《CHAPTER 18 Page 1》
At noon we were all at the caf? It was crowded. We were eating shrimps and drinking beer. The town was crowded. Every street was full. Big motor-cars from Biarritz and San Sebastian kept driving up and parking around the square. They brought people for the bullfight. Sight-seeing cars came up, too. There was one with twentyfive Englishwomen in it. They sat in the big, white car and looked through their glasses at the fiesta. The dancers were all quite drunk. It was the last day of the fiesta.
The fiesta was solid and unbroken, but the motor-cars and tourist-cars made little islands of onlookers. When the cars emptied, the onlookers were absorbed into the crowd. You did not see them again except as sport clothes, odd-looking at a table among the closely packed peasants in black smocks. The fiesta absorbed even the Biarritz English so that you did not see them unless you passed close to a table. All the time there was music in the street. The drums kept on pounding and the pipes were going. Inside the cafes men with their hands gripping the table, or on each other's shoulders, were singing the hard-voiced singing.
"Here comes Brett," Bill said.
I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in the square, walking, her head up, as though the fiesta were being staged in her honor, and she found it pleasant and amusing.
"Hello, you chaps!" she said. "I say, I _have_ a thirst."
"Get another big beer," Bill said to the waiter.
"Shrimps?"
"Is Cohn gone?" Brett asked.
"Yes," Bill said. "He hired a car."
The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip.
"Good beer."
"Very good," I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control.
"I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake," Brett said.
"No. Knocked me out. That was all."
"I say, he did hurt pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly."
"How is he?"
"He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room."
"Does he look badly?"
"Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute."
"Is he going to fight?"
"Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind."
"How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said.
"Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly."
Brett stood up.
"I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael."
"How's your boy friend?"
"Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon."
"Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bullfighter."
"Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake."
"Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dIsh of shrimps went over in a crash.
"Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this."
In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?"
"I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says."
Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright.
"I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake."
"Anything you want me to do?"
"No, just go to the fight with me."
"We'll see you at lunch?"
"No. I'm eating with him."
We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade.
"Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping."
We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park.
"Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now."
We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea.
"I hope the wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for him."
"So do I."
"He says the bulls are all right."
"They're good."
"Is that San Fermin's?"
Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel.
"Yes. Where the show started on Sunday."
"Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something."
We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead.
"Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous."
Outside in the hot brightness of the Street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success.
"Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good."
We walked along.
"I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face.
"You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him."
"Good."
"I wish the wind would drop, though."
"It's liable to go down by five o'clock."
"Let's hope."
"You might pray," I laughed.
"Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?"
"Oh, yes."
"Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though you don't look very religious, Jake."
"I'm pretty religious."
"Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is."
It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating.
"Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad."
"Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German maitre d'hotel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him:
"Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?"
"No, _ma'am_."
"Good," said Brett.
"Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile.
"Iss madam eating here?"
"No," Brett said.
"Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff."
"Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile.
"I'll see you at the caf?" Brett said. "Thank you, so much,Jake."
We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hail and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her.
I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me.
"Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time."
"Let me cover you over."
"No. I'm quite warm."
"Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet."
"You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy."
"Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away."
He turned his head and looked at me.
"Damned good thing, what?"
"Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep."
"I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tie sleep."
He shut his eyes. I went Out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper.
"See Mike?"
"Yes."
"Let's go and eat."
"I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs."
"He was snotty to us, too."
"Let's go out and eat in the town."
We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray.
"There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said.
"And the kid's," I said.
Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite.
"I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen," he said.
"Go sit at it," Bill said. We went on out across the street.
We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. They were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full of smoke and drinking and singing. The food was good and so was the wine. We did not talk much. Afterward we went to the caf?and watched the fiesta come to the boiling-point. Brett came over soon after lunch. She said she had looked in the room and that Mike was asleep.
When the fiesta boiled over and toward the bull-ring we went with the crowd. Brett sat at the ringside between Bill and me. Directly below us was the callejon, the passageway between the stands and the red fence of the barrera. Behind us the concrete stands filled solidly. Out in front, beyond the red fence, the sand of the ring was smooth-rolled and yellow. It looked a little heavy from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm and smooth. The swordhandlers and bull-ring servants came down the callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details.
"He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas," she said. "Why do they call them muletas?"
"I don't know."
"I wonder if they ever launder them."
"I don't think so. It might spoil the color."
"The blood must stiffen them," Bill said.
"Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood."
Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the president's box. When he came in the fight would start. Across the smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena. Brett was watching them with the glasses.
"Here, would you like to look?"
I looked through the glasses and saw the three matadors. Romero was in the centre, Belmonte on his left, Marcial on his right. Back of them were their people, and behind the banderilleros, back in the passageway and in the open space of the corral, I saw the picadors. Romero was wearing a black suit. His tricornered hat was low down over his eyes. I could not see his face clearly under the hat, but it looked badly marked. He was looking straight ahead. Marcial was smoking a cigarette guardedly, holding it in his hand. Beimonte looked ahead, his face wan and yellow, his long wolf jaw out. He was looking at nothing. Neither he nor Romero seemed to have anything in common with the others. They were all alone. The president came in; there was handclapping above us in the grand stand, and I handed the glasses to Brett. There was applause. The music started. Brett looked through the glasses.
"Here, take them," she said.
Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three matadors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics rising like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the president's box, and then came over to the barrera beiow us. pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and handed it over the fence to his sword-handler. He said something to the sword-handler. Close below us we saw Romero's lips were puffed, both eyes were discolored. His face was discolored and swollen. The sword-handler took the cape, looked up at Brett, and came over to us and handed up the cape.
"Spread it out in front of you," I said.
Brett leaned forward. The cape was heavy and smoothly stiff with gold. The sword-handler looked back, shook his head, and said something. A man beside me leaned over toward Brett.
"He doesn't want you to spread it," he said. "You should fold it and keep it in your lap."
Brett folded the heavy cape.
Romero did not look up at us. He was speaking to Belmonte. Belmonte had sent his formal cape over to some friends. He looked across at them and smiled, his wolf smile that was only with the mouth. Romero leaned over the barrera and asked for the water-jug. The sword-handler brought it and Romero poured water over the percale of his fighting-cape, and then scuffed the lower folds in the sand with his slippered foot.
"What's that for?" Brett asked.
"To give it weight in the wind."
"His face looks bad," Bill said.
"He feels very badly," Brett said. "He should be in bed."
The first bull was Belmonte's. Belmonte was very good. But because he got thirty thousand pesetas and people had stayed in line all night to buy tickets to see him, the crowd demanded that he should be more than very good. Belmonte's great attraction is working close to the bull. In bull-fighting they speak of the terrain of the bull and the terrain of the bull-fighter. As long as a bull-fighter stays in his own terrain he is comparatively safe. Each time he enters into the terrain of the bull he is in great danger. Belmonte, in his best days, worked always in the terrain of the bull. This way he gave the sensation of coming tragedy. people went to the corrida to see Belmonte, to be given tragic sensations, and perhaps to see the death of Belmonte. Fifteen years ago they said if you wanted to see Belmonte you should go quickly, while he was still alive. Since then he has killed more than a thousand bulls. When he retired the legend grew up about how his bull-fighting had been, and when he came out of retirement the public were disappointed because no real man could work as close to the bulls as Belmonte was supposed to have done, not, of course, even Belmonte.
Also Belmonte imposed conditions and insisted that his bulls should not be too large, nor too dangerously armed with horns, and so the element that was necessary to give the sensation of tragedy was not there, and the public, who wanted three times as much from Belmonte, who was sick with a fistula, as Belmonte had ever been able to give, felt defrauded and cheated, and Belmonte's jaw came further out in contempt, and his face turned yellower, and he moved with greater difficulty as his pain increased, and finally the crowd were actively against him, and he was utterly contemptuous and indifferent. He had meant to have a great afternoon, and instead it was an afternoon of sneers, shouted insults, and finally a volley of cushions and pieces of bread and vegetables, thrown down at him in the plaza where he had had his greatest triumphs. His jaw only went further out. Sometimes he turned to smile that toothed, longjawed, lipless smile when he was called something particularly insulting, and always the pain that any movement produced grew stronger and stronger, until finally his yellow face was parchment color, and after his second bull was dead and the throwing of bread and cushions was over, after he had saluted the president with the same wolf-jawed smile and contemptuous eyes, and handed his sword over the barrera to be wiped, and put back in its case, he passed through into the callejon and leaned on the barrera below us, his head on his arms, not seeing, not hearing anything, only going through his pain. When he looked up, finally, he asked for a drink of water. He swallowed a little, rinsed his mouth, spat the water, took his cape, and went back into the ring.
Because they were against Belmonte the public were for Romero. From the moment he left the barrera and went toward the bull they applauded him. Belmonte watched Romero, too, watched him always without seeming to. He paid no attention to Marcial. Marcial was the sort of thing he knew all about. He had come out of retirement to compete with Marcial, knowing it was a competition gained in advance. He had expected to compete with Marcial and the other stars of the decadence of bull-fighting, and he knew that the sincerity of his own bull-fighting would be so set off by the false aesthetics of the bull-fighters of the decadent period that he would only have to be in the ring. His return from retirement had been spoiled by Romero. Romero did always, smoothly, calmly, and beautifully, what he, Belmonte, could only bring himself to do now sometimes. The crowd felt it, even the people from Biarritz, even the American ambassador saw it, finally. It was a competition that Belmonte would not enter because it would lead only to a bad horn wound or death. Belmonte was no longer well enough. He no longer had his greatest moments in the bull-ring. He was not sure that there were any great moments. Things were not the same and now life only came in flashes. He had flashes of the old greatness with his bulls, but they were not of value because he had discounted them in advance when he had picked the bulls out for their safety, getting out of a motor and leaning on a fence, looking over at the herd on the ranch of his friend the bull-breeder. So he had two small, manageable bulls withoui much horns, and when he felt the greatness again coming, just a little of it through the pain that was always with him, it had been discounted and sold in advance, and it did not give him a good feeling. It was the greatness, but it did not make bull-fighting wonderful to him any more.
pedro Romero had the greatness. He loved bull-fighting, and I think he loved the bulls, and I think he loved Brett. Everything of which he could control the locality he did in front of her all that afternoon. Never once did he look up. He made it stronger that way, and did it for himself, too, as well as for her. Because he did not look up to ask if it pleased he did it all for himself inside, and it strengthened him, and yet he did it for her, too. But he did not do it for her at any loss to himself. He gained by it all through the afternoon.
His first "quite" was directly below us. The three matadors take the bull in turn after each charge he makes at a picador. Be!monte was the first. Marcial was the second. Then came Romero. The three of them were standing at the left of the horse. The picador, his hat down over his eyes, the shaft of his pic angling sharply toward the bull, kicked in the spurs and held them and with the reins in his left hand walked the horse forward toward the bull. The bull was watching. Seemingly he watched the white horse, but really he watched the triangular steel point of the pic. Romero, watching, saw the bull start to turn his head. He did not want to charge. Romero flicked his cape so the color caught the bull's eye. The bull charged with the reflex, charged, and found not the flash of color but a white horse, and a man leaned far over the horse, shot the steel point of the long hickory shaft into the hump of muscle on the bull's shoulder, and pulled his horse sideways as he pivoted on the pic, making a wound, enforcing the iron into the bull's shoulder, making him bleed for Belmonte.

