THE YOUNG men and women walked round and round the plaza1 in the hot electric night: the men one way, the girls another, never speaking to each other. In the northern sky the lightning flapped. It was like a religious ceremony which had lost all meaning, but at which they still wore their best clothes. Sometimes a group of older women would join in the procession—with a little more excitement and laughter, as if they retained some memory of how things used to go before all the books were lost. A man with a gun on his hip2 watched from the Treasury3 steps, and a small withered4 soldier sat by the prison door with a gun between his knees, and the shadows of the palms pointed5 at him like a zariba of sabres. Lights were burning in a dentist's window, shining on the swivel chair and the red plush cushions and the glass for rinsing6 on its little stand and the child's chest-of-drawers full of fittings. Behind the wire-netted windows of the private houses grandmothers swung back and forth7 in rocking-chairs, among the family [97] photographs—nothing to do, nothing to say, with too many clothes on, sweating a little. This was the capital city of a state.
The man in the shabby drill suit watched it all from a bench. A squad8 of armed police went by to their quarters, walking out of step, carrying their rifles anyhow. The plaza was lit at each corner by dusters of three globes joined by ugly trailing overhead wires, and a beggar worked his way from seat to seat without success.
He sat down next the man in drill and started a long explanation. There was something confidential9, and at the same time threatening in his manner. On every side the streets ran down towards the river and the port and the marshy10 plain. He said that he had a wife and so many children and that during the last few weeks they had eaten so little—he broke off and fingered the cloth of the other's drill suit. "And how much," he said, "did this cost?"
"You'd be surprised how little."
Suddenly as a clock struck nine-thirty all the lights went out. The beggar said: "It's enough to make a man desperate." He looked this way and that as the parade drifted away down—hill. The man in drill got up, and the other got up too, tagging after him towards the edge of the plaza: his flat bare feet went slap, slap on the pavement. He said: "A few pesos wouldn't make any difference to you. ..."
"Ah, if you knew what a difference they would make."
The beggar was put out. He said: "A man like me sometimes feels that he would do anything for a few pesos." Now that the lights were out all over town, they stood intimately in the shadow. He said: "Can you blame me?"
"No, no. It would be the last thing I would do."
Everything he said seemed to feed the beggar's irritation11. "Sometimes," the beggar said, "I feel as if I could kill …"
"That, of course, would be very wrong."
"Would it be wrong if I got a man by the throat ...?"
"Well, a starving man has got the right to save himself, certainly."
The beggar watched with rage, while the other talked on as if he were considering a point of academic interest. "In my case, of course, it would hardly be worth the risk. I possess [98] exactly fifteen pesos seventy-five centavos in the world. I haven't eaten myself for forty-eight hours."
"Mother of God," the beggar said, "you're as hard as a stone. Haven't you a heart?"
The man in the drill suit suddenly giggled12. The other said: "You're lying. Why haven't you eaten—if you've got fifteen pesos?"
"You see, I want to spend them on drink."
"What sort of drink?"
"The kind of drink a stranger doesn't know how to get in a place like this."
"You mean spirits?"
"Yes—and wine."
The beggar came very close: his leg touched the leg of the other man: he put a hand upon the others sleeve. They might have been great friends or even brothers standing13 intimately together in the dark: even the lights in the houses were going out now, and the taxis which during the day waited half-way down the hill for fares who never seemed to come were already dispersing—a tail-lamp winked14 and went out past the police barracks. The beggar said: "Man, this is your lucky day. How much would you pay me ...?"
"For some drink?"
"For an introduction to someone who could let you have a little brandy—real fine Vera Cruz brandy?"
"With a throat like mine," the man in drill explained, "it's wine I really want."
"Pulque or maguey—he's got everything."
"Wine?"
"Quince wine?"
"I'd give everything I've got," the other swore solemnly and exactly, "—except the centavos, that's to say—for some real genuine grape wine." Somewhere down the hill by the river a drum was beating: one, two, one, two: and the sound of marching feet kept a rough time—the soldiers—or the police—were going home to bed.
"How much?" the beggar repeated impatiently.
