They pushed us into a big white room and I began to blink because the light hurt my eyes. Then I saw a table and four men behind the table, civilians, looking over the papers. They had bunched another group of prisoners in the back and we had to cross the whole room to join them. There were several I knew and some others who must have been foreigners. The two in front of me were blond with round skulls: they looked alike. I supposed they were French. The smaller one kept hitching up his pants: nerves.
It lasted about three hours: I was dizzy and my head was empty; but the room was well heated and I found that pleasant enough: for the past 24 hours we hadn't stopped shivering. The guards brought the prisoners up to the table, one after the other. The four men asked each one his name and occupation. Most of the time they didn't go any further--or they would simply ask a question here and there: "Did you have anything to do with the sabotage of munitions?" Or "Where were you the morning of the 9th and what were you doing?" They didn't listen to the answers or at least didn't seem to. They were quiet for a moment and then looking straight in front of them began to write. They asked Tom if it were true he was in the International Brigade: Tom couldn't tell them otherwise because of the papers they found in his coat. They didn't ask Juan anything but they wrote for a long time after he told them his name.
"My brother Jose is the anarchist," Juan said "You know he isn't here any more. I don't belong to any party. I never had anything to do with politics."
They didn't answer. Juan went on, "I haven't done anything. I don't want to pay for somebody else."
His lips trembled. A guard shut him up and took him away. It was my turn.
"Your name is Pablo Ibbieta?"
"Yes."
The man looked at the papers and asked me "Where's Ramon Gris?"
"I don't know."
"You hid him in your house from the 6th to the 19th."
"No."
They wrote for a minute and then the guards took me out. In the corridor Tom and Juan were waiting between two guards. We started walking. Tom asked one of the guards, "So?"
"So what?" the guard said.
"Was that the cross-examination or the sentence?"
"Sentence" the guard said.
"What are they going to do with us?"
The guard answered dryly, "Sentence will be read in your cell."
As a matter of fact, our cell was one of the hospital cellars. It was terrifically cold there because of the drafts. We shivered all night and it wasn't much better during the day. I had spent the previous five days in a cell in a monastery, a sort of hole in the wall that must have dated from the middle ages: since there were a lot of prisoners and not much room, they locked us up anywhere. I didn't miss my cell; I hadn't suffered too much from the cold but I was alone; after a long time it gets irritating. In the cellar I had company. Juan hardly ever spoke: he was afraid and he was too young to have anything to say. But Tom was a good talker and he knew Spanish well.
There was a bench in the cellar and four mats. When they took us back we sat and waited in silence. After a long moment, Tom said, "We're screwed."
"l think so too," I said, "but I don't think they'll do any thing to the kid.".
"They don't have a thing against him," said Tom. "He's the brother of a militiaman and that's all."
I looked at Juan: he didn't seem to hear. Tom went on, "You know what they do in Saragossa? They lay the men down on the road and run over them with trucks. A Moroccan deserter told us that. They said it was to save ammunition."
"It doesn't save gas." I said.
I was annoyed at Tom: he shouldn't have said that.
"Then there's officers walking along the road," he went on, "supervising it all. They stick their hands in their pockets and smoke cigarettes. You think they finish off the guys? Hell no. They let them scream. Sometimes for an hour. The Moroccan said he damned near puked the first time."
"I don't believe they'll do that here," I said. "Unless they're really short on ammunition."
Day was coming in through four air holes and a round opening they had made in the ceiling on the left, and you could see the sky through it. Through this hole, usually closed by a trap, they unloaded coal into the cellar. Just below the hole there was a big pile of coal dust: it had been used to heat the hospital, but since the beginning of the war the patients were evacuated and the coal stayed there, unused; sometimes it even got rained on because they had forgotten to close the trap.
Tom began to shiver. "Good Jesus Christ, I'm cold," he said. "Here it goes again."
He got up and began to do exercises. At each movement his shirt opened on his chest, white and hairy. He lay on his back, raised his legs in the air and bicycled. I saw his great rump trembling. Tom was husky but he had too much fat. I thought how riffle bullets or the sharp points of bayonets would soon be sunk into this mass of tender flesh as in a lump of butter. It wouldn't have made me feel like that if he'd been thin.
I wasn't exactly cold, but I couldn't feel my arms and shoulders any more. Sometimes I had the impression I was missing something and began to look around for my coat and then suddenly remembered they hadn't given me a coat. It was rather uncomfortable. They took our clothes and gave them to their soldiers leaving us only our shirts--and those canvas pants that hospital patients wear in the middle of summer. After a while Tom got up and sat next to me, breathing heavily.
"Warmer?"
"Good Christ, no. But I'm out of wind."
Around eight o'clock in the evening a major came in with two falangistas. He had a sheet of paper in his hand. He asked the guard, "What are the names of those three?"
"Steinbock, Ibbieta and Mirbal," the guard said.
The major put on his eyeglasses and scanned the list: "Steinbock...Steinbock...Oh yes...You are sentenced to death. You will be shot tomorrow morning." He went on looking. "The other two as well."
"That's not possible," Juan said. "Not me." The major looked at him amazed. "What's your name?"
"Juan Mirbal" he said.
"Well your name is there," said the major. "You're sentenced."
"I didn't do anything," Juan said.
The major shrugged his shoulders and turned to Tom and me.