《第二部 第十八章 Page 1》
中午时分，我们会集在咖啡馆里。里头人头挤挤。我们吃小虾，喝啤酒。城里也满是人。条条街道都挤得满满的。从比亚里茨和圣塞瓦斯蒂安来的大汽车不断地开到，停在广场周围。汽车把人们送来观看斗牛。旅游车也到了。有一辆车里坐着二十五名英籍妇女。她们坐在这辆白色的大汽车里，用望远镜观赏这里的节日风光。跳舞的人都喝得醉醺醺的。这是节期的最后一天。
参加节日活动的人们挤得水泄不通，川流不息，但汽车和旅游车边却围着一圈圈观光者。等汽车上的人全下来了，他们便淹没在人群之中。你再也见不着他们，只有在咖啡馆的桌子边，在拥挤不堪的穿着黑色外衣的农民中间，能见到他们那与众不同的运动服。节日洪流甚至淹没了从比亚里茨来的英国人，以至你如果不紧靠一张桌子边走过，就看不到他们。街上乐声不绝。鼓声咚咚，笛声悠扬。在咖啡馆里，人们双手紧抓住桌子，或者互相接着肩膀，直着嗓门唱歌。
“勃莱特来了，”比尔说。
我一看，只见她正穿过广场上的人群走来，高高地昂着头，似乎这次节日狂欢是为了对她表示敬意才举行的，她感到又自得，又好笑。
“喂，朋友们！”她说。“嗨，渴死我了。”
“再来一大杯啤酒，”比尔对侍者说。
“要小虾吗？”
“科恩走了？”勃莱特问。
“是的，”比尔说。“他雇了一辆汽车。”
啤酒送来了。勃莱特伸手去端玻璃杯，她的手颤抖着。她自己发觉了，微微一笑，便俯身喝了一大口。“好酒。”“非常好，”我说。我正为迈克惴惴不安。我想他根本没有睡觉。他大概一直在喝酒，但是看来他还能控制得住自己。“我听说科恩把你打伤了， 杰克， ”勃莱特说。“没有。把我打昏过去了。别的没啥。”“我说，他把佩德罗.罗梅罗打伤了，”勃莱特说。“伤得好厉害。”“他现在怎么样？”“他就会好的。他不愿意离开房间。”“他看来很糟糕？”“非常糟糕。他真的伤得很重。我跟他说，我想溜出来看你们一下。”“他还要上场吗？”“当然。如果你愿意的话，我想同你一起去。”“你男朋友怎么样啦？”迈克问。勃莱特刚才说的话他一点没听着。“勃莱特搞上了一个斗牛士，”他说。“她还有个姓科恩的犹太人，可他结果表现得糟透了。”勃莱特站起身来。
“我不想再听你讲这种混帐话了，迈克尔。”
“你男朋友怎么样啦？”
“好得很哩，”勃莱特说。“下午好好看他斗牛吧。”
“勃莱特搞上了一个斗牛士，”迈克说。“一个标致的该死的斗牛士。”
“请你陪我走回去好吗？我有话对你说，杰克。”
“把你那斗牛士的事儿都对他说吧，”迈克说。“哼，让你那斗牛士见鬼去吧！”他把桌子一掀，于是桌上所有的啤酒杯和虾碟都泻在地上，哗啦啦地摔个粉碎。
“走吧，”勃莱特说。“我们离开这里。”
挤在人群中间穿过广场的时候，我说：“情况怎么样？”
“午饭后到他上场之前我不准备见他，他的随从们要来给他上装。他说，他们非常生我的气。”勃莱特满面春风。她很高兴。太阳出来了，天色亮堂堂的。“我觉得自己完全变了，”勃莱特说。“你想象不到，杰克。”
“你需要我干什么？”
“没什么，只想叫你陪我看斗牛去。”
“午饭时你来？”
“不。我跟他一块吃。”
我们在旅馆门口的拱廊下面站住了。他们正把桌子搬出来安置在拱廊下面。
“想不想到公园里去走走？”勃莱特问。“我还不想上楼。我看他在睡觉。”
我们打剧院门前走过，出了广场，一直穿过市集上临时搭的棚子，随着人流在两行售货亭中间走着。我们走上一条通向萨拉萨特步行街的横街，我们望得见人们在步行街上漫步，穿着入时的人们全在那里了。他们绕着公园那一头散步。
“我们别上那边去，”勃莱特说：“眼前我不愿意让人盯着看。”
我们在阳光下站着。海上刮来乌云，雨过天晴之后，天气热得很爽。
“我希望不要再刮风了，”勃莱特说。“刮风对他很不利。”
“我也希望这样。”
“他说牛都不错。”
“都很好。”
“那座是不是圣福明礼拜堂？”
勃莱特望着礼拜堂的黄墙。
“是的。星期天的就是从这里出发的。”
“我们进去看看。愿意吗？我很想为他做个祈祷什么的。”
我们走进一扇包着皮革的门，它虽然很厚实，但开起来却非常轻便。堂里很暗。许多人在做祷告。等眼睛适应了幽暗的光线，你就能够看清他们。我们跪在一条木制长凳前。过了一会儿，我发觉勃莱特在我旁边挺直了腰板，看见她的眼睛直勾勾地望着前面。
“走吧，”她用嘶哑的声音悄悄说。“我们离开这里吧。使我的神经好紧张。”
到了外面，在灼热阳光照耀下的大街上，勃莱特抬头凝视随风摇曳的树梢。祈祷没有起多大作用。
“不明白我在教堂里为什么总这么紧张，”勃莱特说。“祈祷对我从来没有用。”
我们一路往前走。“我同宗教气氛是格格不入的，”勃莱特说。“我的脸型长得不对头。
“你知道，”勃莱特又说，“我根本不替他担心，我只是为他感到幸福。”
“这敢情好，”
“但是我盼望风小一点。”
“五点钟左右风势往往会减弱。”
“但愿如此。”
“你可以祈祷嘛，”我笑着说。
“对我从来没用，我从来也没得到过祈祷的好处。你得到过吗？”
“哦，有过。”
“胡说，”勃莱特说，“不过对某些人来说可能灵验。你看来也不怎么虔诚嘛，杰克。”
“我很虔诚。”
“胡说，”勃莱特说。“你今天别来劝诱人家信教这一套啦。今天这个日子看来会是够倒霉的。”
自从她和科恩出走之日起，我还是头一次看到她又象过去那么快快活活、无忧无虑。我们折回到旅馆门前。所有的桌子都摆好了，有几张桌子已经有人坐着在吃饭了。
“你看着点迈克，”勃莱特说。“别让他太放肆了。”“你的朋友们已经上楼了，”德国籍的侍者总管用英语说。他一贯偷听别人说话。勃莱特朝他说：“太谢谢了。你还有什么话要说的？”“没有了，夫人。”“好，”勃莱特说。
“给我们留一张三个人坐的桌子，”我对德国人说。他那张贼眉鼠眼、内里透红的脸绽出了笑容。“夫人在这儿用餐？”
“不，”勃莱特说。
“那我看双人桌也就够了。”
“别跟他罗嗦，”勃莱特说。“迈克大概情绪很不好，”上楼的时候她说。在楼梯上，我们和蒙托亚打了个照面。他鞠躬致意，但脸上毫无笑意。
“咖啡馆里再见，”勃莱特说。“太感谢你了，杰克。”
我们走上我们住的那一层楼。她顺着走廊径直走迸罗梅罗的房间。她没有敲门。她干脆推开房门，走进去，就随手带上了门。
我站在迈克的房门前，敲了敲门。没有回音。我拧拧门把手，门开了。房间里一团糟。所有的提包都开着，衣服扔得到处都是。床边有几个空酒瓶。迈克躺在床上，脸庞活象他死后翻制的石膏面型。他张开眼睛看着我。
“你好，杰克，”他慢条斯理地说。“我想打个——个——盹儿，好长时间了，我总想——想——睡一小——小——会儿觉。”
“我给你盖上被子吧。”
“不用。我不冷。
“你别走。我还没——没——睡——睡着过呢，”他又说。
“你会睡着的，迈克。别担心，老弟。”
“勃莱特搞上了一个斗牛士，”迈克说。“可是她那个犹太人倒是走了。”
他转过头来看着我。
“天大的好事，对吧？”“是的。现在你快睡吧，迈克。你该睡点觉了。”
“我这——这——就睡。我要——要——睡一小——小——会儿觉。”
他闭上眼睛。我走出房间，轻轻地带上门。比尔在我房间里看报。
“看见迈克啦？”
“是的。”
“我们吃饭去吧。”
“这里有个德国侍者总管，我不愿意在楼下吃。我领迈克上楼的时候，他讨厌透了。”
“他对我们也是这样。”
“我们出去到大街上吃去。”
我们下楼。在楼梯上我们和一名上楼的侍女擦肩而过，她端了一个蒙着餐巾的托盘。
“那是给勃莱特吃的饭，”比尔说。
“还有那位小伙的，”我说。
门外拱廊下的露台上，德国侍者总管走过来。他那红扑扑的两颊亮光光的。他很客气。
“我给你们两位先生留了一张双人桌，”他说。
“你自己去坐吧，”比尔说。我们一直走出去，跨过马路。
我们在广场边一条小巷里一家餐厅吃饭。这餐厅里的吃客都是男的。屋里烟雾弥漫，人们都在喝酒唱歌。饭菜很好，酒也好。我们很少说话。后来我们到咖啡馆去观看狂欢活动达到沸腾的。勃莱特吃完饭马上就来了。她说她曾到迈克的房间里看了一下，他睡着了。
当狂欢活动达到沸腾的并转移到斗牛场的时候，我们随同人群到了那里。勃莱特坐在第一排我和比尔之间。看台和场子四周那道红色栅栏之间有一条狭窄的通道，就在我们的下面。我们背后的混凝土看台已经坐得满满的了。前边，红色栅栏外面是铺着黄澄澄的砂子、碾得平展展的场地。雨后的场地看来有点泞，但是经太阳一晒就干了，又坚实、又平整。随从和斗牛场的工役走下通道，肩上扛着装有斗牛用的斗篷和红巾的柳条篮。沾有血迹的斗篷和红巾叠得板板整整地安放在柳条篮里。随从们打开笨重的皮剑鞘，把剑鞘靠在栅栏上，露出一束裹着红布的剑柄。他们抖开一块块有紫黑血迹的红色法兰绒，套上短棍，把它张开，并且让斗牛士可以握住了挥舞。勃莱特仔细看着这一切。她被这一行玩艺的细枝末节吸引住了。
“他的每件斗篷和每块红巾上都印着他的名字，”她说。“为什么管这些红色法兰绒叫做muleta呢？”
“我不知道。”
“不知道这些东西到底有没有洗过。”
“我看是从来不洗的。一洗可能要掉色。”
“血迹会使法兰绒发硬，”比尔说。
“真奇怪，”勃莱特说。“人们竟能对血迹一点不在意。”
在下面狭窄的通道上，随从们安排着上场前的一切准备工作。所有的座位都坐满了人。看台上方，所有的包厢也满了、除了主席的包厢外，已经没有一个空座。等主席一入场，斗牛就要开始。在场子里平整的沙地对面，斗牛士们站在通牛栏的高大的门洞子里聊天，他们把胳臂裹在斗篷里，等待列队入场的信号。勃莱特拿着望远镜看他们。
“给，你想看看吗？”
我从望远镜里看出去，看到那三位斗牛士。罗梅罗居中，左边是贝尔蒙蒂，右边是马西亚尔。他们背后是他们的助手，而在短熗手的后面，我看到在后边通道和牛栏里的空地上站着长矛手。罗梅罗穿一套黑色斗牛服。他的三角帽低扣在眼睛上。我看不清他帽子下面的脸，但是看来伤痕不少。他的两眼笔直地望着前方。马西亚尔把香烟藏在手心里，小心翼翼地抽着。贝尔蒙蒂朝前望着，面孔黄得毫无血色，长长的狼下巴向外撅着。他目光茫然，视而不见。无论是他还是罗梅罗，看来和别人都毫无共同之处。他们孑然伫立。主席入场了；我们上面的大看台上传来鼓掌声，我就把望远镜递给勃莱特。一阵鼓掌。开始奏乐。勃莱特拿着望远镜看。
“给，拿去，”她说。
在望远镜里，我看见贝尔蒙蒂在跟罗梅罗说话。马西亚尔直直身子，扔掉香烟，于是这三位斗牛士双目直视着前方，昂着头，摆着一只空手入场了。他们后面跟随着整个队列，进了场向两边展开，全体正步走，每个人都一只手拿着卷起的斗篷，摆动着另一只空手。接着出场的是举着长矛，象带熗骑兵般的长矛手。最后压阵的是两行骡子和斗牛场的工役。斗牛士们一手按住头上的帽子，在主席的包厢前弯腰鞠躬，然后向我们下面的栅栏走来。佩德罗.罗梅罗脱下他那件沉甸甸的金线织锦斗篷，递给他在栅栏这一边的随从。他对随从说了几句话。这时罗梅罗就在我们下面不远的地方，我们看见他嘴唇肿起、两眼充血、脸庞青肿。随从接过斗篷，抬头看看勃莱特，便走到我们跟前，把斗篷递上来。
“把它摊开，放在你的前面，”我说。
勃莱特屈身向前。斗篷用金线绣制，沉重而挺括。随从回头看看，摇摇头，说了些什么。坐在我旁边的一个男人向勃莱特侧过身子。
“他不要你把斗篷摊开，”他说。“你把它折好，放在膝上。”
勃莱特折起沉重的斗篷。
罗梅罗没有抬头望我们。他正和贝尔蒙蒂说话。贝尔蒙蒂已经把他的礼服斗篷给他的朋友们送去了。他朝他们望去，笑笑，他笑起来也象狼，只是张张嘴，脸上没有笑意。罗梅罗趴在栅栏上要水罐。随从拿来水罐，罗梅罗往斗牛用的斗篷的细布里子上倒水，然后用穿平跟鞋的脚在沙地上蹭斗篷的下摆。
“那是干什么？”勃莱特问。
“加点儿分量；不让风吹得飘起来。”
“他脸色很不好，”比尔说。
“他自我感觉也非常不好，”勃莱特说。“他应该卧床休息。”
第一头牛由贝尔蒙蒂来对付。贝尔蒙蒂技艺高超。但是因为他一场有三万比塞塔收入，加上人们排了整整一夜队来买票看他表演，所以观众要求他该表现得特别突出。贝尔蒙蒂最吸引人的地方是和牛靠得很近。在斗牛中有所谓公牛地带和斗牛士地带之说。斗牛士只要处在自己的地带里，就比较安全。每当他进入公牛地带，他就处于极大的危险之中。在贝尔蒙蒂的黄金时期，他总是在公牛地带表演。这样，他就给人一种即将发生悲剧的感觉。人们去看斗牛是为了去看贝尔蒙蒂，为了去领受悲剧性的，或许是为了去看贝尔蒙蒂之死。十五年前人们说，如果你想看贝尔蒙蒂，那你得在他还活着的时候趁早去。打那时候起，他已经杀死了一千多头牛。他退隐之后，传奇性的流言四起，说他的斗牛如何如何奇妙，他后来重返斗牛场，公众大失所望，因为没有一个凡人能象据说贝尔蒙蒂曾经做到的那样靠近公牛，当然啦，即使贝尔蒙蒂本人也做不到。
此外，贝尔蒙蒂提出了种种条件，坚决要求牛的个头不能太大，牛角长得不要有太大的危险性，因而，引起即将发生悲剧的感觉所必需的因素消失了，而观众呢，却要求长了瘘管的贝尔蒙蒂做到他过去所能够做到的三倍，现在不免感到上了当，于是贝尔蒙蒂的下巴由于屈辱而撅得更出，脸色变得更黄，由于疼痛加剧，行动更是艰难，最后观众干脆以行动来反对他，他呢，完全采取鄙视和冷淡的态度。他原以为今天是他的好日于，迎来的却是一下午的嘲笑和高声的辱骂，最后，坐垫、面包片和瓜菜一齐飞向当年他曾在这里取得莫大胜利的场地，落在他的身上。他只是把下巴撅得更出一点。有时候，观众的叫骂特别不堪入耳，他会拉长下巴，龇牙咧嘴地一笑，而每个动作所给他的痛苦变得愈来愈剧烈，到最后，他那发黄的脸变成了羊皮纸的颜色。等他杀死了第二头牛，面包和坐垫也扔完了，他撅出狼下巴带着惯常的笑容和鄙视的目光向主席致礼，把他的剑递到栅栏后面，让人擦干净后放回剑鞘，他这才走进通道，倚在我们座位下面的栅栏上，把脑袋俯在胳臂上，什么也不看，什么也不听，只顾忍受痛苦的折磨。最后他抬头要了点水。他咽了几口，漱漱嘴，吐掉，拿起斗篷，回进斗牛场。
观众因反对贝尔蒙蒂，所以就向着罗梅罗。他一离开看台前的栅栏向牛走去，观众就向他鼓起掌来。贝尔蒙蒂也在看他，装作不看，其实一直在看。他没有把马西亚尔放在心上。马西亚尔的底细他了如指掌。他重返斗牛场的目的是和马西亚尔一比高低，以为这是一场胜利早已在握的比赛。他期望同马西亚尔以及其它衰落时期的斗牛明星比一比，他知道只要他在斗牛场上一亮相，衰落时期的斗牛士那套虚张声势的技艺就会在他扎实的斗牛功底面前黯然失色。他这次退隐后重返斗牛场被罗梅罗破坏了。罗梅罗总是那么自如、稳健、优美。他，贝尔蒙蒂，如今只偶尔才能使自己做到这一点。观众感觉到了，甚至从比亚里茨来的人也感觉到了，最后连美国大使都看出来了。这场竞赛贝尔蒙蒂真不愿参加，因为只能落得让牛抵成重伤或者死去的下场。贝尔蒙蒂体力不支了。他在斗牛场显赫一时的已经过去。他觉得这种大概不会再有了。事过境迁，现在生命只能闪现出星星点点的火花了。他还有几分旧时斗牛的风采，但是已经毫无价值，因为当他走下汽车，倚在他一位养牛朋友的牧场的围栏上审视牛群，挑选几头温顺的公牛时，事先就已经使他的风采打了个折扣。他挑的两头牛个头小，角也不大，容易驯服，但当他感到风采重现的时候——在经常缠身的病痛中闪现出一丁点儿，而就这么一下点儿也是事先打了折扣而提供的——，他并不感到痛快。这的确是当年的那种风采，但是再也不能使他在斗牛中得到乐趣了。
佩德罗.罗梅罗具有这种了不起的风采。他热爱斗牛，依我看他热爱牛，依我看他也热爱勃莱特。那天整个下午，他把他表演斗牛的一招一式的地点控制在勃莱特座位的前面。他一次也没有抬头看她。这样他表演得就更出色了，不仅是为了她表演，也是为了他自己。因为他没有抬头用目光探询对方是否满意，所以一门心思地为自己而表演，这给了他力量，然而他这样做也是为了她。但是并没有为了她而有损于自己。那天整个下午他因此而占了上风。
他第一次出场把公牛引开的表演就在我们座位的下面。公牛每向骑马长矛手发动一次冲击后，三位斗牛士就轮番上去对付公牛。贝尔蒙蒂排在第一位。马西亚尔第二位。最后轮到罗悔罗。他们三人都站在马的左侧。长矛手把帽子压在眼眉上，调转长矛直指着公牛，用靴刺夹住了马腹，左手握着僵绳，驱马向公牛赶去。公牛盯着看。表面上它在看那匹白马，但实际上它看的是长矛的三角形钢尖。罗梅罗注视着，发现公牛要掉头了。它看来并不想冲击。罗梅罗就轻轻抖抖斗篷，斗篷的红色吸引了牛的视线。公牛出于条件反射，就冲过来，结果发现它面前并不是红色的斗篷在闪耀，而不过是一匹白马，还有一个人从马背上深深地向前哈腰，把山胡桃木长矛的钢尖扎进公牛肩部的肉峰，然后以长矛为枢轴，把马朝一旁赶，割开一处伤口，把钢尖深深扎入牛的肩部，使它流血，为贝尔蒙蒂再上场做准备。
受伤的公牛没有坚持。它并不真心想攻击那匹马儿。它转过身去，和骑马的长矛手分开了，罗梅罗就用斗篷把它引开。他轻柔而稳健地把牛引开，然后站住了，和牛面对面站着，向牛伸出斗篷。公牛竖起尾巴冲过来，罗梅罗在牛面前摆动双臂，站稳了脚跟旋转着。湿润的、蘸着泥沙而加重了分量的斗篷呼的张开，犹如鼓着风的满帆，罗梅罗就当着牛的面张着斗篷就地转动身子。一个回合的末了，他们又面面相觑。罗梅罗面带笑容。公牛又要来较量一番，于是罗梅罗的斗篷重又迎风张开，这一次是朝另一个方向的。每次他让牛极近地擦过身边，以至于人、牛和在牛面前鼓着风旋转着的斗篷成为一组轮廓鲜明的群像。动作是那么缓慢，那么有节制，好象他在把牛轻轻摇动，哄它入睡似的。他把这套动作做了四遍，最后加上一遍，只做了一半，背朝着牛向鼓掌的方向走去，一只手按在臀部，胳臂上挎着斗篷，公牛瞅着他渐去的背影。
他和自己的那两头牛交锋时、表演得十全十美。他的第一头牛视力不佳。用斗篷把它要了两个回合之后，罗梅罗确切知道它的视力受损到什么程度。他就根据这一点行动起来。这场斗牛并不特别精彩。只不过是完美的表演罢了。观众要求换一头牛。他们大闹起来。和一头看不清作诱导的斗篷的牛是斗不出什么名堂来的，但是主席不让换。
“为什么不换呢？”勃莱特问。
“他们为它已经掏了腰包。他们不愿意白丢钱。”
“这样对罗梅罗未免不公平吧。”
“你且仔细看他怎样对付一头看不清颜色的牛。”
“这样的事儿我不爱看。”
如果为斗牛的人儿多少操心的话，看斗牛就没有什么乐趣可言了。碰上这头既看不清斗篷的颜色，也看不清猩红法兰绒巾的公牛，罗梅罗只好以自己的身体同它保持协调。他不得不靠得那么近，使牛看清他的身躯，向他扑来，他然后把牛的攻击目标引向那块法兰绒巾，以传统的方式结束这一回合。从比亚里茨来的观众不喜欢这种方式。他们以为罗梅罗害怕了，所以每当他把牛的攻击从他的身躯引向法兰绒巾的时候，他朝旁边跨一小步。他们情愿看贝尔蒙蒂模仿他自己从前的架势，以及马西亚尔模仿贝尔蒙蒂的架势。在我们后面就坐着这么三个来自比亚里茨的人。

《CHAPTER 18 Page 2》
The bull did not insist under the iron. He did not really want to get at the horse. He turned and the group broke apart and Romero was taking him out with his cape. He took him out softly and smoothly, and then stopped and, standing squarely in front of the bull, offered him the cape. The bull's tail went up and he charged, and Romero moved his arms ahead of the bull, wheeling, his feet firmed. The dampened, mud-weighted cape swung open and full as a sail fills, and Romero pivoted with it just ahead of the bull. At the end of the pass they were facing each other again. Romero smiled. The bull wanted it again, and Romero's cape filled again, this time on the other side. Each time he let the bull pass so close that the man and the bull and the cape that filled and pivoted ahead of the bull were all one sharply etched mass. It was all so slow and so controlled. It was as though he were rocking the bull to sleep. He made four veronicas like that, and finished with a half-veronica that turned his back on the bull and came away toward the applause, his hand on his hip, his cape on his arm, and the bull watching his back going away.
In his own bulls he was perfect. His first bull did not see well. After the first two passes with the cape Romero knew exactly how bad the vision was impaired. He worked accordingly. It was not brilliant bull-fighting. It was only perfect bull-fighting. The crowd wanted the bull changed. They made a great row. Nothing very fine could happen with a bull that could not see the lures, but the president would not order him replaced.
"Why don't they change him?" Brett asked.
"They've paid for him. They don't want to lose their money."
"It's hardly fair to Romero."
"Watch how he handles a bull that can't see the color."
"It's the sort of thing I don't like to see."
