The sound was coming down the street. The little group reached the first of the houses. Its ornate door met them; it looked as if it would withstand centuries.
They reached the door and pounded on it, with their hands and with gun-butts when it scarcely shook. The leader called down the street, and two more boys with guns came running up, and the three rammed at the lock. It broke at last; they pushed the door in. Olive held up the window shade, her mouth open in anger.
“I don’t like that!” There were steps in the corridor. Peapack was running down the corridor, and Coffee-and-Tea, and the bitches. They stopped at the door.
“Opening houses!” Coffee-and-Tea said. “We’re all getting our baggage ready. Pile up the suitcases, there’s no way of telling where they’ll stop. We’ve got to get into the baggage-car!” He ran past with Peapack. The bitches came into the compartment.
“What do you suppose that means?” the tall one asked.
The others were looking out the window. Two of the unarmed boys were coming out of the house, their arms piled high with sheets of papers and boards. As they spilled the sheets at the feet of the leader, it was easy to see from the train what they carried. Paintings, engravings, drawings; they held the largest framed painting up for the leader to see. It was a daub of the Last Supper. He nodded, and then one of them put his foot through the canvas, up-ended the square, and began very methodically to break the frame. Another boy came out of the house, carrying four crucifixes in his hands. He threw them on top of the pile. One of the drawings spun around as he kicked the heap together, and Helen could see that it was an Ascension.
“Religious subjects!” she exclaimed. They were all shocked; the forcing of the door destroyed something for them.
The group passed on to the next house. The door was barred with wrought iron, and would not splinter. They drew away from it, into deliberation on the street. The little children were looking at the pictures on the pile, holding up the gaudiest, showing each other the halos.
“I don’t like it about the children,” said Olive. Peter turned away from the window to look at her eagerly. His face softened. “I think this will be all right,” he said to her.
A boy was being sent over the garden wall, boosted up by two others. He disappeared around the side of the house, and a moment later the fracture of glass could be heard, and the dashing of fragments. The door shook, and the boy unbolted it to let the others through. Small children crowded at the door; and, in through shadows, the somber, carved hallway could be seen by the passengers, over the heads.
The lady from South America was coming through the car, calling for the professor.
But the boy appeared at the door, carrying more paintings, crucifixes, iron candelabras, plaster statues. He threw them down on the spreading heap. A plaster saint rolled down from the top, turning eccentrically, its blue plaster robe collecting dust. It rolled away from the pile.
The leader had a long cloth case in his hand, and pushed it back, taking out the shiny, expensive-looking gun. All the others crowded about.
“They can use that,” Peter said.
The leader handed it to one of the younger men. As they stood close to him, one of the little children, a tiny dark boy, ran into the house. The boys were pointing the gun into the crowd, finger on the trigger.
“Oh, God!” Olive said, with a twinge of panic on her face, and drew her shoulders together, head down. The leader knocked a hand off the trigger, knocked the barrel up until the gun pointed at the ceiling of the hallway. The boy pulled, and the little click of the unloaded gun surprised them all.
The minute the boy had his orders, he ran down the street, carrying the gun in its case very carefully.
At that moment the little child dodged out of the doorway, and started running the other way with his baby’s short run. He had something under his arm. He put his black head down, running hard, and charged directly into the skirts of a woman standing in the roadway. He was lofted a few steps back, and looked up, recognizing his mother. The woman pulled the bundle from his arm, separated the three white towels, and caught the boy’s shoulder.
“Look!” said the sickly bitch. “She’s spanking the kid!”
He stood wailing, his fists up to his eyes, and the woman marched up the street to the leader, who was watching before the heap. She shook the towels under his face, scolding, blaming, pointing at the child, and finally slapped them down into his hand. He nodded. He gave the three towels to one of the other children to put back, and the woman marched back to take away her child.
“There’s your looting,” said Peter. “There’s your Spanish violence! I hope Drew saw that—I hope the whole goddamn train saw that.” He put his head far out the window. “Couple of people next to the station house, still talking to the stationmaster,” he observed. “They’re watching . . . and the Englishwoman with the deaf husband, about to break into tears.”
One of the Spaniards reached their door. “Horrified?” he inquired. He smiled showing his mottled teeth, and sat down. “The train is prostrated: Señora Drew with the wounded knee, and the Peapack, and the three questionable Frenchmen, whom I believe to be spies . . .” he looked around.
“We’ve just seen some looting,” said Helen. “Little boy with towels. His mother was magnificent.” The bitches left.
“Oh, the peasants,” answered the Spaniard. “All honest, all courageous, here. I hope the gentlemen from Hollywood report this incident accurately. Where will you go from Barcelona?”
Outside, the group had moved on to the next house, and were repeating the process, mechanically, in a business-like way. Helen looked out. The doors were standing back, rich furnishings, tapestries, heavy tables could be seen. Nothing was brought out but the images, the paintings, the heavy crucifixes.
“Well,” began Peter, “we thought Mallorca now, and we want Helen to come with us.” She said nothing; knowing it was impossible. Where was Hans?
