Free Savage Coast by Muriel Rukeyser Page A

an order from the government at Barcelona, advising the people to stand by. As long as the radio goes, the government is in power. The Fascists have attacked the radio station several times today. There must have been terrible fighting in town,” she added.
    The broadcast had stopped for a moment. There was the click and whine of a victrola being set up in the station, and another dance tune began.
    They pushed forward to the marble counter. The lady from South America asked for a table.
    â€œWe’ll have to wait forever for the sidewalk,” she relayed the answer, “but we can go inside, immediately.”
    The small inner room to the side subdued the radio by putting the wall between them. “This is splendid,” said the Englishman. His collar was open; it was a first concession to necessity. His face was very young and clear, and the long mustache only served to soften it further. “What shall we have?” he asked gaily. “Wine? Would you please ask for wine—you’d like wine, dear, wouldn’t you?” he swung to his wife, gathering the others in his eagerness.
    â€œAnd bread.”
    â€œAnd Vichy.”
    â€œOh, come,” said the lady, scarcely moving her lips, “we’ll have all of that—but something else: spaghetti, or omelettes perhaps?”
    They watched the lady as she ordered, as if she were qualifying for some distinguished position. She smiled at them, brilliantly, an actress’s smile.
    â€œYou’re not thinking,” she objected, “I’ve lived in South America and Spain for a good part of my life.”
    Helen was curious.
    â€œBut you’re not Spanish, are you?”
    â€œBoth of my parents were English,” the lady answered. “My mother and son are in Geneva, and I’m going home to my sister’s flat in Barcelona—not very rapidly, it’s true.”
    The dark wine and soda water were set before them. The soda water was in a bottle tinged blue, as if ink had escaped faintly into the glass. Helen pressed the little handle, and the water hissed into their glasses. They had not known how thirsty they were.
    â€œHere’s to a quick journey,” said the Englishman, his long eyes narrowing with a smile, “although blast it all, I did hope we could get to Palma by tomorrow night.”
    â€œAre you going to Mallorca?” asked Peapack. “I’ve heard Mallorca’s lovely.”
    â€œIt’s our first trip—it will be, that is, if we ever get there,” he said. He went on, turning to Helen, “—You were in Cook’s bus in Paris, weren’t you? Of course. Well, Cook put us through, too andtheir man should have known better. He could have told us—why, I asked whether everything would be perfectly safe, and he said certainly it would—”
    â€œI do think he should have known, don’t you?” asked his wife.
    Helen laughed at them. The lady laughed. Peapack looked grave.
    â€œVery well,” continued the Englishman, a little weakly. “When we get to Barcelona I’m going to tell the man at Cook’s a thing or two.”
    The omelettes were brought in, the little yellow rolls deliciously streaked with brown, and a long loaf of bread. The waiter set them down, and the lady said something cheerful to him in Spanish. The remark made him look at them all, for the first time. He said to the lady, “There are two gentlemen seated behind you, two brothers, who have walked in from Barcelona.”
    â€œDoesn’t he look like a brute,” whispered the English girl. Helen looked at the table next to theirs. Two men sat facing each other over its small top. The larger of the two had a broad heavy back, turned to them, and when he lifted his head, his furry, close-cut hair took the light. His head came up at every mouthful to face his brother. Smaller, compact, the other man sat eating steadily, never looking up, baring the