Mike knew damn well where it came from. It came from the Bible and was in both Ecclesiastes and Luke . But he wasn't about to say so.
He said, instead, "Who in history ever got anywhere who didn't practice moderation? What artist can work if he befuddles himself with too much drink? What scientist can come up with great discoveries, if he is a victim of, say, narcotics? What great statesman can control the destinies of his country if he spends most of his time chasing women? Who could be a great soldier if he was overly fat, from eating too much?"
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"Napoleon," somebody said.
Oh, oh. He flunked that time. How could he cover? It came to him. He shook his head definitely. "When Napoleon first began making his great victories, he was thin. Later, both when he invaded Russian, and at Waterloo, he was so fat that he spent too much time in his bed. After he became obese, the defeats started."
"Alexander the Great was one of the best generals of all time, and a heavy drinker," someone said, argumentively.
"And he drank himself to death in his early thirties," Mike countered.
"Well put," Nick Galushko said.
The Russians, practically all of them in the nightclub, were packed around the table now.
Ana Chekova said, "What else do you teach in this Old Time Religion Church of yours?"
Mike thought quickly. He wanted to put over more of the anti-living-it-up bit He said, "We consider these to be our basic principles:
"Blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs in the kingdom of heaven.
"Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.
"Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall -be fulfilled.
"Blessed are the mercifuclass="underline" for they shall obtain mercy.
"Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God."
" Zut!" Catherina exclaimed. "How beautiful. Who wrote that?"
Mike cleared his throat. "A very good man, a couple of thousand years ago." He realized, somewhat to his astonishment, that he had them all in the palm of his hand.
Pepe, the Le Manana manager, was glaring at him from the bar. All drinking had stopped.
Chapter XI
Mike Edwards walked Catherina Saratov back to the Hotel Triton which was located on the Montemar beach, just beyond Carihuela. It was one of the swankier establishments in Torremolinos. The Russkies invariably took over all the deluxe and first class hotels, leaving what remained for more proletarian nationalities. It wasn't necessarily a matter of any individual Russian tourist being wealthier than, say, a Frenchman or German, it was just that the Soviet Complex government picked up all vacation tabs for all Russians, and rented, in blocks, out from under everybody else. Expense was of no moment.
La Manana was located on the square, the plaza in the center of Torremolinos proper. The resort town had by now spilled out for a mile or so in all directions, but the square and a couple of blocks about it were all that remained of the old fishing village and art colony of Torremolinos.
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Mike could have taken a cab, but he welcomed the opportunity to continue Catherina's company, especially alone. The other Russkies had all preferred transportation.
They walked slowly, out the main highway to Gibraltar, about a hundred miles to the south, and at first had little to say. He wondered if she'd mind if he took her hand, but decided against it So finally she took his.
After a time, when they had arrived at the outskirts of that part of town devoted to shops, restaurants and nightclubs and were beginning to get to the long row of tourist hotels, Catherina said, and there was a frown in her voice, though he couldn't see her face in the dim of the night, "Mike, this Old Time Religion Church to which you belong. Are you quite… well, devout?"
"Oh, yes." What could he say after that lengthy sermon he had just given?
She said, "And you believe all this about moderation in all things?"
"Yes, of course."
"But you drink. And there you were willing to fight in public. And you go to such spectacles as bullfights.
How do you reconcile all this with leading a life of moderation?"
Oh, oh. He was going to have to think fast.
He said, "Well, yes. I can see your point. And I agree with it. For a time I tried to tell myself that it was necessary to do these things for the sake of my job. But now, after considerable meditation, I realize that this is insufficient excuse. So what I've decided to do is go home and take Holy Orders."
"Holy Orders?"
"Yes. I am going to become a minister of the gospel," Mike said piously.
"You are? Oh, how wonderful," Catherina said. "You'll be working then for what you really believe in."
"That's right." In a way he was hating himself for… well, it wasn't quite lying to her, because he actually was going to found the Old Time Religion Church. However, the reason was another thing.
They were approaching her hotel, and lapsed into silence again. He took her arm as they marched across the hotel lobby, and groaned inwardly. The night had been too warm to call for a wrap. The Cretean costume was all Catherina wore. And she wore it proudly, her full breasts on proud display.
Topless bathing suits were prevalent in the States, and he knew that the same applied to the Soviet Complex. In fact, completely nude bathing was far from unknown on the Soviet beaches. But somehow, as he watched from the sides of his eyes, in spite of himself, the mammary glands of the woman he loved, he agonized, shouldn't be on display for others.
The Hotel Triton was not so plebian as to have rooms, but only suites. All faced the sea; all had terraces.
All were lavishly furnished and decorated in the finest of Spanish lack of taste. How they managed it, Mike had never figured out, but Spanish architecture, Spanish decor, contemporary Spanish paintings, were the most sterile in the world. Hell, they were grim.
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Mike had expected to be dismissed at the door, sweetly, kindly, but dismissed. He had not even aspired to a gentle peck of a kiss on his cheek from the woman he yearned for like a goddamned high school teenager after his first piece of ass. How he had ever gotten to this point, he told himself for the tenth time, he'd never know. The potential sex-life of a tourist guide -on the Costa del Sol, in season, would have put a Don Juan or Casanova to shame. Potentially, he had a harem that a Turkish sultan would have envied. Usually, that very fact all but drove him to impotence.
But he wasn't dismissed.
Catherina said, "Won't you come in for a last nightcap? Isn't that what you Yankees call it, a nightcap?"
"Yes," Mike said, thankful for the invitation. It would give him another ten minutes or so with her. And she was due to leave in the morning. But then, duty bound, he said, "I'm not a Yankee, you know."
She was leading him into the living room of her small suite. The faint lines above her eyes, that he loved, the tiny frown, manifested themselves. "No? But I thought you told me you were."
"I'm from New Mexico, in the western part of the United States, and my people before me were from Florida, in the south. Southerners don't like to be called Yankees. Yankees are from New England, in the northeast. It's as though you called a Bulgarian a Russian, simply because he is a citizen of the Soviet Complex."
She shrugged it off. "It's all very uncultured, such things," she said, motioning him toward the couch. "It will be much better when we are all one world-wide Soviet Complex, and there are no such things as nationalities."
He inwardly shuddered at that idea, wanting to be a member of the Soviet Complex like he wanted several more holes in the vicinity of his ears, but held his peace and took his seat.
Catherina smoothed over to the small bar-smoothed could be the only word. She walked like a professional model, or perhaps a ballet dancer. He wondered if she had ever studied ballet, which was quite possible since she came from the Mecca of ballet. His mouth was dry, just looking at her.