Chapter 19 Chapter Eighteen

At noon, we will gather in the cafe.It was crowded with people.We ate shrimp and drank beer.The city is also full of people.Every street is packed.Big cars from Biarritz and San Sebastián kept arriving and parked around the square.Cars bring people in to watch the bullfights.The tour bus has also arrived.In one car were twenty-five British women.They sit in this big white car and use binoculars to watch the festive scenery here.The dancers were all drunk.This is the last day of the festival. People participating in the festival activities are crowded and flowing, but there are circles of tourists around the cars and coaches.When all the people in the car got off, they were submerged in the crowd.You never see them again, except for their distinctive tracksuits at café tables, among the huddled crowds of peasants in black coats.The festival flooded even the Brits from Biarritz, so that you couldn't see them without walking close to a table.There was a lot of music in the street.The sound of the drums is booming and the sound of the flute is melodious.In cafes, people clutch tables with their hands, or touch each other's shoulders, and sing at the top of their voices.

"Brett's here," Bill said. When I looked, she was walking through the crowd in the square, with her head held high, as if this festival carnival was held in honor of her, and she felt both complacent and amused. "Hello, friends!" she said. "Hey, I'm thirsty." "Another mug of beer," Bill said to the waiter. "Would you like shrimp?" "Cohen gone?" Brett asked. "Yes," Bill said. "He hired a car." The beer is delivered.Brett reached for the glass, her hand trembling.She realized it herself, smiled slightly, and leaned over to take a big sip. "Good wine." "Very good," I said.I'm feeling uneasy about Mike.I don't think he slept at all.He's probably been drinking, but he seems to be able to keep himself under control. "I heard Cohen wounded you, Jack," Brett said. "No. Knocked me out. Nothing else." "I said he wounded Pedro Romero," Brett said. "It hurts badly." "How is he now?" "He's going to be fine. He doesn't want to leave the room." "Does he look bad?" "Very bad. He's really badly hurt. I told He said, I want to sneak out and see you." "Is he still playing?" "Of course. If you want, I want to go with you." "How's your boyfriend?" Mike asked.He wasn't listening to anything Brett had just said. "Brett got a matador," he said. "She also had a Jew named Cohen, who turned out to be terrible." Brett stood up.

"I don't want to hear any more goddam talk from you, Michael." "How is your boyfriend?" "Very well," said Brett. "Take a good look at his bullfight this afternoon." "Brett got a matador," Mike said. "A handsome damn matador." "Would you walk back with me, please? I have something to tell you, Jack." "Tell him all about your bullfighter," Mike said. "Well, to hell with your bullfighter!" He threw the table over, and all the beer glasses and shrimp dishes on the table fell to the ground and smashed to pieces.

"Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of here." As we made our way across the square among the crowd, I said, "How's it going?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until he's on the court. His entourage is coming to dress him. They're very angry with me, he said." Brett beamed.She is very happy.The sun came out, and the sky was bright. "I feel like I've changed completely," Brett said. "You can't imagine, Jack." "What do you need me for?" "It's nothing, I just want you to watch the bullfight with me."

"Are you coming at lunch?" "No. I'll eat with him." We stopped under the arcade at the entrance of the hotel.They are bringing out the table and putting it under the arcade. "Would you like to take a walk in the park?" Brett asked. "I don't feel like going upstairs yet. I see him sleeping." We walked in front of the theater, out of the square, through the temporary booths in the market, and walked between the two rows of kiosks with the flow of people.We walked up a side street leading to the pedestrian street of Sarasat, and we could see people walking on the pedestrian street, and all the fashionable people were there.They walked around the other end of the park.

"Let's not go up there," said Brett. "I don't want to be stared at right now." We stand in the sun.Dark clouds were blowing over the sea, and after the rain the weather was breezy and hot. "I hope it doesn't blow any more," said Brett. "The wind is bad for him." "I hope so too." "He said cows are good." "all good." "Is that the Chapel of St. Fermin?" Brett looked at the yellow walls of the chapel. "Yes. That's where the Sunday parade starts." "Let's go in and see. Will you? I'd love to say a prayer or something for him."