"Well, I would give you the fifteen pesos and you would get the wine for what you cared to spend."
[99] "You come with me."
They began to go down the hill: at the corner where one street ran up past the chemist's shop towards the barracks and another ran down to the hotel, the quay15, the warehouse16 of the United Banana Company, the man in drill stopped. The police were marching up, rifles slung17 at ease. "Wait a moment." Among them walked a half-caste with two fang-like teeth jutting18 out over his lip. The man in drill standing in the shadow watched him go by: once the mestizo turned his head and their eyes met. Then the police went by, up into the plaza. "Let's go. Quickly."
The beggar said: "They won't interfere19 with us. They're after bigger game."
"What was that man doing with them, do you think?"
"Who knows? A hostage perhaps."
"If he had been a hostage, they would have tied his hands, wouldn't they?"
"How do I know?" He had the grudging20 independence you find in countries where it is the right of a poor man to beg. He said: "Do you want the spirits or don't you?"
"I want wine."
"I can't say he'll have this or that. You must take what comes."
He led the way down towards the river. He said: "I don't even know if he's in town." The beetles22 were flocking out and covering the pavements: they popped under the feet like puffballs, and a sour green smell came up from the river. The white bust23 of a general glimmered24 in a tiny public garden, all hot paving and dust, and an electric dynamo throbbed25 on the ground-floor of the only hotel. Wide wooden stairs crawling with beetles ran up to the first floor. "I've done my best," the beggar said; "a man can't do more."
On the first floor a man dressed in formal dark trousers and a white skin-tight vest came out of a bedroom with a towel over his shoulder. He had a little grey aristocratic beard and he wore braces26 as well as a belt. Somewhere in the distance a pipe gurgled, and the beetles detonated against a bare globe. The beggar started talking earnestly, and once as he talked the light went off altogether and then flickered27 unsatisfactorily on again. The head of the stairs was littered with wicker rocking-chairs, [100] and on a big slate28 were chalked the names of the guests—three only far twenty rooms.
The beggar turned back to his companion. "The gentleman," he said, "is not in. The manager says so. Shall we wait for him?"
"Time to me is of no account."
They went into a big bare bedroom with a tiled floor. The little black iron bedstead was like something somebody has left behind by accident when moving out. They sat down on it side by side and waited, and the beetles came popping in through the gaps in the mosquito wire. "He is a very important man," the beggar said. "He is the cousin of the Governor—he can get anything for you, anything at all. But, of course, you must be introduced by someone he trusts."
"And he trusts you?"
"I worked for him once." He added frankly29: "He has to trust me."
"Does the Governor know?"
"Of course not. The Governor is a hard man."
Every now and then the water-pipes swallowed noisily. "And why should he trust me?"
"Oh, anyone can tell a drinker. You'll have to come back for more. It's good stuff he sells. Better give me the fifteen pesos." He counted them carefully twice. He said: "I'll get you a bottle of the best Vera Cruz brandy. You see if I don't." The light went off, and they sat on in the dark: the bed creaked as one of them shifted.
"I don't want brandy," a voice said. "At least not very much."
"What do you want then?" "I told you—wine."
"Wine's expensive."
"Never mind that. Wine or nothing."
"Quince wine?"
"No, no. French wine."
"Sometimes he has California wine."
"That would do."
"Of course himself—he gets it for nothing. From the customs."
The dynamo began throbbing30 again below and the light came dimly on. The door opened and the manager beckoned31 the [101] beggar; a long conversation began. The man in the drill suit leant back on the bed: his chin was cut in several places where he had been shaving too closely: his face was hollow and ill—it gave the impression that he had once been plump and round-faced but had caved in. He had the appearance of a business man who had fallen on hard times.
The beggar came back. He said: "The gentleman's busy, but he'll be back soon. The manager sent a boy to look for him."
"Where is he?"
"He can't be interrupted. He's playing billiards32 with the Chief of Police." He came back to the bed, squashing two beetles under his naked feet. He said: "This is a fine hotel. Where do you stay? You're a stranger, aren't you?"
"Oh, I'm just passing through."