It was not nice to watch if you cared anything about the person who was doing it. With the bull who could not see the colors of the capes, or the scarlet flannel of the muleta, Romero had to make the bull consent with his body. He had to get so close that the bull saw his body, and would start for it, and then shift the bull's charge to the flannel and finish out the pass in the classic manner. The Biarritz crowd did not like it. They thought Romero was afraid, and that was why he gave that little sidestep each time as he transferred the bull's charge from his own body to the flannel. They preferred Belmonte's imitation of himself or Marcial's imitation of Belmonte. There were three of them in the row behind us.
"What's he afraid of the bull for? The bull's so dumb he only goes after the cloth."
"He's just a young bull-fighter. He hasn't learned it yet."
"But I thought he was fine with the cape before."
"probably he's nervous now."
Out in the centre of the ring, all alone, Romero was going on with the same thing, getting so close that the bull could see him plainly, offering the body, offering it again a little closer, the bull watching dully, then so close that the bull thought he had him, offering again and finally drawing the charge and then, just before the horns came, giving the bull the red cloth to follow with that little, almost imperceptible, jerk that so offended the critical judgment of the Biarritz bull-fight experts.
"He's going to kill now," I said to Brett. "The bull's still strong. He wouldn't wear himself out."
Out in the centre of the ring Romero profiled in front of the bull, drew the sword out from the folds of the muleta, rose on his toes, and sighted along the blade. The bull charged as Romero charged. Romero's left hand dropped the muleta over the bull's muzzle to blind him, his left shoulder went forward between the horns as the sword went in, and for just an instant he and the bull were one, Romero way out over the bull, the right arm extended high up to where the hilt of the sword had gone in between the bull's shoulders. Then the figure was broken. There was a little jolt as Romero came clear, and then he was standing, one hand up, facing the bull, his shirt ripped out from under his sleeve, the white blowing in the wind, and the bull, the red sword hilt tight between his shoulders, his head going down and his legs settling.
"There he goes," Bill said.
Romero was close enough so the bull could see him. His hand still up, he spoke to the bull. The bull gathered himself, then his head went forward and he went over slowly, then all over, suddenly, four feet in the air.
They handed the sword to Romero, and carrying it blade down, the muleta in his other hand, he walked over to in front of the president's box, bowed, straightened, and came over to the barrera and handed over the sword and muleta.
"Bad one," said the sword-handler.
"He made me sweat," said Romero. He wiped off his face. The sword-handler handed him the water-jug. Romero wiped his lips. It hurt him to drink Out of the jug. He did not look up at us.
Marcial had a big day. They were still applauding him when Romero's last bull came in. It was the bull that had sprinted out and killed the man in the morning running.
During Romero's first bull his hurt face had been very noticeable. Everything he did showed it. All the concentration of the awkwardly delicate working with the bull that could not see well brought it out. The fight with Cohn had not touched his spirit but his face had been smashed and his body hurt. He was wiping all that out now. Each thing that he did with this bull wiped that out a little cleaner. It was a good bull, a big bull, and with horns, and it turned and recharged easily and surely. He was what Romero wanted in bulls.
When he had finished his work with the muleta and was ready to kill, the crowd made him go on. They did not want the bull killed yet, they did not want it to be over. Romero went on. It was like a course in bull-fighting. All the passes he linked up, all completed, all slow, templed and smooth. There were no tricks and no mystifications. There was no brusqueness. And each pass as it reached the summit gave you a sudden ache inside. The crowd did not want it ever to be finished.
The bull was squared on all four feet to be killed, and Romero killed directly below us. He killed not as he had been forced to by the last bull, but as he wanted to. He profiled directly in front of the bull, drew the sword out of the folds of the muleta and sighted along the blade. The bull watched him. Romero spoke to the bull and tapped one of his feet. The bull charged and Romero waited for the charge, the muleta held low, sighting along the blade, his feet firm. Then without taking a step forward, he became one with the bull, the sword was in high between the shoulders, the bull had followed the low-swung flannel, that disappeared as Romero lurched clear to the left, and it was over. The bull tried to go forward, his legs commenced to settle, he swung from side to side, hesitated, then went down on his knees, and Romero's older brother leaned forward behind him and drove a short knife into the bull's neck at the base of the horns. The first time he missed. He drove the knife in again, and the bull went over, twitching and rigid. Romero's brother, holding the bull's horn in one hand, the knife in the other, looked up at the president's box. Handkerchiefs were waving all over the bullring. The president looked down from the box and waved his handkerchief. The brother cut the notched black ear from the dead bull and trotted over with it to Romero. The bull lay heavy and black on the sand, his tongue out. Boys were running toward him from all parts of the arena, making a little circle around him. They were starting to dance around the bull.
Romero took the ear from his brother and held it up toward the president. The president bowed and Romero, running to get ahead of the crowd, came toward us. He leaned up against the barrera and gave the ear to Brett. He nodded his head and smiled. The crowd were all about him. Brett held down the cape.
"You liked it?" Romero called.
Brett did not say anything. They looked at each other and smiled. Brett had the ear in her hand.
"Don't get bloody," Romero said, and grinned. The crowd wanted him. Several boys shouted at Brett. The crowd was the boys, the dancers, and the drunks. Romero turned and tried to get through the crowd. They were all around him trying to lift him and put him on their shoulders. He fought and twisted away, and started running, in the midst of them, toward the exit. He did not want to be carried on people's shoulders. But they held him and lifted him. It was uncomfortable and his legs were spraddled and his body was very sore. They were lifting him and all running toward the gate. He had his hand on somebody's shoulder. He looked around at us apologetically. The crowd, running, went out the gate with him.
We all three went back to the hotel. Brett went upstairs. Bill and I sat in the down-stairs dining-room and ate some hard-boiled eggs and drank several bottles of beer. Belmonte came down in his street clothes with his manager and two other men. They sat at the next table and ate. Belmonte ate very little. They were leaving on the seven o'clock train for Barcelona. Belmonte wore a blue-striped shirt and a dark suit, and ate soft-boiled eggs. The others ate a big meal. Belmonte did not talk. He only answered questions.
Bill was tired after the bull-fight. So was I. We both took a bullfight very hard. We sat and ate the eggs and I watched Belmonte and the people at his table. The men with him were tough-looking and businesslike.
"Come on over to the caf?" Bill said. "I want an absinthe."
It was the last day of the fiesta. Outside it was beginning to be cloudy again. The square was full of people and the fireworks experts were making up their set pieces for the night and covering them over with beech branches. Boys were watching. We passed stands of rockets with long bamboo stems. Outside the caf?there was a great crowd. The music and the dancing were going on. The giants and the dwarfs were passing.
"Where's Edna?" I asked Bill.
"I don't know."
We watched the beginning of the evening of the last night of the fiesta. The absinthe made everything seem better. I drank it without sugar in the dripping glass, and it was pleasantly bitter.
"I feel sorry about Cohn," Bill said. "He had an awful time."
"Oh, to hell with Cohn," I said.
"Where do you suppose he went?"
"Up to paris."
"What do you suppose he'll do?"
"Oh, to hell with him."
"What do you suppose he'll do?"
"pick up with his old girl, probably."
"Who was his old girl?"
"Somebody named Frances."
We had another absinthe.
"When do you go back?" I asked.
"To-morrow."
After a little while Bill said: "Well, it was a swell fiesta."
"Yes," I said, "something doing all the time."
"You wouldn't believe it. It's like a wonderful nightmare."
"Sure," I said. "I'd believe anything. Including nightmares."
"What's the matter? Feel low?"
"Low as hell."
"Have another absinthe. Here, waiter! Another absinthe for this senor."
"I feel like hell," I said.
"Drink that," said Bill. "Drink it slow."
It was beginning to get dark. The fiesta was going on. I began to feel drunk but I did not feel any better.
"How do you feel?"
"I feel like hell."
"Have another?"
"It won't do any good."
"Try it. You can't tell; maybe this is the one that gets it. Hey, waiter! Another absinthe for this senor!"
I poured the water directly into it and stirred it instead of letting it drip. Bill put in a lump of ice. I stirred the ice around with a spoon in the brownish, cloudy mixture.
"How is it?"
"Fine."
"Don't drink it fast that way. It will make you sick."
I set down the glass. I had not meant to drink it fast.
"I feel tight."
"You ought to."
"That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"
"Sure. Get tight. Get over your damn depression."
"Well, I'm tight. Is that what you want?"
"Sit down."
"I won't sit down," I said. "I'm going over to the hotel."
