Chapter 14 Chapter Thirteen

One morning, when I went downstairs to breakfast, Harris, the Englishman, was already sitting at the table.He is reading a newspaper with glasses on.He looked up and smiled at me. "Good morning," he said. "Your letter. I passed by the post office and they gave me your letter with mine." The letter was in my place at the table, leaning against a coffee mug.Harris looked at the paper again.I opened the letter.The letter was forwarded from Pamplona.Sunday from San Sebastián. Dear Jack: We arrived here on Friday, and Brett passed out on the train, so I took her to our old friend for a three-day rest.We set off for the Hotel Montoya in Pamplona on Tuesday, not knowing what time we will arrive.I hope you will send me a note by bus and tell us how we can meet you on Wednesday.Best regards and apologies for being late.Brett was very tired and expected to recover on Tuesday, and was actually doing better now.I know her well and will try to take care of her, but it's not easy!Say hello to everyone.

Michael "What day is it?" I asked Harris. "Wednesday, I guess. Yes, yes. Wednesday. It's wonderful to be getting lost in life up here in the mountains." "Yes. We've been here almost a week now." "Hope you're not planning to leave yet." "Going. I'm afraid I'll take the afternoon bus." "How bad it is. I expected us to go to the Irati River together again." "We must get to Pamplona. We will meet our friends there." "I'm so unlucky. We've had such a good time here at Burgot." "Go to Pamplona. We can play bridge there, and besides, the holidays are coming."

"I'd love to. Thank you for the invitation. But I'd better stay here. I don't have much time to fish." "You're trying to catch some big trout in Iratijo." "Hey, you know that's what I think. There's a big trout there." "I would like to try again." "Go. Stay another day. Listen to me," "We really have to get back to town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast, Bill and I sat on the bench in front of the hotel to bask in the sun and discussed the matter.I saw a girl coming up the road leading into the center of the town.She stopped before us and drew a telegram from the leather pocket hanging from her skirt.

"It's for you?" I read the telegram.On the cover it read: "Burgott, for Barnes." "Yes. It's for us." She produced a book for my signature, and I gave her some copper coins.The telegram was written in Spanish: "Vengo Juevescohn." I handed the telegram to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "A terrible telegram!" I said. "He can type ten words for the same money. 'I'll be there on Thursday.' That says a lot, doesn't it?" "Anything Cohen was interested in was expressed."

"We're going back to Pamplona anyway," I said. "No need to send Brett and Mike here and back before the holidays. Should we call back?" "Better one," Bill said. "We don't have to be defiant." We went to the post office and asked for a piece of telegraph paper. "How do you write it?" Bill asked. "'Arrive tonight.' That's enough." We paid for the telegram and walked back to the hotel.Harris was there, and the three of us walked as far as Roncesvallis.We visited the entire monastery. "This place is wonderful," Harris said as we walked out, "but you know, I'm not very interested in this kind of place."

"Me too," Bill said. "It's a great place, anyway," Harris said. "I'm not reconciled if I don't come to see it. I think about coming every day." "But it's not as good as fishing, is it?" Bill asked.He likes Harris. "Yes" We stood in front of the ancient chapel of the monastery. "Is there a small hotel across the road?" Harris asked. "Or are my eyes blurry?" "Like a tavern," Bill said. "It looks like a tavern to me, too," I said. "Hey," Harris said, "let's enjoy it." He had learned the word "enjoy" from Bill.

We each had a bottle of wine.Harris won't let us know money.His Spanish is pretty good, the shopkeeper refused to take our money. "Well. You don't understand how much it means to me to meet you here." "We couldn't have been happier, Harris." Harris was a little drunk. "Cough. You really don't understand how meaningful it is. Since the end of the war, I haven't had much joy." "We'll go fishing some other day. Don't forget, Harris." "It's a deal. What a joy we spend together." "How about we have another bottle together?"

