out into the bright
early morning freshness of the high plateau air. He walked in the street up the
hill to the Plaza Santa Ana and had breakfast at a cafe and read the local
papers. Catherine had wanted to be at the Prado at ten when it opened and
before he left he had set the alarm to wake her at nine. Outside on the street,
walking up the hill he had thought of her sleeping, the beautiful rumpled head
that looked like an ancient coin lying against the white sheet, the pillow
pushed away, the upper sheet showing the curves of her body. It lasted a month,
he thought, or almost. And the other time from le Grau du Roi to Hendaye was
two months. No, less, because she started thinking of it in Nimes. It wasn't
two months. We've been married three months and two weeks and I hope I make her
happy always but in this I do not think anybody can take care of anybody. It's
enough to stay in it. The difference is that she asked this time, he told
himself. She did ask.
When
he had read the papers and then paid for his breakfast and walked out into the
heat that had come back to the plateau when the wind had changed, he made his
way to the cool, formal, sad politeness of the bank, where he found mail that
had been forwarded from Paris. He opened and read mail while he waited through
the lengthy, many-windowed formalities of cashing a draft which had been sent
from his bank to this, their Madrid correspondent.
Finally
with the heavy notes buttoned into his jacket pocket he came out into the glare
again and stopped at the newsstand to buy the English and American papers that
had come in on the morning Sud Express. He bought some bullfight weeklies to
wrap the English language papers in and then walked down the Carrera San
Geronimo to the cool friendly morning gloom of the Buffet Italianos. There was
no one in the place yet and he remembered that he had made no rendezvous with
Catherine.
"What
will you drink?" the waiter asked him.
"Beer,"
he said.
"This
isn't a beer place."
"Don't
you have beer?"
"Yes.
But it's not a beer place."
"Up
yours," he said and re-rolled the papers and went out and walked across
the street and back on the other side to turn to the left into the Calle
Vittoria and on to the Cervezería Alvarez. He sat at a table under the awning
in the passageway and drank a big cold glass of the draft beer.
The
waiter was probably only making conversation, he thought, and what the man said
was quite true. It isn't a beer place. He was just being literal. He wasn't
being insolent. That was a very bad thing to say and he had no defense against
it. It was a shitty thing to do. He drank a second beer and called the waiter
to pay.
"Y
la Señora?" the waiter said.
"At
the Museo del Prado. I'm going to get her."
"Well,
until you get back," the waiter said.
He
walked back to the hotel by a downhill shortcut. The key was at the desk so he
rode up to their floor and left the papers and the mail on a table in the room
and locked most of the money in his suitcase. The room was made up and the
shutters were lowered against the heat so that the room was darkened. He washed
and then sorted through his mail and took four letters out and put them in his
hip pocket. He took the Paris editions of The New York Herald, the Chicago
Tribune and the London Daily Mail down with him to the bar of the hotel
stopping at the desk to leave the key and to ask the clerk to tell Madame, when
she came in, that he was in the bar.
He
sat on a stool at the bar and ordered a marismeño and opened and read his
letters while he ate the garlic-flavored olives from the saucer the bartender
had placed before him with his glass. One of the letters had two cuttings of
reviews of his novel from monthly magazines and he read them with no feeling that
they dealt with him or with anything that he had written.
He
put the cuttings back in the envelope. They had been understanding and
perceptive reviews but to
early morning freshness of the high plateau air. He walked in the street up the
hill to the Plaza Santa Ana and had breakfast at a cafe and read the local
papers. Catherine had wanted to be at the Prado at ten when it opened and
before he left he had set the alarm to wake her at nine. Outside on the street,
walking up the hill he had thought of her sleeping, the beautiful rumpled head
that looked like an ancient coin lying against the white sheet, the pillow
pushed away, the upper sheet showing the curves of her body. It lasted a month,
he thought, or almost. And the other time from le Grau du Roi to Hendaye was
two months. No, less, because she started thinking of it in Nimes. It wasn't
two months. We've been married three months and two weeks and I hope I make her
happy always but in this I do not think anybody can take care of anybody. It's
enough to stay in it. The difference is that she asked this time, he told
himself. She did ask.
When
he had read the papers and then paid for his breakfast and walked out into the
heat that had come back to the plateau when the wind had changed, he made his
way to the cool, formal, sad politeness of the bank, where he found mail that
had been forwarded from Paris. He opened and read mail while he waited through
the lengthy, many-windowed formalities of cashing a draft which had been sent
from his bank to this, their Madrid correspondent.
Finally
with the heavy notes buttoned into his jacket pocket he came out into the glare
again and stopped at the newsstand to buy the English and American papers that
had come in on the morning Sud Express. He bought some bullfight weeklies to
wrap the English language papers in and then walked down the Carrera San
Geronimo to the cool friendly morning gloom of the Buffet Italianos. There was
no one in the place yet and he remembered that he had made no rendezvous with
Catherine.
"What
will you drink?" the waiter asked him.
"Beer,"
he said.
"This
isn't a beer place."
"Don't
you have beer?"
"Yes.
But it's not a beer place."
"Up
yours," he said and re-rolled the papers and went out and walked across
the street and back on the other side to turn to the left into the Calle
Vittoria and on to the Cervezería Alvarez. He sat at a table under the awning
in the passageway and drank a big cold glass of the draft beer.
The
waiter was probably only making conversation, he thought, and what the man said
was quite true. It isn't a beer place. He was just being literal. He wasn't
being insolent. That was a very bad thing to say and he had no defense against
it. It was a shitty thing to do. He drank a second beer and called the waiter
to pay.
"Y
la Señora?" the waiter said.
"At
the Museo del Prado. I'm going to get her."
"Well,
until you get back," the waiter said.
He
walked back to the hotel by a downhill shortcut. The key was at the desk so he
rode up to their floor and left the papers and the mail on a table in the room
and locked most of the money in his suitcase. The room was made up and the
shutters were lowered against the heat so that the room was darkened. He washed
and then sorted through his mail and took four letters out and put them in his
hip pocket. He took the Paris editions of The New York Herald, the Chicago
Tribune and the London Daily Mail down with him to the bar of the hotel
stopping at the desk to leave the key and to ask the clerk to tell Madame, when
she came in, that he was in the bar.
He
sat on a stool at the bar and ordered a marismeño and opened and read his
letters while he ate the garlic-flavored olives from the saucer the bartender
had placed before him with his glass. One of the letters had two cuttings of
reviews of his novel from monthly magazines and he read them with no feeling that
they dealt with him or with anything that he had written.
He
put the cuttings back in the envelope. They had been understanding and
perceptive reviews but to
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