"This gentleman is very influential33. It would be a good thing to offer him a drink. After all, you won't want to take it all away with you. You may as well drink here as anywhere else."
"I should like to keep a little—to take home."
"It's all one. I say that home is where there is a chair and a glass."
"All the same—" Then the light went out again, and on the horizon the lightning bellied34 out like a curtain. The sound of thunder came through the mosquito-net from very far away like the noise you hear from the other end of a town when the Sunday bull-fight is on.
The beggar said confidentially35: "What's your trade?"
"Oh, I pick up what I can—where I can."
They sat in silence together listening to the sound of feet on the wooden stairs. The door opened, but they could see nothing. A voice swore resignedly and asked: "Who's there?" Then a match was struck and showed a large blue jaw36 and went out. The dynamo churned away and the light went on again. The stranger said wearily: "Oh, it's you."
"It's me."
He was a small man with a too large pasty face and he was dressed in a tight grey suit. A revolver bulged37 under his waistcoat. He said: "I've got nothing for you. Nothing."
The beggar padded across the room and began to talk earnestly in a very low voice: once he gently squeezed with his bare toes the other's polished shoe. The man sighed and blew [102] out his cheeks and watched the bed closely as if he feared they had designs on it. He said sharply to the one in the drill suit: "So you want some Vera Cruz brandy, do you? It's against the law."
"Not brandy. I don't want brandy."
"Isn't beer good enough for you?"
He came fussily38 and authoritatively39 into the middle of the room, his shoes squeaking40 on the tiles—the Governor's cousin. "I could have you arrested," he threatened.
The man in the drill suit cringed formally. He said: "Of course, your Excellency ..."
"Do you think I've got nothing better to do than slake41 the thirst of every beggar who chooses ..."
"I would never have troubled you if this man had not …"
The Governors cousin spat42 on the tiles.
"But if your Excellency would rather that I went away …"
He said sharply: "I'm not a hard man. I always try to oblige my fellows ... when it's in my power and does no harm. I have a position, you understand. These drinks come to me quite legally."
"Of course."
"And I have to charge what they cost me."
"Of course."
"Otherwise I'd be a ruined man." He walked delicately to the bed as if his shoes were cramping43 him and began to unmake it. "Are you a talker?" he asked over his shoulder.
"I know how to keep a secret."
"I don't !t mind you telling—the right people." There was a large rent in the mattress44: he pulled out a handful of straw and put in his fingers again. The man in drill gazed out with false indifference45 at the public garden, the dark mud-banks, and the masts of sailing-ships: the lightning flapped behind them, and the thunder came nearer.
"There," said the Governor's cousin, "I can spare you that. It's good stuff."
"It wasn't really brandy I wanted."
"You must take what comes."
"Then I think I'd rather have my fifteen pesos back."
The Governor's cousin exclaimed sharply: "Fifteen pesos!" [103] The beggar began rapidly to explain that the gentleman wanted to buy a little wine as well as brandy: they began to argue fiercely by the bed in low voices about prices. The Governor's cousin said: "Wine's very difficult to get. I can let you have two bottles of brandy."
"One of brandy and one of ..."
"It's the best Vera Cruz brandy."
"But I am a wine drinker ... you don't know how I long for wine. …"
"Wine costs me a great deal of money. How much more can you pay?"
"I have only seventy-five centavos left in the world."
"I could let you have a bottle of tequila."
"No, no."
"Another fifty centavos then ... It will be a large bottle." He began to scrabble in the mattress again, pulling out straw. The beggar winked at the man in drill and made the motions of drawing a cork46 and filling a glass.
"There," the Governor's cousin said, "take it or leave it."
"Oh, I will take it."
The Governors cousin suddenly lost his surliness. He rubbed his hands and said: "A stuffy47 night. The rains are going to be early this year, I think."
"Perhaps your Excellency would honour me by taking a glass of brandy to toast our business."
"Well, well ... perhaps ..." The beggar opened the door and called briskly for glasses.
"It's a long time," the Governor's cousin said, "since I had a glass of wine. Perhaps it would be more suitable for a toast."