"It's a great idea," Harris said. "I'll pay this time," Bill said. "Or don't drink." "I wish I'd still be the one to pay. You know, that's what makes me happy." "That would make me happy too," Bill said. The shopkeeper brought the fourth bottle of wine, and we still used the original wine glasses.Harris raised his glass. "Well. You know, this wine is really good to drink." Bill patted him on the back. "Harris, old man." "Well. You know my last name isn't actually Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. It's a double. There's a hyphen in the middle, you know." "Wilson-Harris, old man," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we like you so much."

"Well, Barnes. You don't understand how much this means to me." "Here, have another drink," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't understand. Just one word." "Go ahead, Harris." The two of us walked back up the road from Roncesvalis with Harris under our arms.We had lunch at the hotel and Harris accompanied us to the bus station.He gave us a business card with his address in London, his club and office.He handed us each an envelope as we got into the car.I opened mine and saw a dozen flyhooks inside.It was done by Harris himself.The flyhooks he used were all made by himself.

"Hi, Harris—" I start here. "No, no!" he said.He is climbing out of the car. "Not a first-rate flyhook at all. I just thought that someday you fish with it and it might remind you of the good times we had." The car moved.Harris stands in front of the post office.He waved.When the car drove onto the highway, he turned and walked back to the hotel. "You say this Harris is honest?" Bill said. "I think he's having a really good time." "Harris? Needless to say!" "I wish he could go to Pamplona." "He wants to fish." "Yeah, anyway, you can hardly say that the English can get on well with each other." "I think so."

We arrived in Pamplona towards dusk and the car stopped in front of the Hotel Montoya.In the square, people are erecting electric light lines for festive lighting.As soon as the car came to a stop, some children came running, and a local customs officer told all those who got out of the car to unpack their luggage on the sidewalk.We went into the hotel and I met Montoya on the stairs.He shook our hands and smiled with his usual coy look. "Here comes your friend," he said. "Mr. Campbell?" "Yes. Mr. Cohn and Mr. Campbell, and Mrs. Ashley." He smiled slightly, as if to indicate that there was something I would hear myself. "When did they arrive?" "Yesterday. I kept your original room." "Excellent. Did you give Mr. Campbell a room facing the square?" "Yes. They are all the rooms we selected." "Where is our friend now?" "They probably went to the pelota game." "And what's the news about the bull?" Montoya smiled. "Tonight," he said. "They put the Villia bulls in the corral at seven o'clock tonight, and the Miura bulls tomorrow. Are you all going to watch?" "Oh yes. They never saw how the bull was let out of the cage." Montoya put his hand on my shoulder. "I'll meet you over there." He smiled again.He was always smiling, as if bullfighting was a very special secret between the two of us, a secret hidden deep in our hearts that was hidden in our hearts.He was always smiling, as if to outsiders, this secret was a shameful affair, but we knew it.It is not easy to disclose this secret in front of those who do not understand its mystery. "Your friend, he is also a bullfight fan?" Montoya smiled at Bill. "Yes. He came all the way from New York for San Fermin." "Really?" Montoya politely doubted. "But he's not as obsessed as you are." He shyly put his hand on my shoulder again. "It's true," I said. "He's a real bullfight fan." "But he's not a bullfight fan like you." Aficion in Spanish means "passionate hobby".An aficionado is someone who is fascinated by bullfighting.All the good matadors lived at the Hotel Montoya, that is to say, all the matadors who were fascinated by bullfighting lived there.Matadors who make money may come once and never again.Excellent matadors come and go every year.There are many photos of them in Montoya's room.The photos are dedicated to Juanito Montoya or his sister.There were framed pictures of bullfighters that Montoya really trusted.Photos of matadors who were not keen on bullfighting were kept in a drawer of his desk.These