We walked in through a leather-wrapped door, which, while thick, opened surprisingly lightly.It was very dark in the hall.Many people are praying.Once your eyes adjust to the dim light, you'll be able to see them clearly.We kneel before a wooden bench.After a while I noticed Brett straighten up beside me, and saw her eyes staring straight ahead. "Come on," she whispered hoarsely. "Let's get out of here. Puts my nerves on edge." Outside, in the hot sun on the street, Brett gazed up at the swaying treetops.Prayer didn't help much. "Don't know why I'm always so nervous in church," Brett said. "Praying has never worked for me."

We go all the way. "I don't fit in with the religious atmosphere," said Brett. "My face shape is wrong. "You know," Brett went on, "I'm not worried about him at all. I'm just happy for him." "It's nice to be brave," "But I wish there was less wind." "The wind tends to die down around five o'clock." "I hope so." "You can pray," I said with a smile. "It never worked for me, and I never got the benefit of prayer. Did you get it?" "Oh, yes." "Nonsense," said Brett, "but it might work for some people. You don't look very religious, Jack."

"I'm religious." "Nonsense," Brett said. "Don't you try to persuade people to believe in religion today. It looks like it's going to be a bad day." For the first time since she and Cohn left, I saw her as happy and carefree as ever.We turned back to the front of the hotel.All the tables were set and a few tables were already seated and eating. "Look at Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him go too far." "Your friends are already upstairs," said the German head waiter in English.He has been eavesdropping on other people's conversations.Brett turned to him, "Thank you very much. What else do you have to say?" "No, ma'am." "Okay," said Brett.

"Save us a table for three," I said to the German.A smile broke out on his cheeky, flushed face. "Is your lady dining here?" "No," said Brett. "Then it's enough for me to watch the table for two." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike's probably in a bad mood," she said as they went upstairs.On the stairs, we meet Montoya face to face.He bowed, but there was no smile on his face. "See you in the cafe," said Brett. "Thank you so much, Jack." We walked up to our floor.She went straight down the corridor into Romero's room.She didn't knock.She simply pushed open the door, walked in, and closed the door behind her.

I stood in front of Mike's door and knocked.No reply.I twisted the doorknob and the door opened.The room was a mess.All the bags were open, and clothes were strewn about.There were several empty wine bottles by the bed.Mike lay in bed with a face that looked like a plaster cast cast after his death.He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jack," he said slowly. "I want to take a - a - nap. It's been a long time since I've always wanted to - want to - take a - rest - for a while." "Let me cover you with a quilt." "No. I'm not cold. "You don't go. I haven't--d--slept-sleep," he said again. "You'll fall asleep, Mike. Don't worry, buddy." "Brett got a matador," Mike said. "But her Jew is gone." He turned to look at me. "Great thing, isn't it?" "Yeah. Now you go to sleep, Mike. It's time for you to get some sleep." "I'm - I'm - going to sleep. I'm going to - I'm going to - take a - rest - for a while." He closes his eyes.I walked out of the room and closed the door gently.Bill is reading the newspaper in my room. "See Mike?" "yes." "Let's go eat." "There's a German head waiter here, and I don't want to eat downstairs. When I took Mike upstairs, he was so annoying." "He did the same to us." "Let's go out and eat in the street." Let's go downstairs.On the stairs we passed an ascending maid carrying a tray covered in napkins. "That's for Brett," Bill said. "And that guy's," I said. On the terrace under the arcade outside the door, the German head waiter came.His rosy cheeks were shining.He is very polite. "I've reserved a table for two for you gentlemen," he said. "Go and sit by yourself," Bill said.We kept walking out, across the street. We ate at a restaurant in an alley next to the square.The diners in this restaurant are all men.The house was filled with smoke, and people were drinking and singing.The food was good and so was the wine.We rarely talk.Later we went to the cafe to watch the carnival come to a boil.Brett came as soon as dinner was over.She said she had checked in Mike's room and he was asleep. When the carnival reached its boiling point and moved to the bullring, we were there with the crowd.Brett sat between Bill and me in the first row.There was a narrow passage between the stands and the red fence that surrounded the field, just below