"The _Marques de Avillar_," someone at the bar said. A customs man at a near-by table gulped the remainder of his coffee and bolted to the pier.

At the bar, a laughing longsh.o.r.eman pushed a five-centavo coin into the nickeled red juke box, pressed the "_Besame_" b.u.t.ton. Johnny Rodrigues _y su_ Whoopee Kids. Two guitars, a cornet, maracas, sticks and a lugubrious baritone. "_Besame, besame mucho_ ..." the raucous blaring of a klaxon at the pier ... "_la ultima vez_" ... again the horn drowned out the words.

Hall looked up at the cabs, ignoring the Whoopee Kids' baritone. A slender young man in a green jacket and cream-colored slacks was standing near the foot of the gangplank. Pepe had taken off his white hat. Hall kept his eyes glued on Pepe until the man in the green jacket turned around, revealing himself as Dr. Marina.

One of the white sedans of the Ministry of Health pulled up at the pier.

A doctor and two a.s.sistants, the three men wearing the light tan uniform of their service, got out and started to talk to a customs man. He pointed at the white ship being shoved toward the pier by the little tugs.

Hall drank in the tableau, his eyes following Marina's every move, his ears deaf to the next record being played in the juke box.

"_Otro cafe, senor?_"

"_Si, gracias._"

But the fresh pot of hot coffee remained untouched. Hall was still watching Marina, but Marina did nothing except shift from foot to foot while he watched the Spanish liner draw nearer the pier with every turn of the heroic little engines in the two tugs. Hall thought of Jerry. He had missed her again last night, but they had a date for dinner at seven. Doctor had promised her a night off. The messages at the hotel: Jose Fernandez had phoned, wanted Hall to call him back this morning.

O.K., Don Jose, as soon as I get a good look at the rats Marina is awaiting. I want to hear more about the Red menace hanging over my head.

And Souza had an interesting tab on Androtten. The little Dutchman had stayed out all night. Naughty, naughty, Wilhelm, gadding about with _putas_ the whole night through and G.o.d knows where you are sleeping it off but I guess your little dog is watching to see that no one rolls you for your wad. Or wasn't it a debauch that kept you out all night?

Anyway, I'll bet you made your rounds in a Renault you rented from the Phoenix Garage.

The _Marques de Avillar_ was being eased into its dock. The cab drivers were waving at the pa.s.sengers lined up at the rail, and Marina was hopping up and down, shouting and waving a big yellow handkerchief like a banner. The coffee _por favor_ has grown cold and _por favor_ a pot of hot _por favor_ and that's the idea _muchas gracias_ and you could have docked the _Marques_ in my last yawn. Hall drank a steaming cup of hot coffee.

The gangplank was being wheeled to the ship. There was a knot of ship's officers on the lower deck. They shook hands with the customs men and the medicos who trotted up the gangplank, led them inside to the main salon. Men in blue uniforms with official papers under their arms. A press photographer and a bald roly-poly reporter. They'll be out in a minute, and d.a.m.n it the morning sun is growing too bright for a pair of tired old eyes, and dipping his napkin in the fresh cold water on the table Hall shoved the cold compress against his heavy eyes.

Two cups of coffee later, the first of the pa.s.sengers from the _Marques de Avillar_ emerged from the salon and walked down the gangplank.

Priests--Hall counted twenty--followed by scrawny stewards with their bags. A few of the priests were old, but most of them were young men who carried themselves erect, their shoulders squared well back, their walk the off-duty walk of the officer on leave from the front. Hall wondered how many of the younger men in clerical collars were really priests and how many of them were used to wearing other uniforms. He remembered the day, less than two months earlier, when the C.T.E. liner _Cabo de Hornos_ had docked in Havana and one of General Benitez' men had grown suspicious of two of the Spanish priests on board; a brief discussion of theology had been followed by a thorough search of their luggage, and the young travelers woke up the next morning to find themselves learning theology in the concentration camp on the Isla de Pinas.

Hall was humming "Onward, Christian Soldiers." He watched two young priests get into Pepe's cab and be driven away. The priests, and later four nuns, entered the cabs in pairs. Then, following some customs men, one of the ship's officers came out of the salon with a man in a black suit and a Panama hat. They carried thick portfolios under their arms, and behind them followed a steward with two heavy hand trunks.

There was a blur of green and yellow on the gangplank, and then Marina was on the lower deck, exchanging wild embraces with the ship's officer and the man in the Panama hat. The three men walked down the gangplank, Marina happily bringing up the rear behind the officer. He darted in front of his friends when they reached the pier and signaled one of the cabs. The first cab in line rolled up to the curb and picked them up.

The sun shone into Hall's face. He washed his eyes with cold water, had another cup of coffee. Thick, the air is growing thick and heavy. h.e.l.l with it. Olive oil and garlic, coffee, squids, mussels, saffron, mackerel, heat. "_Besame_" on the juke box again. Don't run off just yet. Look at the watch. Start to get impatient. _Hombre de negocios_ waiting for a colleague to work out a deal. A ton of coffee, three box cars of ore, a round ton of sugar. He's way overdue and you're getting impatient, but you don't leave yet. You don't leave and show the little dog wherever he or his partners are hiding that you had breakfast here this morning just to keep an eye on the _Marques de Avillar_. No, senor, you would not be as careless as the f.a.ggot. No, senor, oh no, senor, only the air is getting thicker and somewhere in the kitchen someone is looking at me and laughing I swear it I swear it only I can't help it this is the only face I have.