photographs often bear overly flattering inscriptions.But actually pointless.One day Montoya took all these photographs out of the drawer and threw them in the wastebasket.He didn't want people to see these photos. We often talk about bulls and matadors.I went to the Montoya Hotel for several years to congratulate each of us for a short period of time.Just for the fun of exchanging feelings, people from faraway towns often come to talk to Montoya about the bulls for a few minutes before they leave Pamplona.These people are bullfight fans.Any fan of bullfights can always get a room here, even when the hotel is full.Montoya introduced me to some of them.They were always very reserved at first, and it amused them that I was an American.Somehow it is taken for granted that an American is incapable of passionate hobbies.He may pretend to love, or take the excitement for it, but he cannot really have it.When they find out that I have this love - it's not something that can be detected by code words, nor by a specific set of questions, but rather by a verbal test of the soul with careful and hesitant questions It's the same - he would put his hand on my shoulder coyly, or say "good guy".But in more cases, it is actually reaching out and touching.They seem to want to touch you to find out whether this love is true or not. Montoya forgives everything for a bullfighter with love. He forgives sudden hysterics, panic attacks, bad inexplicable movements, mistakes of all kinds.He can forgive anything for a man with love, so he immediately forgave me and didn't go after my friends.He didn't say a word about them, they were just things we were ashamed to mention to each other, like a horse in a bullring that gets its entrails spilled out by the horns. When we entered the house, Bill went upstairs first, and when I went upstairs, I saw him taking a shower and changing clothes in his room. "Why," he said, "talked to someone in Spanish?" "He told me the bulls were in the pens tonight." "Let's find our group, and let's go see it together." "Well, they're probably in the café." "Have you got your ticket?" "Got it. Got all the tickets to see the cows come out of the cage." "How did you release it?" He pulled his cheeks in the mirror to see if there was any unshaven area on his chin. "It's interesting," I said. "They let the bull out of the cage one at a time, put some steers in the stall to meet him, and kept them from bumping into each other, and the bull charged at the steer, and the steer ran about trying to silence the bull like the old nurse come down." "Has a bull ever killed a steer?" "Of course they did. Sometimes they run after the steers and kill them." "The steer has no room to fight?" "Not really. The steers just want to get used to the bulls." "What do you put steers in the stall for?" "To calm the bulls so they don't crash their horns against stone walls, or poke each other." "It must be very interesting to be a steer." We went downstairs and out the gate and walked across the square towards Café Irune.There are two solitary box offices sitting in the middle of the square.The windows marked SOL, SOLYSOMBRA and SOMBRA are closed.They don't open until the day before the festival. Across the square, the white wicker tables and chairs of Café Irune extend beyond the arcade to the road.I went table by table looking for Brett and Mike.They were there.Brett and Mike, and Robert Cohen.Brett wore a Basque beret.So is Mike.Robert Cohen is hatless and wearing glasses.Brett saw us coming and waved to us.We walked over to the table and she squinted at us. "Hello, friends!" she called. Brett was delighted.Mike had a knack for instilling strong emotion in a handshake.Robert Cohen shook our hands because we came back. "Where have you been?" I asked. "I brought them up here," Cohen said. "Nonsense," Brett said. "If you don't come, we'll get there sooner." "You'll never get here." "Nonsense! You're both suntanned. Look at Bill." "Did you have a good time fishing?" Mike asked. "We were going to go fishing with you." "Not bad. We're still talking about you." "I would have come," said Cohen, "but on second thought, I should have brought them up here." "You lead us. Nonsense." "Really good fishing?" Mike asked. "Did you catch a lot?" "Some days we caught a dozen each. There was an Englishman there." "His last name is Harris," Bill