"Of course," the man in drill said, "as your Excellency chooses." He watched the cork drawn48 with a look of painful anxiety. He said: "If you will excuse me, I think I will have brandy," and smiled raggedly49, with an effort, watching the wine level fall.
They toasted each other, all three sitting on the bed—the beggar drank brandy. The Governor's cousin said: "I'm proud of this wine. It's good wine. The best California." The beggar winked and motioned and the man in drill said: "One more glass, your Excellency—or I can recommend this brandy."
[104] "It's good brandy—but I think another glass of wine." They refilled their glasses. The man in drill said: "I'm going to take some of that wine back—to my mother. She loves a glass."
"She couldn't do better," the Governor's cousin said, emptying his own. He said: "So you have a mother?"
"Haven't we all?"
"Ah, you're lucky. Mine's dead." His hand strayed towards the bottle, grasped it. "Sometimes I miss her. I called her 'my little friend.' " He tilted50 the bottle. "With your permission?"
"Of course, your Excellency," the other said hopelessly, taking a long draught51 of brandy. The beggar said: "I too have a mother."
"Who cares?" the Governor's cousin said sharply. He leant back and the bed creaked. He said: "I have often thought a mother is a better friend than a father. Her influence is towards peace, goodness, charity. … Always on the anniversary of her death I go to her grave—with flowers."
The man in drill caught a hiccup52 politely. He said: "Ah, if I could too ..."
"But you said your mother was alive?"
"I thought that you were speaking of your grandmother."
"How could I? I can't remember my grandmother."
"Nor can I."
"I can," the beggar said.
The Governors cousin said: "You talk too much." "Perhaps I could send him to have this wine wrapped up. ... For your Excellency's sake I mustn't be seen ..."
"Wait, wait. There's no hurry. You are very welcome here. Anything in this room is at your disposal. Have a glass of wine."
"I think brandy ..."
"Then with your permission ..." He tilted the bottle: a little of it splashed over onto the sheets. "What were we talking about?"
"Our grandmothers."
"I don't think it can have been that. I can't even remember mine. The earliest thing I can remember ..."
The door opened. The manager said: "The Chief of Police is coming up the stairs."
"Excellent. Show him in."
"Are you sure?"
[105] "Of course. He's a good fellow." He said to the others: "But at billiards you can't trust him."
A large stout53 man in a singlet, white trousers, and a revolver-holster appeared in the doorway54. The Governor's cousin said: "Come in. Come in. How is your toothache? We were talking about our grandmothers." He said sharply to the beggar: "Make room for the jefe."
The jefe stood in the doorway, watching them with dim embarrassment55. He said: "Well, well ..."
"Were having a little private party. Will you join us? It would be an honour."
The jefe's face suddenly lit up at the sight of the wine: "Of course—a little beer never comes amiss."
"That's right. Give the jefe a glass of beer." The beggar filled his own glass with wine and held it out. The jefe took his place upon the bed and drained the glass: then he took the bottle himself. He said: "It's good beer. Very good beer. Is this the only bottle?" The man in drill watched him with frigid56 anxiety.
"I'm afraid the only bottle."
"Salud!"
"And what," the Governor's cousin asked, "were we talking about?"
"About the first thing you could remember," the beggar said. "The first thing I can remember," the jefe began, with deliberation, "—but this gentleman is not drinking."
"I will have a little brandy."
"Salud!"
"Salud!"
"The first thing I can remember with any distinctness is my first communion. Ah, the thrill of the soul, my parents round me ..."
"How many parents, then, have you got?"
"Two, of course."
"They could not have been around you—you would have needed at least four—ha, ha."
"Salud!"
"Salud!"
"No, but as I was saying—life has such irony57. It was my painful duty to watch the priest who gave me that communion [106] shot—an old man. I am not ashamed to say that I wept. The comfort is that he is probably a saint and that he prayed for us. It is not everyone who earns a saint's prayers."
"An unusual way ..."
"But then life is mysterious."
"Salud!"
The man in drill said: "A glass of brandy, jefe?"
''There is so little left in this bottle that I may as well ..."