I was very drunk. I was drunker than I ever remembered having been. At the hotel I went up-stairs. Brett's door was open. I put my head in the room. Mike was sitting on the bed. He waved a bottle.
"Jake," he said. "Come in, Jake."
I went in and sat down. The room was unstable unless I looked at some fixed point.
"Brett, you know. She's gone off with the bull-fighter chap."
"No."
"Yes. She looked for you to say good-bye. They went on the seven o'clock train."
"Did they?"
"Bad thing to do," Mike said. "She shouldn't have done it."
"No."
"Have a drink? Wait while I ring for some beer."
"I'm drunk," I said. "I'm going in and lie down."
"Are you blind? I was blind myself."
"Yes," I said, "I'm blind."
"Well, bung-o," Mike said. "Get some sleep, old Jake."
I went out the door and into my own room and lay on the bed. The bed went sailing off and I sat up in bed and looked at the wall to make it stop. Outside in the square the fiesta was going on. It did not mean anything. Later Bill and Mike came in to get me to go down and eat with them. I pretended to be asleep.
"He's asleep. Better let him alone."
"He's blind as a tick," Mike said. They went out.
I got up and went to the balcony and looked out at the dancing in the square. The world was not wheeling any more. It was just very clear and bright, and inclined to blur at the edges. I washed, brushed my hair. I looked strange to myself in the glass, and went down-stairs to the dining-room.
"Here he is!" said Bill. "Good old Jake! I knew you wouldn't pass out."
"Hello, you old drunk," Mike said.
"I got hungry and woke up."
"Eat some soup," Bill said.
The three of us sat at the table, and it seemed as though about six people were missing.

《第二部 第十八章 Page 2》
“他干吗怕这头牛呢？这头牛笨得只能跟在红巾后面亦步亦趋地走着。”
“他只不过是个黄口小儿。本事还没有学到家呢。”
“过去他耍斗篷倒是很绝的。”
“或许他现在感到紧张了。”
在斗牛场正中，只有罗梅罗一个人，他还在表演着那套动作，他靠得那么近，让牛可以看得很清楚，他把身子凑上去，再凑近一点儿，牛还是呆呆地望着，等到近得使牛认为可以够得着他了，再把身子迎上去，最后逗引牛扑过来，接着，等牛角快触及他的时候，他轻轻地、几乎不被人察觉地一抖红巾，牛就随着过去了，这动作激起了比亚里茨斗牛行家们的一阵尖刻的非难。
“他就要下手了，”我对勃莱特说，“牛还有劲儿着哩。它不想把劲儿都使光。”
在斗牛场中央，罗梅罗半面朝着我们，面对着公牛，从红巾褶缝里抽出短剑，踮起脚，目光顺着剑刃朝下瞄准。随着罗梅罗朝前刺的动作，牛也同时扑了过来。罗梅罗左手的红巾落在公牛脸上，蒙住它的眼睛，他的左肩随着短剑刺进牛身而插进两只牛角之间，刹那间，人和牛的形象浑为一体了，罗梅罗耸立在公牛的上方，右臂高高伸起，伸到插在牛两肩之间的剑的柄上。接着人和牛分开了。身子微微一晃，罗梅罗闪了开去，随即面对着牛站定，一手举起，他的衬衣袖子从腋下撕裂了，白布片随凤呼扇，公牛呢，红色剑柄死死地插在它的双肩之间，脑袋往下沉，四腿瘫软。
“它就要倒下了，”比尔说。
罗梅罗离牛很近，所以牛看得见他。他仍然高举着一只手，对牛说着话儿。牛挣扎了一下，然后头朝前一冲，身子慢慢地倒下去，突然四脚朝天，滚翻在地。
有人把那把剑递给罗梅罗，他把剑刃朝下拿着，另一只手拿着法兰绒红巾，走到主席包厢的前面，鞠了一躬，直起身子，走到栅栏边，把剑和红巾递给别人。
“这头牛真不中用，”随从说。
“它弄得我出了一身汗，”罗梅罗说。他擦掉脸上的汗水。随从递给他一个水罐。罗梅罗抹了下嘴唇。用水罐喝水使他感到嘴唇疼痛。他并不抬头看我们。
马西亚尔这天很成功。一直到罗梅罗的最后一头牛上场，观众还在对他鼓掌。就是这头牛，在早晨跑牛的时候冲出来抵死了一个人。
罗梅罗同第一头牛较量的时候，他那受伤的脸庞非常显眼。他每个动作都显露出脸上的伤痕。同这头视力不佳的公牛棘手地细心周旋时，精神的高度集中使他的伤痕暴露无遗。和科恩这一仗并没有挫伤他的锐气，但是毁了他的面容，伤了他的身体。现在他正在把这一切影响消除干净。和这第二头牛交锋的每一个动作消除一分这种影响。这是一头好牛，一头身躯庞大的牛，犄角锐利，不论转身还是袭击都很灵活、很准确。它正是罗梅罗向往的那种牛。
当他结束耍红巾的动作，正准备杀牛的时候，观众要他继续表演一番。他们不愿意这头牛就被杀死，他们不愿意这场斗牛就此结束。罗梅罗接着表演。好象是一场斗牛的示范教程。他把全部动作贯串在一起，做得完整、缓慢、精炼、一气呵成。不要花招，不故弄玄虚。没有草率的动作。每到一个回合的，你的心会突然紧缩起来。观众心想最好这场斗牛永远不要结束。
公牛叉开四条腿等待被杀，罗梅罗就在我们座位的下面场内把牛杀死。他用自己喜欢的方式刺死这头牛，不象杀死上一头时那样出自无可奈何。他侧着脸，站在公牛正对面，从红巾的褶缝里抽出宝剑，目光顺着剑锋瞄准。公牛紧盯着他。罗梅罗对牛说着话，把一只脚在地上轻轻一叩。牛扑上来了，罗梅罗等它扑来，放低红巾，目光顺着剑锋瞄准，双脚稳住不动。接着没有往前挪动一步，他就和牛成为一个整体了，宝剑刺进牛耸起的两肩之间，公牛刚才跟踪着在下面舞动的法兰绒红巾，随着罗梅罗朝左边一让，收起红巾，这就结束了。公牛还想往前迈步，但它的腿儿开始不稳，身子左右摇晃，愣了一下，然后双膝跪倒在地上，于是罗梅罗的哥哥从牛身后俯身向前，朝牛角根的脖颈处插入一把短刀。第一次他失手了。他再次把刀插进去，牛随即倒下，一抽搐就僵住不动了。罗梅罗的哥哥一只手握住牛角，另一只手拿着刀，抬头望着主席的包厢。全场挥动手帕。主席从包厢往下看着，也挥舞他的手帕。那哥哥从死牛身上割下带豁口的黑色耳朵，提着它快步走到罗梅罗身边。笨重的黑公牛吐出舌头躺在沙地上。孩子们从场子的四面八方向牛跑去，在牛的身边围成一个小圈子。他们开始围着公牛跳起舞来。
罗梅罗从他哥哥手里接过牛耳朵，朝主席高高举起。主席弯腰致意，罗梅罗赶在人群的前头向我们跑来。他靠在围栏上，探身向上把牛耳朵递给勃莱特。他点头微笑。大伙儿把他团团围住。勃莱特把斗篷往下递。
“你喜欢吗？”罗梅罗喊道。
勃莱特没有答言。他们相视而笑。勃莱特手里拿着牛耳朵。
“别沾上血迹，”罗梅罗咧嘴笑着说。观众需要他。有几个孩子向勃莱特欢呼。人群中有孩子、在跳舞的人以及醉汉。罗梅罗转身使劲挤过人群。他们把他团团围住，想把他举起来，扛在他们的肩上。他抵挡着挣出身来，穿过人群撤腿向出口处跑去。他不愿意让人扛在肩上。但是他们抓住了他，把他举起来。真不得劲儿，他两腿叉开，身上钻心地痛。他们扛着他，大家都向大门跑去。他一只手搭在一个人的肩上。他回头向我们表示歉意地瞅了一眼。人群跑着扛他走出大门。
我们三人一起走回旅馆。勃莱特上楼去了。比尔和我坐在楼下餐厅里，吃了几个煮鸡蛋，喝了几瓶啤酒。贝尔蒙蒂已经换上日常穿的衣服，同他的经理和两个男人从楼上下来。他们在邻桌坐下吃饭。贝尔蒙蒂吃得很少。他们要乘七点钟的火车到巴塞罗那去。贝尔蒙蒂身穿蓝条衬衫和深色套装，吃的是糖心鸡蛋。其他人吃了好几道莱。贝尔蒙蒂不说话。他只回答别人的问话。
比尔看完斗牛累了。我也是。我们俩看斗牛都非常认真。我们坐着吃鸡蛋，我注视着贝尔蒙蒂和跟他同桌的人。那几个人容貌粗野、一本正经。
“到咖啡馆去吧，”比尔说。“我想喝杯苦艾酒。”
这是节期的最后一天。外面又开始阴下来了。广场上尽是人，焰火技师正在安装夜里用的焰火装置，并用山毛榉树枝把它们全部盖上。孩子们在看热闹。我们经过带有长竹竿的焰火的发射架。咖啡馆外面聚着一大群人。乐队在吹打，人们仍在跳舞。巨人模型和侏儒经过门前。
“埃德娜哪儿去啦？”我问比尔。
“我不知道。”
我们注视着节日狂欢揭开最后一晚的夜幕。苦艾酒促使一切都显得更加美好。我用滴杯不加糖就喝了，味道苦得很可口。“我为科恩感到难受，”比尔说。“他过的日子真够他受的。”“哼，让科恩见鬼去吧，”我说。“你看他到哪儿去了？”“往北去了巴黎。”“你看他干什么去了？”“哼，让他见鬼去吧。”“你看他干什么去了？ ” “可能和他过去的情人去重温旧梦吧。”“他过去的情人是谁？”“一个名叫弗朗西丝的。”我们又要了一杯苦艾酒。
“你什么时候回去？”我问。
“明天。”
过了一会儿，比尔说：“呃，这次节日真精彩。”
“是啊，”我说。“一刻也没闲着。”
“你不会相信。做了一场妙不可言的恶梦。”
“真的，”我说。“我什么都信。连恶梦我都相信。”
“怎么啦？闹情绪了？”
“我情绪糟透了。”
“再来一杯苦艾酒吧。过来，侍者！给这位先生再来一杯苦艾酒。”
“我难受极了，”我说。
“把酒喝了，”比尔说。“慢慢喝。”
天色开始黑了。节日活动在继续。我感到有点醉意，但是我的情绪没有任何好转。
“你觉得怎么样？”
“很不好。”
“再来一杯？”
“一点用也没有。”
“试试看。你说不准的：也许这一杯就奏效呢。嗨，侍者！给这位先生再来一杯！”
我并不把酒滴进水里，而是直接把水倒在酒里搅拌起来。比尔放进一块冰。我用一把匙在这浅褐色的混浊的混合物里搅动冰块。 “味道怎么样？ ”“很好。”“别喝得那么快。你要恶心的。”我放下杯子。我本来就没打算快喝。
“我醉了。”
“那还有不醉的。”
“你就是想叫我醉吧，是不是？”
“当然。喝它个醉。打消这要命的闷气儿。”
“得了，我醉了。你不就是想这样吗？”
“坐下。”
“我不想坐了，”我说。“我要到旅馆去了。”
我醉得很厉害。我醉得比以往哪次都厉害。我回到旅馆走上楼去。勃莱特的房门开着。我伸进脑袋看看。迈克坐在床上。他晃晃一个酒瓶子。
“杰克，”他说。“进来，杰克。”
我进屋坐下。我要是不盯住看一个固定的地方，就感到房间在东倒西歪。
“勃莱特，你知道。她同那个斗牛的小子走了。”
“不能吧。”
“走了。她找你告别来着。他们乘七点钟的火车走的。”
“他们真走了？”
“这么做很不好，”迈克说。“她不该这么做。”
“是啊。”
“喝一杯？等我揿铃找人拿些啤酒来。”
“我醉了，”我说。“我要进屋去躺下了。”
“你醉得不行了？我也不行了。”
“是的，”我说，“我醉得不行了。”
“那么回见吧，”迈克说。“去睡一会儿，好杰克。”
我出门走进自己的房间，躺在床上。床在飘向前去，我在床上坐起来，盯住墙壁，好使这种感觉中止。外面广场上狂欢活动还在进行。我觉得没有什么意思了。后来比尔和迈克进来叫我下楼，同他们一起吃饭。我假装睡着了。
“他睡着了。还是让他睡吧。”
“他烂醉如泥了，”迈克说。他们走了出去。
我起床，走到阳台上，眺望在广场上跳舞的人们。我已经没有天旋地转的感觉。一切都非常清晰、明亮，只是边缘有点模糊不清。我洗了脸，梳了头发。在镜子里我看自己都不认识了，然后下楼到餐厅去。
“他来了！”比尔说。“杰克，好小子！我知道你还不至于醉得起不来。”
“嗨，你这个老酒鬼，”迈克说。
“我饿得醒过来了。”
“喝点汤吧，”比尔说。我们三个人坐在桌子边，好象少了五六个人似的。

《CHAPTER 19 Page 1》
In the morning it was all over. The fiesta was finished. I woke about nine o'clock, had a bath, dressed, and went down-stairs. The square was empty and there were no people on the streets. A few children were picking up rocket-sticks in the square. The cafes were just opening and the waiters were carrying Out the comfortable white wicker chairs and arranging them around the marble-topped tables in the shade of the arcade. They were sweeping the streets and sprinkling them with a hose.
I sat in one of the wicker chairs and leaned back comfortably. The waiter was in no hurry to come. The white-paper announcements of the unloading of the bulls and the big schedules of special trains were still up on the pillars of the arcade. A waiter wearing a blue apron came out with a bucket of water and a cloth, and commenced to tear down the notices, pulling the paper off in strips and washing and rubbing away the paper that stuck to the stone. The fiesta was over.
I drank a coffee and after a while Bill came over. I watched him come walking across the square. He sat down at the table and ordered a coffee.
"Well," he said, "it's all over."
"Yes," I said. "When do you go?"
"I don't know. We better get a car, I think. Aren't you going back to paris?"
"No. I can stay away another week. I think I'll go to San Sebastian."
"I want to get back."
"What's Mike going to do?"
"He's going to Saint Jean de Luz."
"Let's get a car and all go as far as Bayonne. You can get the train up from there to-night."
"Good. Let's go after lunch."
"All right. I'll get the car."
