“Go on,” the young man said softly. “It’s not a trick.”
He put his hand into the cage and the bird flew against the back, fluttering against the withes.
“You’re silly,” the young man said. He took his hand out of the cage. “I’ll leave it open.”
He lay face down on the cot, his chin on his folded arms, and he was still listening. He heard the bird fly out of the cage and then he heard him sing in one of the laurel trees.
“It was foolish to keep the bird if the house is supposed to be empty,” he thought. “It is just such foolishness that makes all the trouble. How can I blame others when I am that stupid?”
In the vacant lot the boys were still playing baseball and it was quite cool now. The young man unbuckled the leather shoulder holster and laid the big pistol by his leg. Then he went to sleep.
When he woke it was dark and the street light on the comer shone through the leaves of the laurels. He stood up and walked to the front of the house and, keeping in the shadow and the shelter of the wall, looked up and down the street. A man in a narrow-brimmed, flat-topped straw hat stood under a tree on the comer. Enrique could not see the color of his coat or trousers, but he was a Negro.
Enrique went quickly to the back of the porch but there was no light there except that which shone on the weedy field from the back windows of the next two houses. There could be any number of people in the back. He knew that, since he could no longer really hear as he had in the afternoon, because a radio was going in the second house away.
Suddenly there came the mechanical crescendo of a siren and the young man felt a prickling wave go over his scalp. It came as suddenly as a person blushes, it felt like prickly heat, and it was gone as quickly as it came. The siren was on the radio; it was part of an advertisement, and the announcer’s voice followed, “Gavis tooth paste. Unaltering, insuperable, the best.”
Enrique smiled in the dark. It was time someone should be coming now.
After the siren on the recorded announcements came a crying baby which the announcer said would be satisfied with Malta-Malta, and then there was a motor horn and a customer who demanded green gas. “Don’t tell me any stories. I asked for green gas. More economical, more mileage. The best.”
Enrique knew all the advertisements by heart. They had not changed in the fifteen months that he had been away at war; they must still be using the same discs in the broadcasting station, and still the siren had deceived him and given him that thin, quick prickle across the scalp that was as definite a reaction to danger as a bird dog stiffening to the warm scent of quail.
He had not had that prickle when he started. Danger and the fear of it had once made him feel empty in his stomach. They had made him feel weak as you are weak with a fever, and he had known the inability to move; when you must force movement forward by legs that feel as dead as though they were asleep. That was all gone now, and he did without difficulty whatever he should do. The prickling was all that remained of the vast capacity for fear some brave men start with. It was his only remaining reaction to danger except for the perspiring which, he knew, he would always have, and now it served as a warning and nothing more.
As he stood, looking out at the tree where the man with the straw hat sat now, on the curb, a stone fell on the tiled floor of the porch. Enrique looked for it against the wall but did not find it. He passed his hands under the cot but it was not there. As he knelt, another pebble fell on the tiled floor, bounced and rolled into the corner toward the side of the house and into the street. Enrique picked it up. It was a smooth-feeling ordinary pebble and he put it in his pocket and went inside the house and down the stairs to the back door.
He stood to one side of the door and took the Colt out of the holster and held it, heavy in his right hand.
“The victory,” he said very quietly in Spanish, his mouth disdaining the word, and shifted softly on his bare feet to the other side of the door.
“To those who earn it,” someone said outside the door. It was a woman’s voice, giving the second half of the password, and it spoke quickly and unsteadily.
Enrique drew back the double bolt on the door and opened it with his left hand, the Colt still in his right.
There was a girl there in the dark, holding a basket. She wore a handkerchief over her head.
“Hello,” he said and shut the door and bolted it. He could hear her breathing in the dark. He took the basket from her and patted her shoulder.
“Enrique,” she said, and he could not see the way her eyes were shining nor the look on her face.
“Come upstairs,” he said. “There is someone watching the front of the house. Did he see you?”
“No,” she said. “I came across the vacant lot.”
“I will show him to you. Come up to the porch.”
They went up the stairs, Enrique carrying the basket. He put it down by the bed and walked to the edge of the porch and looked. The Negro who wore the narrow-brimmed flat-topped straw hat was gone.
“So,” Enrique said quietly.
“So what?” asked the girl, holding his arm now and looking out.
“So he is gone. What is there to eat?”
“I am sorry you were here alone all day” she said. “It was so stupid that I had to wait until it was dark to come. I have wanted to come all day.”
“It was stupid to be here at all. They brought me here from the boat before daylight and left me, with a password and nothing to eat, in a house that is watched. You cannot eat a password. I should not be put in a house that is being watched for other reasons. It is very Cuban. But at least, in the old days we ate. How are you, Maria?”
In the dark she kissed him, hard, on the mouth. He felt the tight-pressed fullness of her lips and the way her body shivered against his and then came the stab of white pain in the small of his back.
