“Esteban-”

“You look for this?” He handed it to me. I opened it and checked its contents. Everything seemed to be there.

“You see,” he said solemnly, “it would be very dangerous for us to be separated. Every day at four o’clock the Guardia Civil comes to check on me. They do not beat me-that was something I made up for you-but they come every day to make sure I am still here. I am subversive.”

“I believe it.”

“But they do not feel that I am dangerous. Do you understand? They only check to see who it is whom I have been seeing and what correspondence I have received and matters of that sort. I always tell them everything. That is the only way to deal with these fascist swine. One must tell them everything, everything. Only then can they be sure that I’m not dangerous.”

If they thought the foul little lunatic was not dangerous, then they did not know him as well as I did.

“So if they come today, I must tell them about you. The names on your three passports, and the papers with the letters and numbers upon them, and-”

“No.”

“But what else can I do, my friend? You see why we must go to France together? If we are separated, the police will know all about you. But if we are together, then you are safe. And under the protective cloak of darkness we will steal across the border into France, and I will become famous. We are like brothers, you and I. Closer than brothers. Like twins who shared the same womb. Do you comprehend?”

I was taller than Esteban, and heavier. I thought of knocking him down and fleeing, but I had done that too often lately. It couldn’t work forever. Sooner or later one would run out of beginner’s luck. And, if there was any truth in that old chestnut about a madman’s possessing superhuman strength, Esteban would be able to wipe the floor with me.

“When will the Guard visit you?”

“In a few hours. So you see that it is good you came to me. In all of Madrid it was to Esteban Robles that you came. Is it not fate?”

In all of Madrid, it was to Esteban Robles that I came. Of all my little band of conspirators, of all my troupe of subversives and schemers and plotters, I had sought out the Judas goat of the secret police. And now I had to take the madman with me to France.

“If you want to go to France, why don’t you just go?”

“I have no money, my brother.”

“If I gave you money-”

“And I am not clever. I am an artist, a grand artist, but I am not clever. Do I know anything about crossing borders? About stealing through the pass under the protective cloak of night? I know nothing. But with you to guide me and to bribe the proper persons-”

“I could give you money.”

“But we need each other, my friend!”

Perhaps, I told myself, he might prove useful. At least he spoke Spanish like a native, a natural enough accomplishment for a Spaniard, but one that might be of use. No, I decided, he would not prove useful. He would be a nuisance and a danger, but I had to take him along. I was stuck with the lunatic.

“We will go?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Now?”

“Now.”

He went to the window. “She is still not in her room. Shall we wait for her? The fat little whore would probably be happy to accompany us to Paris.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“You do not like fat girls? For my part-”

“We go together,” I said. “Just the two of us, Esteban. You and I. No one else.”

His eyes were unutterably sad. “I never have a girl,” he said. “Never, never, never. The one time I found a girl who would go with me, I was fooled. You know how I mean? I thought it was this pretty American girl, but when we got back to my room, it turned out to be a marica from New York. A fairy. It was better than nothing, but when one has one’s heart set on a girl-you are sure you do not want the fat little-”

“There will be girls in Paris, Esteban.”

“Ah! You are my brother. You are more than my brother. You are-”

Words failed him, and I was again suffocated in his embrace.

Chapter 10

Before we went anywhere, I took Esteban to a barber and had him shaved. He fought the idea every step of the way, but I managed to convince him that Frenchmen did not wear beards. Without it he looked less like a fiery anarchist and more like a backward child. I had the barber give him a haircut while he was at it and had my own hair cut so that it looked a little more like the passport photos and a little less like the picture of Evan Tanner that the newspapers had printed. Then, with Esteban in one hand and the attaché case in another, I left Madrid.

We took a train as far as Zaragoza, a bus east to Lérida and another bus north to Sort, a small village a little over twenty miles from the frontier. In Zaragoza I left Esteban for a few moments at a restaurant while I visited a few shops and spent a few pesetas. He was still eating when I returned. He slept on the bus ride. The bus to Sort was not heated, and the last lap of our journey was cold, with the sun down and the wind blowing through the drafty bus. I gave the tall man’s sweater to Esteban, who promptly went back to sleep. I wished that I had kept my Irish jacket or had brought along a flask of brandy.

At Sort I poked Esteban awake and led him off the bus. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke in my face. He had been doing this all the way from Madrid, and it was beginning to annoy me.

“Are we in France?”

“No.”

“Where are we?”

“Some place called Sort.”

“In Spain?”

“Yes.”

“I have never heard of it.”

There were four cafés in the town. We visited each of them and drank brandy. The third of the four turned out to be the worst, so we returned to it. Esteban appeared to be about half-lit. Among his many other talents, he was evidently incapable of holding liquor.

We sat in a dingy back booth. He began talking in a loud voice about the joys of Paris and the need to escape from the reeking stench of fascism. I had two choices-I could try to sober him up or I could get him drunk enough to pass out. I had the waitress bring a full bottle of brandy and I poured one shot after another into Esteban, and ultimately his head rolled and his eyes closed and he sagged in his chair and quietly passed out.

I stood up and walked to the bar. A large man with sad eyes and a drooping moustache stood beside me. “Your friend,” he said, “says things which one should not say in the presence of strangers.”

“My friend is sick,” I said.

“Ah.”

“My friend has a sickness in his mind and must go for treatment. He must go to the hospital.”

“There is no hospital in Sort.”

“We cannot stay in Sort, then, for I must take him to a hospital.”

“There is a hospital in Barcelona. A fine modern hospital, where your friend would be most comfortable.”

“We cannot go to the hospital in Barcelona. There is only one hospital that will care for my friend properly.”

“In Madrid, then?”

“In Paris.”

“In Paris,” he said. I poured us each a brandy. He thanked me and said that I was a gentleman, and I said that it was pleasant to drink in the company of worldly men like himself.

“It is far,” he said slowly, “to Paris.”

“It is.”

“And one must have the right papers to cross the frontier.”

“My friend has no papers.”

“He will have difficulty.”

“It is true,” I said. “He will have great difficulty.”

“It will be impossible for him.”

“For worldly men,” I said carefully, “for worldly men of goodwill, men who understand one another and understand how life is to be lived, I have heard it said that nothing is impossible.”

“There is truth in what you say.”

“It is as I have heard it said by wiser men than I.”

“It is a wise man who listens to and remembers the words of other wise men.”