smiling any more, and felt his anger building like steam in a kettle. It was not their making fun that enraged him; it was the fact that he did not understand them and they knew this and they did not give a bloody damn. Eventually one of them, bigger and more red-faced than the rest, lurched to his feet, marched up to Luis, and stamped his boots in a mock-flamenco beat. He gave Luis a patronising pat on the cheek and shouted, 'Ole!' His friends roared.
Luis went back to his seat, feeling murderous. 'One day I shall kill them for that,' Luis hissed.
'Forget it, old boy,' Barker said. 'They're just pissed, that's all.'
The food came and they ate, while the Germans kept up their gusty, guttural good cheer. Sometimes they sang, sometimes they argued, always they drank. They did everything loudly.
When the correspondents were finishing their coffee, one of the Germans returned from the toilet and came over to their table. He had a keen, intelligent face, and an athletic-looking body.
'Newspapers? You work for newspapers?' His English was awkward but adequate.
Townsend took out a pencil and showed it.
'Ah. You write. My question: what you say about Guernica?'
Luis hunched over his cup and refused to look up.
Barker said: 'According to Berlin your Condor Legion had nothing to do with it, so what do you care?'
'Ja,' agreed the German, 'but does Berlin tell exactly how we did not bomb Guernica?'
Townsend pulled out a chair. The German sat.
'Here is Guernica.' He tried to draw a square in the middle of the table with his finger, but the surface was wood and nothing showed. He poured some coffee onto the table and, using his finger, shaped the pool into a rough square. 'Here -- the river.' He found some hot milk in the bottom of a jug and poured a curving trail past the square of coffee. 'Also, the railway.' He searched about and saw mayonnaise on a nearby table. The correspondents raised eyebrows at each other while he dumped spoonfuls of mayonnaise between the milk and the coffee in a globular, glistening line. 'Is all a matter of communications,' he told them cheerfully. 'Of roads, yes?' This time he used a bottle of tomato ketchup and laid two rich red tracks of the stuff, meeting outside the river of milk. Then he poured an even wider strip of ketchup across the river, over the yellow railway, and into the black town. 'You see?'
The correspondents watched with grudging fascination as the colours contaminated each other. Some of the other airmen had strolled over and were watching. 'Watch closely,' the German said. 'Three squadrons of Junkers fly over, drop their bombs, and bang!' He slammed the palms of his hands down on the mess. A multicoloured spray spattered the correspondents' heads and shoulders and arms. Even Luis, leaning back, got his share of the muck.
The Germans fell about laughing.
'So now you know what did not happen to Guernica,' the man said, and went away, mopping his front.
Luis drove the correspondents silently back to their hotel. Next morning, after breakfast, he took Barker aside.
'I can get .you a photograph of a German bomber flying very low over Guernica,' he said. 'Do you want it?'
'You get it,' Barker said, 'and I'll give you whatever it costs.'
'It will cost you nothing,' Luis told him stonily.
'All right.'
Barker watched Luis get into the car. Touchy bloody people, he thought. Who can understand them? He never saw Luis again.
Chapter 10
Driving north, Luis felt confused and depressed. For the first time, he did not care who won the war. Before, he had been impartial but interested, ready to see merit in either side, and wondering how the fate of Spain would affect his own future. Now he knew that his past had been a failure (bad schools, makeshift homes, lost jobs) and he saw nothing better in his future.
Unusually for him, he drove slowly. The day was overcast, neither sunny nor threatening, and lacked all urgency or enthusiasm. Why was he going back to Guernica? It was
Luis went back to his seat, feeling murderous. 'One day I shall kill them for that,' Luis hissed.
'Forget it, old boy,' Barker said. 'They're just pissed, that's all.'
The food came and they ate, while the Germans kept up their gusty, guttural good cheer. Sometimes they sang, sometimes they argued, always they drank. They did everything loudly.
When the correspondents were finishing their coffee, one of the Germans returned from the toilet and came over to their table. He had a keen, intelligent face, and an athletic-looking body.
'Newspapers? You work for newspapers?' His English was awkward but adequate.
Townsend took out a pencil and showed it.
'Ah. You write. My question: what you say about Guernica?'
Luis hunched over his cup and refused to look up.
Barker said: 'According to Berlin your Condor Legion had nothing to do with it, so what do you care?'
'Ja,' agreed the German, 'but does Berlin tell exactly how we did not bomb Guernica?'
Townsend pulled out a chair. The German sat.
'Here is Guernica.' He tried to draw a square in the middle of the table with his finger, but the surface was wood and nothing showed. He poured some coffee onto the table and, using his finger, shaped the pool into a rough square. 'Here -- the river.' He found some hot milk in the bottom of a jug and poured a curving trail past the square of coffee. 'Also, the railway.' He searched about and saw mayonnaise on a nearby table. The correspondents raised eyebrows at each other while he dumped spoonfuls of mayonnaise between the milk and the coffee in a globular, glistening line. 'Is all a matter of communications,' he told them cheerfully. 'Of roads, yes?' This time he used a bottle of tomato ketchup and laid two rich red tracks of the stuff, meeting outside the river of milk. Then he poured an even wider strip of ketchup across the river, over the yellow railway, and into the black town. 'You see?'
The correspondents watched with grudging fascination as the colours contaminated each other. Some of the other airmen had strolled over and were watching. 'Watch closely,' the German said. 'Three squadrons of Junkers fly over, drop their bombs, and bang!' He slammed the palms of his hands down on the mess. A multicoloured spray spattered the correspondents' heads and shoulders and arms. Even Luis, leaning back, got his share of the muck.
The Germans fell about laughing.
'So now you know what did not happen to Guernica,' the man said, and went away, mopping his front.
Luis drove the correspondents silently back to their hotel. Next morning, after breakfast, he took Barker aside.
'I can get .you a photograph of a German bomber flying very low over Guernica,' he said. 'Do you want it?'
'You get it,' Barker said, 'and I'll give you whatever it costs.'
'It will cost you nothing,' Luis told him stonily.
'All right.'
Barker watched Luis get into the car. Touchy bloody people, he thought. Who can understand them? He never saw Luis again.
Chapter 10
Driving north, Luis felt confused and depressed. For the first time, he did not care who won the war. Before, he had been impartial but interested, ready to see merit in either side, and wondering how the fate of Spain would affect his own future. Now he knew that his past had been a failure (bad schools, makeshift homes, lost jobs) and he saw nothing better in his future.
Unusually for him, he drove slowly. The day was overcast, neither sunny nor threatening, and lacked all urgency or enthusiasm. Why was he going back to Guernica? It was
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