Savage Coast (23 page)

“Look!” said the sickly bitch. “She's spanking the kid!”

He stood wailing, his fists up to his eyes, and the woman marched up the street to the leader, who was watching before the heap. She shook the towels under his face, scolding, blaming, pointing at the
child, and finally slapped them down into his hand. He nodded. He gave the three towels to one of the other children to put back, and the woman marched back to take away her child.

“There's your looting,” said Peter. “There's your Spanish violence! I hope Drew saw that—I hope the whole goddamn train saw that.” He put his head far out the window. “Couple of people next to the station house, still talking to the stationmaster,” he observed. “They're watching . . . and the Englishwoman with the deaf husband, about to break into tears.”

One of the Spaniards reached their door. “Horrified?” he inquired. He smiled showing his mottled teeth, and sat down. “The train is prostrated: Señora Drew with the wounded knee, and the Peapack, and the three questionable Frenchmen, whom I believe to be spies . . .” he looked around.

“We've just seen some looting,” said Helen. “Little boy with towels. His mother was magnificent.” The bitches left.

“Oh, the peasants,” answered the Spaniard. “All honest, all courageous, here. I hope the gentlemen from Hollywood report
this
incident accurately. Where will you go from Barcelona?”

Outside, the group had moved on to the next house, and were repeating the process, mechanically, in a business-like way. Helen looked out. The doors were standing back, rich furnishings, tapestries, heavy tables could be seen. Nothing was brought out but the images, the paintings, the heavy crucifixes.

“Well,” began Peter, “we thought Mallorca now, and we want Helen to come with us.” She said nothing; knowing it was impossible. Where was Hans?

“That's fine,” said the Spaniard, “you can get a boat from Barcelona. Every day. Or a plane—it's wonderful to land on an island by plane, and it costs less than—oh, but planes, I don't think that's practicable now.” He smiled.

“If the boats run every day—” suggested Olive.

“And when you get there, don't let them steer you to Chopin's
Villa just because you're American,” he went on. “Take a trolley all about the town, an open one, with a little awning. You can see the whole town best that way, and it goes high up over Palma, up the mountain—take the trolley.” He was talking too rapidly, nervously; he looked out the window continually. He was very nervous. They were breaking into the fourth house.

Somebody cried out up the train. Coffee-and-Tea could be heard, reassuring his girl from the chorus. The Englishwoman's head appeared below the window; her mouth hung open lengthening her face, she was staring at the pile. The tallest boy took out matches and struck fire to it. The unframed drawing caught and began to blacken.

The Spaniard looked out, and bit his mustache. “You'll love Mallorca,” he said, with a still smile, “
Mucha ilusión
. . .” He trailed off.

“Glamour,” supplied Olive.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I'll be back. I have a circular of the Balearics . . .”

The boys went down the row of houses, closing the doors firmly and quietly. A maid came to the garden wall of the corner house, watching the burning pile. All the doors were closed tight, softly.

“I like that,” Helen said. “They're closing the doors so gently. They've taken the proper things. There's nothing worth saving in that heap. And, God, that gun will be good to have! None of their guns match.”

“Nice shutting of doors,” said Olive heavily. “Do you feel tired?”

They were suffering the lapse. They felt the fear, and the sense of time after fear.

Peter looked at his watch. And up at Helen. “It's like the poem— the Gregory poem you said. What was it?

       
Come, come, Minerva, close the door softly as I no longer wait,

       
Felling the earth downplunging in darkness, sink in deeper earth,

       
I say quietly: ‘It is very late;

       
It is later than you think.
'
⁸⁹

“I'm glad now I belong to the party. Much later.”

“When I saw them shut the door, I wanted to join,” said Helen. She laughed. “Do you carry application cards?”

“No,” Peter answered. He rubbed the watch-stem, winding it. “See you in New York.”

An old woman came up to the burning pile, and looked at the white clear flames in the light. She stared at the heap of paintings, and made a face as the wind stirred, blowing the smell her way. As she turned, her turning foot kicked at something, and she bent. The old woman straightened, holding the little plaster saint
⁹⁰
in the blue robe, she smashed it down on the hot ground saying a word. But only the face broke; the body would not break. She bent down painfully, and picked it up again, looking at it long, with a look almost of superstition, it seemed, a curious blank stare, holding it up in her hand oddly, as if she felt strongly about it in love or hatred or curiosity. She might be about to take it, or lay it gently down. But it was not love, or curious superstitious hate. She examined the statue closely and finally; and at last, with a substantial, businesslike gesture, her hand closed tight on it, that had held loosely, like the iron hand on the knockers. It hardened, it might have been a fist raised to smash in a door, and brought the statue down, smashing it on the stone. The old woman turned on her heel and walked down the station platform, past the Englishwoman, exhausted with horrors.

Peter and Olive got up and left.

Down the corridor Helen could hear the voices of two chorus-girls and Coffee-and-Tea, calling for a fourth for bridge. And beyond them, the complaining, rising screams of the Belgian woman and Mrs. Drew, and the Polish of Mme. Porcelan, trying to quiet this hysteria.

                 
Official Welcome to Assembled Sportsmen
Boxing
Wrestling
Gymnastics
Addresses
Theatrical Performances

—Program, People's Olympiad

H
elen stayed in the train after the others had gone. She did not believe any of the talk about Mallorca, and the trolley-line that would take one all through Palma. It was grotesque to plan; there was no Mallorca.