us.The concrete stands behind us were already full.Ahead, beyond the red fence, is a flat field covered with yellow sand.After the rain, the field looked a little muddy, but it dried in the sun, and it was firm and flat.Retinues and bullfighters came down the aisle carrying wicker baskets with bullfighting cloaks and red scarves on their shoulders.The blood-stained cloak and red scarf were neatly folded and placed in the wicker basket.The entourage opened the heavy leather scabbards and leaned them against the bars to reveal a bunch of hilts wrapped in red cloth.They shook out patches of red flannel stained with purple and black blood, put on a short club, opened it, and let the matador hold and swing it.Brett watched all this carefully.She was fascinated by the minutiae of the trade. "His name is on every cape and every scarf," she said. "Why are these red flannels called muleta?" "I have no idea." "I don't know if these things have been washed." "I don't think it's ever washed. The color may fade after washing." "Blood stains will stiffen the flannel," Bill said. "That's odd," Brett said. "People can't care less about blood." In the narrow passage below, the followers arranged all the preparations before going on stage.All the seats are full.Above the stands, all the boxes are also full, except for the chairman's box, there is not a single vacant seat.As soon as the chairman enters the arena, the bullfight will begin.On the opposite side of the flat sandy field in the arena, the matadors stood talking in the tall door openings leading to the bullpens, their arms wrapped in their cloaks, waiting for the signal to enter the ring.Brett watched them through the binoculars. "Here, do you want to see it?" I looked through the binoculars and saw the three matadors.Romero in the centre, Belmonti on the left and Marcial on the right.Behind them were their assistants, and behind the short-gunners I saw the spearmen standing in the back passage and in the clearings in the stables.Romero was wearing a black bullfight suit.His three-cornered hat was pulled low over his eyes.I couldn't make out his face under the hat, but it looked a lot scarred.His eyes looked straight ahead.Marcial hid the cigarette in his palm and smoked it cautiously.Belmonti looked forward, his face was bloodless yellow, his long wolf jaw sticking out.His eyes were blank and he turned a blind eye.Neither he nor Romero seemed to have anything in common with anyone else.They stand alone.The chairman entered; there was applause from the grandstand above us, and I handed the binoculars to Brett.There was a burst of applause.Start playing music.Brett looked through the binoculars. "Here, take it," she said. Through the binoculars, I saw Belmonte talking to Romero.Marcial straightened up, threw away his cigarette, and the three matadors entered the arena with their eyes straight ahead, their heads held high, and one empty hand.After them came the whole procession, which entered and spread out to either side, all at goose, each holding his rolled-up cloak in one hand, and waving his free hand in the other.Then came the spearman who held a spear like a lancer.The last ones were the two lines of mules and the bullfighters.The matadors held their hats with one hand, bowed in front of the chairman's box, and walked towards the fence below us.Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold brocade cloak and handed it to his entourage on this side of the fence.He said a few words to his entourage.Romero was not far below us now, and we saw his swollen lips, bloodshot eyes, and bruised face.The valet took the cloak, looked up at Brett, came up to us, and handed it over. "Spread it out in front of you," I said. Brett bent forward.The cloak is heavy and crisp, embroidered with gold thread.The follower looked back, shook his head, and said something.A man sitting next to me leaned towards Brett. "He doesn't want you to spread your cloak," he said. "You fold it up and put it on your lap." Brett folded the heavy cloak. Romero didn't look up at us.He was talking to Belmonti.Belmonti had sent his frock cloak to his friends.He looked towards them and smiled. He also smiled like a wolf, but he opened his mouth and there was no smile on his face.Romero leans over the fence and asks for a pitcher.A valet brought water jugs and Romero poured water over the muslin of the bullfighting cloak and rubbed the hem of the cloak with his flat-heeled foot in the sand. "What's that for?" Brett asked. "Put some weight; don't let the wind blow you up." "He looked very bad," Bill said. "He also felt very bad about himself," Brett said. "He should be on bed rest." The first cow was handled by Belmonti.Belmonti was skilled.But because he earns 30,000 pesetas a