“Very well. We won’t discuss that.” Then addressing himself to Manuel. “So you don’t want to help the police? You’re right. You may go. I’ll tell El Garro not to bother you.”
An hour later, Manuel and Jesús had left the house for a walk. It was a stifling hot night; they went towards the Ronda.
They chatted. Manuel was filled with a gnawing irritation against the whole world,—a hatred that up to then had lain dormant was now awaking in his soul against society, against mankind....
“Let me tell you,” he concluded, “and I mean it. I wish it would rain dynamite for a whole week and that then the Eternal Father himself would fall from heaven, a heap of ashes.”
In his fury he invoked every destructive power, that this miserable society of ours might be reduced to a mound of smouldering ruins.
Jesús listened attentively to his diatribe.
“You’re an anarchist,” he said.
“I?”
“Yes. I’m one, too.”
“You?”