said. "You know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "A lucky one," said Mike. "What a memorable time! It would be nice to turn back the precious years." "Do not be silly." "You fought, Mike?" Cohn asked. "of course." "He's a fine warrior," Brett said. "Tell them how your horse galloped off Piccadilly." "I won't. I've said it four times." "You never told me," said Robert Cohen. "I will not talk about this experience. It is a shameful thing." "Tell them about your medal." "No. That's even more embarrassing." "What's going on?" "Brett'll tell you. She's always telling me off." "Go ahead. Brett, tell us." "I say yes?" "I'll tell the story myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "Not a single one was caught." "You must have several." "I think I should have a general order. But I never applied for it. Once there was a very grand banquet, and the Crown Prince of England was going to attend, and the invitation said that he would wear a decoration. Needless to say, I don't have a decoration. So I went to my tailor, who was awed by the invitation, and when I thought it was a good business, I said to him, 'You must get me some medals.' He said, 'What medals, Sir?' I said, 'Oh, anything. Just get me some.' So he said, 'What medals do you have, sir,' and I said, 'How do I know?' Did he think I Read the damned government gazette all day? 'Just give me a few more. You pick your own.' So he got me a few, you know, miniature medals, and he handed me the box Me, I stuffed it in my pocket and forgot about it. Say, I went to the party. It happened that Henry Wilson was shot that night, so the dauphin didn't come, the king didn't come, and no one wore a medal. , All those present were busy taking off their medals, but mine was in my pocket and I didn’t take it out.” He stopped and waited for us to laugh. "It's over?" "It's over. Maybe I didn't speak well." "Not good," Brett said. "But it doesn't matter." We all burst out laughing. "Ah, yes," Mike said. "Now that I think about it. It was an extremely boring dinner party, and I couldn't stay, so I slipped away. I found the box in my pocket that night. What's this? I said. Medal? Dip Bloody military medals? So I ripped off the medals—you know the medals are attached to a strap—and gave them away, one for each girl. Just a keepsake. They thought I was a Where's the croaking warrior. Distributing medals in the nightclub. What a majestic fellow." "Finish it," Brett said. "You say it's funny or not?" Mike asked.We all laughed. "Funny. Really funny. But my tailor wrote me asking for a medal. Sending around. Been writing letters for months. Looks like someone left the medal there for him to scrub off. A seasoned soldier. Medals are lifeblood." Mike took a breath. "Tailors are unlucky," he said. "You're not right," Bill said. "I think the tailor is lucky." "A very fine tailor. Would never have believed I'd end up where I am," Mike said. "At that time I paid him a hundred pounds a year to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me bills. My bankruptcy was a huge blow to him. This happened right after the medal incident. His letter The tone is painful." "How did you go broke?" Bill asked. "In two stages," Mike said, "gradually and then suddenly broke." "What caused it?" "My friend," Mike said. "I had a lot of friends. A lot of friends. Then I had creditors too. Probably more than any Englishman has." "You tell them what happened in the courthouse," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was a little drunk at the time." "Kind drunk!" Brett exclaimed. "You're unconscious!" "Extraordinary," Mike said. "I met a former partner a few days ago. He wants to buy me a drink." "Tell them you've had learned counsel," Brett said. "Don't want to say it," Mike said. "My erudite advisor is quite drunk too. Well, the subject is such a bummer. Are we going to see the bulls being released?" "Go." We called the waiter, paid the bills, got up and walked across town.At first I went with Brett, but Robert Cohn came up on Brett's other side.The three of us walked forward, past the town hall with its flags on the balcony, past the market, down the steep street that led directly to the bridge over the Arga.There were many people walking to see the bulls, and wagons rattled down the hills and across the bridge, and coachmen, horses, and whips appeared