show, and people line up all night to buy tickets to see him perform, the audience demands that he perform extraordinarily well.The main attraction of Belmonti is the close proximity of the wagyu cattle.In bullfighting, there is the so-called bull's zone and matador's zone.A bullfighter is safer as long as he is in his own zone.Whenever he enters bull territory, he is in great danger.During Belmonte's prime, he was always performing in the bulls' belt.In this way, he gives the impression that tragedy is about to happen.People go to a bullfight to see Belmonte, to experience tragic passion, perhaps to see Belmonte die.Fifteen years ago people said that if you wanted to see Belmonti, you had to go while he was still alive.Since then, he has killed more than a thousand cows.After his retirement, legendary rumors circulated about how marvelous his bullfighting was, and he returned to the ring to the public dismay because no mortal man could get as close to a bull as Belmonte was said to have done, even if, of course, Nor could Belmonte himself. In addition, Belmonti imposed conditions, insisting that the bull should not be too big and the horns should not grow too dangerous, so that the necessary factors for the feeling of impending tragedy disappeared, and the spectator did not. Feeling cheated by asking the fistulaed Belmonte to do three times what he had been able to do, Belmonte's jaw protruded further in humiliation, his face turned yellower as the pain intensified. , the action is even more difficult, and in the end the audience simply opposed him with actions, and he completely took a contemptuous and indifferent attitude.He thought that today would be his good day, but what he received was an afternoon of ridicule and loud insults. In the end, the cushions, slices of bread, and melons and vegetables all flew to the field where he had won the greatest victory back then, and fell to the ground. on him.He just pushed his chin out a little more.At times, when the yelling from the audience was particularly unbearable, he would pull his jaw out and grin, and the anguish with each movement would grow more and more intense, until at last his yellowed face became parchment s color.After he had killed the second cow, and the bread and cushions were thrown away, he saluted the chairman with his usual smile and contemptuous eyes, and handed his sword behind the fence to be wiped clean. Putting back the scabbard, he went into the aisle, and leaning against the railing under our seats, with his head bent on his arms, saw nothing, heard nothing, and endured the torment.Finally he looked up and asked for some water.He swallowed a few mouthfuls, rinsed his mouth, spat it out, picked up his cloak, and went back to the bullfighting room. The audience turned to Romero because they were against Belmonti.As soon as he left the fence in front of the stands and walked towards the cattle, the audience applauded him.Belmonti was also looking at him, pretending not to look at him, but actually watching him all the time.He didn't take Marcial to heart.He knew all about Marcial.The purpose of his return to the bullring is to compete with Marcial, thinking that this is a game that has already won.He looked forward to comparing himself with Marcial and other bullfighting stars of the declining era, and he knew that as soon as he showed up in the ring, the bravado of the declining bullfighters would be overshadowed by his solid bullfighting skills.His return to the bullring after his retirement this time was spoiled by Romero.Romero is always so easy, steady and graceful.He, Belmonte, could bring himself to do so only now and then.The audience felt it, even the people from Biarritz felt it, and eventually even the American ambassador felt it.Belmonte really didn't want to participate in this competition, because it would only end up with the bull being seriously injured or dead, and Belmonte was exhausted.The high point of his bullring prominence was over.He felt that this kind of orgasm would probably never happen again.Things have changed, and now life can only flash a few sparks.He still has a bit of old-time bullfighting flair, but it's worthless, because when he gets out of the car and leans on the fence of a friend's cattle ranch to inspect the herd and pick out a few docile bulls, His demeanor has already been discounted.The two cows he picked were small, with modest horns, and were easy to tame, but when he felt his splendor come back—a gleam of the ailments that often plagued him, and even that was discounted in advance. And offered——, he didn't feel happy.This was indeed the style of the old days, but it no longer gave him the pleasure of bullfighting. Pedro Romero has this marvelous presence.He loves pit bulls, I