"I was very anxious to take a little back for my mother."
"Oh, a drop like this. It would be an insult to take it. Just the dregs." He turned it up over his glass and chuckled58: "If you can talk of beer having dregs." Then he stopped with the bottle held over the glass and said with astonishment59: "Why, man, you're crying." All three watched the man in drill with their mouths a little open. He said: "It always takes me like this—brandy. Forgive me, gentlemen. I get drunk very easily and then I see ..."
"See what?"
"Oh. I don't know, all the hope of the world draining away."
"Man, you're a poet."
The beggar said: "A poet is the soul of his country." Lightning filled the windows like a white sheet, and thunder crashed suddenly overhead. The one globe flickered and faded up near the ceiling. "This is bad news for my men," the jefe said, stamping on a beetle21 which had crawled too near.
"Why bad news?"
"The rains coming so early. You see they are on a hunt."
"The gringo ...?"
"He doesn't really matter, but the Governor's found there's still a priest, and you know what he feels about that. If it was me, I'd let the poor devil alone. He'd starve or die of fever or give up. He can't be doing any good—or any harm. Why, nobody even noticed he was about till a few months ago."
"You'll have to hurry."
"Oh, he hasn't any real chance. Unless he gets over the border. We've got a man who knows him. Spoke60 to him, spent a night with him. Let's talk of something else. Who wants to be a policeman?"
"Where do you think he is?"
"You'd be surprised."
[107] "Why?"
"He's here—in this town, I mean. That's deduction61. You see, since we started taking hostages from the villages, there's really nowhere else. ... They turn him away, they won't have him. So we've set this man I told you about loose like a dog—he'll run into him one day or another—and then …"
The man in drill said: "Have you had to shoot many hostages?"
"Not yet. Three or four perhaps. Well, here goes the last of the beer. Salud!" He put the glass regretfully down. "Perhaps now I could have just a drop of your—sidral, shall we call it?"
"Yes. Of course."
"Have I met you before? Your face somehow …"
"I don't think I've had the honour."
"That's another mystery," the jefe said, stretching out a long fat limb and gently pushing the beggar towards the bed-knobs, "how you think you've seen people—and places—before. Was it in a dream or in a past life? I once heard a doctor say it was something to do with the focusing of the eyes. But he was a Yankee. A materialist62."
"I remember once ..." the Governor's cousin said. The lightning shot down over the harbour and the thunder beat on the roof: this was the atmosphere of a whole state—the storm outside and the talk just going on—words like "mystery" and "soul" and "the source of life" came in over and over again, as they sat on the bed talking, with nothing to do and nothing to believe and nowhere better to go.
The man in drill said: "I think perhaps I had better be moving on."
"Where to?"
"Oh ... friends," he said vaguely63, sketching64 widely with his hands a whole world of fictitious65 friendships.
"You'd better take your drink with you," the Governor's s cousin said. He admitted: "After all you paid for it."
"Thank you, Excellency." He picked up the brandy bottle. Perhaps there were three fingers left. The bottle of wine, of course, was quite empty.
"Hide it, man, hide it," the Governor's cousin said sharply.
"Oh, of course, Excellency, I will be careful."
[108] "You don't have to call him Excellency," the jefe said. He gave a bellow66 of laughter and thrust the beggar right off the bed onto the floor.
"No, no, that is ..." He sidled cautiously out, with a smudge of tears, under his red sore eyes and from the hall heard the conversation begin again—"mystery," "soul"—going interminably on to no end.
The beetles had disappeared: the rain had apparently67 washed them away: it came perpendicularly68 down, with a sort of measured intensity69, as if it were driving nails into a coffin70 lid. But the air was no clearer: sweat and rain hung together on the clothes. The priest stood for a few seconds in the doorway of the hotel, the dynamo thudding behind him, then he darted71 a few yards into another doorway and hesitated, staring over past the bust of the general to the tethered sailing—boats and one old barge72 with a tin funnel73. He had nowhere to go: rain hadn't entered into his calculations: he had believed that it would be possible just to hang on somehow, sleeping on benches or by the river.