"You're Basque?"
"Nobody is Basque."
He looked annoyed. "They told me there were three Basques. I'm not going to waste my time running after them. Then naturally you don't want a priest?"
We didn't even answer.
He said, "A Belgian doctor is coming shortly. He is authorized to spend the night with you." He made a military salute and left.
"What did I tell you," Tom said. "We get it."
"Yes, I said, "it's a rotten deal for the kid."
I said that to be decent but I didn't like the kid. His face was too thin and fear and suffering had disfigured it, twisting all his features. Three days before he was a smart sort of kid, not too bad; but now he looked like an old fairy and I thought how he'd never be young again, even if they were to let him go. It wouldn't have been too hard to have a little pity for him but pity disgusts me, or rather it horrifies me. He hadn't said anything more but he had turned grey; his face and hands were both grey. He sat down again and looked at the ground with round eyes. Tom was good hearted, he wanted to take his arm, but the kid tore himself away violently and made a face.
"Let him alone," I said in a low voice, "you can see he's going to blubber."
Tom obeyed regretfully: he would have liked to comfort the kid, it would have passed his time and he wouldn't have been tempted to think about himself. But it annoyed me: I'd never thought about death because I never had any reason to, but now the reason was here and there was nothing to do but think about it.
Tom began to talk. "So you think you've knocked guys off, do you?" he asked me. I didn't answer. He began explaining to me that he had knocked off six since the beginning of August; he didn't realize the situation and I could tell he didn't want to realize it. I hadn't quite realized it myself, I wondered if it hurt much, I thought of bullets, I imagined their burning hail through my body. All that was beside the real question; but I was calm: we had all night to understand. After a while Tom stopped talking and I watched him out of the corner of my eye; I saw he too had turned grey and he looked rotten; I told myself "Now it starts." It was almost dark, a dim glow filtered through the air holes and the pile of coal and made a big stain beneath the spot of sky; I could already see a star through the hole in the ceiling: the night would be pure and icy.
The door opened and two guards came in, followed by a blonde man in a tan uniform. He saluted us. "I am the doctor," he said. "I have authorization to help you in these trying hours."
He had an agreeable and distinguished voice. I said, "What do you want here?"
"I am at your disposal. I shall do all I can to make your last moments less difficult."
"What did you come here for? There are others, the hospital's full of them."
"I was sent here," he answered with a vague look. "Ah! Would you like to smoke?" he added hurriedly, "I have cigarettes and even cigars."
He offered us English cigarettes and puros, but we refused. I looked him in the eyes and he seemed irritated. I said to him, "You aren't here on an errand of mercy. Besides, I know you. I saw you with the fascists in the barracks yard the day I was arrested."
I was going to continue, but something surprising suddenly happened to me; the presence of this doctor no longer interested me. Generally when I'm on somebody I don't let go. But the desire to talk left me completely; I shrugged and turned my eyes away. A little later I raised my head; he was watching me curiously. The guards were sitting on a mat. Pedro, the tall thin one, was twiddling his thumbs, the other shook his head from time to time to keep from falling asleep.
"Do you want a light?" Pedro suddenly asked the doctor. The other nodded "Yes": I think he was about as smart as a log, but he surely wasn't bad. Looking in his cold blue eyes it seemed to me that his only sin was lack of imagination. Pedro went out and came back with an oil lamp which he set on the corner of the bench. It gave a bad light but it was better than nothing: they had left us in the dark the night before. For a long time I watched the circle of light the lamp made on the ceiling. I was fascinated. Then suddenly I woke up, the circle of light disappeared and I felt myself crushed under an enormous weight. It was not the thought of death, or fear; it was nameless. My cheeks burned and my head ached.
I shook myself and looked at my two friends. Tom had hidden his face in his hands. I could only see the fat white nape of his neck. Little Juan was the worst, his mouth was open and his nostrils trembled. The doctor went to him and put his hand on his shoulder to comfort him: but his eyes stayed cold. Then I saw the Belgian's hand drop stealthily along Juan's arm, down to the wrist. Juan paid no attention. The Belgian took his wrist between three fingers, distractedly, the same time drawing back a little and turning his back to me. But I leaned backward and saw him take a watch from his pocket and look at it for a moment, never letting go of the wrist. After a minute he let the hand fall inert and went and leaned his back against the wall, then, as if he suddenly remembered something very important which had to be jotted down on the spot, he took a notebook from his pocket and wrote a few lines. "Bastard," I thought angrily, "let him come and take my pulse. I'll shove my fist in his rotten face."
He didn't come but I felt him watching me. I raised my head and returned his look. Impersonally, he said to me "Doesn't it seem cold to you here?" He looked cold, he was blue.
I'm not cold," I told him.
He never took his hard eyes off me. Suddenly I understood and my hands went to my face: I was drenched in sweat. In this cellar, in the midst of winter, in the midst of drafts, I was sweating. I ran my hands through my hair, gummed together with perspiration: at the same time I saw my shirt was damp and sticking to my skin: I had been dripping for an hour and hadn't felt it. But that swine of a Belgian hadn't missed a thing; he had seen the drops rolling down my cheeks and thought: this is the manifestation of an almost pathological state of terror; and he had felt normal and proud of being alive because he was cold. I wanted to stand up and smash his face but no sooner had I made the slightest gesture than my rage and shame were wiped out; I fell back on the bench with indifference.