We had lunch and paid the bill. Montoya did not come near us. One of the maids brought the bill. The car was outside. The chauffeur piled and strapped the bags on top of the car and put them in beside him in the front seat and we got in. The car went out of the square, along through the side streets, out under the trees and down the hill and away from pamplona. It did not seem like a very long ride. Mike had a bottle of Fundador. I only took a couple of drinks. We came over the mountains and out of Spain and down the white roads and through the overfoliaged, wet, green, Basque country, and finally into Bayonne. We left Bill's baggage at the station, and he bought a ticket to paris. His train left at seven-ten. We came out of the station. The car was standing out in front.
"What shall we do about the car?" Bill asked.
"Oh, bother the car," Mike said. "Let's just keep the car with us."
"All right," Bill said. "Where shall we go?"
"Let's go to Biarritz and have a drink."
"Old Mike the spender," Bill said.
We drove in to Biarritz and left the car outside a very Ritz place. We went into the bar and sat on high stools and drank a whiskey and soda.
"That drink's mine," Mike said.
"Let's roll for it."
So we rolled poker dice out of a deep leather dice-cup. Bill was out first roll. Mike lost to me and handed the bartender a hundred-franc note. The whiskeys were twelve francs apiece. We had another round and Mike lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip. In a room off the bar there was a good jazz band playing. It was a pleasant bar. We had another round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and let them stay. He handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill rattled them and rolled, and there were three kings, an ace. and a queen.
"It's yours, Mike," Bill said. "Old Mike, the gambler."
"I'm so sorry," Mike said. "I can't get it."
"What's the matter?"
"I've no money," Mike said. "I'm stony. I've just twenty francs. Here, take twenty francs."
Bill's face sort of changed.
"I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damned lucky to have it, too."
"I'll cash you a check," Bill said.
"That's damned nice of you, but you see I can't write checks."
"What are you going to do for money?"
"Oh, some will come through. I've two weeks allowance should be here. I can live on tick at this pub in Saint Jean."
"What do you want to do about the car?" Bill asked me. "Do you want to keep it on?"
"It doesn't make any difference. Seems sort of idiotic."
"Come on, let's have another drink," Mike said.
"Fine. This one is on me," Bill said. "Has Brett any money?" He turned to Mike.
"I shouldn't think so. She put up most of what I gave to old Montoya."
"She hasn't any money with her?" I asked.
"I shouldn't think so. She never has any money. She gets five hundred quid a year and pays three hundred and fifty of it in interest to Jews."
"I suppose they get it at the source," said Bill.
"Quite. They're not really Jews. We just call them Jews. They're Scotsmen, I believe."
"Hasn't she any at all with her?" I asked.
"I hardly think so. She gave it all to me when she left."
"Well," Bill said, "we might as well have another drink."
"Damned good idea," Mike said. "One never gets anywhere by discussing finances."
"No," said Bill. Bill and I rolled for the next two rounds. Bill lost and paid. We went out to the car.
"Anywhere you'd like to go, Mike?" Bill asked.
"Let's take a drive. It might do my credit good. Let's drive about a little."
"Fine. I'd like to see the coast. Let's drive down toward Hendaye."
"I haven't any credit along the coast."
"You can't ever tell," said Bill.
We drove out along the coast road. There was the green of the headlands, the white, red-roofed villas, patches of forest, and the ocean very blue with the tide out and the water curling far out along the beach. We drove through Saint Jean de Luz and passed through villages farther down the coast. Back of the rolling country we were going through we saw the mountains we had come over from pamplona. The road went on ahead. Bill looked at his watch. It was time for us to go back. He knocked on the glass and told the driver to turn around. The driver backed the car out into the grass to turn it. In back of us were the woods, below a stretch of meadow, then the sea.
At the hotel where Mike was going to stay in Saint Jean we stopped the car and he got out. The chauffeur carried in his bags. Mike stood by the side of the car.
"Good-bye, you chaps," Mike said. "It was a damned fine fiesta."
"So long, Mike," Bill said.
"I'll see you around," I said.
"Don't worry about money," Mike said. "You can pay for the car, Jake, and I'll send you my share."
"So long, Mike."
"So long, you chaps. You've been damned nice."
We all shook hands. We waved from the car to Mike. He stood in the road watching. We got to Bayonne just before the train left. A porter carried Bill's bags in from the consigne. I went as far as the inner gate to the tracks.
"So long, fella," Bill said.
"So long, kid!"
"It was swell. I've had a swell time."
"Will you be in paris?"
"No, I have to sail on the 17th. So long, fella!"
"So long, old kid!"
He went in through the gate to the train. The porter went ahead with the bags. I watched the train pull out. Bill was at one of the windows. The window passed, the rest of the train passed, and the tracks were empty. I went outside to the car.
"How much do we owe you?" I asked the driver. The price to Bayonne had been fixed at a hundred and fifty pesetas.
"Two hundred pesetas."
"How much more will it be if you drive me to San Sebastian on your way back?"
"Fifty pesetas."
"Don't kid me."
"Thirty-five pesetas."
"It's not worth it," I said. "Drive me to the Hotel panier Fleuri."
At the hotel I paid the driver and gave him a tip. The car was powdered with dust. I rubbed the rod-case through the dust. It seemed the last thing that connected me with Spain and the fiesta. The driver put the car in gear and went down the street. I watched it turn off to take the road to Spain. I went into the hotel and they gave me a room. It was the same room I had slept in when Bill and Cohn and I were in Bayonne. That seemed a very long time ago. I washed, changed my shirt, and went out in the town.
At a newspaper kiosque I bought a copy of the New York _Herald_ and sat in a caf?to read it. It felt strange to be in France again. There was a safe, suburban feeling. I wished I had gone up to paris with Bill, except that paris would have meant more fiesta-ing. I was through with fiestas for a while. It would be quiet in San Sebastian. The season does not open there until August. I could get a good hotel room and read and swim. There was a fine beach there. There were wonderful trees along the promenade above the beach, and there were many children sent down with their nurses before the season opened. In the evening there would be band concerts under the trees across from the Caf?Marinas. I could sit in the Marinas and listen.
"How does one eat inside?" I asked the waiter. Inside the caf?was a restaurant.
"Well. Very well. One eats very well."
"Good."
I went in and ate dinner. It was a big meal for France but it seemed very carefully apportioned after Spain. I drank a bottle of wine for company. It was a Chateau Margaux. It was pleasant to be drinking slowly and to be tasting the wine and to be drinking alone. A bottle of wine was good company. Afterward I had coffee. The waiter recommended a Basque liqueur called Izzarra. He brought in the bottle and poured a liqueur-glass full. He said Izzarra was made of the flowers of the pyrenees. The veritable flowers of the pyrenees. It looked like hair-oil and smelled like Italian _strega_. I told him to take the flowers of the pyrenees away and bring me a _vieux marc_. The _marc_ was good. I had a second _marc_ after the coffee.
The waiter seemed a little offended about the flowers of the pyrenees, so I overtipped him. That made him happy. It felt comfortable to be in a country where it is so simple to make people happy. You can never tell whether a Spanish waiter will thank you. Everything is on such a clear financial basis in France. It is the simplest country to live in. No one makes things complicated by becoming your friend for any obscure reason. If you want people to like you you have only to spend a little money. I spent a little money and the waiter liked me. He appreciated my valuable qualities. He would be glad to see me back. I would dine there again some time and he would be glad to see me, and would want me at his table. It would be a sincere liking because it would have a sound basis. I was back in France.
Next morning I tipped every one a little too much at the hotel to make more friends, and left on the morning train for San Sebastian. At the station I did not tip the porter more than I should because I did not think I would ever see him again. I only wanted a few good French friends in Bayonne to make me welcome in case I should come back there again. I knew that if they remembered me their friendship would be loyal.
At Irun we had to change trains and show passports. I hated to leave France. Life was so simple in France. I felt I was a fool to be going back into Spain. In Spain you could not tell about anything. I felt like a fool to be going back into it, but I stood in line with my passport, opened my bags for the customs, bought a ticket, went through a gate, climbed onto the train, and after forty minutes and eight tunnels I was at San Sebastian.
Even on a hot day San Sebastian has a certain early-morning quality. The trees seem as though their leaves were never quite dry. The streets feel as though they had just been sprinkled. It is always cool and shady on certain streets on the hottest day. I went to a hotel in the town where I had stopped before, and they gave me a room with a balcony that opened out above the roofs of the town. There was a green mountainside beyond the roofs.
I unpacked my bags and stacked my books on the table beside the head of the bed, put out my shaving things, hung up some clothes in the big armoire, and made up a bundle for the laundry. Then I took a shower in the bathroom and went down to lunch. Spain had not changed to summer-time, so I was early. I set my watch again. I had recovered an hour by coming to San Sebastian.
As I went into the dining-room the concierge brought me a police bulletin to fill out. I signed it and asked him for two telegraph forms, and wrote a message to the Hotel Montoya, telling them to forward all mail and telegrams for me to this address. I calculated how many days I would be in San Sebastian and then wrote out a wire to the office asking them to hold mail, but forward all wires for me to San Sebastian for six days. Then I went in and had lunch.
After lunch I went up to my room, read a while, and went to sleep. When I woke it was half past four. I found my swimming-suit, wrapped it with a comb in a towel, and went down-stairs and walked up the street to the Concha. The tide was about half-way out. The beach was smooth and firm, and the sand yellow. I went into a bathing-cabin, undressed, put on my suit, and walked across the smooth sand to the sea. The sand was warm under bare feet. There were quite a few people in the water and on the beach. Out beyond where the headlands of the Concha almost met to form the harbor there was a white line of breakers and the open sea. Although the tide was going out, there were a few slow rollers. They came in like undulations in the water gathered weight of water, and then broke smoothly on the warm sand. I waded out. The water was cold. As a roller came I dove, swam out under water, and came to the surface with all the chill gone. I swam out to the raft, pulled myself up, and lay on the hot planks. A boy and girl were at the other end. The girl had undone the top strap of her bathing-suit and was browning her back. The boy lay face downward on the raft and talked to her. She laughed at things he said, and turned her brown back in the sun. I lay on the raft in the sun until I was dry. Then I tried several dives. I dove deep once, swimming down to the bottom. I swam with my eyes open and it was green and dark. The raft made a dark shadow. I came out of the water beside the raft, pulled up, dove once more, holding it for length, and then swam ashore. I lay on the beach until I was dry, then went into the bathing-cabin, took off my suit, sloshed myself with fresh water, and rubbed dry.
I walked around the harbor under the trees to the casino, and then up one of the cool streets to the Caf?Marinas. There was an orchestra playing inside the caf?and I sat out on the terrace and enjoyed the fresh coolness in the hot day, and had a glass of lemonjuice and shaved ice and then a long whiskey and soda. I sat in front of the Marinas for a long time and read and watched the people, and listened to the music.
Later when it began to get dark, I walked around the harbor and out along the promenade, and finally back to the hotel for supper. There was a bicycle-race on, the Tour du pays Basque, and the riders were stopping that night in San Sebastian. In the dining-room, at one side, there was a long table of bicycle-riders, eating with their trainers and managers. They were all French and Belgians, and paid close attention to their meal, but they were having a good time. At the head of the table were two good-looking French girls, with much Rue du Faubourg Montmartre chic. I could not make out whom they belonged to. They all spoke in slang at the long table and there were many private jokes and some jokes at the far end that were not repeated when the girls asked to hear them. The next morning at five o'clock the race resumed with the last lap, San Sebastian-Bilbao. The bicycle-riders drank much wine, and were burned and browned by the sun. They did not take the race seriously except among themselves. They had raced among themselves so often that it did not make much difference who won. Especially in a foreign country. The money could be arranged.
The man who had a matter of two minutes lead in the race had an attack of boils, which were very painful. He sat on the small of his back. His neck was very red and the blond hairs were sunburned. The other riders joked him about his boils. He tapped on the table with his fork.
"Listen," he said, "to-morrow my nose is so tight on the handlebars that the only thing touches those boils is a lovely breeze."
One of the girls looked at him down the table, and he grinned and turned red. The Spaniards, they said, did not know how to pedal.
I had coffee out on the terrasse with the team manager of one of the big bicycle manufacturers. He said it had been a very pleasant race, and would have been worth watching if Bottechia had not abandoned it at pamplona. The dust had been bad, but in Spain the roads were better than in France. Bicycle road-racing was the only sport in the world, he said. Had I ever followed the Tour de France? Only in the papers. The Tour de France was the greatest sporting event in the world. Following and organizing the road races had made him know France. Few people know France. All spring and all summer and all fall he spent on the road with bicycle road-racers. Look at the number of motor-cars now that followed the riders from town to town in a road race. It was a rich country and more _sportif_ every year. It would be the most _sportif_ country in the world. It was bicycle road-racing did it. That and football. He knew France. _La France Sportive_. He knew road-racing. We had a cognac. After all, though, it wasn't bad to get back to paris. There is only one paname. In all the world, that is. paris is the town the most _sportif_ in the world. Did I know the _Chope de Negre?_ Did I not. I would see him there some time. I certainly would. We would drink another _fine_ together. We certainly would. They started at six o'clock less a quarter in the morning. Would I be up for the depart? I would certainly try to. Would I like him to call me? It was very interesting. I would leave a call at the desk. He would not mind calling me. I could not let him take the trouble. I would leave a call at the desk. We said good-bye until the next morning.
In the morning when I awoke the bicycle-riders and their following cars had been on the road for three hours. I had coffee and the papers in bed and then dressed and took my bathing-suit down to the beach. Everything was fresh and cool and damp in the early morning. Nurses in uniform and in peasant costume walked under the trees with children. The Spanish children were beautiful. Some bootblacks sat together under a tree talking to a soldier. The soldier had only one arm. The tide was in and there was a good breeze and a surf on the beach.
I undressed in one of the bath-cabins, crossed the narrow line of beach and went into the water. I swam out, trying to swim through the rollers, but having to dive sometimes. Then in the quiet water I turned and floated. Floating I saw only the sky, and felt the drop and lift of the swells. I swam back to the surf and coasted in, face down, on a big roller, then turned and swam, trying to keep in the trough and not have a wave break over me. It made me tired, swimming in the trough, and I turned and swam out to the raft. The water was buoyant and cold. It felt as though you could never sink. I swam slowly, it seemed like a long swim with the high tide, and then pulled up on the raft and sat, dripping, on the boards that were becoming hot in the sun. I looked around at the bay, the old town, the casino, the line of trees along the promenade, and the big hotels with their white porches and gold-lettered names. Off on the right, almost closing the harbor, was a green hill with a castle. The raft rocked with the motion of the water. On the other side of the narrow gap that led into the open sea was another high headland. I thought I would like to swim across the bay but I was afraid of cramp.

