"For a borracho he sings well."
"Yes, with a skinful he is a virtuoso." The sound of his own words startled Hall. He turned around to the man who had spoken to him. The farmer smiled.
"Pardon me, señor," the farmer smiled, "but tonight you are a little of the virtuoso yourself, no?"
"No." God, no!
"I apologize, señor. You are not well?"
"No. I am well." But where in hell am I? Ay, muchachita, muchachita. Cigars in the coat pocket. Broken, all of them. Smashed to shreds. I fell on them. When I fell they were smashed. Cigarettes in the side pocket. Black tobacco, thicker than the cigarettes back home, brown-paper package. Bock, La Habana.
"Have you a match?" That's a good one. Felipe's been waiting three years for J. Burton Skidmore to say it. "Tiene usted un fó'foro?" Very welcome. Yes, they are Cuban. No, I am not Cuban myself. I dropped the s in fósforo? I have recently spent some time in Cuba. Yes, Batista is a fine man. Where are you going? Is this your village?
"Good-bye, friend." This from outside, the farmer standing on the dirt road, Hall's gift cigarette glowing in his mouth. A tiny village. Houses, store, the whitewashed village school, a cast-iron statue of San Martin and Bolivar shaking hands, an open-front café, the small church.
"Hello, friend." The kid with the guitar waved at Hall. "When did you get on the bus?"
"I don't remember," Hall said.