I satisfied myself by rubbing my neck with my handkerchief because now I felt the sweat dropping from my hair onto my neck and it was unpleasant. I soon gave up rubbing, it was useless; my handkerchief was already soaked and I was still sweating. My buttocks were sweating too and my damp trousers were glued to the bench.
Suddenly Juan spoke. "You're a doctor?"
"Yes," the Belgian said.
"Does it hurt... very long?"
"Huh? When... ? Oh, no" the Belgian said paternally "Not at all. It's over quickly." He acted as though he were calming a cash customer.
"But I... they told me... sometimes they have to fire twice."
"Sometimes," the Belgian said, nodding. "It may happen that the first volley reaches no vital organs."
"Then they have to reload their rifles and aim all over again?" He thought for a moment and then added hoarsely, "That takes time!"
He had a terrible fear of suffering, it was all he thought about: it was his age. I never thought much about it and it wasn't fear of suffering that made me sweat.
I got up and walked to the pile of coal dust. Tom jumped up and threw me a hateful look: I had annoyed him because my shoes squeaked. I wondered if my face looked as frightened as his: I saw he was sweating too. The sky was superb, no light filtered into the dark corner and I had only to raise my head to see the Big Dipper. But it wasn't like it had been: the night before I could see a great piece of sky from my monastery cell and each hour of the day brought me a different memory. Morning, when the sky was a hard, light blue, I thought of beaches on the Atlantic: at noon I saw the sun and I remembered a bar in Seville where I drank manzanilla and ate olives and anchovies: afternoons I was in the shade and I thought of the deep shadow which spreads over half a bull-ring leaving the other half shimmering in sunlight: it was really hard to see the whole world reflected in the sky like that. But now I could watch the sky as much as I pleased, it no longer evoked anything tn me. I liked that better. I came back ad sat near Tom. A long moment passed.
Tom began speaking in a low voice. He had to talk, without that he wouldn't have been able no recognize himself in his own mind. I thought he was talking to me but he wasn't looking at me. He was undoubtedly afraid to see me as I was, grey and sweating: we were alike and worse than mirrors of each other. He watched the Belgian, the living.
"Do you understand?" he said. "I don't understand."
I began to speak in a low voice too. I watched the Belgian. "Why? What's the matter?"
"Something is going to happen to us than I can't understand."
There was a strange smell about Tom. It seemed to me I was more sensitive than usual to odors. I grinned. "You'll understand in a while."
"It isn't clear," he said obstinately. "I want to be brave but first I have to know. . . .Listen, they're going to take us into the courtyard. Good. They're going to stand up in front of us. How many?"
"l don't know. Five or eight. Not more."
"All right. There'll be eight. Someone'll holler 'aim!' and I'll see eight rifles looking at me. I'll think how I'd like to get inside the wall, I'll push against it with my back. . . . with every ounce of strength I have, but the wall will stay, like in a nightmare. I can imagine all that. If you only knew how well I can imagine it."
"All right, all right!" I said. "I can imagine it too."
"lt must hurt like hell. You know they aim at the eyes and the mouth to disfigure you," he added mechanically. "I can feel the wounds already. I've had pains in my head and in my neck for the past hour. Not real pains. Worse. This is what I'm going to feel tomorrow morning. And then what?"
I well understood what he meant but I didn't want to act as if I did. I had pains too, pains in my body like a crowd of tiny scars. I couldn't get used to it. But I was like him. I attached no importance to it. "After," I said. "you'll be pushing up daisies."
He began to talk to himself: he never stopped watching the Belgian. The Belgian didn't seem to be listening. I knew what he had come to do; he wasn't interested in what we thought; he came to watch our bodies, bodies dying in agony while yet alive.
"It's like a nightmare," Tom was saying. "You want to think something, you always have the impression that it's all right, that you're going to understand and then it slips, it escapes you and fades away. I tell myself there will be nothing afterwards. But I don't understand what it means. Sometimes I almost can.... and then it fades away and I start thinking about the pains again, bullets, explosions. I'm a materialist, I swear it to you; I'm not going crazy. But something's the matter. I see my corpse; that's not hard but I'm the one who sees it, with my eyes. I've got to think... think that I won't see anything anymore and the world will go on for the others. We aren't made to think that, Pablo. Believe me: I've already stayed up a whole night waiting for something. But this isn't the same: this will creep up behind us, Pablo, and we won't be able to prepare for it."
"Shut up," I said, "Do you want me to call a priest?"
He didn't answer. I had already noticed he had the tendency to act like a prophet and call me Pablo, speaking in a toneless voice. I didn't like that: but it seems all the Irish are that way. I had the vague impression he smelled of urine. Fundamentally, I hadn't much sympathy for Tom and I didn't see why, under the pretext of dying together, I should have any more. It would have been different with some others. With Ramon Gris, for example. But I felt alone between Tom and Juan. I liked that better, anyhow: with Ramon I might have been more deeply moved. But I was terribly hard just then and I wanted to stay hard.
