Savage Coast by Muriel Rukeyser Page B

us,” she explained. Hollywood?
    â€œHaven’t you met our magnates?” She leaned back. “The three gentleman from Paramount who occupy the Pullman car: item, one executive; item, two newsreel men.”
    â€œArrogant bastards, too,” said Peter, sighing.
    â€œThey’re the prime reason for that search of the train.”
    â€œExcept it was good common sense,” said the tall school teacher.
    â€œOur countrymen!” Olive exclaimed. “And it looks as though we’ll be seeing our countrymen, too. It’s lucky you turned out all right,” she said to Helen, “we were worried.”
    â€œYou sound like Peapack. She was worried,” Helen saw, flash, the green metal compartment of the French express.
    â€œPeapack?” said Peter, sitting up.
    â€œShe comes from there, New Jersey,” Helen told him. “Five suitcases, didn’t know there were going to be Games in Barcelona, means to proceed to Milan and Berlin, asks why antifascist . . .”
    â€œWell, the English can take care of her. We won’t.” Peter was firm. “Have you met the English?”
    â€œNo,” said Helen. “I’ve been with some Catalans, and the Hungarian team.”
    â€œWell, the English are prepared to do their duty,” Peter said. “There seem to be at least three couples, all first, and they’re having a meeting now. And there’s the chorus; seen them? Six swell platinum blondes, and a self-effacing manager; oh, and some sort of traveling salesman—I can’t think of any others. Then there are a few assorted people we ran into: three Frenchman, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they were spies, and a German-looking family who’ve moved up to first, and Olive saw another German get on at Port Bou, didn’t you?”
    â€œA fine one,” said Olive.
    â€œWell, we met the others while we were trying to get coffee,” Peter went on. “They closed the dining car while we were in the middle; locked it up, and put a sign, ‘Not Running,’ on the door.”
    â€œYou might go and see whether the water is, Peter,” Olive was reminded.
    â€œOh, no, that’s definitely out,” he said. “The water gave out on the train a half hour ago. We’ve been talking to the engineer. He’s sitting on the steps of the cab, being bawled out for a dirty slacker by the Hollywood guys. They think he’s refused to run the train.”
    â€œThey act as if he was a mule,” said the sickly woman.
    â€œWell, the chocolate’s good, anyhow,” said the other.
    â€œYeah, they got a supply in Paris,” Peter said. “Lucky we ran into you . . . Imagine, we hadn’t seen them in three years, and there they were drinking coffee in the diner on this train . . .”
    â€œOf all places,” finished Olive. If we’d got a supply of something like that in Paris—”
    â€œOh, it was fine,” Peter said. He was talking to Helen, in exuberance. “We were there, Bastille Day. A million people on that march, past the Mur des Fédérés, 74 through Père Lachaise through the entire city . . .”
    â€œWhat’s that?” said the sickly woman, sharply, her head on one side.
    Peter stopped a moment. He put his lower lip out; he heard nothing. “Don’t look now,” he cracked, “there’s a revolution in the next car.”
    â€œNo, really,” the woman said, “listen!”
    â€œAren’t the children beautiful in this town?” Peter said suddenly. “Remember that boy, Olive? I wish we had a child like that boy.” Her face was darkened and sad; some meaning Helen did not understand fell across it.
    â€œOh, shut up for a moment!” the woman said vehemently.
    In the air, the music was changing. From the Spanish dance, the needle of some distant phonograph scratched for a moment, and then, familiarly, the words