A couple of soldiers arguing furiously came down the street towards the quay—they just let the rain fall on them, as if it didn't matter, as if things were so bad anyway you couldn't notice. ... The priest pushed the wooden door against which he stood—a cantina door coming down only to the knees—and went in out of the rain: stacks of gaseosa bottles and a single billiard table with the score strung on rings, three or four men—somebody had laid his holster on the bar. The priest moved too quickly and jolted74 the elbow of a man who was making a shot. He turned furiously: "Mother of God!": he was a Red Shirt. Was there no safety anywhere, even for a moment?
The priest apologized humbly75, edging back towards the door, but again he was too quick—his pocket caught against the wall and the brandy bottle chinked. Three or four faces looked at him with malicious76 amusement: he was a stranger and they were going to have fun. "What's that you've got in your pocket?" the Red Shirt asked. He was a youth not out of his teens, with gold teeth and a jesting conceited77 mouth.
"Lemonade," the priest said.
"What do you want to carry lemonade with you for?"
[109] "I take it at night—with my quinine."
The Red Shirt swaggered up and poked78 the pocket with the butt79 of his cue. "Lemonade, eh?"
"Yes, lemonade."
"Let's have a look at the lemonade." He turned proudly to the others and said: "I can scent80 a smuggler81 at ten paces." He thrust his hand into the priest's pocket and hauled at the brandy bottle: "There," he said. "Didn't I tell you—" The priest flung himself against the swing door and burst out into the rain. A voice shouted: "Catch him." They were having the time of their lives.
He was off up the street towards the plaza, turned left and right again—it was lucky the streets were dark and the moon obscured. As long as he kept away from lighted windows he was almost invisible—he could hear them calling to each other. They were not giving up: it was better than billiards: somewhere a whistle blew—the police were joining in.
This was the town to which it had been his ambition to be promoted, leaving the right kind of debts behind at Concepcion: he thought of the cathedral and Montez and a canon he once knew, as he doubled this way and that. Something buried very deep, the will to escape, cast a momentary82 and appalling83 humour over the whole situation—he giggled and panted and giggled again. He could hear them hallooing and whistling in the dark, and the rain came down: it drove and jumped upon the cement floor of the useless fronton which had once been the cathedral (it was too hot to play pelota and a few iron swings stood like gallows84 at its edge). He worked his way down-hill again: he had an idea.
The shouts came nearer, and then up from the river a new lot of men approached: these were pursuing the hunt methodically—he could tell it by their slow pace, the police, the official hunters. He was between the two—the amateurs and the professionals. But he knew the door—he pushed it open, came quickly through into the patio85, and closed it behind him.
He stood in the dark and panted, hearing the steps come nearer up the street, while the rain drove down. Then he realized that somebody was watching him from a window, a small dark withered face, like one of the preserved heads tourists buy. He came up to the grille and said: "Padre José?"
[110] "Over there." A second face appeared behind the other's shoulder, lit uncertainly by a candle-flame, then a third: faces sprouted86 like vegetables. He could feel them watching him as he splashed back across the patio and banged on a door.
He didn't for a second or two recognize Padre José—in the absurd billowing nightshirt, holding a lamp. The last time he had seen him was at the conference, sitting in the back row, biting his nails, afraid to be noticed. It hadn't been necessary: none of the busy cathedral clergy87 even knew what he was called. It was odd to think that now he had won a kind of fame superior to theirs. He said "José" gently, winking88 up at him from the splashing dark.
"Who are you?"
"Don't you remember me? Of course, it's years now ... don't you remember the conference at the cathedral? …"
"Oh, God," Padre José said.
"They are looking for me. I thought perhaps just for tonight you could perhaps ..."
"Go away," Padre José said, "go away."
"They don't know who I am. They think I'm a smuggler—but up at the police station they'll know."
"Don't talk so loud. My wife ..."
"Just show me some corner," he whispered. He was beginning to feel fear again. Perhaps the effect of the brandy was wearing off (it was impossible in this hot damp climate to stay drunk for long: alcohol came out again under the armpits: it dripped from the forehead) or perhaps it was only that the desire of life, which moves in cycles, was returning—any sort of life.
