Would it be wrong if I got a man by the throat ...?
Well, a starving man has got the right to save himself, certainly.
The beggar watched with rage, while the other talked on as if he were considering a point of academic interest. In my case, of course, it would hardly be worth the risk. I possess [98] exactly fifteen pesos seventy-five centavos in the world. I haven't eaten myself for forty-eight hours.
Mother of God, the beggar said, you're as hard as a stone. Haven't you a heart?
The man in the drill suit suddenly giggled. The other said: You're lying. Why haven't you eaten-if you've got fifteen pesos?
You see, I want to spend them on drink.
What sort of drink?
The kind of drink a stranger doesn't know how to get in a place like this.
You mean spirits?
Yes-and wine.
The beggar came very close: his leg touched the leg of the other man: he put a hand upon the others sleeve. They might have been great friends or even brothers standing intimately together in the dark: even the lights in the houses were going out now, and the taxis which during the day waited half-way down the hill for fares who never seemed to come were already dispersing-a tail-lamp winked and went out past the police barracks. The beggar said: Man, this is your lucky day. How much would you pay me ...?
For some drink?
For an introduction to someone who could let you have a little brandy-real fine Vera Cruz brandy?
With a throat like mine, the man in drill explained, it's wine I really want.
Pulque or maguey-he's got everything.
Wine?
Quince wine?
I'd give everything I've got, the other swore solemnly and exactly, -except the centavos, that's to say-for some real genuine grape wine. Somewhere down the hill by the river a drum was beating: one, two, one, two: and the sound of marching feet kept a rough time-the soldiers-or the police-were going home to bed.
How much? the beggar repeated impatiently.
Well, I would give you the fifteen pesos and you would get the wine for what you cared to spend.
[99] You come with me.
They began to go down the hilclass="underline" at the corner where one street ran up past the chemist's shop towards the barracks and another ran down to the hotel, the quay, the warehouse of the United Banana Company, the man in drill stopped. The police were marching up, rifles slung at ease. Wait a moment. Among them walked a half-caste with two fang-like teeth jutting out over his lip. The man in drill standing in the shadow watched him go by: once the mestizo turned his head and their eyes met. Then the police went by, up into the plaza. Let's go. Quickly.
The beggar said: They won't interfere with us. They're after bigger game.
What was that man doing with them, do you think?
Who knows? A hostage perhaps.
If he had been a hostage, they would have tied his hands, wouldn't they?
How do I know? He had the grudging independence you find in countries where it is the right of a poor man to beg. He said: Do you want the spirits or don't you?
I want wine.
I can't say he'll have this or that. You must take what comes.
He led the way down towards the river. He said: I don't even know if he's in town. The beetles were flocking out and covering the pavements: they popped under the feet like puffballs, and a sour green smell came up from the river. The white bust of a general glimmered in a tiny public garden, all hot paving and dust, and an electric dynamo throbbed on the ground-floor of the only hotel. Wide wooden stairs crawling with beetles ran up to the first floor. I've done my best, the beggar said; a man can't do more.
On the first floor a man dressed in formal dark trousers and a white skin-tight vest came out of a bedroom with a towel over his shoulder. He had a little grey aristocratic beard and he wore braces as well as a belt. Somewhere in the distance a pipe gurgled, and the beetles detonated against a bare globe. The beggar started talking earnestly, and once as he talked the light went off altogether and then flickered unsatisfactorily on again. The head of the stairs was littered with wicker rocking-chairs, [100] and on a big slate were chalked the names of the guests-three only far twenty rooms.
The beggar turned back to his companion. The gentleman, he said, is not in. The manager says so. Shall we wait for him?
Time to me is of no account.
They went into a big bare bedroom with a tiled floor. The little black iron bedstead was like something somebody has left behind by accident when moving out. They sat down on it side by side and waited, and the beetles came popping in through the gaps in the mosquito wire. He is a very important man, the beggar said. He is the cousin of the Governor-he can get anything for you, anything at all. But, of course, you must be introduced by someone he trusts.
And he trusts you?
I worked for him once. He added frankly: He has to trust me.
Does the Governor know?
Of course not. The Governor is a hard man.
Every now and then the water-pipes swallowed noisily. And why should he trust me?
Oh, anyone can tell a drinker. You'll have to come back for more. It's good stuff he sells. Better give me the fifteen pesos. He counted them carefully twice. He said: I'll get you a bottle of the best Vera Cruz brandy. You see if I don't. The light went off, and they sat on in the dark: the bed creaked as one of them shifted.
I don't want brandy, a voice said. At least not very much.
What do you want then? I told you-wine.
Wine's expensive.
Never mind that. Wine or nothing.
Quince wine?
No, no. French wine.
Sometimes he has California wine.
That would do.
Of course himself-he gets it for nothing. From the customs.
The dynamo began throbbing again below and the light came dimly on. The door opened and the manager beckoned the [101] beggar; a long conversation began. The man in the drill suit leant back on the bed: his chin was cut in several places where he had been shaving too closely: his face was hollow and ill-it gave the impression that he had once been plump and round-faced but had caved in. He had the appearance of a business man who had fallen on hard times.
The beggar came back. He said: The gentleman's busy, but he'll be back soon. The manager sent a boy to look for him.
Where is he?
He can't be interrupted. He's playing billiards with the Chief of Police. He came back to the bed, squashing two beetles under his naked feet. He said: This is a fine hotel. Where do you stay? You're a stranger, aren't you?
Oh, I'm just passing through.
This gentleman is very influential. It would be a good thing to offer him a drink. After all, you won't want to take it all away with you. You may as well drink here as anywhere else.
I should like to keep a little-to take home.
It's all one. I say that home is where there is a chair and a glass.
All the same- Then the light went out again, and on the horizon the lightning bellied out like a curtain. The sound of thunder came through the mosquito-net from very far away like the noise you hear from the other end of a town when the Sunday bull-fight is on.
The beggar said confidentially: What's your trade?
Oh, I pick up what I can-where I can.
They sat in silence together listening to the sound of feet on the wooden stairs. The door opened, but they could see nothing. A voice swore resignedly and asked: Who's there? Then a match was struck and showed a large blue jaw and went out. The dynamo churned away and the light went on again. The stranger said wearily: Oh, it's you.
It's me.
He was a small man with a too large pasty face and he was dressed in a tight grey suit. A revolver bulged under his waistcoat. He said: I've got nothing for you. Nothing.
The beggar padded across the room and began to talk earnestly in a very low voice: once he gently squeezed with his bare toes the other's polished shoe. The man sighed and blew [102] out his cheeks and watched the bed closely as if he feared they had designs on it. He said sharply to the one in the drill suit: So you want some Vera Cruz brandy, do you? It's against the law.