She saw from the window the row of houses and the heavy carved doors softly shut; the palm swung in the private garden; there was a breeze now; it turned up the edge of one of the burnt
óleos
, shoved it a step or two along the dirt, and swung it around, facing the train. It was the gaudy drawing of the Ascension. The Englishwoman was hammered into the ground—she still stood there, her two long feet pointing at it, her long upper teeth hanging bare. One of the Spaniards, talking to the stationmaster, looked at her as her limp hand rose. She made a little catching motion when the wind swung the picture away from her, and then blew her nose and walked away. The Spaniard said something very funny to the stationmaster.

Helen picked up the old
Gringoire
again, and turned to the story about Nijinsky. His pictures goggled at her from the page—one
worse than the other, a Hollywood version of a wealthy jeweler aging fast. She turned down the paper and got up. The train was assured, the town was real; that was all. She might never have lived a day before, she thought; and immediately realized how insane she was being. Everything contributed to this—if this was real, it was because it was nearer the sum of everything that had happened before it than anything had ever been.

Hans knew that, perfectly; he was complete, he moved surely, he was the only person here who was not swamped by strangeness. He knew, she was sure, that they were not engulfed, even though for the moment they might believe they were, but that nothing foreign had swallowed them; this was the logical stream.

She wanted to find Hans.

THE MOMENT SHE
stepped down to the platform, she was part of a new crowd that had formed around the professor and the French delegate.

“No,” the professor said, definitively. He had never spoken so sharply before. “The mayor is doing all he can. He can't get us in, and there's no word from the Hungarians. A man came out this morning saying they hadn't reached Barcelona.”

“Hadn't reached!” said Drew indignantly. His hair fell loosely; his sweater was not tucked into his trousers; his morale had collapsed.

“But nothing is certain,” went on the professor, unperturbed. “A truck has been asked for to take the Swiss team in, as vehicle, messenger, sacrifice—what you will—and we hope to have a report after that.”

“And in the meantime? What about us?” The Englishman with the tall wife came stamping up. “We
must
stand together,” he declared, speaking to the crowd, but facing Drew. “We
must
look out for ourselves, since obviously no one else has the wish or the power. And poor Drew's wife, with the hurt knee,” he continued.
“And no communications—yes, I left my cable form on the table in there with the rest to be sent,” he said, full of mockery, “when things begin to move again.”

“How can we stand here?” The Englishwoman finally burst out. “How can we see this vandalism and call ourselves civilized? The churches—the houses—the holy images—”

“Someone must get through to Barcelona.”

“I'll go,” said Drew. One of the Germans patted his shoulder.

“I suppose you'll rent a bicycle,” Peter put in savagely.

“I'll walk,” Drew answered, carried away. The thing burst over them. They were all volunteering, they would all walk.

“Ah, but gently,
messieurs
,” the French delegate said. His bright blue eyes snapped light, and went sad. They drowned him out.

“We'll set you a committee,” said Drew, officially. “We'll set up an international committee.”

“Splendid!” applauded the Englishman with the tall wife.

“Someone from each country represented here will walk to Barcelona. There will be enough of us to ensure complete protection. Perhaps the mayor will even give us flags—certainly we will be given identification. We'll be there in no time, and in touch with the proper authorities.” He enlarged on the idea.

“With whom?” asked Helen.

“I don't know—somebody will be there to help us—Cook's, or the consul—”

“You're mad!” Olive shouted, from the edge of the crowd. The Belgian woman turned and faced her, shrieking, pulled about as though by rage.

“He's right. Somebody has to be there! Somebody! Some ambassador or consul!”

“We'll walk,” the man with the tall wife dictated firmly, his lips pressing together, his shoulders squared, triumphant that at last somebody (and that somebody, he) could promise action, to save them all in one brilliant exertion.

“Let's go find lunch,” Olive was saying, tugging at Peter. “Helen, let's get out of this.”

The crowd around the professor was growing noisier, offering advice, talking faster. A few more compartments emptied, and the ether-buzz of voices, the shiny hysterical eyes, pressed closer.

“Come out of this, fast,” said Olive. The last words hissed as she caught her breath. “You don't have to join any walking trips. Let the English commit suicide.” She was pulling Helen and Peter as she spoke, edging between the people on the margin of the crowd. She hurried them across the little station's square into the hot still street. On the wall, the palm branch shriveled, smooth and vanilla-colored against the rough stucco. The voices could be heard halfway down the street.

“Oh, God,” Olive was going on, “it cracked up, it cracked up. Helen, did you see the Belgian woman? Everybody went crazy all at once.”

The café was perfectly empty. A little child standing behind the chain curtain looked at the orangeade container, and shifted from one foot to the other. The manager polished glasses, looking at them critically against the streaky light.

“You're not walking in, Peter, are you? You're not walking anywhere. How do they know how the roads are?”

“They don't,” said Helen. “They're no good to anybody now. There's no sense sticking to the train any more. They might as well be fighting us . . .”

Two girls called over—did they intend to walk to Barcelona? Olive gave them some powdered chocolate to drink in their milk. The tragic sense persisted. The train had cracked, nobody could be trusted on it, the town was engrossed in war, the roads impassable.

From the high shadow over the doorway, the radio repeated its announcement.

“
Aquí emisora EAJ-15 de la Radio Catalana. Barcelona
!”

The click and fizzle followed, and the distant victrola bellowed jazz:

       
You, you're driving me cra-zy

       
What did I do?

       
What did I do?

                                 
and it was five maybe six years ago

                                 
to the three of them in a speak

                                 
a dancehall a moviehouse a street

                                 
in a college town in the cold flawed

                                 
December which followed the crash

                                 
and Manhattans and the soaked