Free Savage Coast by Muriel Rukeyser Page B

plate methodically from rim to rim. His hair fell in shreds, dark and jagged on his forehead, and his upper left sleeve was torn. White cloth showed under the rent, and the arm hung loose.
    The lady from South America, opposite Helen, put her hand out gently and touched the shoulder of the large man.
    The lady’s head was thrown back at him so that the jawbone stretched the skin white and brittle, and her cheek made one delicate plane away from it. The attitude was suggestive of ritual, the position of the head was very familiar. For a moment Helen could not remember; and then she saw vividly again the beautiful woman in London, the long cheek marbled with one pale vein, turn herhead so against her shoulder, to look back and up at the wooden Buddha in its stance of disclosure, bright with its oily gilting.
    The two were talking. In a moment the lady turned back. “Yes, she said, breathless, “there’s been a terrible battle in Barcelona today, starting this morning. Over two thousand dead, in the streets of the city, and these men have walked all the way.”
    She turned back to hear more.
    Behind her, the Americans were entering the restaurant—Peter and Olive, and the two school teachers. Helen said Barcelona noiselessly, with her lips, looking at the little table.
    â€œBut who is the man?” the Englishman was asking.
    â€œHe says he’s a bus-driver in town,” answered the lady. “Everything is stopped there, in the General Strike, nothing’s running, nothing’s open but the chemists’ shops, and all doctors are on emergency duty.”
    â€œAnd the battle?” he asked eagerly, half-smiling in excitement.
    The man was explaining, friendly, comfortable. He turned so that he could see while she translated, screwing himself around the chair, the creases in his shirt spiraling over his shoulder.
    â€œHe says it is impossible to say very accurately, now; but that the government had a smashing victory, starting with the defense of the Telephone Building, and has captured and broken up two rebel troops. They’re completely disorganized—they’ll be escaping through these hills to the frontier—”
    â€œThrough here!” Peapack’s face rearranged itself, agitated.
    â€œOf course through here,” retorted the lady in a hard voice. “We’re on the direct route, aren’t we? And they’ve been fighting in the big plazas” she said quietly, as if recollecting—“they always fight in the four big squares. He says the dead, and the horses and mules, have had to be left where they fell.”
    The man added something briefly.
    The lady from South America told them what he was saying about the United Front. They were strong, everything had beenforeseen, all night for two nights men had been meeting, collecting weapons, checking on the African news. The whole of Catalonia, according to the bus-driver, was in the United Front: only the church, the generals and the wealthy had rebelled. “And,” added the lady, “he says everyone is with the Anarchists this time—the Front is really strong.”
    The radio yowled suddenly as a record was skidded off. An announcement followed. The lady from South America looked up from her omelette. Her face was taut in fatigue and nausea. The whole restaurant was straining for the sound. The bus-driver’s head pulled up; his brother glanced at him and went on eating.
    â€œWhat is it? Tell me!” said Peapack frantically.
    â€œSh—General Goded 78 —captured, going to speak,” the lady answered under her breath.
    There was a blank of silence, and then a harsh, broken voice came through.
    â€œLa suerte me ha sido adversa y yo he quedado prisionero. Por lo tanto, si queréis evitar el derramamiento de sangre, los soldados que me acompañábais quedáis libre de todo compromiso.”
    A burst of noise poured from the other room, cheering,