He kept on chewing his words, with something like distraction. He certainly talked to keep himself from thinking. He smelled of urine like an old prostate case. Naturally, I agreed with him. I could have said everything he said: it isn't natural to die. And since I was going to die, nothing seemed natural to me, not this pile of coal dust, or the bench, or Pedro's ugly face. Only it didn't please me to think the same things as Tom. And I knew that, all through the night, every five minutes, we would keep on thinking things at the same time. I looked at him sideways and for the first time he seemed strange to me: he wore death on his face. My pride was wounded: for the past 24 hours I had lived next to Tom, I had listened to him. I had spoken to him and I knew we had nothing in common. And now we looked as much alike as twin brothers, simply because we were going to die together. Tom took my hand without looking at me.
"Pablo. I wonder... I wonder if it's really true that everything ends."
I took my hand away and said, "Look between your feet, you pig."
There was a big puddle between his feet and drops fell from his pants-leg.
"What is it," he asked, frightened.
"You're pissing in your pants," I told him.
"lt isn't true," he said furiously. "I'm not pissing. I don't feel anything."
The Belgian approached us. He asked with false solicitude. "Do you feel ill?"
Tom did not answer. The Belgian looked at the puddle and said nothing.
"I don't know what it is," Tom said ferociously. "But I'm not afraid. I swear I'm not afraid."
The Belgian did not answer. Tom got up and went to piss in a corner. He came back buttoning his fly, and sat down without a word. The Belgian was taking notes.
All three of us watched him because he was alive. He had the motions of a living human being, the cares of a living human being; he shivered in the cellar the way the living are supposed to shiver; he had an obedient, well-fed body. The rest of us hardly felt ours--not in the same way anyhow. I wanted to feel my pants between my legs but I didn't dare; I watched the Belgian, balancing on his legs, master of his muscles, someone who could think about tomorrow. There we were, three bloodless shadows; we watched him and we sucked his life like vampires.
Finally he went over to little Juan. Did he want to feel his neck for some professional motive or was he obeying an impulse of charity? If he was acting by charity it was the only time during the whole night.
He caressed Juan's head and neck. The kid let himself be handled, his eyes never leaving him, then suddenly he seized the hand and looked at it strangely. He held the Belgian's hand between his own two hands and there was nothing pleasant about them, two grey pincers gripping this fat and reddish hand. I suspected what was going to happen and Tom must have suspected it too: but the Belgian didn't see a thing, he smiled paternally. After a moment the kid brought the fat red hand to his mouth and tried to bite it. The Belgian pulled away quickly and stumbled back against the wall. For a second he looked at us with horror, he must have suddenly understood that we were not men like him. I began to laugh and one of the guards jumped up. The other was asleep, his wide open eyes were blank.
I felt relaxed and over-excited at the same time. I didn't want to think any more about what would happen at dawn, at death. It made no sense. I only found words or emptiness. But as soon as I tried to think of anything else I saw rifle barrels pointing at me. Perhaps I lived through my execution twenty times; once I even thought it was for good: I must have slept a minute. They were dragging me to the wall and I was struggling; I was asking for mercy. I woke up with a start and looked at the Belgian: I was afraid I might have cried out in my sleep. But he was stroking his moustache, he hadn't noticed anything. If I had wanted to, I think I could have slept a while; I had been awake for 48 hours. I was at the end of my rope. But I didn't want to lose two hours of life; they would come to wake me up at dawn. I would follow them, stupefied with sleep and I would have croaked without so much as an "Oof!"; I didn't want that. I didn't want to die like an animal, I wanted to understand. Then I was afraid of having  nightmares. I got up, walked back and forth, and, to change my ideas, I began to think about my past life. A crowd of memories came back to me pell-mell. There were good and bad ones--or at least I called them that before. There were faces and incidents. I saw the face of a little novillero who was gored tn Valencia during the Feria, the face of one of my uncles, the face of Ramon Gris. I remembered my whole life: how I was out of work for three months in 1926, how I almost starved to death. I remembered a night I spent on a bench in Granada: I hadn't eaten for three days. I was angry, I didn't want to die. That made me smile. How madly I ran after happiness, after women, after liberty. Why? I wanted to free Spain, I admired Pi y Margall, I joined the anarchist movement, I spoke in public meetings: I took everything as seriously as if I were immortal.
At that moment I felt that I had my whole life in front of me and I thought, "It's a damned lie." It was worth nothing because it was finished. I wondered how I'd been able to walk, to laugh with the girls: I wouldn't have moved so much as my little finger if I had only imagined I would die like this. My life was in front of me, shut, closed, like a bag and yet everything inside of it was unfinished. For an instant I tried to judge it. I wanted to tell myself, this is a beautiful life. But I couldn't pass judgment on it; it was only a sketch; I had spent my time counterfeiting eternity, I had understood nothing. I missed nothing: there were so many things I could have missed, the taste of manzanilla or the baths I took in summer in a little creek near Cadiz; but death had disenchanted everything.
The Belgian suddenly had a bright idea. "My friends," he told us, "I will undertake--if the military administration will allow it--to send a message for you, a souvenir to those who love you. . . ."
Tom mumbled, "I don't have anybody."
I said nothing. Tom waited an instant then looked at me with curiosity. "You don't have anything to say to Concha?"
"No."