“That’s fine,” said the Spaniard, “you can get a boat from Barcelona. Every day. Or a plane—it’s wonderful to land on an island by plane, and it costs less than—oh, but planes, I don’t think that’s practicable now.” He smiled.
“If the boats run every day—” suggested Olive.
“And when you get there, don’t let them steer you to Chopin’s Villa just because you’re American,” he went on. “Take a trolley all about the town, an open one, with a little awning. You can see the whole town best that way, and it goes high up over Palma, up the mountain—take the trolley.” He was talking too rapidly, nervously; he looked out the window continually. He was very nervous. They were breaking into the fourth house.
Somebody cried out up the train. Coffee-and-Tea could be heard, reassuring his girl from the chorus. The Englishwoman’s head appeared below the window; her mouth hung open lengthening her face, she was staring at the pile. The tallest boy took out matches and struck fire to it. The unframed drawing caught and began to blacken.
The Spaniard looked out, and bit his mustache. “You’ll love Mallorca,” he said, with a still smile, “Mucha ilusión . . .” He trailed off.
“Glamour,” supplied Olive.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’ll be back. I have a circular of the Balearics . . .”
The boys went down the row of houses, closing the doors firmly and quietly. A maid came to the garden wall of the corner house, watching the burning pile. All the doors were closed tight, softly.
“I like that,” Helen said. “They’re closing the doors so gently. They’ve taken the proper things. There’s nothing worth saving in that heap. And, God, that gun will be good to have! None of their guns match.”
“Nice shutting of doors,” said Olive heavily. “Do you feel tired?”
They were suffering the lapse. They felt the fear, and the sense of time after fear.
Peter looked at his watch. And up at Helen. “It’s like the poem— the Gregory poem you said. What was it?
Come, come, Minerva, clos
e the door softly as I no longer wait,
Felling the earth downplunging in darkness, sink in deeper earth,
I say quietly: ‘It is very late;
It is later than you think.’89
“I’m glad now I belong to the party. Much later.”
“When I saw them shut the door, I wanted to join,” said Helen. She laughed. “Do you carry application cards?”
“No,” Peter answered. He rubbed the watch-stem, winding it. “See you in New York.”
An old woman came up to the burning pile, and looked at the white clear flames in the light. She stared at the heap of paintings, and made a face as the wind stirred, blowing the smell her way. As she turned, her turning foot kicked at something, and she bent. The old woman straightened, holding the little plaster saint90 in the blue robe, she smashed it down on the hot ground saying a word. But only the face broke; the body would not break. She bent down painfully, and picked it up again, looking at it long, with a look almost of superstition, it seemed, a curious blank stare, holding it up in her hand oddly, as if she felt strongly about it in love or hatred or curiosity. She might be about to take it, or lay it gently down. But it was not love, or curious superstitious hate. She examined the statue closely and finally; and at last, with a substantial, businesslike gesture, her hand closed tight on it, that had held loosely, like the iron hand on the knockers. It hardened, it might have been a fist raised to smash in a door, and brought the statue down, smashing it on the stone. The old woman turned on her heel and walked down the station platform, past the Englishwoman, exhausted with horrors.
Peter and Olive got up and left.
Down the corridor Helen could hear the voices of two chorus-girls and Coffee-and-Tea, calling for a fourth for bridge. And beyond them, the complaining, rising screams of the Belgian woman and Mrs. Drew, and the Polish of Mme. Porcelan, trying to quiet this hysteria.
CHAPTER NINE
Official Welcome to Assembled Sportsmen
Boxing
Wrestling
Gymnastics
Addresses
Theatrical Performances
—Program, People’s Olympiad
Helen stayed in the train after the others had gone. She did not believe any of the talk about Mallorca, and the trolley-line that would take one all through Palma. It was grotesque to plan; there was no Mallorca.
She saw from the window the row of houses and the heavy carved doors softly shut; the palm swung in the private garden; there was a breeze now; it turned up the edge of one of the burnt óleos, shoved it a step or two along the dirt, and swung it around, facing the train. It was the gaudy drawing of the Ascension. The Englishwoman was hammered into the ground—she still stood there, her two long feet pointing at it, her long upper teeth hanging bare. One of the Spaniards, talking to the stationmaster, looked at her as her limp hand rose. She made a little catching motion when the wind swung the picture away from her, and then blew her nose and walked away. The Spaniard said something very funny to the stationmaster.
Helen picked up the old Gringoire again, and turned to the story about Nijinsky. His pictures goggled at her from the page—one worse than the other, a Hollywood version of a wealthy jeweler aging fast. She turned down the paper and got up. The train was assured, the town was real; that was all. She might never have lived a day before, she thought; and immediately realized how insane she was being. Everything contributed to this—if this was real, it was because it was nearer the sum of everything that had happened before it than anything had ever been.
Hans knew that, perfectly; he was complete, he moved surely, he was the only person here who was not swamped by strangeness. He knew, she was sure, that they were not engulfed, even though for the moment they might believe they were, but that nothing foreign had swallowed them; this was the logical stream.
She wanted to find Hans.
THE MOMENT SHE stepped down to the platform, she was part of a new crowd that had formed around the professor and the French delegate.
