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By Root 8982 0

in a distressing fashion, plunging her hand restlessly into the Consul's pocket, which he as restlessly removed, thinking she wanted to rob him. Then he realized she too wanted to help. "No good for you," she whispered. "Bad place. Muy malo. These man no friend of Mexican people." She nodded toward the bar, in which the Chief of Rostrums and Sanabria still stood. "They no policía. They diablos. Murderers. He kill ten old men. He kill twenty viejos." She peered behind her nervously, to see if the Chief of Municipality was watching her, then took from her shawl a clockwork skeleton. She set this on the counter before A Few Fleas, who was watching intently, munching a marzipan coffin. "Vámonos," she muttered to the Consul, as the skeleton, set in motion, jigged on the bar, to collapse flaccidly. But the Consul only raised his glass. "Gracias, buena amigo," he said, without expression. Then the old woman had gone. Meantime the conversation about him had grown even more foolish and intemperate. The pimp was pawing at the Consul from the other side, where the sailor had been. Diosdado was serving ochas, raw alcohol in steaming herb tea: there was the pungent smell too, from the glass rooms, of marijuana. "All deese men and women telling me these men my friend for you. Ah me gusta gusta gusta... You like me like? I pay for dis man all tine" the pimp rebuked the legionnaire, who was on the point of offering the Consul a drink. "My friend of England man! My for Mexican all! American no good for me no. American no good for Mexican. These donkey, these man. These donkey. No savee nada. Me pay for all you drinkee. You no American. You England. O.K. Life for your pipe?"

"No gracias," the Consul said lighting it himself and looking meaningly at Diosdado, from whose shirt pocket his other pipe was protruding again, "I happen to be American, and I'm getting rather bored by your insults." "¿Quiere usted la salvación de México? ¿Quiere usted que Cristo sea nuestro Rey?"

"No."

"These donkey. Goddamn son of a bitch for my."

"One, two, tree, four, five, twelve, sixee, seven--it's a long, longy, longy, longy--way to Tipperaire."

"Noch ein habanero--"

"--Bolshevisten--"

"Buenas tardes, señores," the Consul greeted the Chief of Gardens and the Chief of Rostrums returning from the phone.

They were standing beside him. Soon, preposterous things were being said between them again without adequate reason: answers, it seemed to him, given by him to questions that while they had perhaps not been asked, nevertheless hung in the air. And as for some answers others gave, when he turned round, no one was there. Lingeringly, the bar was emptying for la comida; yet a handful of mysterious strangers had already entered to take the others' places. No thought of escape now touched the Consul's mind. Both his will, and time, which hadn't advanced five minutes since he was last conscious of it, were paralysed. The Consul saw someone he recognized: the driver of the bus that afternoon. He had arrived at that stage of drunkenness where it becomes necessary to shake hands with everyone. The Consul too found himself shaking hands with the driver. "¿Donde están vuestras palomas?" he asked him. Suddenly, at a nod from Sanabria, the Chief of Rostrums plunged his hands into the Consul's pockets. "Time you pay for--ah--Mehican whisky," he said loudly, taking out the Consul's notecase with a wink at Diosdado. The Chief of Municipality made his obscene circular movement of the hips. "Progresión al culo--" he began. The Chief of Rostrums had abstracted the package of Yvonne's letters: he glanced sideways at this without removing the elastic the Consul had replaced. "Chingado, cabrón." His eyes consulted Sanabria who, silent, stern, nodded again. The Chief brought out another paper, and a card he didn't know he possessed, from the Consul's jacket pocket. The three policemen put their heads together over the bar, reading the paper. Now the Consul, baffled, was reading this paper himself:

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