I hated this tender complicity: it was my own fault, I had talked about Concha the night before. I should have controlled myself. I was with her for a year. Last night I would have given an arm to see her again for five minutes. That was why I talked about her, it was stronger than I was. Now I had no more desire to see her, I had nothing more to say to her. I would not even have wanted to hold her in my arms: my body filled me with horror because it was grey and sweating--and I wasn't sure that her body didn't fill me with horror. Concha would cry when she found out I was dead, she would have no taste for life for months afterward. But I was still the one who was going to die. I thought of her soft, beautiful eyes. When she looked at me something passed from her to me. But I knew it was over: if she looked at me now the look would stay in her eyes, it wouldn't reach me. I was alone.
Tom was alone too but not in the same way. Sitting cross-legged, he had begun to stare at the bench with a sort of smile, he looked amazed. He put out his hand and touched the wood cautiously as if he were afraid of breaking something, then drew back his hand quickly and shuddered. If I had been Tom I wouldn't have amused myself by touching the bench; this was some more Irish nonsense, but I too found that objects had a funny look: they were more obliterated, less dense than usual. It was enough for me to look at the bench, the lamp, the pile of coal dust, to feel that I was going to die. Naturally I couldn't think clearly about my death but I saw it everywhere, on things, in the way things fell back and kept their distance, discreetly, as people who speak quietly at the bedside of a dying man. It was his death which Tom had just touched on the bench.
In the state I was in, if someone had come and told me I could go home quietly, that they would leave me my life whole, it would have left me cold: several hours or several years of waiting is all the same when you have lost the illusion of being eternal. I clung to nothing, in a way I was calm. But it was a horrible calm--because of my body; my body, I saw with its eyes, I heard with its ears, but it was no longer me; it sweated and trembled by itself and I didn't recognize it any more. I had to touch it and look at it to find out what was happening, as if it were the body of someone else. At times I could still feel it, I felt sinkings, and fallings, as when you're in a plane taking a nose dive, or I felt my heart beating. But that didn't reassure me. Everything that came from my body was all cockeyed. Most of the time it was quiet and I felt no more than a sort of weight, a filthy presence against me; I had the impression of being tied to an enormous vermin. Once I felt my pants and I felt they were damp; I didn't know whether it was sweat or urine, but I went to piss on the coal pile as a precaution.
The Belgian took out his watch, looked at it. He said, "It is three-thirty."
Bastard! He must have done it on purpose. Tom jumped; we hadn't noticed time was running out; night surrounded us like a shapeless, somber mass. I couldn't even remember that it had begun.
Little Juan began to cry. He wrung his hands, pleaded, "I don't want to die. I don't want to die."
He ran across the whole cellar waving his arms in the air then fell sobbing on one of the mats. Tom watched him with mournful eyes, without the slightest desire to console him. Because it wasn't worth the trouble: the kid made more noise than we did, but he was less touched: he was like a sick man who defends himself against his illness by fever. It's much more serious when there isn't any fever.
He wept: I could clearly see he was pitying himself; he wasn't thinking about death. For one second, one single second, I wanted to weep myself, to weep with pity for myself. But the opposite happened: I glanced at the kid, I saw his thin sobbing shoulders and I felt inhuman: I could pity neither the others nor myself. I said to myself, "I want to die cleanly."
Tom had gotten up, he placed himself just under the round opening and began to watch for daylight. I was determined to die cleanly and I only thought of that. But ever since the doctor told us the time, I felt time flying, flowing away drop by drop.
It was still dark when I heard Tom's voice: "Do you hear them?"
Men were marching in the courtyard.
"Yes."
"What the hell are they doing? They can't shoot in the dark."
After a while we heard no more. I said to Tom, "It's day."
Pedro got up, yawning, and came to blow out the lamp. He said to his buddy, "Cold as hell."
The cellar was all grey. We heard shots in the distance.
"It's starting," I told Tom. "They must do it in the court in the rear."
Tom asked the doctor for a cigarette. I didn't want one; I didn't want cigarettes or alcohol. From that moment on they didn't stop firing.
"Do you realize what's happening," Tom said.
He wanted to add something but kept quiet, watching the door. The door opened and a lieutenant came in with four soldiers. Tom dropped his cigarette.
"Steinbock?"
Tom didn't answer. Pedro pointed him out.
"Juan Mirbal?"
"On the mat."
"Get up," the lieutenant said.
Juan did not move. Two soldiers took him under the arms and set him on his feet. But he fell as soon as they released him.
The soldiers hesitated.
"He's not the first sick one," said the lieutenant. "You two carry him: they'll fix it up down there."
He turned to Tom. "Let's go."
Tom went out between two soldiers. Two others followed, carrying the kid by the armpits. He hadn't fainted; his eyes were wide open and tears ran down his cheeks. When I wanted to go out the lieutenant stopped me.
"You Ibbieta?"
"Yes."
"You wait here: they'll come for you later."
They left. The Belgian and the two jailers left too, I was alone. I did not understand what was happening to me but I would have liked it better if they had gotten it over with right away. I heard shots at almost regular intervals; I shook with each one of them. I wanted to scream and tear out my hair. But I gritted my teeth and pushed my hands in my pockets because I wanted to stay clean.
After an hour they came to get me and led me to the first floor, to a small room that smelt of cigars and where the heat was stifling. There were two officers sitting smoking in the armchairs, papers on their knees.
"You're Ibbieta?"
"Yes."
"Where is Ramon Gris?"
"l don't know."
