things weren’t going to be much different from what they had been at home, they surrendered to desperation and walked the streets heavy-shouldered, with disappointment showing in their faces.
And scattered through this variegated mob of Germans, Englishmen, Belgians and Swedes, there moved a few Spaniards—a very few. They were apt to be workmen on their way to fix abused plumbing systems, or entrepreneurs trying to peddle bits of property their uncles owned, or clerks from the various stores. You could spot them by the sardonic looks on their faces, by the uncomprehending glances they occasionally cast at particularly outrageous hippies. It was a foreign world, one they did not understand, nor did they care to, so long as it provided them with a living. They were surprised at times, when they stopped to reflect that all this was happening in Spain, but they no longer worried about it, secure in their belief that the government in Madrid must be aware of the strange things that were happening and would correct them if occasion demanded.
When the young man with the lemonade was satisfied that he understood Joe, he said, ‘With you I’d better be honest.’
Joe heard this frightening statement as if through a blanket of fog, for he was still lost in his review of the passers-by, wondering where in the procession he was going to fit. ‘What’d you say?’ he asked.
‘You can call me Jean-Victor,’ the young man said. ‘Not French. ‘I’ll let you guess what. But I’ve been studying you and I see that you’re capable. Quiet but capable. And I’ve decided that with you I’d better speak the truth about Torremolinos. If you were a young girl trying to make your living as a prostitute, I’d have to warn you that it couldn’t be done, because competition from the amateurs would drive you right out of town. But you being a handsome young man, with a certain physique, attractive hair … Do you speak any language other than English?’
‘Spanish.’
‘That doesn’t count.’
‘In Spain? It doesn’t count?’
‘We’re not in Spain. Now if you put on your tightest pair of trousers and wander down this main street until you find a bar called the Wilted Swan, and go inside and order a lemonade, within fifteen minutes you’ll find somebodywho’ll take care of your expenses for as long as you care to stay in town.’
Joe said nothing. Rummaging through his wallet, he looked for a scrap of paper, found the name he wanted, and turned to Jean-Victor, asking, ‘Inside would I happen to find Paxton Fell?’
‘Oh, you know Paxton Fell!’ the young man cried ecstatically. ‘Splendid! Splendid!’ He insisted upon paying for the drinks and chaperoning Joe to meet Fell at the Wilted Swan. They had walked only a couple of short blocks when Joe saw one of the world’s great barroom signs, a heraldic shield painted in bright primary colors, in the center of which floated a swan whose neck and wings had wilted into a limp design, with a result so languid and degenerate that he had to stop and laugh.
‘That’s a great sign,’ he said admiringly. ‘I’ll bet it looks like Paxton Fell.’
At this the guide slapped his leg and cried, ‘Oh, I’ve got to tell Paxton what you said!’ He led Joe through the brass-studded Renaissance doors and into a dark room ornately decorated with objects of French and English origin. He peered carefully from corner to corner, then pointed to a table at which sat four men who appeared to be in their forties. They were obviously well-to-do, for they were dressed with that austere elegance which only money can sustain, and they spoke in low voices.
Jean-Victor approached the table deferentially, bowed and whispered to the man whose back was to the door. Slowly this gentleman rose, slim and imperious, and when he turned around, Joe saw that he was much more than forty. As if from a considerable height he studied Joe, apparently found him acceptable, and walked slowly toward
And scattered through this variegated mob of Germans, Englishmen, Belgians and Swedes, there moved a few Spaniards—a very few. They were apt to be workmen on their way to fix abused plumbing systems, or entrepreneurs trying to peddle bits of property their uncles owned, or clerks from the various stores. You could spot them by the sardonic looks on their faces, by the uncomprehending glances they occasionally cast at particularly outrageous hippies. It was a foreign world, one they did not understand, nor did they care to, so long as it provided them with a living. They were surprised at times, when they stopped to reflect that all this was happening in Spain, but they no longer worried about it, secure in their belief that the government in Madrid must be aware of the strange things that were happening and would correct them if occasion demanded.
When the young man with the lemonade was satisfied that he understood Joe, he said, ‘With you I’d better be honest.’
Joe heard this frightening statement as if through a blanket of fog, for he was still lost in his review of the passers-by, wondering where in the procession he was going to fit. ‘What’d you say?’ he asked.
‘You can call me Jean-Victor,’ the young man said. ‘Not French. ‘I’ll let you guess what. But I’ve been studying you and I see that you’re capable. Quiet but capable. And I’ve decided that with you I’d better speak the truth about Torremolinos. If you were a young girl trying to make your living as a prostitute, I’d have to warn you that it couldn’t be done, because competition from the amateurs would drive you right out of town. But you being a handsome young man, with a certain physique, attractive hair … Do you speak any language other than English?’
‘Spanish.’
‘That doesn’t count.’
‘In Spain? It doesn’t count?’
‘We’re not in Spain. Now if you put on your tightest pair of trousers and wander down this main street until you find a bar called the Wilted Swan, and go inside and order a lemonade, within fifteen minutes you’ll find somebodywho’ll take care of your expenses for as long as you care to stay in town.’
Joe said nothing. Rummaging through his wallet, he looked for a scrap of paper, found the name he wanted, and turned to Jean-Victor, asking, ‘Inside would I happen to find Paxton Fell?’
‘Oh, you know Paxton Fell!’ the young man cried ecstatically. ‘Splendid! Splendid!’ He insisted upon paying for the drinks and chaperoning Joe to meet Fell at the Wilted Swan. They had walked only a couple of short blocks when Joe saw one of the world’s great barroom signs, a heraldic shield painted in bright primary colors, in the center of which floated a swan whose neck and wings had wilted into a limp design, with a result so languid and degenerate that he had to stop and laugh.
‘That’s a great sign,’ he said admiringly. ‘I’ll bet it looks like Paxton Fell.’
At this the guide slapped his leg and cried, ‘Oh, I’ve got to tell Paxton what you said!’ He led Joe through the brass-studded Renaissance doors and into a dark room ornately decorated with objects of French and English origin. He peered carefully from corner to corner, then pointed to a table at which sat four men who appeared to be in their forties. They were obviously well-to-do, for they were dressed with that austere elegance which only money can sustain, and they spoke in low voices.
Jean-Victor approached the table deferentially, bowed and whispered to the man whose back was to the door. Slowly this gentleman rose, slim and imperious, and when he turned around, Joe saw that he was much more than forty. As if from a considerable height he studied Joe, apparently found him acceptable, and walked slowly toward
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