《第三部 第十九章 Page 1》
早晨，一切都过去了。节日活动已经结束。九点左右我醒过来，洗了澡，穿上衣服，走下楼去。广场空荡荡的，街头没有一个行人。有几个孩子在广场上捡焰火杆。咖啡馆刚开门，侍者正在把舒适的白柳条椅搬到拱廊下阴凉的地方，在大理石面的桌子周围摆好。各条街道都在清扫，用水龙带喷洒。
我坐在一张柳条椅里，舒舒服服地背向后靠着。侍者不忙着走过来。把牛群放出笼的白地告示和大张的加班火车时刻表依然贴在拱廊的柱子上。一名扎蓝色围裙的侍者拎着一桶水，拿着一块抹布走出来，动手撕告示，把纸一条条地扯下来，擦洗掉粘在石柱上的残纸。节期结束了。
我喝了一杯咖啡，一会儿比尔来了。我看他穿过广场走过来。他在桌子边坐下，叫了一杯咖啡。
“好了，”他说，“都结束了。”
“是啊，”我说。“你什么时候走？”
“不知道。我想，我们最好弄一辆汽车。你不打算回巴黎？”
“是的，我还可以待一星期再回去。我想到圣塞瓦斯蒂安去。”
“我想回去。”
“迈克打算干什么？”
“他要去圣让德吕兹。”
“我们雇辆车一起开到巴荣纳再分手吧。今儿晚上你可以从那儿上火车。”
“好。吃完饭就走。”
“行。我去雇车。”
我们吃完饭，结了帐。蒙托亚没有到我们这边来。帐单是一名侍女送来的。汽车候在外面。司机把旅行包堆在车顶上，用皮带束好，把其余的放在车子前座他自己的身边，然后我们上车。车子开出广场，穿过小巷，钻出树林，下了山坡，离开了潘普洛纳。路程似乎不很长。迈克带了一瓶芬达多酒。我只喝了两三口。我们翻过几道山梁，出了西班牙国境，驶在白色的大道上，穿过浓荫如盖、湿润、葱郁的巴斯克地区，终于开进了巴荣纳。我们把比尔的行李寄放在车站，他买好去巴黎的车票。他乘的这次列车当晚七点十分开。我们走出车站。车子停在车站正门外。
“我们拿这车子怎么办？”比尔问。
“哦，这车子真是个累赘，”迈克说。“那我们就坐它走吧。”
“行，”比尔说。“我们上哪儿？”
“到比亚里茨去喝一杯吧。”
“挥金如土的好迈克，”比尔说。
我们开进比亚里茨，在一家非常豪华的饭店门口下车。我们走进酒吧间，坐在高凳上喝威士忌苏打。
“这次我做东，”迈克说。
“还是掷骰子来决定吧。”于是我们用一个很高的皮制骰子筒来掷扑克骰子，第一轮比尔赢了。迈克输给了我，就递给酒吧侍者一张一百法郎的钞票。威士忌每杯十二法郎。我们又各要了一杯酒，迈克又输了。每次他都给侍者优厚的小费。酒吧间隔壁的一个房间里有一支很好的爵士乐队在演奏。这是个叫人愉快的酒吧间。我们又各要了一杯酒。第一局我以四个老K取胜。比尔和迈克对掷。迈克以四个J赢得第一局。比尔赢了第二局。最后决定胜负的一局里，迈克掷出三个老K就算数了。他把骰子筒递给比尔。比尔卡嚓卡嚓摇着，掷出三个老K，一个A和一个0。
“你付帐，迈克，”比尔说。“迈克，你这个赌棍。”
“真抱歉，”迈克说。“我不行了。”
“怎么回事？”
“我没钱了，”迈克说。“我身无分文了。我只有二十法郎。给你，把这二十法郎拿去。”
比尔的脸色有点变了。
“我的钱刚好只够付给了蒙托亚。还算运气好，当时身上有这笔钱。”
“写张支票，我兑给你现钱，”比尔说。
“非常感谢，可你知道，我不能开支票了。”
“那你上哪儿去弄钱啊？”
“呃，有一小笔款就要到了。我有两星期的生活费该汇来。到圣让德吕兹去住的那家旅店，我可以赊帐。”
“你说，这车子怎么办呢？”比尔问我。“还继续使吗？”
“怎么都可以。看来似乎有点傻了。”
“来吧，我们再喝它一杯，”迈克说。
“好。这次算我的，”比尔说。“勃莱特身边有钱吗？”他对迈克说。
“我想她不一定有。我付给蒙托亚的钱几乎都是她拿出来的。”
“她手头竟一个子儿也没有？”我问。
“我想是这样吧。她一向没有钱。她每年能拿到五百镑，给犹太人的利息就得付三百五。”
“我看他们是直接扣除的吧，”比尔说。
“不错。实际上他们不是犹太人。我们只是这么称呼他们。我知道他们是苏格兰人。”
“她手头果真是一点钱也没有？”我问。
“我想可以说没有。她走的时候统统都给我了。”
“得了，”比尔说，“我们不如再喝一杯吧。”
“这个主意太好了，”迈克说。“空谈钱财解决不了任何问题。”
“说得对，”比尔说。我们接着要了两次酒，比尔和我掷骰子看该谁付。比尔输了，付了钱。我们出来向车子走去。
“你想上哪儿，迈克？”比尔问。
“我们去兜一下。兴许能提高我的信誉。在这一带兜一下吧。”
“很好。我想到海边去看看。我们一直朝昂代开去吧。”
“在海岸一带我没什么赊帐的信誉可言。”
“你不一定说得准的，”比尔说。
我们顺着滨海公路开去。绿茸茸的地头空地，白墙红瓦的别墅，丛丛密林，落潮的海水蔚蓝蔚蓝的，海水依偎在远处海滩边上。我们驶过圣让德吕兹，一直朝南穿过一座座海边的村庄。我们路过起伏不平的地区，望见它后面就是从潘普洛纳来时越过的群山。大道继续向前伸延。比尔看看表。我们该往回走了。他敲了下车窗，吩咐司机向后转。司机把车退到路边的草地上，调过车头。我们后面是树林，下面是一片草地，再过去就是大海了。
在圣让德吕兹，我们把车停在迈克准备下榻的旅店门前，他下了车。司机把他的手提包送进去。迈克站在车子边。
“再见啦，朋友们，”迈克说。“这次节日过得太好了。”
“再见，迈克，，比尔说。
“我们很快就能见面的，”我说。
“别惦着钱，”迈克说。“你把车钱付了，杰克，我那份我会给你寄去的。”
“再见，迈克。”
“再见，朋友们。你们真够朋友。”
我们一一同他握手。我们在车子里向迈克挥手。他站在大道上注视我们上路。我们赶到巴荣纳，火车就要开了。一名脚夫从寄存处拿来比尔的旅行包。我一直送他到通铁轨的矮门前。
“再见啦，伙伴，”比尔说。
“再见，老弟！”
“真痛快。我玩得真痛快。”
“你要在巴黎待着？”
“不。十六号我就得上船。再见，伙伴！”
“再见，老弟！”
他进门朝火车走去。脚夫拿着旅行包在前面走。我看着火车开出站去。比尔在一个车窗口。窗子闪过去了，整列火车开走了，铁轨上空了。我出来向汽车走去。
“我们该付给你多少钱？”我问司机，从西班牙到巴荣纳的车钱当初说好是一百五十比塞塔。
“两百比塞塔。”
“你回去的路上捎我到圣塞瓦斯蒂安要加多少钱？”
“五十比塞塔。”
“别敲我竹杠。”
“三十五比塞塔。”
“太贵了，”我说。“送我到帕尼厄.弗洛里旅馆吧。”
到了旅馆，我付给司机车钱和一笔小费。车身上布满了尘土。我擦掉钓竿袋上的尘土。这尘土看来是联结我和西班牙及其节日活动的最后一样东西了。司机启动车子沿大街开去。我看车子拐弯，驶上通向西班牙的大道。我走进旅馆，开了一个房间。我和比尔、科恩在巴荣纳的时候，我就是睡在这个房间里的。这似乎是很久以前的事了。我梳洗一番，换了一件衬衣，就出去逛大街了。
我在书报亭买了一份纽约的《先驱报》，坐在一家咖啡馆里看起来。重返法国使人感到很生疏。这里有一种处身在郊区的安全感。但愿我和比尔一起回巴黎去就好啦，可惜巴黎意味着更多的寻欢作乐。暂时我对取乐已经厌倦。圣塞瓦斯蒂安很清静。旅游季节要到八月份才开始。我可以在旅馆租一个好房间，看看书、游游泳。那边有一处海滩胜地。沿着海滩上面的海滨大道长有许多出色的树木，在旅游季节开始之前，有许多孩子随同保姆来过夏。晚上，马里纳斯咖啡馆对面的树林里经常有乐队举行音乐会。我可以坐在咖啡馆里听音乐。
“里面饭菜怎么样？”我问待者。在咖啡馆后面是一个餐厅。“很好。非常好。饭菜非常好。”
“好吧。”
我进去用餐。就法国来说，这顿饭菜是很丰盛的，但是吃过西班牙的以后，就显得菜肴的搭配非常精致。我喝了一瓶葡萄酒解闷儿。那是瓶马尔戈庄园牌的好酒。悠悠独酌，细细品味，其乐无穷。可算是瓶酒赛好友。喝完酒我要了咖啡。侍者给我推荐一种巴斯克利久酒，名叫伊扎拉。他拿来一瓶，斟了满满一杯。他说伊扎拉酒是由比利牛斯山上的鲜花酿成。是真正的比利牛斯山上的鲜花。这种酒看来象生发油，闻起来象意大利的斯特雷加甜酒。我吩咐他把比利牛斯山的鲜花拿走，给我来杯陈年白兰地。这酒很好。喝完咖啡我又喝了一杯。
比利牛斯山的鲜花这回事看来是有点把这侍者得罪了，所以我多赏了他一点小费。这使他很高兴。处在一个用这么简单的办法就能取悦于人的国度里，倒是怪惬意的。在西班牙，你事先无法猜测一个侍者是否会感谢你。在法国，一切都建筑在这种赤裸裸的金钱基础上。在这样的国家里生活是最简单不过的了。谁也不会为了某种暧昧的原因而跟你交朋友，从而使关系弄得很复杂。你要讨人喜欢，只要略微破费点就行。我花了一点点钱，这侍者就喜欢我了。他赏识我这种可贵的品德。他会欢迎我再来。有朝一日我要再到那里用餐，他会欢迎我，要我坐到归他侍候的桌子边去。这种喜欢是真诚的，因为有坚实的基础。我确实回到法国了。
第二天早晨，为了交更多的朋友，我给旅馆每个侍者都多给了一点小费，然后搭上午的火车上圣塞瓦斯蒂安。在车站，我给脚夫的小费没有超过该给的数目，因为我不指望以后还会再见到他。我只希望在巴荣纳有几个法国好朋友，等我再去的时候能受到欢迎就够了。我知道，只要他们记得我，他们的友谊会是忠诚的。
我得在伊伦换车，并出示护照。我不愿意离开法国。在法国生活是多么简单。我觉得再到西班牙去太蠢。在西班牙什么事情都捉摸不透。我觉得傻瓜才再到西班牙去，但是我还是拿着我的护照排队，为海关人员打开我的手提包，买了一张票，通过一道门，爬上火车，过了四十分钟和穿过八条隧道之后，我来到圣塞瓦斯蒂安。
即使在大热天，圣塞瓦斯蒂安也有某种清晨的特点。树上的绿叶似乎永远露水未干。街道如同刚洒过水一样。在最热的日子里，有几条街道也总是很阴凉。我找到城里过去住过的一家旅馆，他们给了我一间带阳台的房间，阳台高过城里的屋顶。远处是绿色的山坡。
我打开手提包，把我的书堆在靠床头的桌子上，拿出我的剃须用具，把几件衣服挂在大衣柜里，收拾出一包待洗的衣服。然后在浴室里洗了淋浴，下楼用餐。西班牙还没有改用夏令时间，因此我来早了。我把表拨回了一小时。来到圣塞瓦斯蒂安，我找回了一个钟头。
我走进餐厅的时候，看门人拿来一张局发的表格要我填。我签上名，问他要了两张电报纸，写了一份打给蒙托亚旅馆的电文，嘱咐他们把我的所有邮件和电报转到现在的住处。我算好将在圣塞瓦斯蒂安待多少天，然后给编辑部发了份电报，叫他们给我保存好邮件，但是六天之内的电报都要给我转到圣塞瓦斯蒂安来。然后我走进餐厅用餐。
饭后，我上楼到自己的房间里，看了一会书就睡觉了。等我醒来，已经四点半了。我找出我的游泳衣，连一把梳子一起裹在一条毛巾里，下楼上街走到康查湾。潮水差不多退掉了一半。海滩平坦而坚实，沙粒黄澄澄的。我走进浴场室，脱去衣服，穿上游泳衣，走过平坦的沙滩到了海边。光脚踩在沙滩上，感到热呼呼的。海水里和海滩上的人不少。康查湾两边的海岬几乎相联，形成一个港湾，海岬外是一排白花花的浪头和开阔的海面。虽然正是退潮时刻，但还是出现一些姗姗而来的巨浪。它们来时好象海面上的滚滚细浪，然后势头越来越大，掀起浪头，最后平稳地冲刷在温暖的沙滩上。我涉水出海。海水很凉。当一个浪头打过来的时候，我潜入水中，从水底泅出，浮在海面，这时寒气全消了。我向木排游去，撑起身子爬上去，躺在滚烫的木板上。另一头有一对男女青年。姑娘解开了游泳衣的背带晒她的脊背。小伙子脸朝下躺在木排上和她说话。她听着，格格地笑了，冲着太阳转过她那晒黑了的脊背。我在阳光下躺在木排上，一直到全身都干了。然后我跳了几次水。有一次我深深地潜入水中，向海底游去。我张着眼睛游，周围是绿莹莹、黑黝黝的一片。木排投下一个黑影。我在木排旁边钻出水面，上了木排，憋足气，又跳入水中，潜泳了一程，然后向岸边游去。我躺在海滩上，直到全身干了，才起来走进浴场室，脱下游泳衣，用淡水冲身，擦干。
我在树荫里顺着港湾走到俱乐部，然后拐上一条阴凉的街道向马里纳斯咖啡馆走去。咖啡馆内有一支乐队在演奏，夭很热，我坐在外面露台上乘凉，喝了一杯加刨冰的柠檬汁和一大杯威士忌苏打。我在“马里纳斯”门前久久地坐着，看看报，看看行人，并听音乐。
后来天开始暗下来了，我在港湾边漫步，顺着海滨大道，最后走回旅馆吃晚饭。“环绕巴斯克地区”自行车比赛正在进行，参加赛车的人在圣塞瓦斯蒂安过夜。他们在餐厅的一边同教练和经纪人等一起坐在长桌边吃饭。他们都是法国人和比利时人，正全神贯注地在吃饭，但是他们情绪很好，过得很愉快。长桌上端坐着两位美貌的法国少女，富有巴黎蒙马特郊区街特有的风韵。我弄不清她们是谁带来的。他们那桌人都用俚语交谈，许多笑话只有他们自己听得懂，在长桌另一头坐着的人说了些笑话，等两位姑娘问他们说什么，他们却不吱声了。车赛将于第二天清晨五点钟继续举行，从圣塞瓦斯蒂安到毕尔巴鄂跑最后一段路程。这些骑自行车的人喝了大量的葡萄酒，皮肤让太阳晒得黑黝黝的。他们只有在彼此之间才认真对待这比赛。他们之间经常举行比赛，所以对谁取得优胜也不怎么在意了。特别是在外国。钱可以商量着分。
领先两分钟的那个人长了热疖，痛得厉害。他踮着屁股坐在椅子上。他的脖子通红，金黄色的头发晒枯了。其他骑车人拿他长的热疖开玩笑。他用叉子笃笃地敲敲桌子。
“听着，”他说，“明天我把鼻子紧贴在车把上，这样只有宜人的微风才能碰到我的热疖。”
一位姑娘从桌子那一头看看他，他咧嘴笑笑，脸都涨红了。他们说，西班牙人不懂得怎样蹬车。
我在外面露台上同一家大自行车工厂的赛车经纪人喝咖啡。他说这次比赛进行得很惬意，要不是博泰奇阿到了潘普洛纳就弃权的活，该是值得一看的。灰尘太碍事，但是西班牙的公路比法国的好。他说世上只有长途自行车比赛才算得上是体育运动。我曾经跟随着看过“周游法国”自行车比赛吗？只在报纸上读到过。“周游法国”是世界上最大的一项体育比赛。跟随并组织长途车赛使他了解法国。很少有人了解法国。他同长途赛车的骑手们在途中度过了春、夏、秋整整三个季节。你瞧瞧现在有多少小汽车在长途比赛中在车队后面一个城市一个城市地跟随着。法国是个有钱的国家，体育运动一年比一年兴旺。它会成为世界上体育最发达的强国。靠的就是长途自行车赛。自行车赛和足球。他很了解法国。体育之国法兰西。他对长途车赛很内行。我们喝了一杯白兰地。不过，话得说回来，回巴黎终究不坏。只有一个巴拿姆。这是说，全世界只此一个。巴黎是全世界体育运动最兴旺的城市。我知道黑人酒家在哪儿吗？我哪会不知道。有朝一日我会在那里同他相逢。我当然会的。我们会再次共饮白兰地。我们当然会的。他们在清早六点差一刻动身。我要不要早起送行？我一定尽可能做到。要他来叫醒我吗？怪有趣儿的。我会吩咐茶房来叫我的。他不计较，情愿来叫我。我哪能麻烦他自己来叫呢。我会吩咐茶房来叫我的。我们说了声明天早晨见。
第二天早晨我醒过来的时候，自行车队和尾随的那些汽车已经上路有三个小时了。我在床上喝了咖啡，看了几张报，然后穿好衣服，拿着游泳衣到海滨去。一大早，一切都很清新、凉爽、湿润。保姆们穿着统一式样的服装或者按农家打扮，带着孩子们在树下散步。西班牙的孩子们长得很漂亮。有几个擦皮鞋的一起坐在树下同一名士兵交谈。士兵只有一条胳臂。涨潮了，凉风习习，海滩上出现一道道浪花。
我在一座海滨室里脱下衣服，跨过狭长的海滩，膛入水中。我游了出去，设法穿过浪头，但是有几次不得不潜进水里。后来在平静的海水里，我翻过身来，浮在水面上。在漂浮的时候，我看到的只有天空，感到滔滔波浪的起伏。我转身游向浪头，脸朝下，让一个巨浪把我带向岸边，然后又转身向外游，尽量保持在两浪之间的波谷中，不使浪头打在我的身上。在波谷中我游累了，转身向木排游去。海水浮力很大，很冷。你有一种永远也不会下沉的感觉。我慢慢地游着，好象伴随着涨潮作了一次长游，然后撑起身子爬上木排，水淋淋地坐在正被阳光烤热的木板上。我环顾海湾、古城、俱乐部、海滨大道边的树行以及那些有白色门廊和金字招牌的大旅馆。右边远方有一座上有古堡的青山，几乎封住了港口。木排随着海水的起伏摇晃。在外通大海的狭窄港口的另一边是另一个高岬。我想过要横渡海湾，但是担心腿儿抽筋。
我坐在太阳底下，注视着海滩上洗海水浴的人们。他们显得很小。过了一会儿，我站起来，用脚趾挟住木排的边缘，乘木排由于我的重量而向一边倾斜的时候，利落地跳进海水深处，然后在愈来愈亮的海水中向上浮，钻出海面，抖掉头上咸味的海水，然后缓慢、沉着地向岸边游去。
我穿好衣服， 付了室的保管费， 就走回旅馆。赛车运动员们扔下了几期《汽车》杂志，我在阅览室里把它们归拢在一起，拿出来坐在阳光下的安乐椅里阅读起来，想赶忙掌握些有关法国体育生活的情况。我正在那里坐着，看门人手里拿着一个蓝色信封走出来。
“一封你的电报，先生。”
我把手指插进信封上粘住一点儿的封口，拆开看电文。这是从巴黎转来的。
能否来马德里蒙大拿旅馆我处境不佳勃莱特
我给了看门人一点小费，又读了一遍电文。有个邮差顺着人行道走过来。他拐进旅馆。他留着大胡子，看来很有军人气派。他走出旅馆。看门人紧跟着他出来了。
“这里又是一封你的电报，先生。”
“谢谢你，”我说。
我拆开电报。这是从潘普洛纳转来的。
能否来马德里蒙大拿旅馆我处境不佳勃莱特
看门人站在一旁不走，或许在等第二笔小费吧。
“到马德里去的火车什么时候开？”
“今儿早上九点钟开出了。十一点有班慢车，今晚十点有班‘南方快车’。”
“给我买一张‘南方快车’的卧铺票。要现在就给你钱吗？”
“随你的便，”他说。“我记在帐上吧。”
“就那么办。”
哦，看来圣塞瓦斯蒂安是待不下去啦。我看，我是依稀预料到会发生这种事的。我看见看门人在门口站着。
“请给我拿张电报纸来。”
他拿来了，我拿出钢笔，用印刷体写着：
马德里蒙大拿旅馆阿施利夫人乘南方快车明抵爱你的杰克
这样处理看来可以解决问题了。就是这样。送一个女人跟一个男人出走。把她介绍给另一个男人， 让她陪他出走。 现在又要去把她接回来。而且在电报上写上“爱你的”。事情就是这样。我进屋去吃中饭。
那天晚上在“南方快车”上我没睡多少觉。第二天早晨，我在餐车里吃早饭，观看阿维拉和埃斯科里亚尔之间那一带多山和松林的地带。我看见窗外阳光照耀下的埃斯科里亚尔古建筑群，灰暗、狭长、萧瑟，但并不怎么太注意它。我看见马德里城在大平原上方迎面而来，只见隔着被烈日烤得干旱的原野，在远方一个不高的峭壁的上方，地平线上有一道白色密集的房屋。
马德里的北站是这铁路线的终点。各列火车都在这里停驶。它们不再继续开往他乡。站外停着出租的马车、汽车，还站着一排旅馆接待人。一座乡村小城。我雇了一辆出租汽车一路上坡，驶过几座花园，经过冷落的王宫和位于峭壁边缘尚未竣工的教堂，往上一直开到耸立在高岗上的、炎热的现代化城区。汽车顺着一条平坦的街道向下滑行，直开到太阳门广场，然后穿过行人车辆开上圣那罗尼莫大街。家家商店都拉下了布篷来抵挡暑热。街道上向阳的窗户都关着百叶窗。汽车靠人行道边停下。我看见“蒙大拿旅馆”的招牌在二楼挂着。汽车司机把旅行包搬进去，放在电梯前。我摆弄了一会儿电梯开关，还是开不动，就走上楼去。二楼挂着一块雕花铜招牌：“蒙大拿旅馆”。我揿揿门铃，没有人来开门。我又揿了一下，一名侍女紧绷着脸把门开了。

《CHAPTER 19 Page 2》