The one questioning me was short and fat. His eyes were hard behind his glasses. He said to me, "Come here."
I went to him. He got up and took my arms, staring at me with a look that should have pushed me into the earth. At the same time he pinched my biceps with all his might. It wasn't to hurt me, it was only a game: he wanted to dominate me. He also thought he had to blow his stinking breath square in my face. We stayed for a moment like that, and I almost felt like laughing. It takes a lot to intimidate a man who is going to die; it didn't work. He pushed me back violently and sat down again. He said, "It's his life against yours. You can have yours if you tell us where he is."
These men dolled up with their riding crops and boots were still going to die. A little later than I, but not too much. They busied themselves looking for names in their crumpled papers, they ran after other men to imprison or suppress them: they had opinions on the future of Spain and on other subjects. Their little activities seemed shocking and burlesqued to me; I couldn't put myself in their place. I thought they were insane. The little man was still looking at me, whipping his boots with the riding crop. All his gestures were calculated to give him the look of a live and ferocious beast.
"So? You understand?"
I don't know where Gris is," I answered. "I thought he was in Madrid."
The other officer raised his pale hand indolently. This indolence was also calculated. I saw through all their little schemes and I was stupefied to find there were men who amused themselves that way.
"You have a quarter of an hour to think it over," he said slowly. "Take him to the laundry, bring him back in fifteen minutes. If he still refuses he will he executed on the spot."
They knew what they were doing: I had passed the night in waiting; then they had made me wait an hour in the cellar while they shot Tom and Juan and now they were locking me up in the laundry; they must have prepared their game the night before. They told themselves that nerves eventually wear out and they hoped to get me that way.
They were badly mistaken. In the laundry I sat on a stool because I felt very weak and I began to think. But not about their proposition. Of course I knew where Gris was; he was hiding with his cousins, four kilometers from the city. I also knew that I would not reveal his hiding place unless they tortured me (but they didn't seem to be thinking about that). All that was perfectly regulated, definite and in no way interested me. Only I would have liked to understand the reasons for my conduct. I would rather die than give up Gris. Why? I didn't like Ramon Gris any more. My friendship for him had died a little while before dawn at the same time as my love for Concha, at the same time as my desire to live. Undoubtedly I thought highly of him: he was tough. But it was not for this reason that I consented to die in his place; his life had no more value than mine; no life had value. They were going to slap a man up against a wall and shoot at him till he died, whether it was I or Gris or somebody else made no difference. I knew he was more useful than I to the cause of Spain but I thought to hell with Spain and anarchy; nothing was important. Yet I was there, I could save my skin and give up Gris and I refused to do it. I found that somehow comic; it was obstinacy. I thought, "I must be stubborn!" And a droll sort of gaiety spread over me.
They came for me and brought me back to the two officers. A rat ran out from under my feet and that amused me. I turned to one of the falangistas and said, "Did you see the rat?"
He didn't answer. He was very sober, he took himself seriously. I wanted to laugh but I held myself back because I was afraid that once I got started I wouldn't be able to stop. The falangista had a moustache. I said to him again, "You ought to shave off your moustache, idiot." I thought it funny that he would let the hairs of his living being invade his face. He kicked me without great conviction and I kept quiet.
"Well," said the fat officer, "have you thought about it?"
I looked at them with curiosity, as insects of a very rare species. I told them, "I know where he is. He is hidden in the cemetery. In a vault or in the gravediggers' shack."
It was a farce. I wanted to see them stand up, buckle their belts and give orders busily.
They jumped to their feet. "Let's go. Molés, go get fifteen men from Lieutenant Lopez. You," the fat man said, "I'll let you off if you're telling the truth, but it'll cost you plenty if you're making monkeys out of us."
"They left in a great clatter and I waited peacefully under the guard of falangistas. From time to time I smiled, thinking about the spectacle they would make. I felt stunned and malicious. I imagined them lifting up tombstones, opening the doors of the vaults one by one. I represented this situation to myself as if I had been someone else: this prisoner obstinately playing the hero, these grim falangistas with their moustaches and their men in uniform running among the graves; it was irresistibly funny. After half an hour the little fat man came back alone. I thought he had come to give the orders to execute me. The others must have stayed in the cemetery.
The officer looked at me. He didn't look at all sheepish. "Take him into the big courtyard with the others," he said. "After the military operations a regular court will decide what happens to him."
"Then they're not... not going to shoot me?..."
"Not now, anyway. What happens afterwards is none of my business."
I still didn't understand. I asked, "But why...?"
He shrugged his shoulders without answering and the soldiers took me away. In the big courtyard there were about a hundred prisoners, women, children and a few old men. I began walking around the central grass plot, I was stupefied. At noon they let us eat in the mess hall. Two or three people questioned me. I must have known them, but I didn't answer: I didn't even know where I was.
Around evening they pushed about ten new prisoners into the court. I recognized Garcia, the baker. He said, "What damned luck you have! I didn't think I'd see you alive."
"They sentenced me to death," I said, "and then they changed their minds. I don't know why."
"They arrested me at two o'clock," Garcia said.
"Why?" Garcia had nothing to do with politics.
"I don't know," he said. "They arrest everybody who doesn't think the way they do." He lowered his voice. "They got Gris."
I began to tremble. "When?"