reckon he loves bulls, and I reckon he loves Brett.All that afternoon he kept his bullfighting moves in front of Brett's seat.He didn't look up at her once.That way he could perform better, not just for her but for himself.Because he didn't look up and look to see if the other person was satisfied, he performed for himself, which gave him strength, but he also did it for her.But he didn't hurt himself for her.It gave him the upper hand that afternoon. His first performance of pulling the bull away was right under our seats.After each charge of the bull on the mounted spearman, the three matadors took turns to tackle the bull.Belmonte came first.Marcial is second.Finally it was Luo Huiluo's turn.All three of them stand on the left side of the horse.The spearman pressed his hat to his eyebrows, turned his spear to point directly at the bull, clamped the horse's belly with his boot spurs, and holding the dead rope with his left hand, he drove the horse towards the bull.The bull stares.Apparently it was looking at the white horse, but in reality it was looking at the triangular steel point of the spear.Romero watched and saw that the bull was about to turn around.It doesn't look like it wants to hit.Romero shook the cloak lightly, and the red color of the cloak caught the bull's attention.Reflexively, the bull charged forward, only to find that it was not a red cloak shining before him, but a white horse, with a man stooping deeply from its back, and holding the hickory spear The steel point plunged into the hump of the bull's shoulder, then, pivoting on the lance, drove the horse aside, made a wound, and drove the point deep into the bull's shoulder, causing it to bleed, for Belmont Dee is ready to play again. The wounded bull didn't hold out.It didn't really want to attack the horse.It turned away from the mounted spearman, and Romero drew it away with his cloak.Gently but steadily, he led the bull away, then stopped, standing face to face with the bull, stretching out his cloak towards the bull.The bull came rushing with his tail up, and Romero swung his arms in front of the bull, steadied himself and spun.The wet cloak, heavy with mud and sand, swung open like a full sail blowing in the wind, and Romero turned on the spot with the cloak open in front of the bull.At the end of a round, they looked at each other again.Romero was smiling.The bull was about to fight again, and Romero's cloak was again drawn to the wind, this time in the other direction.Each time he let the cow pass so close that the man, the cow and the cloak swirling in the wind in front of the cow became a set of sharp-cut group portraits.The movements were so slow, so measured, as if he were rocking the cow gently to lull it to sleep.He did the set four times and added one last, half way, with his back to the bull clapping, one hand on his hip, cloak over his arm, the bull watching him go back. When he fought his two bulls, he performed perfectly.His first cow had poor eyesight.After two rounds with the cloak, Romero knew exactly how damaged his eyesight was.He acted on that.This bullfight was not particularly exciting.Just a perfect performance.The audience asked for a cow instead.They broke out.You can't fight a bull who can't see the cape as the inducement, but the chairman won't let you change it. "Why not?" asked Brett. "They already paid for it. They don't want to lose money for nothing." "That would be unfair to Romero." "Just watch how he deals with a cow that can't see the color." "I don't like to watch things like this." It's not much fun to watch a bullfight if you worry about the people who do it.Romero had to use his body to coordinate with the bull who could see neither the color of the cloak nor the scarlet flannel.He had to get so close that the bull could see his body and charge at him, and he then directed the bull's attack to the flannel, closing the round in the traditional fashion.The audience from Biarritz didn't like it that way.They thought Romero was frightened, so every time he directed the bull's attack from his body to the flannel, he took a small step sideways.They preferred to see Belmonte imitate his own former posture, and Marcial imitate Belmonte's posture.Just behind us sat these three guys from Biarritz. "Why is he afraid of this cow? This cow is so stupid that it can only walk behind the red scarf." "He's just a yellow-mouthed kid. He hasn't learned his skills yet." "He used to be very good with cloaks." "Maybe he's nervous now." In the middle of the bullring, there was only Romero, and he was still performing that routine. He was so close that the bull could see clearly. He moved closer, and the bull was still dumbfounded watching him, waiting until he was close enough for the bull to