and said 'fool and tool, quite a rhyme there,'
and
then he said that Mendoza was an honest man and
that meant something in a place like Cuba. He seem-
ed to be mulling over something in his mind and as I
just kept on saying, a fool and a tool, he broke out
with the fact that he was sore at Mendoza too, he
was too slow and dumb and had I any idea what
that man had wanted to do today of all di!.Ys. He
had wanted to go out to his chicken farm, mind you.
I laughed and said looking straight at him, 'Well
of course Mr. Murphy,
there are only two people
of any importance on this island, yourself and Ber-
tolli.' He swelled up a little, then looked modest and
said he guessed maybe I was right. I said that with
a military dictator like Bertolli around there was
naturally no place for a weakling like Mendoza.
He
caught.me up on that. 'Don't call Bertolli that. And
when 'you see him don't put such ideas into his head,
he's got too many like that already.'
Murphy didn't
want any American putting ideas into Bertolli that
might get him, Murphy,
into a jam."
"The son of a bitch," said the man working his
small moustache and walking nervously up and down.
Mrs. Sidney had been sitting quietly on the edge of
the bed. Her own narrative had steadied her again.
With her contempt for Murphy the air in the room
seemed to become purer. Where she was sitting she
could see her own reflection in the mirror of the
wardrobe and the wild idea that she could put on
her hat, pack a bag, take an airplane and in twelve
hours find Tom made her for the moment deaf and
dumb.
"I said," the man was saying, "but you aren't
listening, that you did a good job." He walked over
to her and pinched her cheek. "What are you moon-
ing about?"
. "Nothing," said Mrs. Sidney.
"Well get a piece of paper and let's get the ques-
tions down that you're to ask Bertolli. I memorized
them at the headquarters this afternoon when they
asked me to come here. Can't trust anything in writ-
ing on me, I might get picked up."
She opened the drawer of the little desk and as if
there was no escaping, the two cablegrams and Tom's
letter in the well worn envelope stared at her. Mrs.
Kate Sidney, Havana.
When he had made trips
away from her he used always to write Mrs. Thomas
Sidney.
"Can't you find any paper?"
"Here's some," said Mrs. Sidney. She sat quietly
watching his fingers trace the important
words, try-
ing to focus on the little strokes he was making so
that she wouldn't have to listen to the hum of the
letter she knew by heart. Shut in the drawer though
it was, in its envelope, it had a body and life. It was
an enemy, behind her and around her. "There's no
need to see me. Amy and I love each other deeply.
Don't try to rake over the dead ashes." It was use-
less to resurrect
that other message,
cabled two
PARTISAN
REVIEW
months earlier, I love you darling always will Tom.
The tenderness of the one made the other all the
more mysteriously inexplicable.
Some terrible dark-
ness had come over her own little world and there
was no time even to understand it. She couldn't get
on a train or take an airplane or run. She wasn't
just a woman anymore. At that moment it seemed
the most important thing in the world to be and she
drooped in all her muscles with bewildernient
at
what seemed her fate. The old silly words to ex-
plain life were no good, and she seemed to be wait-
ing in darkness.
"Here you are," he said. "Now try to find out
something concrete about how he means to try to
break the strike."
"I already told you. Force. Murphy kept saying
that they would stop at nothing.
Why you know
yourself that they've got lousy barracks all over this
island. The kids can't have schools but they've got
barracks. There's no food but look at the soldiers in
their brand new rain capes and yellow shoes. Then
the United States gunboats.
They aren't on deck
now but what's to prevent them from quietly slither-
ing into the harbor.
It's been done you know. Re-
member the banana strike at Columbia? Jesus
Christ, I think it's clear." She broke off, striking a
match and puffing at a cigarette furiously. Walking
over to the desk she slammed shut the dr~wer that
was open a crack and stood looking down at it.
"Listen," said the man in a patronizing voice.
"This strike has the island behind it. The strikers
are prepared too. This is a strike of a high political
order. A crisis. Trouble is, you're a bourgeois pes-
simist."
The word was too much. "Don't throw that word
at me. Don't.
I can't stand it. A goddamned label.
When am I going to get rid ot it? What must I do ?"
She had her hands over her ears, looking at him
furiously.
He backed away from her. "Don't get hysterical,"
he said. "What's come over you?" She pulled her-
self up and to keep from crying turned her back to
him. When had she ever had any ease? All her life
she had made her own way and making her own way
had taken her from Tom. She had lost him, wasn't
that enough? It wasn't his fault; even now, she was
defending him as she always had, remembering the
long rides in the country together, the meetings and
then afterwards the winter nights, the reading and
studying into sometimes morning until a light that
was more than day seemed breaking. She and Tom
had gone the same way together but some rotten
link somewhere had broken. She hung her head and
he came over toward her and patted her arm.
"0.
K.
I guess I'm tired," she said getting to her
feet as she saw his intention to come closer to her
dampen the smooth red skin of his forehead.
The
sharp little nose jutted out shiny from the deter-
mined cheeks. He reached toward her and she stifled
II
