"How long will I be on my back?" Hall asked. "Did the doctor say?"
"Not long. You have recovered from the drug, he says. Now you need food and another day's rest."
The doctor returned followed by a soldier who carried a small tray. "Hot soup," he said. "And after the soup, some rich beef stew. But first, some brandy. Three glasses, corporal. We'll drink to the memory of Lazarus." He helped Hall sit up in bed, propped some pillows behind his back. Only when he sat up did Hall notice that a large signed photograph of Anibal Tabio hung over the commandant's desk.
"Let's rather drink to the health of Anibal Tabio," Hall proposed.
Souza and the doctor watched with approval as Hall ate the soup and the stew, and then sipped maté through a silver straw. "He's going to be well in a matter of hours," the doctor said. "Well enough to start cursing again. It is a shame that I do not know English. But your Spanish curses were enough for me."
"What was I cursing?" Hall asked.
"What didn't you curse, señor? Franco, putas, maricones, Hitler, Gamburdo, the Cross and Sword ..."
"God! Who heard me?"
The doctor smiled. "Be tranquil," he said. "Just the commandant and myself, and one of the soldiers. But you don't have to worry about the soldier. He is the son of a miner in the north."
"The soldier," Souza said, "is reliable. I have already seen him."