think he could reach him, then moving up to meet him, finally teasing the cow to jump on him, and then, just as the horn was about to touch him, he gave a soft, almost imperceptible With a flick of the red scarf, the bull followed, a gesture that provoked a bit of sharp disapproval from the Biarritz bullfighting connoisseurs. "He's on his way," I said to Brett. "The cow's got some energy. He doesn't want to give it all up." In the middle of the bullring, Romero faced us halfway, facing the bull, drew his dagger from the folds of his red scarf, stood on tiptoe, and aimed his gaze down the blade.As Romero lunged forward, the bull jumped at the same time.The red scarf in Romero's left hand fell on the bull's face, covering its eyes, and his left shoulder was inserted between the two horns as the dagger pierced into the bull's body. In an instant, the image of man and bull became one , Romero towers over the bull, his right arm stretched high above the hilt of the sword thrust between the bull's shoulders.Then the man and the cow separated.With a slight sway of his body, Romero dodged away, then stood facing the bull, raised his hand, his shirt sleeve was torn from under the armpit, and the white cloth was fanned by the phoenix. As for the bull, the red sword hilt was firmly attached. Inserted between its shoulders, its head sank and its legs went limp. "It's going to fall," Bill said. Romero was so close to the bull that the bull could see him.He still held his hand high, talking to the cow.The cow struggled for a while, then rushed forward with its head, and slowly fell down. Suddenly, its legs turned upside down and rolled to the ground. Someone handed the sword to Romero, who held it with the blade down and a red flannel scarf in his other hand, walked up to the front of the chairman's box, bowed, straightened up, and walked over to the fence By the side, pass the sword and red scarf to others. "This cow is really useless," said the attendant. "It made me sweat," Romero said.He wiped sweat off his face.The attendant handed him a pitcher.Romero wiped his lower lip.Drinking from a pitcher made his lips sore.He doesn't look up at us. Marcial had a successful day.The audience was still applauding Romero's last bull.It was this cow that rushed out and killed a man during the cattle run in the morning. Romero's bruised face stood out as he fought the first bull.His every movement revealed the scars on his face.The concentration of his nerves as he maneuvered delicately with the blinding bull exposed his scars.The battle with Cohen didn't dampen his spirit, but it ruined his face and hurt his body.Now he is removing all influence from it.Each action of engaging this second bull negates one point of this effect.This is a good cow, a huge cow with sharp horns, and it is very flexible and accurate in turning around and attacking.It was just the kind of cow Romero was looking for. When he finished playing the red scarf and was about to kill the cow, the audience asked him to continue to perform.They didn't want the bull to be killed, they didn't want the fight to end.Romero went on to perform.It seems to be a demonstration course of bullfighting.He runs through all the movements together, making them complete, slow, refined and done in one go.No tricks, no mystification.No sloppy moves.At the climax of each round, your heart will suddenly constrict.The spectators thought it would be best if the bullfight never ended. The bull was waiting to be killed with his legs spread out, and Romero killed the bull right in the ring below our seats.He stabbed the cow in the way he liked, not out of resignation as he had killed the previous one.With his face sideways, he stood directly opposite the bull, pulled out the sword from the fold of the red scarf, and aimed his eyes along the edge of the sword.The bull stared at him.Romero, speaking to the bull, tapped his foot on the ground.The bull came up, and Romero waited for it to come, lowered the red scarf, aimed his eyes along the edge of the sword, and kept his feet still.And then without moving a step, he was one with the bull, the sword thrust between the raised shoulders of the bull, who had followed the red flannel shawl dancing below, as Romero moved to the left , Put away the red scarf, this is the end.The bull tried to move forward, but his legs began to unsteady, he swayed from side to side, froze for a moment, then fell to his knees, and Romero's brother leaned forward from behind the bull, toward the bottom of the horns. A short knife was inserted into the neck.The first time he missed.He plunged the knife in again, and the bull fell, convulsing and freezing.Romero's brother held the horn in one hand and the knife in the other, looking up at the chairman's