I sat in the sun and watched the bathers on the beach. They looked very small. After a while I stood up, gripped with my toes on the edge of the raft as it tipped with my weight, and dove cleanly and deeply, to come up through the lightening water, blew the salt water out of my head, and swam slowly and steadily in to shore.
After I was dressed and had paid for the bath-cabin, I walked back to the hotel. The bicycle-racers had left several copies of _L'Auto_ around, and I gathered them up in the reading-room and took them out and sat in an easy chair in the sun toread about and catch up on French sporting life. While I was sitting there the concierge came out with a blue envelope in his hand.
"A telegram for you, sir."
I poked my finger along under the fold that was fastened down, spread it open, and read it. It had been forwarded from paris:
COULD YOU COME HOTEL MONTANA MADRID
AM RATHER IN TROUBLE BRETT.
I tipped the concierge and read the message again. A postman was coming along the sidewalk. He turned into the hotel. He had a big moustache and looked very military. He came out of the hotel again. The concierge was just behind him.
"Here's another telegram for you, sir."
"Thank you," I said.
I opened it. It was forwarded from pamplona.
COULD YOU COME HOTEL MONTANA MADRID
AM RATHER IN TROUBLE BRETT.
The concierge stood there waiting for another tip, probably.
"What time is there a train for Madrid?"
"It left at nine this morning. There is a slow train at eleven, and the Sud Express at ten to-night."
"Get me a berth on the Sud Express. Do you want the money now?"
"Just as you wish," he said. "I will have it put on the bill."
"Do that."
Well, that meant San Sebastian all shot to hell. I suppose, vaguely, I had expected something of the sort. I saw the concierge standing in the doorway.
"Bring me a telegram form, please."
He brought it and I took out my fountain-pen and printed:
LADY ASHLEY HOTEL MONTANA MADRID
ARRIVING SUD EXpRESS TOMORROW
LOVE JAKE.
That seemed to handle it. That was it. Send a girl off with one man. Introduce her to another to go off with him. Now go and bring her back. And sign the wire with love. That was it all right. I went in to lunch.
I did not sleep much that night on the Sud Express. In the morning I had breakfast in the dining-car and watched the rock and pine country between Avila and Escorial. I saw the Escorial out of the window, gray and long and cold in the sun, and did not give a damn about it. I saw Madrid come up over the plain, a compact white skyline on the top of a little cliff away off across the sun-hardened country.
The Norte station in Madrid is the end of the line. All trains finish there. They don't go on anywhere. Outside were cabs and taxis and a line of hotel runners. It was like a country town. I took a taxi and we climbed up through the gardens, by the empty palace and the unfinished church on the edge of the cliff, and on up until we were in the high, hot, modern town. The taxi coasted down a smooth street to the puerta del Sol, and then through the traffic and out into the Carrera San Jeronimo. All the shops had their awnings down against the heat. The windows on the sunny side of the street were shuttered. The taxi stopped at the curb. I saw the sign HOTEL MONTANA on the second floor. The taxi-driver carried the bags in and left them by the elevator. I could not make the elevator work, so I walked up. On the second floor up was a cut brass sign: HOTEL MONTANA. I rang and no one came to the door. I rang again and a maid with a sullen face opened the door.
"Is Lady Ashley here?" I asked.
She looked at me dully.
"Is an Englishwoman here?"
She turned and called some one inside. A very fat woman came to the door. Her hair was gray and stiffly oiled in scallops around her face. She was short and commanding.
"Muy buenos," I said. "Is there an Englishwoman here? I would like to see this English lady."
"Muy buenos. Yes, there is a female English. Certainly you can see her if she wishes to see you."
"She wishes to see me."
"The chica will ask her."
"It is very hot."
"It is very hot in the summer in Madrid."
"And how cold in winter."
"Yes, it is very cold in winter."
Did I want to stay myself in person in the Hotel Montana?
Of that as yet I was undecided, but it would give me pleasure if my bags were brought up from the ground floor in order that they might not be stolen. Nothing was ever stolen in the Hotel Montana. In other fondas, yes. Not here. No. The personages of this establishment were rigidly selectioned. I was happy to hear it. Nevertheless I would welcome the upbringal of my bags.
The maid came in and said that the female English wanted to see the male English now, at once.
"Good," I said. "You see. It is as I said."
"Clearly."
I followed the maid's back down a long, dark corridor. At the end she knocked on a door.
"Hello," said Brett. "Is it you, jake?"
"It's me."
"Come in. Come in."
I opened the door. The maid closed it after me. Brett was in bed. She had just been brushing her hair and held the brush in her hand. The room was in that disorder produced only by those who have always had servants.
"Darling!" Brett said.
I went over to the bed and put my arms around her. She kissed me, and while she kissed me I could feel she was thinking of something else. She was trembling in my arms. She felt very small.
"Darling! I've had such a hell of a time."
"Tell me about it."
"Nothing to tell. He only left yesterday. I made him go."
"Why didn't you keep him?"
"I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing one does. I don't think I hurt him any."
"You were probably damn good for him."
"He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away."
"No."
"Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it."
"All right."
"It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know."
"No."
"Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf? I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell."
"It's funny."
"He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright."
"What happened?"
"Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long."
"What was it about being in trouble?"
"I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know."
"No."
"Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me a cigarette."
I lit the cigarette.
"He learned his English as a waiter in Gib."
"Yes."
"He wanted to marry me, finally."
"Really?"
"Of course. I can't even marry Mike."
"Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley."
"No. It wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me. So I couldn't go away from him, he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him. After I'd gotten more womanly, of course."
"You ought to feel set up."
"I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn."
"Good."
"You know I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him. We got along damned well."
"Outside of your personal appearance."
"Oh, he'd have gotten used to that."
She put out the cigarette.
"I'm thirty-four, you know. I'm not going to be one of these bitches that ruins children."
"No."
"I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up."
"Good."
She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her.
"Don't let's ever talk about it. please don't let's ever talk about it."
"Dear Brett."
"I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held her close. "He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing."
She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her shaking.
"I won't be one of those bitches," she said. "But, oh, Jake, please let's never talk about it."
We left the Hotel Montana. The woman who ran the hotel would not let me pay the bill. The bill had been paid.
"Oh, well. Let it go," Brett said. "It doesn't matter now."
We rode in a taxi down to the palace Hotel, left the bags, arranged for berths on the Sud Express for the night, and went into the bar of the hotel for a cocktail. We sat on high stools at the bar while the barman shook the Martinis in a large nickelled shaker.