“Ayee! Be careful.”
“What is it?”
“The back.”
“What of the back? Is it a wound?”
“You should see it,” he said.
“Can I see it now?”
“Afterwards. We must eat and get out of here. What have they stored here?”
“Too many things. Things left over from the failure of April. Things kept for the future.”
“The long-distant future,” he said. “Did they know it was watched?”
“I am sure not.”
“What is there?”
“There are some rifles in cases. There are boxes of ammunition.”
“Everything should be moved tonight.” His mouth was full. “There will be years of work before we will need this again.”
“Do you like the escabeche?”
“It’s very good; sit here close.”
“Enrique,” she said, sitting tight against him. She put a hand on his thigh and with the other she stroked the back of his neck. “My Enrique.”
“Touch me carefully,” he said, eating. “The back is bad.”
“Are you happy to be back from the war?”
“I have not thought about it,” he said.
“Enrique, how is Chucho?”
“Dead at Lérida.”
“Felipe?”
“Dead. Also at Lérida.”
“And Arturo?”
“Dead at Teruel.”
“And Vicente?” she asked in a flat voice, her two hands folded on his thigh now.
“Dead. At the attack across the road at Celadas.”
“Vicente is my brother.” She sat stiff and alone now, her hands away from him.
“I know,” said Enrique. He went on eating.
“He is my only brother.”
“I thought you knew,” said Enrique.
“I did not know and he is my brother.”
“I am sorry, Maria. I should have said it another way.”
“And he is dead? You know he is dead? It is not just a report?”
“Listen. Rogello, Basilio, Esteban, Fel and I are alive. The others are dead.�
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“All?”
“All,” said Enrique.
“I cannot stand it,” said Maria. “Please, I cannot stand it.”
“It does no good to discuss it. They are dead.”
“But it is not only that Vicente is my brother. I can give up my brother. It is the flower of our party.”
“Yes. The flower of the party.”
“It is not worth it. It has destroyed the best.”
“Yes. It is worth it.”
“How can you say that? That is criminal.”
“No. It is worth it.”
She was crying now and Enrique went on eating. “Don’t cry,” he said. “The thing to do is to think how we can work to take their places.”
“But he is my brother. Don’ you uderstand? My brother.”
“We are all brothers. Some are dead and others still live. They send us home now, so there will be some left. Otherwise there would be none. Now we must work.”
“But why were they all killed?”
“We were with an attack division. You are either killed or wounded. We others have been wounded.”
“How was Vicente killed?”
“He was crossing the road when he was struck by machine-gun fire from a farmhouse on the right. The road was enfiladed from that house.”
“Were you there?”
“Yes. I had the first company. We were on his right. We took the house but it took some time. They had three machine guns there. Two in the house, one in the stable. It was difficult to approach. We had to get a tank up to put fire on the window before we could rush the last gun. I lost eight men. It was too many.”
“And where was that?”
“Celadas.”
“I never heard of it.”
“No,” said Enrique. “The operation was not a success. No one will ever hear of it. That was where Vicente and Ignacio were killed.”
“And you say such things are justified? That men like that should die in failures in a foreign country?”
“There are no foreign countries, Maria, where people speak Spanish. Where you die does not matter, if you die for liberty. Anyway, the thing to do is live and not to die.”
“But think of who have died—away from here—and in failures.”
“They did not go to die. They went to fight. The dying is an accident.”
“But the failures. My brother is dead in a failure. Chucho in a failure. Ignacio in a failure.”
“They are just a part. Some things we had to do were impossible. Many that looked impossible we did. But sometimes the people on your flank would not attack. Sometimes there was not enough artillery. Sometimes we were ordered to do things not in sufficient force—as at Celadas. Those make the failures. But in the end, it was not a failure.”
She did not answer and he finished eating.
The wind was fresh now in the trees and it was cold on the porch. He put the dishes back in the basket and wiped his mouth on the napkin. He wiped his hands carefully and then put his arm around the girl. She was crying.
“Don’t cry, Maria,” he said. “What has happened has happened. We must think of what there is to do. There is much to do.”
She said nothing and he could see her face in the light from the street lamp looking straight ahead.
“We must check all romanticism. This place is an example of that romanticism. We must stop terrorism. We must proceed so that we will never again fall into revolutionary adventurism.”
The girl still said nothing and he looked at her face that he had thought of all the months when he had thought of anything except his work.
“You talk like a book,” she said. “Not like a human being.”
“I am sorry,” he said. “It is only lessons I have learned. It is things I know must be done. To me it is more real than anything.”
“All that is real to me are the dead,” she said.
“We honor them. But they are not important.”
“You talk like a book again,” she said angrily. “Your heart is a book.”
“I am sorry, Maria. I thought you would understand.”
“All I understand is the dead,” she said.
