‘Let’s try it.’
The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty.
‘That’s not such filthy wine,’ Bill said.
‘The cold helps it,’ I said.
We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch.
‘Chicken.’
‘There’s hard-boiled eggs.’
‘Find any salt?’
‘First the egg,’ said Bill. ‘Then the chicken. Even Bryan could see that.’
‘He’s dead. I read it in the paper yesterday.’
‘No. Not really?’
‘Yes. Bryan’s dead.’
Bill laid down the egg he was peeling.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece of newspaper. ‘I reverse the order. For Bryan’s sake. As a tribute to the Great Commoner. First the chicken; then the egg.’
‘Wonder what day God created the chicken?’
‘Oh,’ said Bill, sucking the drumstick, ‘how should we know? We should not question. Our stay on earth is not for long. Let us rejoice and believe and give thanks.’
‘Eat an egg.’
Bill gestured with the drumstick in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other.
‘Let us rejoice in our blessings. Let us utilize the fowls of the air. Let us utilize the product of the vine. Will you utilize a little, brother?’
‘After you, brother.’
Bill took a long drink.
‘Utilize a little, brother,’ he handed me the bottle. ‘Let us not doubt, brother. Let us not pry into the holy mysteries of the hen-coop with simian fingers. Let us accept on faith and simply say—I want you to join with me in saying—What shall we say, brother?’ He pointed the drumstick at me and went on. ‘Let me tell you. We will say, and I for one am proud to say—and I want you to say with me, on your knees, brother. Let no man be ashamed to kneel here in the great out-of-doors. Remember the woods were God’s first temples. Let us kneel and say: “Don’t eat that Lady—that’s Mencken”.’
‘Here,’ I said. ‘Utilize a little of this.’
We uncorked the other bottle.
‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘Didn’t you like Bryan?’
‘I loved Bryan,’ said Bill. ‘We were like brothers.’
‘Where did you know him?’
‘He and Mencken and I all went to Holy Cross together.’
‘And Frankie Frisch.’
‘It’s a lie. Frankie Frisch went to Fordham.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning.’
‘It’s a lie,’ Bill said. ‘I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning myself.’
‘You’re cock-eyed,’ I said.
‘On wine?’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s the humidity,’ Bill said. ‘They ought to take this damn humidity away.’
‘Have another shot.’
‘Is this all we’ve got?’
‘Only the two bottles.’
‘Do you know what you are?’ Bill looked at the bottle affectionately.
‘No,’ I said.
‘You’re in the pay of the Anti-Saloon League.’
‘I went to Notre Dame with Wayne B. Wheeler.’
‘It’s a lie,’ said Bill. ‘I went to Austin Business College with Wayne B. Wheeler. He was class president.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘the saloon must go.’
‘You’re right there, old classmate,’ Bill said. ‘The saloon must go, and I will take it with me.’
‘You’re cock-eyed.’
‘On wine?’
‘On wine.’
‘Well, maybe I am.’
‘Want to take a nap?’
‘All right.’
We lay with our heads in the shade and looked up into the trees.
‘You asleep?’
‘No,’ Bill said. ‘I was thinking.’
I shut my eyes. It felt good lying on the ground.
‘Say,’ Bill said, ‘what about this Brett business?’
‘What about it?’
‘Were you ever in love with her?’
‘Sure.’
‘For how long?’
‘Off and on for a hell of a long time.’
‘Oh, hell!’ Bill said. ‘I’m sorry, fella.’
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I don’t give a damn any more.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Only I’d a hell of a lot rather not talk about it.’
‘You aren’t sore I asked you?’
‘Why the hell should I be?’
‘I’m going to sleep,’ Bill said. He put a newspaper over his face.
‘Listen, Jake,’ he said, ‘are you really a Catholic?’
‘Technically.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘All right, I’ll go to sleep now,’ he said. ‘Don’t keep me awake by talking so much.’
I went to sleep, too. When I woke up Bill was packing the rucksack. It was late in the afternoon and the shadow from the trees was long and went out over the dam. I was stiff from sleeping on the ground.
‘What did you do? Wake up?’ Bill asked. ‘Why didn’t you spend the night?’ I stretched and rubbed my eyes.