"It's funny what a wonderful gentility you get in the bar of a big hotel," I said.
"Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are polite any more."
"No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always nice."
"It's odd."
"Bartenders have always been fine."
"You know," Brett said, "it's quite true. He is only nineteen. Isn't it amazing?"
We touched the two glasses as they stood side by side on the bar. They were coldly beaded. Outside the curtained window was the summer heat of Madrid.
"I like an olive in a Martini," I said to the barman.
"Right you are, sir. There you are."
"Thanks."
"I should have asked, you know."
The barman went far enough up the bar so that he would not hear our conversation. Brett had sipped from the Martini as it stood, on the wood. Then she picked it up. Her hand was steady enough to lift it after that first sip.
"It's good. Isn't it a nice bar?"
"They're all nice bars."
"You know I didn't believe it at first. He was born in 1905. I was in school in paris, then. Think of that."
"Anything you want me to think about it?"
"Don't be an ass. _Would_ you buy a lady a drink?"
"We'll have two more Martinis."
"As they were before, sir?"
"They were very good." Brett smiled at him.
"Thank you, ma'am."
"Well, bung-o," Brett said.
"Bung-o!"
"You know," Brett said, "he'd only been with two women before. He never cared about anything but bull-fighting."
"He's got plenty of time."
"I don't know. He thinks it was me. Not the show in general."
"Well, it was you."
"Yes. It was me."
"I thought you weren't going to ever talk about it."
"How can I help it?"
"You'll lose it if you talk about it."
"I just talk around it. You know I feel rather damned good, Jake."
"You should."
"You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch."
"Yes."
"It's sort of what we have instead of God."
"Some people have God," I said. "Quite a lot."
"He never worked very well with me."
"Should we have another Martini?"
The barman shook up two more Martinis and poured them out into fresh glasses.
"Where will we have lunch?" I asked Brett. The bar was cool. You could feel the heat outside through the window.
"Here?" asked Brett.
"It's rotten here in the hotel. Do you know a place called Botin's?" I asked the barman.
"Yes, sir. Would you like to have me write out the address?"
"Thank you."
We lunched up-stairs at Botin's. It is one of the best restaurants in the world. We had roast young suckling pig and drank _rioja alta_. Brett did not eat much. She never ate much. I ate a very big meal and drank three bottles of _rioja alta_.
"How do you feel, Jake?" Brett asked. "My God! what a meal you've eaten."
"I feel fine. Do you want a dessert?"
"Lord, no."
Brett was smoking.
"You like to eat, don't you?" she said.
"Yes," I said. "I like to do a lot of things."
"What do you like to do?"
"Oh," I said, "I like to do a lot of things. Don't you want a dessert?"
"You asked me that once," Brett said.
"Yes," I said. "So I did. Let's have another bottle of _rioja alta_."
"It's very good."
"You haven't drunk much of it," I said.
"I have. You haven't seen."
"Let's get two bottles," I said. The bottles came. I poured a little in my glass, then a glass for Brett, then filled my glass. We touched glasses.
"Bung-o!" Brett said. I drank my glass and poured out another. Brett put her hand on my arm.
"Don't get drunk, Jake," she said. "You don't have to."
"How do you know?"
"Don't," she said. "You'll be all right."
"I'm not getting drunk," I said. "I'm just drinking a little wine. I like to drink wine."
"Don't get drunk," she said. "Jake, don't get drunk."
"Want to go for a ride?" I said. "Want to ride through the town?"
"Right," Brett said. "I haven't seen Madrid. I should see Madrid."
"I'll finish this," I said.
Down-stairs we came out through the first-floor dining-room to the street. A waiter went for a taxi. It was hot and bright. Up the street was a little square with trees and grass where there were taxis parked. A taxi came up the street, the waiter hanging out at the side. I tipped him and told the driver where to drive, and got in beside Brett. The driver started up the street. I settled back. Brett moved close to me. We sat close against each other. I put my arm around her and she rested against me comfortably. It was very hot and bright, and the houses looked sharply white. We turned out onto the Gran Via.
"Oh, Jake," Brett said, "we could have had such a damned good time together."
Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly pressing Brett against me.
"Yes," I said. "Isn't it pretty to think so?"
THE END

《第三部 第十九章 Page 2》
“阿施利夫人在吗？”我问。
她呆呆地望着我。
“这里是不是住着一位英国妇女？”
她转身叫里面的人。一个非常胖的女人走到门口来。她头发花白，抹着发蜡，梳成一个个小波浪，垂挂在脸庞两旁。她的个子不高，但是很有威势。
“您好，”我说。“这里有位英国妇女吗？我想看看这位英国夫人。”
“您好。是的，有一个英国女人。如果她愿意见您的话当然可以去看她。”
“她愿意见我。”
“我叫这丫头去问问她。”
“天气真热。”
“马德里的夏天是非常热的。”
“可在冬天却那么冷。”
“是的，冬天非常冷。”我自己是否也想在蒙大拿旅馆住下呢？
这事儿我还没拿定主意，但是我倒乐意有人把我的旅行包从底层拎到楼上来，以免被人偷走。蒙大拿旅馆还从没发生过偷盗事件。在其它客栈里，有这等事。这里没有。没有。这家旅馆的从业人员都经过严格挑选。我听了很满意。不过，我还是欢迎去把我的旅行包拿上来。
侍女进来说，英国女人想见见英国男人，马上就见。
“好，”我说。“您瞧。我说对了吧。”
“这很清楚。”
我跟在侍女后面顺着幽暗的长廊走去。走到尽头，她在一扇门上敲敲。
“嗨，”勃莱特说：“是你吗，杰克？”
“是我。”
“进来。进来。”
我打开门。侍女在我身后把门关上。勃莱特在床上躺着。她方才正梳理她的头发，手里还拿着一把刷子呢。房间里乱七八糟，只有那些平时有仆人侍候惯的人才会弄成这样。
“亲爱的！”勃莱特说。
我走到床边，用双臂搂住她。她吻我，在她吻我的同时，我能感觉到她在想别的事情。她在我的怀里颤抖着。我觉得她瘦多了。
“亲爱的！我过的日子真够呛。”
“告诉我是什么回事。”
“没什么可说的。他昨天才走。我要他走的。”
“你为什么不留住他？”
“我不知道。一个人不应该干这种事。我想我总算还没有对不起他。”“你大概对他来说是再好不过的了。”
“他不能同任何一个人在一块过。我一下子意识到了这一点。”
“不。”
“唉，真见鬼！”她说，“别谈这个了。我们再也别提它了。”
“好吧。”
“他竟为我感到丢面子，使我感到震惊。你知道，他有一阵子曾因我感到丢面子。”
“不可能。”
“哦，正是这样。我猜想有人在咖啡馆里拿我来取笑他了。他要我把头发留起来，我，留个长发。那会是个什么怪模样啊。”
“真滑稽。”
“他说，那样会使我更象女人些。那样我可真要象个怪物了。”
“后来呢？”
“哦，他想通了。他不再因我感到丢面子了。”
“那你所说的‘处境不佳’是指什么呢？”
“我当时没有把握，能不能把他打发走，可我一个子儿也没有，没法撇下他自己走。你知道，他要给我一大笔钱。我跟他说我有的是钱。他知道我是在撒谎。我不能拿他的钱，你知道。”
“对。”
“哦，别谈这些了。还有些逗乐的事儿呢。给我一支烟。”
我给她点上了。
“他在直布罗陀当侍者的时候学的英语。”
“是啊。”
“最后，他竟想同我结婚。”
“真的？”
“当然啦。可我甚至都不想嫁给迈克。”
“他可能想这一来，他就成了阿施利爵爷了。”
“不。不是那么回事。他是真心想同我结婚。他说，这一来我就不能抛弃他了。他要确保我永远不能抛弃他。当然，首先我得变得更女性化一些。”
“那你现在该感到安心了。”
“是的。我重新振作起来了。他把那个讨厌的科恩赶走了。”
“好嘛。”
“你知道，我本来会同他生活下去的，可是我发现这样对他不利。我们相处得好着哩。”
“除了你自身的打扮。”
“哦，他对这点会习惯的。”
她把烟掐熄。“你知道，我三十四了。我不愿当一个糟蹋年轻人的坏女人。”“对。”“我不能那样做。你知道，我现在感到很好。我感到很坦然。”
“这就好，”
她转过脸去。我以为她想再找一支烟呢。接着我发现她在哭。我能够感觉到她在哭泣。混身打颤，抽抽搭搭。她不肯抬起头来。我用双手搂着她。
“我们别再提这件事了。求求你，我们永远不要提它。”
“亲爱的勃莱特。”“我要回到迈克那里去。”我紧紧抱着她，能感觉到她在哭。“他是那么可亲，又那么可畏。他正是我要求的那种人。”
她不肯抬头。我抚摸着她的头发。我能感到她在颤抖。“我不愿做一个坏女人，”她说。“但是，哦，杰克，我们永远不要提它算了。”
我们离开蒙大拿旅馆。旅馆女老板不要我付帐。帐已经付清了。
“那好。就算了吧，”勃莱特说。“现在无所谓了。”
我们驱车前往王宫旅馆，放下行李，预订了“南方快车”夜班的卧铺票，走进旅馆的酒吧间去喝鸡尾酒。我们坐在酒吧柜前的高脚凳上，看酒吧侍者用一个镀镍大调酒器调制马丁尼鸡尾酒。
“真奇怪，你一到大旅馆的酒吧间里，就有种了不起的高雅的感觉，”我说。
“当今，只有酒吧侍者和赛马骑师还是彬彬有礼的。”
“不管怎么粗俗的旅馆，酒吧间总是很高雅的。”
“很怪。”
“酒吧侍者总是很有风度。”
“你知道，”勃莱特说，“这是真的。他只有十九岁，想不到吧？”
我们碰了碰并排摆在酒吧柜上的两个酒杯。酒杯冰凉，外面结着水珠。挂着窗帘的窗户外面却是马德里的酷暑。
“我喜欢在马丁尼酒里加只橄榄，”我对酒吧侍者说。
“您说得对，先生。来了。”
“谢谢。”
“您知道，我应该事先问您的。”
侍者走到酒吧柜的另一头，这样就听不到我们的谈话了。马丁尼酒杯搁在木制柜台上，勃莱特凑上去喝了一口。她然后端起酒杯。喝了一口以后，她的手不哆嗦了，能稳当地端起酒杯。
“好酒。这酒吧间不错吧？”
“凡是酒吧间都不错。”
“你知道，起初我都不信。他生在一九0五年。那时候，我已经在巴黎上学了。你想想看。”
“你凭什么要我想这事呢？”
“别装傻啦。请位夫人吃杯酒好吗？”
“给我们再来两杯马丁尼。”
“还是刚才的那种，先生？”
“那两杯酒非常可口。”勃莱特对他微微一笑。
“谢谢您，夫人。”
“好，祝你健康，”勃莱特说。
“祝你健康！”
“你知道，”勃莱特说，“在我之前，他只和两个女人来往过。过去除了斗牛，他对别的从不感兴趣。”
“他来日方长。”“我不明白。他眼里只有我。什么节日活动，都不在意。”“哦，只有你。”“是的。只有我。”“我还以为你不再提这件事了呢。”“有什么法子？”“别说了，把它锁在你的心坎里吧！”
“我只不过转弯抹角地提一下罢了。你知道，我心里感到怪舒坦的，杰克。”
“本该如此，”
“你知道，决心不做坏女人使我感到很舒坦。”
“是的。”
“这种做人的准则多少可以取代上帝。”
“有些人信上帝，”我说。“为数不少哩。”
“上帝和我从来没有什么缘分。”
“我们要不要再来两杯马了尼酒？”
侍者又调制了两杯马丁尼洒，倒进两个干净杯子。
“我们到哪儿吃饭去？”我问勃莱特。酒吧间里很凉快，从窗子里可以感到外面很热。
“就在这儿？”勃莱特问。
“在旅馆里太没意思。你知道一家叫博廷的饭店吗？”我问侍者。
“知道，先生。要不要我给您抄张地址？”
“谢谢你了。”
我们在博廷饭店楼上用餐。这是世界上最佳餐厅之一。我们吃烤乳猪，喝里奥哈酒。勃莱特没有吃多少。她向来吃不了许多。我饱餐了一顿，喝了三瓶里奥哈酒。
“你觉得怎么样，杰克？”勃莱特问。“我的上帝！你这顿饭吃了多少啊！”“我感觉很好。你要来道甜点心吗？”“哟，不要。”勃莱特抽着烟。
“你喜欢吃，是不是？”她说。
“是的，”我说。“我喜欢做很多事情。”
“你喜欢做什么？”
“哦，”我说，“我喜欢做很多事情，你要来道甜点心吗？”
“你问过我一次了，”勃莱特说。
“对，”我说。“我问过了。我们再来一瓶里奥哈酒吧！”
“这酒很好。”
“你没有喝多少，”我说。
“我喝了不少。你没留神就是。”
“我们再要两瓶吧，”我说。酒送来了。我在自己的杯子里倒了一点儿，然后给勃莱特倒了一杯，最后把我自己的杯子倒满。我们碰杯。
“祝你健康！”勃莱特说。我干了一杯，又倒了一杯。勃莱特伸手按在我胳臂上。
“别喝醉了，杰克，”她说。“你用不着喝醉啊。”
“你怎么知道？”
“别这样，”她说。“你的一切都会顺利的。”
“我不想喝醉，”我说。“我只不过在喝一点儿葡萄酒。我喜欢喝。”
“别喝醉了，”她说。“杰克，别喝醉酒。”
“想坐车去兜凤吗？”我说。“想不想在城里兜一圈？”
“好，”勃莱特说。“我还没有观光过马德里。我应该看看去。”
“我把这喝了，”我说。
我们下楼，穿过楼下餐厅来到街上。一位侍者去雇车了。天气炎热、晴朗。大街的一头有一小片有树木草地的广场，出租汽车就停在那里。一辆汽车沿街开来，侍者的上半身探出在一边的车窗外。我给了他小费，吩咐司机朝什么地方开，然后上车在勃莱特身边坐下。汽车沿街开去。我靠后坐稳。勃莱特挪身紧靠着我。我们紧紧偎依着坐在一起。我用一条胳臂搂住她，她舒适地靠在我身上。天气酷热，阳光普照，房屋白得刺眼，我们拐上大马路。
“唉，杰克，”勃莱特说，“我们要能在一起该多好。”前面，有个穿着卡其的骑警在指挥交通。他举起警棍。车子突然慢下来，使勃莱特紧偎在我身上。“是啊，”我说。“这么想想不也很好吗？”