box.Handkerchiefs waving.The chairman, looking down from the box, also waved his handkerchief.The brother cut the notched black ear from the dead bull and trotted over to Romero carrying it.The lumbering black bull lay on the sand with his tongue out.The children ran towards the cow from all sides of the yard, forming a small circle around the cow.They began to dance around the bull. Romero took the ear from his brother and held it up to the chairman.The chairman bowed in salute, and Romero ran toward us at the head of the crowd.He leaned against the fence and leaned up to hand Brett the ear.He nods and smiles.They surrounded him and asked Brett to hand down her cloak. "Do you like it?" Romero called. Brett made no reply.They looked at each other and smiled.Brett held the cow's ear in her hand. "Keep the blood off," Romero said with a grin.The audience needs him.Several children cheered Brett.There were children, people dancing and drunks in the crowd.Romero turned and pushed his way through the crowd.They surrounded him and tried to lift him up and put him on their shoulders.He resisted and struggled to get out, and withdrew his legs through the crowd and ran towards the exit.He doesn't want to be carried on his shoulders.But they caught him and lifted him up.It was really bad, his legs were spread apart, and his body was in pain.They carried him, and they all ran to the gate.He put a hand on a man's shoulder.He glanced back at us apologetically.The crowd ran to carry him out the gate. The three of us walked back to the hotel together.Brett went upstairs.Bill and I sat downstairs in the dining room and ate some boiled eggs and drank a few beers.Belmonti had changed into his everyday clothes and came down with his manager and two men.They sat down to eat at the next table.Belmonti ate very little.They were going to Barcelona by the seven o'clock train.Wearing a blue-striped shirt and a dark suit, Belmonte ate candied eggs.Others ate several raisins.Belmonte said nothing.He only answers other people's questions. Bill was tired after watching the bullfight.me too.We both watch bullfights very seriously.We sat eating our eggs and I watched Belmonti and his tablemate.The faces of the men were rough and serious. "Let's go to the cafe," Bill said. "I'd like a glass of absinthe." This is the last day of the festival.It's starting to get cloudy outside again.The square was full of people, and pyrotechnicians were installing the night-time pyrotechnic devices and covering them all with beech branches.The children are watching.We pass the launch pads for fireworks with long bamboo poles.A large group of people gathered outside the cafe.The band is playing and the people are still dancing.A giant model and a dwarf pass the door. "Where's Edna?" I asked Bill. "I have no idea." We watched as the festive revelry kicked off its final night.Absinthe makes everything look better.I drank it without sugar in a drip cup and it was deliciously bitter. "I feel bad for Cohen," Bill said. "He's got a lot of life." "Well, to hell with Cohen," I said. "Where do you think he went?" "North to Paris." "What do you think he is doing?" "Well, let him go to hell." "What do you think he is doing?" Past lovers, let's relive old dreams." "Who was his past lover?" "One named Frances." We ordered another glass of absinthe. "When are you going back?" I asked. "tomorrow." After a while, Bill said, "Well, what a great festival this is." "Yeah," I said. "Never idle for a moment." "You won't believe it. It's like a wonderful nightmare." "Really," I said. "I believe in everything. I believe in nightmares." "What's the matter? Are you in a mood?" "I'm in a terrible mood." "Another absinthe bar. Come here, waiter! Another absinthe for this gentleman." “我难受极了，”我说。 “把酒喝了，”比尔说。“慢慢喝。” 天色开始黑了。节日活动在继续。我感到有点醉意，但是我的情绪没有任何好转。 "what do you think?" “很不好。” "Continued Cup?" “一点用也没有。” “试试看。你说不准的：也许这一杯就奏效呢。嗨，侍者！给这位先生再来一杯！” 我并不把酒滴进水里，而是直接把水倒在酒里搅拌起来。比尔放进一块冰。我用一把匙在这浅褐色的混浊的混合物里搅动冰块。“味道怎么样？”“很好。”“别喝得那么快。你要恶心的。”我放下杯子。我本来就没打算快喝。 “我醉了。” “那还有不醉的。” “你就是想叫我醉吧，是不是？” “当然。喝它个醉。打消这要命的闷气儿。” “得了，我醉了。你不就是想这样吗？” "sit down." “我不想坐了，”我说。“我要到旅馆去了。” 我醉得很厉害。我醉得比以往哪次都厉害。我回到旅馆走上楼去。勃莱特的房门开着。我伸进脑袋看看。迈克坐在床上。他晃晃一个酒瓶子。 “杰克，”他说。 "Come in, Jack." 我进屋坐下。我要是不盯住看一个固定的地方，就感到房间在东倒西歪。 “勃莱特，你知道。她同那个斗牛的小子走了。” “不能吧。” “走了。她找你告别来着。他们乘七点钟的火车走的。” “他们真走了？” “这么做很不好，”迈克说。“她不该这么做。” "Yes" “喝一杯？等我揿铃找人拿些啤酒来。” “我醉了，”我说。“我要进屋去躺下了。” “你醉得不行了？我也不行了。” “是的，”我说，“我醉得不行了。” “那么回见吧，”迈克说。“去睡一会儿，好杰克。” 我出门走进自己的房间，躺在床上。床在飘向前去，我在床上坐起来，盯住墙壁，好使这种感觉中止。外面广场上狂欢活动还在进行。我觉得没有什么意思了。后来比尔和迈克进来叫我下楼，同他们一起吃饭。我假装睡着了。 “他睡着了。还是让他睡吧。” “他烂醉如泥了，”迈克说。他们走了出去。 我起床，走到阳台上，眺望在广场上跳舞的人们。我已经没有天旋地转的感觉。一切都非常清晰、明亮，只是边缘有点模糊不清。我洗了脸，梳了头发。在镜子里我看自己都不认识了，然后下楼到餐厅去。 “他来了！”比尔说。“杰克，好小子！我知道你还不至于醉得起不来。” “嗨，你这个老酒鬼，”迈克说。 “我饿得醒过来了。” “喝点汤吧，”比尔说。我们三个人坐在桌子边，好象少了五六个人似的。