“No,” the professor said, definitively. He had never spoken so sharply before. “The mayor is doing all he can. He can’t get us in, and there’s no word from the Hungarians. A man came out this morning saying they hadn’t reached Barcelona.”
“Hadn’t reached!” said Drew indignantly. His hair fell loosely; his sweater was not tucked into his trousers; his morale had collapsed.
“But nothing is certain,” went on the professor, unperturbed. “A truck has been asked for to take the Swiss team in, as vehicle, messenger, sacrifice—what you will—and we hope to have a report after that.”
“And in the meantime? What about us?” The Englishman with the tall wife came stamping up. “We must stand together,” he declared, speaking to the crowd, but facing Drew. “We must look out for ourselves, since obviously no one else has the wish or the power. And poor Drew’s wife, with the hurt knee,” he continued. “And no communications—yes, I left my cable form on the table in there with the rest to be sent,” he said, full of mockery, “when things begin to move again.”
“How can we stand here?” The Englishwoman finally burst out. “How can we see this vandalism and call ourselves civilized? The churches—the houses—the holy images—”
“Someone must get through to Barcelona.”
“I’ll go,” said Drew. One of the Germans patted his shoulder.
“I suppose you’ll rent a bicycle,” Peter put in savagely.
“I’ll walk,” Drew answered, carried away. The thing burst over them. They were all volunteering, they would all walk.
“Ah, but gently, messieurs,” the French delegate said. His bright blue eyes snapped light, and went sad. They drowned him out.
“We’ll set you a committee,” said Drew, officially. “We’ll set up an international committee.”
“Splendid!” applauded the Englishman with the tall wife.
“Someone from each country represented here will walk to Barcelona. There will be enough of us to ensure complete protection. Perhaps the mayor will even give us flags—certainly we will be given identification. We’ll be there in no time, and in touch with the proper authorities.” He enlarged on the idea.
“With whom?” asked Helen.
“I don’t know—somebody will be there to help us—Cook’s, or the consul—”
“You’re mad!” Olive shouted, from the edge of the crowd. The Belgian woman turned and faced her, shrieking, pulled about as though by rage.
“He’s right. Somebody has to be there! Somebody! Some ambassador or consul!”
“We’ll walk,” the man with the tall wife dictated firmly, his lips pressing together, his shoulders squared, triumphant that at last somebody (and that somebody, he) could promise action, to save them all in one brilliant exertion.
“Let’s go find lunch,” Olive was saying, tugging at Peter. “Helen, let’s get out of this.”
The crowd around the professor was growing noisier, offering advice, talking faster. A few more compartments emptied, and the ether-buzz of voices, the shiny hysterical eyes, pressed closer.
“Come out of this, fast,” said Olive. The last words hissed as she caught her breath. “You don’t have to join any walking trips. Let the English commit suicide.” She was pulling Helen and Peter as she spoke, edging between the people on the margin of the crowd. She hurried them across the little station’s square into the hot still street. On the wall, the palm branch shriveled, smooth and vanilla-colored against the rough stucco. The voices could be heard halfway down the street.
“Oh, God,” Olive was going on, “it cracked up, it cracked up. Helen, did you see the Belgian woman? Everybody went crazy all at once.”
The café was perfectly empty. A little child standing behind the chain curtain looked at the orangeade container, and shifted from one foot to the other. The manager polished glasses, looking at them critically against the streaky light.
“You’re not walking in, Peter, are you? You’re not walking anywhere. H
ow do they know how the roads are?”
“They don’t,” said Helen. “They’re no good to anybody now. There’s no sense sticking to the train any more. They might as well be fighting us . . .”
Two girls called over—did they intend to walk to Barcelona? Olive gave them some powdered chocolate to drink in their milk. The tragic sense persisted. The train had cracked, nobody could be trusted on it, the town was engrossed in war, the roads impassable.
From the high shadow over the doorway, the radio repeated its announcement.
“Aquí emisora EAJ-15 de la Radio Catalana. Barcelona!”
The click and fizzle followed, and the distant victrola bellowed jazz:
You, you’re driving me cra-zy
What did I do?
What did I do?
and it was five maybe six years ago
to the three of them in a speak
a dancehall a moviehouse a street
in a college town in the cold flawed
December which followed the crash
and Manhattans and the soaked
cherries the icy olives the inevitable
kiss came back riding on a hot
gust through the air and the flies
circulated over the lemonade
my tears for you, make everything ha-zy
where are those skies
of
blue
and the sharp faces the raccoon
coats, the lion lip of the dark girl
the one who died the pale square
beautiful face of the blonde most
persistent most invading the
dim-toned bricks of a college tower
ivy and furs and a dash more gin
please because the bankrupt sky
One of the girls sitting at the door shrieked like a locomotive, and rushed into the street, leaving a puddle of chocolate milk. Olive was up and at the entrance.
“It’s moving! It’s gone! Look!” the French girl yelled, “There’s nothing in the station!”
The two girls ran down, stood under the tacked-up palm branch, staring. Peter and Helen had jerked up from their chairs. She sat down again, very dizzy.
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