"This morning. He messed it up. He left his cousin's on Tuesday because they had an argument. There were plenty of people to hide him but he didn't want to owe anything to anybody. He said, ' I'd go and hide in Ibbieta's place, but they got him, so I'll go hide in the cemetery.'"
"In the cemetery?"
"Yes. What a fool. Of course they went by there this morning, that was sure to happen. They found him in the gravediggers' shack. He shot at them and they got him."
"In the cemetery!"
Everything began to spin and I found myself sitting on the ground: I laughed so hard I cried.

      

 

       观自在菩萨，行深般若波罗蜜多时，照见五蕴皆空，度一切苦厄。舍利子，色不异空，空不异色，色即是空，空即是色。受想行识，亦复如是。舍利子，是诸法空相，不生不灭，不垢不净，不增不减，是故空中无色，无受想行识，无眼耳鼻舌身意，无色身想味触法，无眼界，乃至无意识界，无无明，亦无无明尽，乃至无老死，亦无老死尽。无苦集灭道，无智亦无得，以无所得故。菩提萨陀，依般若波罗蜜多故，心无挂碍。无挂碍故，无有恐怖，远离颠倒梦想，究竟涅槃。三世诸佛，依般若波罗蜜多故，得阿褥多罗三藐三菩提。故知般若波罗蜜多，是大神咒，是大明咒，是无上咒，是无等等咒。能除一切苦，真实不虚。故说般若波罗蜜多咒。即说咒曰：
       揭谛揭谛，波罗揭谛，波罗僧揭谛，菩提萨婆诃。

 

 

      有一天，年老的森林之神希勒诺斯来到国王迈达斯的宫殿。国王迈达斯认出他是酒神狄俄尼索斯的朋友。他想，机会来了，希勒诺斯会给他带来更多财富的。于是，迈达斯邀请希勒诺斯到他的宫殿，并盛情款待了他。当然，酒神对于迈达斯国王的好客很高兴。作为对他热情好客的回报，酒神答应是实现他的一个愿望。贪婪的迈达斯不假思索马上表示他想拥有点物成金的本领。这样一来，他就可以成为世界上最富有的人。酒神实现了他的愿望。

      自此迈达斯所触及的每一样东西都会变成黄金。迈达斯在他的宫殿转来转去，兴高采烈的把他能碰到的东西都变成黄金。然后，他坐在饭桌前，准备用餐时，却发现它碰到的食物，都马上变硬成金。正是他很惊恐，甚至连他最喜欢的女儿也被他一碰，变成了金子。迈达斯恳求酒神收回成命。酒神同情他，嘱咐他到帕克托洛斯河沐浴，这样一来他就会摆脱这个本领。迈达斯马上照办。他一接触河水，整条河都变成了黄金。

 

 

1832  失去工作
          竞选立法委员失败
1833  生意失败
1834  竞选立法委员再次失败
1835  亲人去世
1836  精神崩溃就医
1838  演讲失败
1843  竞选国会议员提名失败
1846  当选国会议员
1848  没能被再次提名
1849  竞选地方官员失败
1854  竞选参议员失败
1856  竞选副总统提名失败
1858  竞选参议员再次失败
1859  亚伯拉罕·林肯当选为美国总统

 

 

      在一个美丽富饶的城市里，市长想在退休前为自己雕塑个什么东西，让市民们永远、永远记住他。更重要的是，让以后的市长也永远永远记住他，这样在他退休以后，他的儿子，他的儿子的儿子，他的儿子的儿子的儿子，需要开条子的时候，就可以对未来的所有市长说：“你抬头看看，那江边的雕塑就是我的爸爸、爷爷、或者曾爷爷，我们家老祖宗”
      于是乎，市长大人委托市委宣传部，市委宣传部委托文化局，文化局委托市容处的一个大学实习生，召开了一个美化市容研究讨论会，简称研讨会。到会的有很多专家----市美院退休的五任院长全部到齐了；还活着的、建国以来的各任市规划局局长也都到齐了；有望得到土地的房地产开发商的43个负责政府关系的付总也都到齐了；还有那个张罗开会的实习生的未来城市规划研究院的导师也来了。会议开了一整天，吃了四顿饭----早饭、中饭、晚饭还有一个下午茶，大家轮流发言，每个人都赞不绝口的表达了对这个城市的热爱和关注，然后发毒誓，一定要为她做出贡献。
      会快散了，市长还是没听见任何人提议为他做一个雕塑。他斜眼看了一下整在打磕睡的市委宣传部长、市文化局局长、市容处处长，希望他们能看他一眼，这样他可以跟他们眨眨眼，让他们开始进入为他做雕塑的主题，然而这几个不争气的部下居然睡得脑袋都冲着天花板了，这让市长立刻取消了提拔他们的想法，并决定在他下台之前一定要把这几个人换掉。
