The Passenger (The Passenger, #1)(115)

Did he ever show them to you?

No.

He was too modest.

I think he was ashamed.

Why would he be ashamed?

I dont know. That’s what I think. I think he did not believe it to be so noble a thing to be stood against a wall and shot down like a dog. The thing he told me was waking among the dead. Some hour of the night. The bodies already beginning to stink. Waking in the night in a pile of corpses and then crawling away. He crawled into the road and other patriots found him. I think he was ashamed. That was another world. He’d fought for a lost cause and his friends had died in silence and in blood all about him and he had lived. That was all. He waited for many years to hear from God what it was that was expected of him. What he was to do with this life. But God never said.

Western asked him what were his own views but Jo?o only shrugged and said that he did not know. Anyway, dont speak to me of God. We are no longer friends. As for being stood against a wall and shot down with a machinegun this was a thing which Pau did not outlive. In the end it became who he was. It is what we are discussing now. For instance. A calamity can be erased by no amount of good. It can only be erased by a worse calamity. He never married. He was treated with respect, of course. But in the end you must remember he was shot for nothing. The defeated have their cause and the victors have their victory. Were there times he wished he’d died along with his friends? Doubtless. He was from the north. A small town. What did he know of revolution? He came here years ago. He had no family. He was the sexton at the church. Sexton? Is that the word? I dont know why he came here. He had a small room. He rang the bells. I dont know why he came here. Perhaps he was like you.

In Ibiza the Holy Week parade. Horns and drums and lanterns. Masked figures. Coming down through the old city. The figures were clad in black with coneshaped hats and behind them came pallbearers carrying the corpse of their dead God on a litter through the cobbled streets. The dark stigmata of his upturned plaster palms.

He sat at a sidewalk table and drank a coffee. Someone was watching him. He turned but by then the man had risen and was coming over. Bobby? he said.

Yes.

You dont remember me.

I remember you.

What are you doing here?

Drinking coffee. Sit down.

Let me get my drink.

He came back with his glass and a paperback guidebook and pulled out the chair and sat. I couldnt believe that was you. Are you by yourself?

Yes.

What are you doing here?

I live here.

You live here?

Yes.

What do you do?

Not much. I just live here.

You’re shitting me.

Western shrugged.

You ever get back to Knoxville?

No.

Did you know that Seals died?

Yes. I did. And Sheddan.

Darlin Dave?

No. I didnt know that.

I cant believe you’re living here. Let me get you a drink. Jesus, where do all these damn dogs come from? What are you having?

I’ll have a white wine.

White wine it is. Where’s the waiter?

Hiss at him.

Hiss at him?

Yes. Here he comes.

What’s it called?

Vino blanco.

Vino blanco, por favor.

The waiter nodded and padded away.

Who do these things belong to?

The dogs? They dont belong to anybody. They’re just dogs.

One of them pissed in my wife’s purse.

Did what?

Pissed in her purse. We were having lunch and when the food came she took her purse off the table and put it down on the sidewalk by the side of her chair and this damn thing came over and raised its leg and pissed in it. No particular reason. She tried to wash it out back at the hotel but it smelled so bad she had to throw it out. Along with most of the stuff in it. How long have you been living here?

About a year. Some of the racers used to hang out here. Back in the seventies.

Do they still hang out here?

No. I suppose this place is not what it was. There used to be some interesting criminals living here. A first class art forger. One of the greats. A concert pianist who murdered his wife. The police finally rounded them all up. The Americans here mostly visit each other and drink. I wouldnt recommend it.

What about you?

I live in a windmill. I light candles for the dead and I’m trying to learn how to pray.

What do you pray for?

I dont pray for anything, I just pray.

I thought you were an atheist.

No. I dont have any religion.

And you live in a windmill.

Yes.

You’re jerking my fucking chain.

No.

The waiter came with the glass of wine. Salud, Western said.

Salud.

What is that you’re drinking?

Fernet-Branca.

Stomach problems.

Yeah. Anything that tastes like this has got to be good for you.

Western smiled. He sipped the wine.

You’re not kidding me.

No.

Well. You were always a puzzle. Which I’m sure you know. Are you a puzzle to yourself?

Sure. Arent you?

No. Not really. Anyway, I better go. My old lady’s going to be waiting for me. You sure you’re okay?

I’m okay.

Yeah. All right.

He rode his bicycle back up the island in the dark. The tail light that ran off the rear wheel dimming on the slow pull up La Mola. He left the bike at the door and walked out on the bluff and stood in the wind. The dark lap of the sea and the lights of Figueretas along the far shore. Faint taste of salt from the sea.