, never."
Aliens, strangers, the Count and Johnny watch the Mendozas ride out on the rampage, led by Teresa's father; a band of grizzled hooligans, firing off their guns, shouting.
Johnny, calm, quiet, tells the Count how the Mendozas killed his parents when they raided a train for the gold the train carried. His parents, both opera singers, on their way back across the continent from California, from a booking in San Francisco. . . and he far away, in
The Count, shuddering, pours yet another whisky.
Is it true what they used to whisper, that the Count -- this Count, you! old man -- had a reputation as a marksman so extraordinary that everyone thought he had supernatural powers?
The Count, recovering himself, says: They said that of Paganini, that he must have learned how to play the fiddle from the devil. Since no human being could have played so well."
"And perhaps he did," says Johnny.
"You're a musician, not a murderer, Johnny."
"Stranglers and piano-players both need long fingers. But a bullet is more merciful," suggests Johnny obliquely.
Out of some kind of dream into which he's abruptly sunk, the Count says: "The seventh bullet belongs to the devil. That is how you pay --"
But tonight, he won't, can't say any more. He lurches off to bed, to Roxana, who's waiting for him, as she always does. But why, oh why, is the old man crying? The whisky makes you into a baby. . . but Roxana takes care of you, she's always taken care of you, ever since she found you.
Roxana mothers the newcomer, Johnny, too, but she also watches him, with troubled eyes. All he does is play the piano and brood obsessively over the Mendoza gunmen as they sport and play in the bar. Sometimes he inspects the Count's old rifle, hung up on the wall, strokes the barrel, caresses the stock; but he knows nothing about the arts of death at all. Nothing! And he takes no interest in the girls, that's unhealthy.
It seems to Roxana that there's a likeness between her old man and the young one. That crazy, black-clad dignity. They always seem to be chatting to one another and sometimes they talk in German. Roxana hates that, it makes her feel shut out, excluded.
Can he be, can young Johnny be. . . some son the Count begot and then abandoned, a child he'd never known, come all this way to find him?
Could it be?
Old man and young one, with eyes the same shape, hands the same shape. . . could it be?
And if it is, why don't they tell her, Roxana?
Secrets make her feel shut out, excluded. She sits in her room on the rocking-chair in the dusk, sipping tequila.
Voices below -- in German. She goes to her window, watches the Count and the piano-player wander off together in the direction of the little scummy pond in front of the brothel, which is set back off the main street.
She crosses herself, goes on rocking.
"Speak English, we must leave the Old World and its mysteries behind us," says the Count. "The old, weary, exhausted world. Leave it behind! This is a new country, full of hope. . ."
He is heavily ironic. The ancient rocks of the desert lour down in the sunset.
"But the landscape of this country is more ancient by far than we are, strange gods brood over it. I shall never be friends with it, never."
Aliens, strangers, the Count and Johnny watch the Mendozas ride out on the rampage, led by Teresa's father; a band of grizzled hooligans, firing off their guns, shouting.
Johnny, calm, quiet, tells the Count how the Mendozas killed his parents when they raided a train for the gold the train carried. His parents, both opera singers, on their way back across the continent from California, from a booking in San Francisco. . . and he far away, in
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