ERNEST HEMINGWAY - Premium Edition. Ernest Hemingway
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Название: ERNEST HEMINGWAY - Premium Edition
Автор: Ernest Hemingway
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 4064066499457
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“Please,” I said. “I wasn’t drinking it, anyway.”
Mike started to open the bottle. “Would you mind opening it?” I pressed up the wire fastener and poured it for him.
“You know,” Mike went on, “Brett was rather good. She’s always rather good. I gave her a fearful hiding about Jews and bull-fighters, and all those sort of people, and do you know what she said: ‘Yes. I’ve had such a hell of a happy life with the British aristocracy!’ ”
He took a drink.
“That was rather good. Ashley, chap she got the title from, was a sailor, you know. Ninth baronet. When he came home he wouldn’t sleep in a bed. Always made Brett sleep on the floor. Finally, when he got really bad, he used to tell her he’d kill her. Always slept with a loaded service revolver. Brett used to take the shells out when he’d gone to sleep. She hasn’t had an absolutely happy life. Brett. Damned shame, too. She enjoys things so.”
He stood up. His hand was shaky.
“I’m going in the room. Try and get a little sleep.”
He smiled.
“We go too long without sleep in these fiestas. I’m going to start now and get plenty of sleep. Damn bad thing not to get sleep. Makes you frightfully nervy.”
“We’ll see you at noon at the Iruña,” Bill said.
Mike went out the door. We heard him in the next room.
He rang the bell and the chambermaid came and knocked at the door.
“Bring up half a dozen bottles of beer and a bottle of Fundador,” Mike told her.
“Si, Señorito.”
“I’m going to bed,” Bill said. “Poor old Mike. I had a hell of a row about him last night.”
“Where? At that Milano place?”
“Yes. There was a fellow there that had helped pay Brett and Mike out of Cannes, once. He was damned nasty.”
“I know the story.”
“I didn’t. Nobody ought to have a right to say things about Mike.”
“That’s what makes it bad.”
“They oughtn’t to have any right. I wish to hell they didn’t have any right. I’m going to bed.”
“Was anybody killed in the ring?”
“I don’t think so. Just badly hurt.”
“A man was killed outside in the runway.”
“Was there?” said Bill.
CHAPTER 18
At noon we were all at the café. It was crowded. We were eating shrimps and drinking beer. The town was crowded. Every street was full. Big motor-cars from Biarritz and San Sebastian kept driving up and parking around the square. They brought people for the bull-fight. Sight-seeing cars came up, too. There was one with twenty-five Englishwomen in it. They sat in the big, white car and looked through their glasses at the fiesta. The dancers were all quite drunk. It was the last day of the fiesta.
The fiesta was solid and unbroken, but the motor-cars and tourist-cars made little islands of onlookers. When the cars emptied, the onlookers were absorbed into the crowd. You did not see them again except as sport clothes, odd-looking at a table among the closely packed peasants in black smocks. The fiesta absorbed even the Biarritz English so that you did not see them unless you passed close to a table. All the time there was music in the street. The drums kept on pounding and the pipes were going. Inside the cafés men with their hands gripping the table, or on each other’s shoulders, were singing the hard-voiced singing.
“Here comes Brett,” Bill said.
I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in the square, walking, her head up, as though the fiesta were being staged in her honor, and she found it pleasant and amusing.
“Hello, you chaps!” she said. “I say, I have a thirst.”
“Get another big beer,” Bill said to the waiter.
“Shrimps?”
“Is Cohn gone?” Brett asked.
“Yes,” Bill said. “He hired a car.”
The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip.
“Good beer.”
“Very good,” I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control.
“I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake,” Brett said.
“No. Knocked me out. That was all.”
“I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero,” Brett said. “He hurt him most badly.”
“How is he?”
“He’ll be all right. He won’t go out of the room.”
“Does he look badly?”
“Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute.”
“Is he going to fight?”
“Rather. I’m going with you, if you don’t mind.”
“How’s your boy friend?” Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said.
“Brett’s got a bull-fighter,” he said. “She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly.”
Brett stood up.
“I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael.”
“How’s your boy friend?”
“Damned well,” Brett said. “Watch him this afternoon.”
“Brett’s got a bull-fighter,” Mike said. “A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter.”
“Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake.”
“Tell him all about your bull-fighter,” Mike said. “Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!” He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash.
“Come on,” Brett said. “Let’s get out of this.”
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