The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway [73]
Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright.
"I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake."
"Anything you want me to do?"
"No, just go to the fight with me."
"We'll see you at lunch?"
"No. I'm eating with him."
We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade.
"Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping."
We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park.
"Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now."
We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea.
"I hope the wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for him."
"So do I."
"He says the bulls are all right."
"They're good."
"Is that San Fermin's?"
Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel.
"Yes. Where the show started on Sunday."
"Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something."
We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead.
"Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous."
Outside in the hot brightness of the Street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success.
"Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good."
We walked along.
"I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face.
"You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him."
"Good."
"I wish the wind would drop, though."
"It's liable to go down by five o'clock."
"Let's hope."
"You might pray," I laughed.
"Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?"
"Oh, yes."
"Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though you don't look very religious, Jake."
"I'm pretty religious."
"Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is."
It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating.
"Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad."
"Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German maître d'hôtel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him:
"Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?"
"No, ma'am."
"Good," said Brett.
"Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile.
"Iss madam eating here?"
"No," Brett said.
"Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff."
"Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile.
"I'll see you at the café," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake."
We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hail and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her.
I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me.
"Hello,