Soft laughter. Eyes looking in his direction. The now blazing sun. The flags on the mast of the white ship; crimson and gold of Fernando e Isabel, the triangular pennant of the C.T.E., and the mucking five arrows of the Falange floating insolently in the breeze over the heart of a democracy. Don't leave too soon. Look at your watch again and curse the mucking hombre de negocios who's holding up your big deal. And what was the name of the C.T.E. radio officer from the Ciudad de Sevilla whom poor old Fielding had in his report? Jimenez, Eduardo Jimenez, thank God, my memory for names is like a sponge and what would you say if the ship's officer who got that abrazo de amor from the faggot was C.T.E. Radio Officer Jimenez and damn the sun and damn the olive oil on the hot stove chunks of garlic and squid floating in the hot oil and stinking up the thick murky air and it's cooler with the collar open.
Eyes looking at him from the kitchen. Soft laughter. Some joke. Hall is cockeyed on café con leche and what's that it's the cup you lug and what's that it's the coffee spilling all over your pants and if those empty-faced bastards in the kitchen don't stop laughing I'll get right up from the floor and put a right cross through their lousy guts. That's just the ticket. Clip them with the old right, like the time in San Sebastian when the gonzo with the feather in his hat made the mistake of getting within range. Watch the old right, keed, watch the old K.O. sockeroo. Watch it, watch it, don't forget to duck. WATCH IT!
The driver of the rickety four-wheeled bus was thumping time with fat brown fingers on the rim of the heavy wheel. He didn't sing, just sat in his bucket seat with the faded flowered cretonne slip cover (bet you a good dinner his wife sewed it for him when he got the job) and thumped time. The kid with the guitar in the front seat was doing the singing. "Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco." He was a nice kid and drunk as a loon, but sweet and happy drunk. Nothing ugly about the kid. "Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco."
"Why is he singing?" Hall asked.
Behind him, someone in the rear seat answered, "He's happy. His favorite baseball team won the San Hermano tournament."
Hall turned with a start, faced an impassive-looking farmer in blue jeans.
"You were fast asleep, señor," the farmer said.
"Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco." A bad dream. Go back to sleep. Or better yet, wake up and put the light on. But the light was on. The dim yellow lights inside the bus. "Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco." Scots wha hae wi' Wallace fled. Scots wha ... God, no! A new song. No more Jalisco. The farmer came into the town his cheeses ripe his mangoes brown he spied a maiden by her stall she ... God, no!
"Ay, Muchachita, Muchachita." The kid was still in the groove. Four-string chord, six-string chord. Un beso, un beso! Reflecciones de otros tiempos. More nice chords. The farmer remembers other times, other maidens who pursed their lips and gave him un beso when he begged. What am I to the farmer and what is he to Hecuba?