above the passers-by in the street.We crossed the bridge and turned onto the road that led to the cowpen.We passed a hotel with a sign in the window: fine wine, thirty centimes a liter. "Go and visit when we're tight," Brett said. We walked past the hotel and a woman was standing at the door watching us.She greeted the room, and three girls came to the window and stared.They were looking at Brett. At the gate of the bullpen, two men collected tickets from those who entered.We walk through the gate.There are several trees and a low stone house inside the gate.On the opposite side is the stone wall of the cattle pens. There are small holes in the wall, covering the front of each cattle pen like bullet holes. There is a ladder on the top of the wall. On the top of the wall separating the bars.As we walked down the lawn under the trees toward the ladder, we passed the big gray-painted cages where the bulls were kept.There is one bull in each cattle cage.The bulls are brought in by train from a bull farm in Castile, and at the station they are unloaded from flatbeds and brought here to be released from their cages into their pens.Each cage is stamped with the bull breeder's name and logo. We climbed the ladder and found a place on the top of the wall overlooking the pen.The stone walls were whitewashed, the grounds were covered with straw, and there were wooden feeding and drinking troughs against the walls. "Look over there," I said. The high hill on which the city stands rises across the river.People stand along the ancient walls and ramparts.The three fortifications formed three black crows' human walls.The windows of the houses above the walls were crowded.In the distance of Gao Gang, children are lying on the trees. "They must have thought there was some excitement," said Brett. "They want to see the bull." Mike and Bill were on the wall opposite the bullpen.They waved to us.Latecomers stood behind us, pressing on top of us when others pushed them. "Why not start?" Robert Cohen asked. A mule was tied to one of the cages, and it dragged the cage to the gate in the wall of the stable.Several people used crowbars to pry and push the cage against the gate.Someone was standing on top of the wall, about to pull up the gate of the stable first, and then the door of the cage.A door on the other side of the pen opened, and two steers ran into the yard, shaking their heads and trotting along, their lean bellies quivering on their sides.They stood together at the far end of the pen, with their heads towards the door through which the bulls entered. "They don't look happy," Brett said. The man on the top of the wall leaned back and pulled up the gate of the cowshed.Then, they pull up the cage door. I leaned over the wall, trying to look inside the cage.It was dark in the cage.Someone beat the cage with an iron bar.Something seemed to explode in the cage.The bull bowed left and right, and hit the wooden fence wall of the cage with its horns, making a deafening sound.Then I saw a shadow of a black muzzle and horns, followed by a rattling sound from the hollow floor of the cage, the bull rushed into the stall, slipped its front hoof on the straw, and stopped. Looking up at the crowd on the stone wall, it raised its head and neck, the muscles at the base of its neck tensely contracted into a big ball, and the muscles of its whole body were trembling.The two steers leaned back against the wall, their heads down, their eyes on the bulls. The bull saw them and rushed over.A man yelled behind a feeding trough, and banged his hat on the board, and the bull turned before he could get to the steer, and with all his might he charged towards where the man had been standing, with a sharp right-hand horn. The ground stabbed five or six times at the board wall, trying to hit the person hiding behind. "My God, how beautiful it is!" said Brett.We looked and it was right under our feet. "See how well he uses his two horns," I said. "He swipe left, swipe right, like a boxer." "real?" "Look." "It's too fast." "Wait. Another cow coming out soon." Another cage had been pulled upside down to the entrance.In the opposite corner, a man hid behind a board to tease the bull, and when he turned his head, the gate was raised and the second bull came out of the cage and into the stall.It charged straight at the steer, and two men ran out from