"Where are those beaten-silver things you told me about?" she asked.
"Later," he said. "There's plenty of time for that."
"Where do we go now?" Jerry asked. "My feet are killing me."
"From now on we ride." He found a taxi parked near the Cathedral, and they rode to the funicular railway terminal at the base of Monte Azul. He told her how the railway was built by Segura, as they rode. "But it was when the Tabio junta threw the Seguristas out that the damned cable cars meant anything to the people of the country themselves. You see, Jerry, Segura gave the concession on top of the mountain to one of his thugs. The new regime opened it up to the little guys. And wait till you see what they did to the grounds."
They shared the cable car with an old water colorist, and two other young couples. "My God," Jerry exclaimed, when she saw the route the cars followed, "it's like climbing hand over hand up a sheer cliff!"
"Don't worry. It's perfectly safe. In a way, though, I'm sorry this is such a clear day. On a cloudy day, the tracks just vanish into the soup up there, and you feel that you are being towed into the clouds."
The cars climbed for five miles, creaking, whining, grunting, but steadily pushing on toward the peak. From the opened windows, Jerry could see the Moorish villas at the base of the mountain, then their red-tiled roofs, then the miles of scraggly wild orange trees. The sweet, heavy odors of their blossoms filled the car.
"Oh, look," she said, "the town is getting smaller. And the sea is growing bluer."
"Wait until we get off," he smiled. "Then you'll really see something."
The old artist took out a sketch pad, studied Jerry's excited face, and made some quick strokes with a charcoal stick. Hall winked at the old man. "Hola, viejo. Qué pasa?"