In the lamplight Padre José's face wore an expression of hatred89. He said: "Why come to me? Why should you think ? I'll call the police if you don't go. You know what sort of a man I am."
He pleaded gently: "You're a good man, José. I've always known that."
"I'll shout if you don't go."
He tried to remember some cause of hatred. There were voices in the street—arguments, a knocking—were they searching the houses? He said: "If I ever offended you, José, forgive [111] me. I was conceited, proud, overbearing—a bad priest. I always knew in my heart you were the better man."
"Go," José screeched90 at him, "go! I don't want martyrs91 here. I don't belong any more. Leave me alone. I'm all right as I am." He tried to gather up his venom92 into spittle and shot it feebly at the others face: it didn't even reach, fell impotently through the air. He said: "Go and die quickly. That's your job," and slammed the door to. The door of the patio came suddenly open and the police were there. He caught a glimpse of Padre José peering through a window and then an enormous shape in a white nightshirt engulfed93 him and drew him away—whisked him off, like a guardian94 spirit, from the disastrous95 human struggle. A voice said: "That's him." It was the young Red Shirt. He let his fist open and dropped by Padre José's wall a little ball of paper: it was like the final surrender of a whole past.
He knew it was the beginning of the end—after all these years. He began to say silently an act of contrition96, while they picked the brandy bottle out of his pocket, but he couldn't give his mind to it. That was the fallacy of the deathbed repentance—penitence was the fruit of long training and discipline: fear wasn't enough. He tried to think of his child with shame, but he could only think of her with a kind of famished97 love—what would become of her? And the sin itself was so old that like an ancient picture the deformity had faded and left a kind of grace. The Red Shirt smashed the bottle on the stone paving and the smell of spirit rose all round them—not very strongly: there hadn't really been much left.
Then they took him away: now that they had caught him they treated him in a friendly way, poking98 fun at his attempt to escape—except the Red Shirt whose shot he had spoiled. He couldn't find any answer to their jokes: self-preservation lay across his brain like a horrifying99 obsession100. When would they discover who he really was? When would he meet the half-caste, or the lieutenant101 who had interrogated102 him already? They moved in a bunch slowly up the hill to the plaza. A rifle-butt grounded outside the station as they came in: a small lamp fumed103 against the dirty whitewashed104 wall: in the courtyard hammocks swung, bunched around sleeping bodies like the nets [112] in which poultry105 is tied. "You can sit down," one of the men said, and pushed him in a comradely way towards a bench. Everything now seemed irrevocable: the sentry106 passed back and forth outside the door, and in the courtyard among the hammocks the ceaseless murmur107 of sleep went on.
Somebody had spoken to him: he gaped108 helplessly up. "What?" There seemed to be an argument in progress between the police and the Red Shirt—as to whether somebody should be disturbed. "But it's his duty," the Red Shirt kept on repeating: he had rabbity front teeth. He said: "I'll report it to the Governor."
A policeman said: "You plead guilty, don't you?"
"Yes," the priest said.
"There. What more do you want? It's a fine of five pesos. Why disturb anybody?"
"And who gets the five pesos, eh?"
"That's none of your business."
The priest said suddenly: "No one gets them."
"No one?"
"I have only twenty-five centavos in the world."
The door of an inner room opened and the lieutenant came out. He said: "What in God's name is all the noise ...?" The police came raggedly and unwillingly109 to attention.
"I've caught a man carrying spirits," the Red Shirt said. The priest sat with his eyes on the ground ... "because it has crucified ... crucified ... crucified ..." Contrition stuck hopelessly over the formal words. He felt no emotion but fear.
"Well," the lieutenant said. "What is it to do with you? We catch dozens."
"Shall we bring him in?" one of the men asked.
The lieutenant took a look at the bowed servile figure on the bench. "Get up," he said. The priest rose. Now, he thought, now ... he raised his eyes. The lieutenant looked away, out of the door where the sentry slouched to and fro. His dark pinched face looked rattled110, harassed111. …
"He has no money," one of the policemen said.