behind the boards and yelled at him to turn him around.It didn't change direction, and the two yelled, "Hey! Hey! Bull!" and waved their arms; the two steers were sideways for the impact, and the bull dug his horns into the body of one. "Don't look at it," I said to Brett.She was fascinated. "Okay," I said. "As long as it doesn't offend you." "I saw it," she said. "I've seen it use the left corner and then switch to the right corner." "You really make sense!" The steer had fallen by now, stretched out its neck, turned its head, and lay as it had fallen.Suddenly the bull left him and rushed to the other steer, who stood at a distance, shaking his head, watching what was happening.The steer ran clumsily, and the bull caught up with it, picked its belly lightly with the tip of its horns, then turned and looked up at the crowd on the wall, the muscles on the spine of its neck bulging.The steer came up to it, pretending as if to sniff it, and the bull picked it casually.Then he, too, smelled the steers, and together they trotted toward the first bull. When the third bull is released, the first three bulls (the two bulls and the steer) stand side by side, pointing their horns at the new bull.After a few minutes the steer befriended the new bull, calming him down and becoming one of them.After the last two bulls were released, the herd stood together. The steer that had been gored got up and stood by the stone wall.None of the bulls approached him, and he had no intention of joining their pack. We climbed down the wall with the gang and got a last look at the bull through a small hole in the fence.They were all quiet now, with their heads bowed.We hired a cab outside and drove to the café.Mike and Bill arrived in half an hour.They stopped for drinks a few times along the way. We are sitting in a cafe. "It's a queer thing," said Brett. "Can the last few bulls fight as well as the first?" asked Robert Cohn. "They seemed to quiet down pretty quickly." "They're all familiar with each other," I said. "They are only fierce when they are alone, or when two or three are together." "What did you say, hell?" Bill said. "I think they are very fierce." "They'll kill a man by themselves. Of course, if you go into the pen, you might draw a bull out of the herd, and he'll be aggressive then." "It's so complicated," Bill said. "Don't you throw me out of the gang, Mike." "Look," said Mike, "these cows are fine, aren't they? Do you see their horns?" "No," said Brett. "I didn't know what horns looked like." "Did you see the bull that came up against the steer?" Mike asked. "A very fine bull." "It's boring being a steer," Robert Cohen said. "You think so?" Mike said. "I thought you liked being a steer, Robert." "What do you mean, Mike?" "They live such a leisurely life. They don't say a word, but they are always walking around." We are embarrassed.Bill laughed.Robert Cohen was furious.Mike went on. "I thought you'd like this life. You don't have to say anything. Come on, Robert. Say something. Don't sit around." "I said it, Mike. Did you forget? Talked about steers." "Oh, say more. Say something interesting. Look how excited we are." "Stop it, Mike. You're drunk," Brett said. "I'm not drunk. I'm serious. Does Robert Cohen have to hang around Brett all day like a steer?" "Shut up, Mike. Be polite." "Brilliant shit. Who the hell has any breeding but bulls? Aren't these bulls nice? Don't you like 'em, Bill? Why don't you say anything, Robert? Don't sit there moaning. If What does it matter that Brett slept with you? There's plenty of people she's slept with, but they're all better than you." "Shut up," Cohen said.He stood up. "Shut up, Mike." "Well, don't stand up, it looks like you're going to beat me. I don't care. Tell me, Robert. Why do you keep hanging around Brett like a poor bloody steer? You don't know they don't want you If they don't want me, I know. They don't want you, why don't you know? You go to San Sebastián, you are not needed there, but you follow like a wounded steer Brett hanging around. Do you think it's appropriate?" "Shut up. You're drunk." "Maybe I'm drunk. Why aren't you drunk? How come you never get drunk, Robert? You know you don't have a good time in San Sebastián because none of our friends wants to invite you to a party. You just Can't blame them. Can you? I told them to invite you. They just don't. You can't blame them now. Can you? Answer me. Can you blame them?" "Go to hell, Mike." "I don't blame them. You blame them? Why do you keep following Brett? You have no manners at all? Do you think you're doing it to make me feel better?" "You're talking about manners," said Brett. "You behave so politely!" "Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you always follow her for?" Bill stands up and grabs Cohen. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert, Cohn's going to have a drink." Bill and Cohn walk away.Cohn's face was sallow.Mike was still rambling on.I sat and listened for a while.Brett looked disgusted. "Hey, Michael, you don't have to be so stupid as a donkey," she interrupted Mike. "You know, I didn't say he was wrong." She turned to me. Mike's tone softened.There was again a friendly atmosphere between us. "It sounds like I'm drunk. It's really not that bad," he said. "I know you haven't," said Brett. "We're all a little drunk," I said. "Every word I say has my meaning." "But you're too mean," said Brett, laughing. "He's a jackass, though. He's off to San Sebastián, and he's very unpopular. He's pestering Brett, and he keeps his eyes on her. Makes me sick." "What he did was really bad," Brett said. "Look here. Brett's had this and that with some men in the past. She's told me all about it. She's shown me all Cohen's letters. I won't read them." "You did a great job." "Don't say that just yet, listen, Jack. Brett's been with other people. But they're not Jewish, and there's no one to bother afterward." "Some good ones," said Brett. "It's boring to talk about. Michael and I know each other." "She gave me all the letters from Robert Cohen. I don't want to read them." "You don't read anybody's letters, my dear. You don't even read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't understand anything." "No. You're not right about that. I read a lot. I read a lot when I'm at home." "You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Hey, Michael. Keep your spirits up. You've got to put up with the fact that he's here. Don't interfere with our holiday." "Well, let him behave himself." "He will. I'll tell him." "Tell him, Jack. Tell him to behave or go away." "Okay," I said, "I'll talk about it." "Hey, Brett. Tell Jack what Robert called you. You know, it's brilliant." "Oh, no. I can't tell." "Go ahead. We're all friends. We're all good friends, aren't we, Jack?" "I can't tell him. It's ridiculous." "Let me tell." "Don't talk, Michael. Don't be a fool." "He called her Charming," Mike said. "He insisted that she would turn men into pigs. Wonderful. Too bad I'm not a man of letters." "He's pretty good at it, you know," said Brett. "He wrote a good letter." "I know," I said. "He wrote to me in San Sebastián." "That one was nothing," said Brett. "He writes letters that make people laugh." "She made me write them. She thought she was crazy." "I'm really sick." "Come on," I said, "we have to go back to dinner." "How am I going to meet Cohen?" Mike said. "Just act like nothing happened." "I don't have anything," Mike said. "I have a thick skin." "If he brings it up, say you're drunk." "Drunk indeed. The funny thing is, I realize now that I was drunk." "Come on," Brett said. "Did you pay for these poisonous things? I have to take a bath before I can eat." It was dark as we crossed the square, surrounded by a ring of lights from the cafés under the arcades.We walked across the shaded gravel road to the hotel. They went upstairs and I stopped to talk to Montoya. "Oh, what do you think of these bulls?" he asked. "Good bull. A prime bull." “还可以，”——一蒙托亚摇摇头——“但并不特别好。” “它们哪一点使你不满意？” “说不清楚。它们只是给我一种感觉，并不十分好。” "I understand what you mean." “还是不错的。” “是的。它们是不错的。” “你的几位朋友觉得它们怎么样？”“很好。”“那就好，”蒙托亚说。我走上楼去。比尔站在自己房间的阳台上眺望着广常我在他身边站住了。 “科恩在哪儿？” “楼上他自己的房间里。” “他怎么样？” “自然罗，情绪坏透了，迈克真要不得。他喝醉了酒真吓人。” “他并不十分醉。” “还说不醉！到咖啡馆去的路上，我们喝多少酒我心中有数。” “过后他就清醒了。” “好吧。当时他真吓人。上帝知道，我不喜欢科恩，我认为他溜到圣塞瓦斯蒂安去是一桩愚蠢的勾当，但是谁也没权利象迈克那么说话埃” “你觉得这些公牛怎么样？” “很出色。把牛这样一条条放出来出色极了。” “米乌拉牛明天放。” “什么时候开始过节？” “后天。”“我们不能让迈克醉成这样。太不成体统了，” “我们还是梳洗一下准备吃饭吧。” “对。将是一顿愉快的晚餐。” “可不？” 这顿晚餐确实吃得很愉快。勃莱特穿一件黑色无袖晚礼服。她看上去漂亮极了。迈克装得似乎什么事情也没有发生过。我不得不上楼把罗伯特.科恩领下来。他冷漠、拘谨，仍旧紧绷着蜡黄的脸，但是终于高兴起来。他情不自禁地盯着勃莱特。似乎这样会使他感到幸搞。他见她打扮得那么可爱，知道自己曾经同她一起出游过，而且谁都知道这件事，因此该感到很得意吧。谁也抹杀不了这件事实。比尔非常风趣。迈克尔也一样。他们凑在一起正好。 这情景真象我记忆中某几次战时的晚餐。备有大量的酒，置紧张于不顾，预感事件将临而你又无法防止。酒醉之余，我烦恼烟消云散而感到飘飘然。人们似乎都那么可亲可爱。