He knew this was not true because she had not seen them dead as he had in the rain in the olive groves of the Jarama, in the heat in the smashed houses of Quijorna, and in the snow at Teruel. But he knew that she blamed him for being alive when Vicente was dead and suddenly—in the small and unconditioned human part of him which was left, and which he did not realize was still there—he was hurt deeply.
“There was a bird,” he said. “A mockingbird in a cage.”
“Yes.”
“I let it go.”
“Aren’t you kind!” she said scornfully. “Are soldiers all sentimental?”
“I am a good soldier.”
“I believe it. You talk like one. What kind of soldier was my brother?”
“Very good. Gayer than me. I was not gay. It is a lack.”
“But you practice self-criticism and you talk like a book.”
“It would be better if I were gayer,” he said. “I could never learn it.”
“And the gay ones are all dead.”
“No,” he said. “Basilio is gay.”
“Then he’ll die,” she said.
“Maria? Do not talk like that. You talk like a defeatist.”
“You talk like a book,” she told him. “Please do not touch me. You have a dry heart and I hate you.”
Now he was hurt again, he who had thought that his heart was dry, and that nothing could hurt ever again except the pain, and sitting on the bed he leaned forward.
“Pull up my sweater,” he said.
“I don’t want to.”
He pulled up the back and leaned over. “Maria, look there,” he said. “That is not from a book.”
“I cannot see,” she said. “I do not want to see.”
“Put your hand across the lower back.”
He felt her fingers touch that huge sunken place a baseball could have been pushed through, that grotesque scar from the wound the surgeon had pushed his rubber-gloved fist through in cleaning, which had run from one side of the small of his back through to the other. He felt her touch it and he shrank quickly inside. Then she was holding him tight and kissing him, her lips an island in the sudden white sea of pain that came in a shining, unbearable, rising, blinding wave and swept him clean. The lips there, still there; then overwhelmed, and the pain gone as he sat, alone, wet with sweat and Maria crying and saying, “Oh, Enrique. Forgive me. Please forgive me.”
“It is all right,” Enrique said. “There is nothing to forgive. But it was not out of any book.”
“But does it hurt always?”
“Only when I am touched or jarred.”
“And the spinal cord?”
“It was touched a very little. Also the kidneys, but they are all right. The shell fragment went in one side and out the other. There are other wounds lower down and on my legs.”
“Enrique, please forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. But it is not nice that I cannot make love and I am sorry that I am not gay.”
“We can make love after it is well.”
“Yes.”
“And it will be well.”
“Yes.”
“And I will take care of you.”
“No. I will take care of you. I do not mind this thing at all. Only the pain of touching or jarring. It does not bother me. Now we must work. We must leave this place now. Everything that is here must be moved tonight. It must be stored in a new and unsuspected place and in one where it will not deteriorate. It will be a long time before we will need it. There is much to be done before we will ever reach that stage again. Many must be educated. These cartridges may no longer serve by then. This climate ruins the primers. And we must go now. I am a fool to have stayed here this long and the fool who put me here will answer to the committee.”
“I am to take you there tonight. They
thought this house was safe for you to stay today.”
“This house is a folly.”
“We will go now.”
“We should have gone before.”
“Kiss me, Enrique.”
“We’ll do it very carefully,” he said.
Then, in the dark on the bed, holding himself carefully, his eyes closed, their lips against each other, the happiness there with no pain, the being home suddenly there with no pain, the being alive returning and no pain, the comfort of being loved and still no pain; so there was a hollowness of loving, now no longer hollow, and the two sets of lips in the dark, pressing so that they were happily and kindly, darkly and warmly at home and without pain in the darkness, there came the siren cutting, suddenly, to rise like all the pain in the world. It was the real siren, not the one of the radio. It was not one siren. It was two. They were coming both ways up the street.
He turned his head and then stood up. He thought that coming home had not lasted very long.
“Go out the door and across the lot,” he said. “Go. I can shoot from up here and make a diversion.”
“No, you go,” she said. “Please, I will stay here to shoot and they will think you’re inside.”
“Come on” he said. “We’ll both go. There’s nothing to defend here. This stuff is useless. It’s better to get away.”
“I want to stay,” she said. “I want to protect you.”
She reached for the pistol in the holster under his arm and he slapped her face. “Come on. Don’t be a silly girl. Come on!”
They were going down the stairs now and he felt her close beside him. He swung the door open and together they stepped out the door and were clear of the building. He turned and locked the door. “Run, Maria,” he said. “Across the lot in that direction. Go!”
“I want to go with you.”
He slapped her again quickly. “Run. Then dive in the weeds and crawl. Forgive me, Maria. But go. I go the other way. Go,” he said. “Damn you. Go.”
They started into the weeds at the same time. He ran twenty paces and then, as the police cars stopped in front of the house, the sirens dying, he dropped flat and started to crawl.
The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway Page 59