"Mother of God," the lieutenant said, "can I never teach you ...?" He took two steps towards the sentry and turned. "Search him. If he has no money, put him in a cell. Give him some work. …" He went outside and suddenly raising his [113] open hand he struck the sentry on the ear. He said: "You're asleep. March as if you had some pride ... pride," he repeated again, while the small acetylene lamp fumed up the whitewashed wall and the smell of urine came up out of the yard and the men lay in their hammocks netted and secured.
"Shall we take his name?" a sergeant112 said.
"Yes, of course," the lieutenant said, not looking at him, walking briskly and nervously113 back past the lamp into the courtyard: he stood there unsheltered, looking round while the rain fell on his dapper uniform. He looked like a man with something on his mind: it was as if he were under the influence of some secret passion which had broken up the routine of his life. Back he came. He couldn't keep still.
The sergeant pushed the priest ahead into the inner room: a bright commercial calendar hung on the flaking114 white-wash—a dark-skinned mestizo girl in a bathing-dress advertised some gaseous115 water: somebody had pencilled in a neat pedagogic hand a facile and over-confident statement about man having nothing to lose but his chains.
"Name?" the sergeant said. Before the priest could check himself he had replied: "Montez."
"Home?"
He named a random116 village: he was absorbed in his own portrait. There he sat among the white-starched dresses of the first communicants. Somebody had put a ring round his face—to pick it out. There was another picture on the wall too—the gringo from San Antonio, Texas, wanted for murder and bank robbery.
"I suppose," the sergeant said cautiously, "that you bought the drink from a stranger …"
"Yes."
"Whom you can't identify?"
"No."
"That's the way," the sergeant said approvingly: it was obvious he didn't want to start anything. He took the priest quite confidingly117 by the arm and led him out and across the courtyard: he carried a large key like the ones used in morality plays or fairy-stories as a symbol. A few men moved in the hammocks—a large unshaven jaw hung over the side like something left over on a butcher's counter: a big torn ear: a [114] naked black—haired thigh118. He wondered when the mestizo's face would appear, elated with recognition.
The sergeant unlocked a small grated door and let out with his boot at something straddled across the entrance. He said: "They are all good fellows, all good fellows here," kicking his way in. An appalling smell lay on the air and somebody in the absolute darkness wept.
The priest lingered on the threshold trying to see; the lumpy blackness seemed to shift and stir. He said: "I am so dry. Could I have water?" The stench poured up his nostrils119 and he retched.
"In the morning," the sergeant said, "you're drunk enough now," and laying a large considerate hand upon the priest's back, he pushed him in, then slammed the door to. He trod on a hand, an arm, and pressing his face against the grille, protested in feeble horror: "There's no room. I can't see. Who are these people?" Outside among the hammocks the sergeant began to laugh. "Hombre," he said, "hombre, have you never been in jail before?"
收听单词发音 |
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plaza
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| n.广场，市场 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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rinsing
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| n.清水，残渣v.漂洗( rinse的现在分词 )；冲洗；用清水漂洗掉（肥皂泡等）；（用清水）冲掉 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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braces
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| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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bellied
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| adj.有腹的，大肚子的 | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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fussily
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| adv.无事空扰地，大惊小怪地，小题大做地 | |
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authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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slake
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| v.解渴，使平息 | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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cramping
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| 图像压缩 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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raggedly
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| 破烂地，粗糙地 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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52
hiccup
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| n.打嗝 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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56
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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60
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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materialist
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| n. 唯物主义者 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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64
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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perpendicularly
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| adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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smuggler
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| n.走私者 | |
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82
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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patio
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| n.庭院，平台 | |
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sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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screeched
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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horrifying
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| a.令人震惊的，使人毛骨悚然的 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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101
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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102
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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103
fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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104
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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106
sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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107
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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108
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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109
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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110
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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111
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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112
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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113
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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114
flaking
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| 刨成片，压成片； 盘网 | |
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115
gaseous
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| adj.气体的，气态的 | |
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116
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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117
confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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118
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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119
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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