Part 1 (2/2)

When they came out of the theatre, the streets were dry and the stars blinked in the cold wind above the houses. At the curb old women sold chestnuts and little ragged boys shouted the newspapers.

”And now do you wonder, Tel, why you are here?”

They went into a cafe and mechanically ordered beer. The seats were red plush this time and much worn. All about them groups of whiskered men leaning over tables, astride chairs, talking.

”It's the gesture that's so overpowering; don't you feel it in your arms? Something sudden and tremendously muscular.”

”When Belmonte turned his back suddenly on the bull and walked away dragging the red cloak on the ground behind him I felt it,” said Lyaeus.

”That gesture, a yellow flame against maroon and purple cadences ... an instant swagger of defiance in the midst of a litany to death the all-powerful. That is Spain.... Castile at any rate.”

”Is 'swagger' the right word?”

”Find a better.”

”For the gesture a medieval knight made when he threw his mailed glove at his enemy's feet or a rose in his lady's window, that a mule-driver makes when he tosses off a gla.s.s of aguardiente, that Pastora Imperio makes dancing.... Word! Rubbis.h.!.+” And Lyaeus burst out laughing. He laughed deep in his throat with his head thrown back.

Telemachus was inclined to be offended.

”Did you notice how extraordinarily near she kept to the rhythm of Jorge Manrique?” he asked coldly.

”Of course. Of course,” shouted Lyaeus, still laughing.

The waiter came with two mugs of beer.

”Take it away,” shouted Lyaeus. ”Who ordered beer? Bring something strong, champagne. Drink the beer yourself.”

The waiter was scrawny and yellow, with bilious eyes, but he could not resist the laughter of Lyaeus. He made a pretense of drinking the beer.

Telemachus was now very angry. Though he had forgotten his quest and the maxims of Penelope, there hovered in his mind a disquieting thought of an eventual accounting for his actions before a dimly imagined group of women with inquisitive eyes. This Lyaeus, he thought to himself, was too free and easy. Then there came suddenly to his mind the dancer standing tense as a caryatid before the footlights, her face in shadow, her shawl flaming yellow; the strong modulations of her torso seemed burned in his flesh. He drew a deep breath. His body tightened like a catapult.

”Oh to recapture that gesture,” he muttered. The vague inquisitorial woman-figures had sunk fathoms deep in his mind.

Lyaeus handed him a shallow tinkling gla.s.s.

”There are all gestures,” he said.

Outside the plate-gla.s.s window a countryman pa.s.sed singing. His voice dwelt on a deep trembling note, rose high, faltered, skidded down the scale, then rose suddenly, frighteningly like a skyrocket, into a new burst of singing.

”There it is again,” Telemachus cried. He jumped up and ran out on the street. The broad pavement was empty. A bitter wind shrilled among arc-lights white like dead eyes.

”Idiot,” Lyaeus said between gusts of laughter when Telemachus sat down again. ”Idiot Tel. Here you'll find it.” And despite Telemachus's protestations he filled up the gla.s.ses. A great change had come over Lyaeus. His face looked fuller and flushed. His lips were moist and very red. There was an occasional crisp curl in the black hair about his temples.

And so they sat drinking a long while.

At last Telemachus got unsteadily to his feet.

”I can't help it.... I must catch that gesture, formulate it, do it. It is tremendously, inconceivably, unendingly important to me.”

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