Soft laughter. Eyes looking in his direction. The now blazing sun. The flags on the mast of the white ship; crimson and gold of Fernando e Isabel, the triangular pennant of the C.T.E., and the mucking five arrows of the Falange floating insolently in the breeze over the heart of a democracy. Don't leave too soon. Look at your watch again and curse the mucking _hombre de negocios_ who's holding up your big deal. And what was the name of the C.T.E. radio officer from the _Ciudad de Sevilla_ whom poor old Fielding had in his report? Jimenez, Eduardo Jimenez, thank G.o.d, my memory for names is like a sponge and what would you say if the ship's officer who got that _abrazo de amor_ from the f.a.ggot was C.T.E. Radio Officer Jimenez and d.a.m.n the sun and d.a.m.n the olive oil on the hot stove chunks of garlic and squid floating in the hot oil and stinking up the thick murky air and it's cooler with the collar open.

Eyes looking at him from the kitchen. Soft laughter. Some joke. Hall is c.o.c.keyed on _cafe con leche_ and what's that it's the cup you lug and what's that it's the coffee spilling all over your pants and if those empty-faced b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in the kitchen don't stop laughing I'll get right up from the floor and put a right cross through their lousy guts. That's just the ticket. Clip them with the old right, like the time in San Sebastian when the gonzo with the feather in his hat made the mistake of getting within range. Watch the old right, keed, watch the old K.O.

sockeroo. Watch it, watch it, don't forget to duck. WATCH IT!

The driver of the rickety four-wheeled bus was thumping time with fat brown fingers on the rim of the heavy wheel. He didn't sing, just sat in his bucket seat with the faded flowered cretonne slip cover (bet you a good dinner his wife sewed it for him when he got the job) and thumped time. The kid with the guitar in the front seat was doing the singing.

"Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco." He was a nice kid and drunk as a loon, but sweet and happy drunk. Nothing ugly about the kid. "Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco."

"Why is he singing?" Hall asked.

Behind him, someone in the rear seat answered, "He's happy. His favorite baseball team won the San Hermano tournament."

Hall turned with a start, faced an impa.s.sive-looking farmer in blue jeans.

"You were fast asleep, senor," the farmer said.

"Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco." A bad dream. Go back to sleep. Or better yet, wake up and put the light on. But the light was on. The dim yellow lights inside the bus. "Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco." Scots wha hae wi' Wallace fled. Scots wha ... G.o.d, no! A new song. No more Jalisco. The farmer came into the town his cheeses ripe his mangoes brown he spied a maiden by her stall she ... G.o.d, no!

"Ay, Muchachita, Muchachita." The kid was still in the groove.

Four-string chord, six-string chord. _Un beso, un beso! Reflecciones de otros tiempos._ More nice chords. The farmer remembers other times, other maidens who pursed their lips and gave him _un beso_ when he begged. What am I to the farmer and what is he to Hecuba?

"For a _borracho_ he sings well."

"Yes, with a skinful he is a virtuoso." The sound of his own words startled Hall. He turned around to the man who had spoken to him. The farmer smiled.

"Pardon me, senor," the farmer smiled, "but tonight you are a little of the virtuoso yourself, no?"

"No." G.o.d, no!

"I apologize, senor. You are not well?"

"No. I am well." But where in h.e.l.l am I? _Ay, muchachita, muchachita._ Cigars in the coat pocket. Broken, all of them. Smashed to shreds. I fell on them. When I fell they were smashed. Cigarettes in the side pocket. Black tobacco, thicker than the cigarettes back home, brown-paper package. _Bock, La Habana._

"Have you a match?" That's a good one. Felipe's been waiting three years for J. Burton Skidmore to say it. "_Tiene usted un fo'foro?_" Very welcome. Yes, they are Cuban. No, I am not Cuban myself. I dropped the _s_ in _fosforo_? I have recently spent some time in Cuba. Yes, Batista is a fine man. Where are you going? Is this your village?

"Good-bye, friend." This from outside, the farmer standing on the dirt road, Hall's gift cigarette glowing in his mouth. A tiny village.

Houses, store, the whitewashed village school, a cast-iron statue of San Martin and Bolivar shaking hands, an open-front cafe, the small church.

"h.e.l.lo, friend." The kid with the guitar waved at Hall. "When did you get on the bus?"

"I don't remember," Hall said.

"Good. Neither do I. What's your favorite song?"

"_No Pasaran._"

"I know it," the kid said. "It is a good song." His fingers flew over the strings, found the right chords. Hall joined him in the words of the Spanish Republic's song of resistance.

Night, deep-blue night, the yellow mazdas of the farmers' village way behind them now, and the _gua-gua_ rolling down the highway between plowed fields and fields of sugar and nothing in sight but the broad fields.

"Hey, driver!" That was me. I can talk now. I can stand, too. If I grip the tops of the seats I can walk to the front without taking a pratt fall. "Driver, _gua-guero_ ..."

"Jump, it's not high, senor ..."

Feet on the ground once more. Black blue soft chill night air. There goes the _gua-gua_. Red tail light bouncing around the bend in the road.

No ship. No sun. No garlic broiling in olive oil. Nothing. Get off the road. Get up. Off the road. Get to the fence. Get up, get up, here comes the blackout again, here it comes, watch it, men, this is it.

He remembered the kid with the guitar, the rich voice of the driver.

_Jump, it's not high._ It was still night. He was lying in a field, about fifteen yards from the highway. The taste of black earth at his lips had awakened him.

He turned his mouth away from the plowed earth. There was no sense in trying to get up. He knew that much. All in. He was all in. Every bone, every muscle ached. He closed his eyes, sank into a deep dreamless sleep.

Thirst wakened him. It was a thirst that started in his throat, spread to his dry cottony mouth, sank deep into his drying insides. They were drying out, drying out fast. He had to have water, or they would dry up completely, and then he would be dead.

I am now an animal, he thought. I must have animal cunning. I must sense water and then I must get to it. Where things grow there must be water.