      就在这关键时刻，那个不起眼的实习生神不知鬼不觉地出现在市长的身后，他撅着屁股在市长耳边小声地说：“市长，您看我是不是跟大家传达一下市委文化局的意见？”市长回头看了一眼这个陌生的年轻人，他本来以为这个小帅哥是市委招待所的门童，只注意到他手忙脚乱地给大家挂开门挂衣服、开门挂衣服、开门挂衣服，没想到，居然就他，还算是个有点眼神的部下。
     “嗯”市长微微地点了一下头，然后又微微地挥了一下他的左手。
     “大家好”年轻人说话的声音有些颤抖，大概是激动吧，“我代表市委向大家说一下市文化局对这次研讨会的意见”
      这时候部长、局长和处长都吓醒了，他们以为这个毛孩子吃了豹子胆，居然敢随便发言，但是当他们看到市长脸上的表情，才意识到刚才那个“盹”打得实在不是时候。
     “我们市委下了很大决心要美化市容，市财政已经准备了充分的资金”一听到市长说“充分的资金”，所有打盹的人都醒了，眼睛都睁得大大的，“下面我们准备招标，为我们美丽的城市各个角落做一个雕塑！” 会场一下子沸腾起来，大家都争先恐后地提供同样一个想法，就是把市长给雕了。这时候市长到是闭上了眼睛，他好象一个疲倦的伟人，为这个城市操劳得太多、太多。在大家争执不定的时候，市长终于开了金口：“这样吧，时间不早了，”他笑迷迷地说，“大家回去休息，好好想一想，要具体，要充分体现我们城市的精神，然后下个星期把方案交给小...小...”市长看着实习生叫不上名字来。
     “小卞！”实习生兴奋接过市长的话。
      市长一楞，但是马上接过来说，“对，就交给小便吧，这件事情就让小便负责了，年轻有为，给他一个锻炼的机会”
      晚上回到家里，看完厚厚一叠内部文件，他忽然想起来那个大学实习生，在钻被窝的时候，他问当语文教师的市长夫人道：“唉，我说，这百家姓里还有姓“便”的吗？”
      过了一周，小卞收到了好几十个策划案，有用毛笔写的，有用钢笔写的，有纯文本，有PPT，还有更高级的，干脆把模型都做出来了。方案中几乎全部是一个主题：市长。他把方案全部抱到市长跟前，一个一个的汇报，这里面有各种状态的市长----站着的，坐着的，躺着的，还有蹲着的。
     “为什么叫我蹲着？！”市长有点不高兴。
     “这里是这么解释的”小卞念道：“市长关心平民百姓，经常下发基层，和草根打成一片，蹲着的状态能够充分表示领导对我们的关怀” 市长不耐烦地又挥了挥手说，“不要这么形象嘛，这不是个人崇拜嘛？要抽象一点”然后他站起来，示意小卞可以走了，“你去再传达一下我的意见，去吧，去吧！”
      小卞把市长的意思传达下去以后就再也没有人来找他了，因为把市长弄抽象了是他们没想好的事情，所以不敢随便提方案。小卞只好去求他未来的导师，“这好办”导师非常轻松地说，“明天我拿给你” 第二天，导师拿来了一个小模型，中间是一个高高的、笔直笔直的柱子，两边是球状的蹲子。“这不是...这太象...这不行！”小卞惊讶的说。然后他小声得不能再小声地跟导师说："这...太阳刚了吧？”
     “你想什么哪？”导师严厉地对他说，“只有流氓才会有这么肮脏的思想！”
       小卞不敢在说什么了，只是轻轻地说：“那你跟我一起跟市长汇报去”
       市长看见模型以后也惊了一下，对作品的理解可以说和小小卞完全一样。“这个怎么...怎么...太厉害了吧？”他真的觉得这个雕塑太奇怪了。
      “市长”导师说，“您看着塔，自古埃及以来，人们就以它来纪念我们的伟人，华盛顿的华盛顿纪念物是这样一个塔，巴黎市中心的协和广场也有一个这样的塔，叫oberlisk，那是拿坡伦从埃及掠夺来的，我们这么伟大的城市怎么能没有哪？”
      “那为什么非要有这么两个...球在旁边？”市长问。
      “这不是球，这是“诞！”
      “啊？”市长和小卞异口同声。
      “诞生的诞！”导师说。“我们的伟人都是在基层，在群众中诞生的，在他们升起的时候是不会忘记老百姓的！”
       导师看了一眼正在犹豫的市长，然后斩钉截铁地说：“伟大的艺术都会被小人诽谤，他们只能看到肮脏的、卑鄙的东西，而没有争议的艺术是不可能伟大的！”
       就这样，这个美丽的城市有了一个新的雕塑，落成的时候，市长还亲自去剪彩。而当他看到那雄伟、挺立的奥泊里斯克，和两边直径二十米的“诞”，他情不自禁地提了一下裤子。这件事情在这个城市里非常轰动，是那种不止双赢，而是赢、赢、赢、赢的决策。首先，这座美丽的城市有了象征性的标志；，二，两个“诞”里分别开了电影院和展览馆，给市财政增加了收入，还雇佣了一批下岗工人卖票；三、隔三差五，还有商人给市政府做贡献，捐笔款，把两个“诞”张灯结彩，弄得亮亮的，就是住在“诞”旁边的居民有点受不了，太亮了，睡不着觉。
       最后，小卞当然成了导师的得意门生，而导师承包了“诞”雕塑的制作，现在已经住上了别墅，买了车，并且已经有其它城市的文化局也请他去那里造“诞”去了。而市长的儿子当然非常得意地跟生意伙伴介绍道：“你抬头看看，那江边的雕塑就是我爸爸的‘诞’！”