ERNEST HEMINGWAY - Premium Edition. Ernest Hemingway

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СКАЧАТЬ as Cohn,” I said.

      “Darling, don’t let’s talk a lot of rot.”

      “All right. Talk about anything you like.”

      “Don’t be difficult. You’re the only person I’ve got, and I feel rather awful to-night.”

      “You’ve got Mike.”

      “Yes, Mike. Hasn’t he been pretty?”

      “Well,” I said, “it’s been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you.”

      “Don’t I know it, darling? Please don’t make me feel any worse than I do.”

      Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall.

      “Want to go for a walk?”

      “Yes. Come on.”

      I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender.

      “Let’s have one more drink of that,” Brett said. “My nerves are rotten.”

      We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy.

      “Come on,” said Brett.

      As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade.

      “He was there,” Brett said.

      “He can’t be away from you.”

      “Poor devil!”

      “I’m not sorry for him. I hate him, myself.”

      “I hate him, too,” she shivered. “I hate his damned suffering.”

      We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music.

      “Want to go in?”

      “No.”

      We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon.

      “Don’t feel bad,” I said.

      “I feel like hell,” Brett said. “Don’t let’s talk.”

      We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered.

      “It’s cold.”

      “Want to walk back?”

      “Through the park.”

      We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees.

      “Do you still love me, Jake?”

      “Yes,” I said.

      “Because I’m a goner,” Brett said.

      “How?”

      “I’m a goner. I’m mad about the Romero boy. I’m in love with him, I think.”

      “I wouldn’t be if I were you.”

      “I can’t help it. I’m a goner. It’s tearing me all up inside.”

      “Don’t do it.”

      “I can’t help it. I’ve never been able to help anything.”

      “You ought to stop it.”

      “How can I stop it? I can’t stop things. Feel that?”

      Her hand was trembling.

      “I’m like that all through.”

      “You oughtn’t to do it.”

      “I can’t help it. I’m a goner now, anyway. Don’t you see the difference?”

      “No.”

      “I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to do something I really want to do. I’ve lost my self-respect.”

      “You don’t have to do that.”

      “Oh, darling, don’t be difficult. What do you think it’s meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he’s acted?”

      “Sure.”

      “I can’t just stay tight all the time.”

      “No.”

      “Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this.”

      “Sure.”

      “I don’t say it’s right. It is right though for me. God knows, I’ve never felt such a bitch.”

      “What do you want me to do?”

      “Come on,” Brett said. “Let’s go and find him.”

      Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the street that led into town.

      Pedro Romero was in the café. He was at a table with other bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room.

      “Ask him to come over and have a drink.”

      “Not yet. He’ll come over.”

      “I can’t look at him.”

      “He’s nice to look at,” I said.

      “I’ve always done just what I wanted.”

      “I know.”

      “I do feel such a bitch.”

      “Well,” I said.

      “My God!” said Brett, “the things a woman goes through.”

      “Yes?”

      “Oh, I do feel such a bitch.”

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