‘I had a lovely dream,’ Bill said. ‘I don’t remember what it was about, but it was a lovely dream.’
‘I don’t think I dreamt.’
‘You ought to dream,’ Bill said. ‘All our biggest business men have been dreamers. Look at Ford. Look at President Coolidge. Look at Rockefeller. Look at Jo Davidson.’
I disjointed my rod and Bill’s and packed them in the rod-case. I put the reels in the tackle-bag. Bill had packed the rucksack and we put one of the trout-bags in. I carried the other.
‘Well,’ said Bill, ‘have we got everything?’
‘The worms.’
‘Your worms. Put them in there.’
He had the pack on his back and I put the worm-cans in one of the outside flap pockets.
‘You got everything now?’
I looked around on the grass at the foot of the elm trees.
‘Yes.’
We started up the road into the woods. It was a long walk home to Burguete, and it was dark when we came down across the fields to the road, and along the road between the houses of the town, their windows lighted, to the inn.
We stayed five days at Burguete and had good fishing. The nights were cold and the days were hot, and there was always a breeze even in the heat of the day. It was hot enough so that it felt good to wade in a cold stream, and the sun dried you when you came out and sat on the bank.
We found a stream with a pool deep enough to swim in. In the evenings we played three-handed bridge with an Englishman named Harris, who had walked over from Saint Jean Pied de Port and was stopping at the inn for the fishing. He was very pleasant and went with us twice to the Irati River. There was no word from Robert Cohn nor from Brett and Mike.
CHAPTER XIII
One morning I went down to breakfast and the Englishman, Harris, was already at the table. He was reading the paper through spectacles. He looked up and smiled.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Letter for you. I stopped at the post and they gave it me with mine.’
The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against a coffee-cup. Harris was reading the paper again. I opened the letter. It had been forwarded from Pamplona. It was dated San Sebastian, Sunday:
Dear Jake,
We got here Friday, Brett passed out on the train, so brought her here for 3 days’ rest with old friends of ours. We go to Montoya Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving at I don’t know what hour. Will you send a note by the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you all on Wednesday. All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett was really done in and will be quite all right by Tues. and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but it’s not so easy. Love to all the chaps.
Michael.
‘What day of the week is it?’ I asked Harris.
‘Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in the mountains.’
‘Yes. We’ve been here nearly a week.’
‘I hope you’re not thinking of leaving?’
‘Yes. We’ll go in on the afternoon bus, I’m afraid.’
‘What a rotten business. I had hoped we’d all have another go at the Irati together.’
‘We have to go into Pamplona. We’re meeting people there.’
‘What rotten luck for me. We’ve had a jolly time here at Burguete.’
‘Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there’s going to be a damned fine fiesta.’
‘I’d like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I’d best stop on here, though. I’ve not much more time to fish.’
‘You want those big ones in the Irati.’
‘I say, I do, you know. They’re enormous trout there.’
‘I’d like to try them once more.’
‘Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap.’
‘We really have to get into town,’ I said.
‘What a pity.’
After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt.
‘Por ustedes?’
I looked at it. The address was: ‘Barnes, Burguete.’
‘Yes. It’s for us.’
She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: ‘Vengo jueves Cohn.’
I handed it to Bill.
‘What does the word Cohn mean?’ he asked.
‘What a lousy telegram!’ I said. ‘He could send ten words for the same price. “I come Thursday”. That gives you a lot of dope, doesn’t it?’
‘It gives you all the dope that’s of interest to Cohn.’
‘We’re going in, anyway,’ I said. ‘There’s no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?’
‘We might as well,’ said Bill. ‘There’s no need for us to be snooty.’
We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.
‘What will we say?’ Bill asked.
‘ “Arriving to-night.” That’s enough.’
We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncevalles. We went through the monastery.
‘It’s a remarkable place,’ Harris said, when we came out. ‘But you know I’m not much on those sort of places.’
‘Me either,’ Bill said.
‘It’s a remarkable place, though,’ Harris said. ‘I wouldn’t not have seen it. I’d been intending coming up each day.’
‘It isn’t the same as fishing, though, is it?’ Bill
