was all too obvious to them both.
“All right,” she said finally. “I suppose I’m being a bit unreasonable. Go to your old cemetery. I’ll look around in the shops.”
He kissed her, and felt good again. “I shouldn’t be long. Mandown lived in a little village up in the hills, but it’s only an hour away by car. I’ll be back for supper. Meet you here in the room? Around six?”
“Fine.”
Ramon Mandown had been dead nearly two years. He had died in the little mountain community where he had lived most of his life, surrounded by people who little knew or cared what the Nobel Prize for Literature meant to the outside world. The seven volumes of Mandown’s verse were almost unknown in the United States until he won the prize, but after that his fame had grown steadily until his death at the age of fifty-seven.
Now, thought Kane Wingate and any number of other literature professors, there was only a lull before the name of Mandown became a household word in literate American circles.
A month before his marriage to Doris, a balding little man with a cigar in his mouth and a checkbook in his hand had approached Kane to commission a ten thousand-word article on Mandown and his works. “We want to be on top of this thing,” he had said. “We want his picture on our cover for the second anniversary of his death. They tell me you’ve studied his stuff.”
“I’ve lectured on him,” Kane had admitted.
“Then you can do an article for our magazine.”
There had been a $500 advance, and Kane did not intend to spurn such an offer. Besides, the pressure was on at the University to publish something—anything—and ten thousand words might easily flower into fifty thousand for a book on Mandown.
The article was coming along, slowly, but Kane didn’t feel he could pass up a visit to the great man’s grave. He hardly expected a bolt of inspiration, but it might make a good lead for the thing. A few weeks ago, as I stood staring down at the final resting place of Ramon Mandown … Something like that. Something dignified, as befits the subject.
Kane parked his rented car in the village square and stopped the first man he saw. “The grave of Ramon Mandown?” he asked in a good approximation of the language.
The man shook his head. “No,” he answered. “I don’t know, sir.”
Kane sighed. “Which way to the cemetery?”
“Up the hill. You will see it.”
“Thanks.” It seemed only a short walk, so he left the car where it was. He had brought the camera, to take a picture of the grave and any tribute that might be there, but as he neared the place he began to realize that all he would find was a score of crumbling tombstones, overgrown with tropic weeds.
“Can I help you?” a man in shirtsleeves asked him. He spoke English with an accent, and seemed to be in charge of things.
“Is this your cemetery?” Kane asked.
The man chuckled. “A cemetery belongs only to the dead. I care for it.”
Kane glanced again at the weeds and wondered what the care consisted of. “I’m looking for the grave of Ramon Mandown.”
“He is not buried here.”
“Well, where is he?”
“I could not tell you that.”
“This was his village?”
“Yes.”
“And he died here two years ago.”
“Almost two years. It was in the autumn, I think.”
“Then where is his body? Back in the town?”
The man shrugged and said nothing.
“I just want some information! Do you have a mayor or anyone up here? A headman?”
“I am the headman.” He pushed a hand through hair beginning to gray. “My name is Juan Vyano.” He held out his hand in a gesture of westernized greeting. It felt oily from the sweat of his hair.
“Good,” Kane told him. “I’m looking for the grave of Ramon Mandown, the poet.”
“Why?”
“I want to take a picture of it.”
“Of a grave?” The man pushed a hand through his hair and smiled a bit.
“Mandown was a great poet. He won the Nobel Prize. I want to write an
“All right,” she said finally. “I suppose I’m being a bit unreasonable. Go to your old cemetery. I’ll look around in the shops.”
He kissed her, and felt good again. “I shouldn’t be long. Mandown lived in a little village up in the hills, but it’s only an hour away by car. I’ll be back for supper. Meet you here in the room? Around six?”
“Fine.”
Ramon Mandown had been dead nearly two years. He had died in the little mountain community where he had lived most of his life, surrounded by people who little knew or cared what the Nobel Prize for Literature meant to the outside world. The seven volumes of Mandown’s verse were almost unknown in the United States until he won the prize, but after that his fame had grown steadily until his death at the age of fifty-seven.
Now, thought Kane Wingate and any number of other literature professors, there was only a lull before the name of Mandown became a household word in literate American circles.
A month before his marriage to Doris, a balding little man with a cigar in his mouth and a checkbook in his hand had approached Kane to commission a ten thousand-word article on Mandown and his works. “We want to be on top of this thing,” he had said. “We want his picture on our cover for the second anniversary of his death. They tell me you’ve studied his stuff.”
“I’ve lectured on him,” Kane had admitted.
“Then you can do an article for our magazine.”
There had been a $500 advance, and Kane did not intend to spurn such an offer. Besides, the pressure was on at the University to publish something—anything—and ten thousand words might easily flower into fifty thousand for a book on Mandown.
The article was coming along, slowly, but Kane didn’t feel he could pass up a visit to the great man’s grave. He hardly expected a bolt of inspiration, but it might make a good lead for the thing. A few weeks ago, as I stood staring down at the final resting place of Ramon Mandown … Something like that. Something dignified, as befits the subject.
Kane parked his rented car in the village square and stopped the first man he saw. “The grave of Ramon Mandown?” he asked in a good approximation of the language.
The man shook his head. “No,” he answered. “I don’t know, sir.”
Kane sighed. “Which way to the cemetery?”
“Up the hill. You will see it.”
“Thanks.” It seemed only a short walk, so he left the car where it was. He had brought the camera, to take a picture of the grave and any tribute that might be there, but as he neared the place he began to realize that all he would find was a score of crumbling tombstones, overgrown with tropic weeds.
“Can I help you?” a man in shirtsleeves asked him. He spoke English with an accent, and seemed to be in charge of things.
“Is this your cemetery?” Kane asked.
The man chuckled. “A cemetery belongs only to the dead. I care for it.”
Kane glanced again at the weeds and wondered what the care consisted of. “I’m looking for the grave of Ramon Mandown.”
“He is not buried here.”
“Well, where is he?”
“I could not tell you that.”
“This was his village?”
“Yes.”
“And he died here two years ago.”
“Almost two years. It was in the autumn, I think.”
“Then where is his body? Back in the town?”
The man shrugged and said nothing.
“I just want some information! Do you have a mayor or anyone up here? A headman?”
“I am the headman.” He pushed a hand through hair beginning to gray. “My name is Juan Vyano.” He held out his hand in a gesture of westernized greeting. It felt oily from the sweat of his hair.
“Good,” Kane told him. “I’m looking for the grave of Ramon Mandown, the poet.”
“Why?”
“I want to take a picture of it.”
“Of a grave?” The man pushed a hand through his hair and smiled a bit.
“Mandown was a great poet. He won the Nobel Prize. I want to write an
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