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But
according
to
Pilar
,
Maria
has
just
gotten
sound
again
.
She
must
have
been
in
an
awful
shape
.
He
remembered
a
Belgian
boy
in
the
Eleventh
Brigade
who
had
enlisted
with
five
other
boys
from
his
village
.
It
was
a
village
of
about
two
hundred
people
and
the
boy
had
never
been
away
from
the
village
before
.
When
he
first
saw
the
boy
,
out
at
Hans
’
Brigade
Staff
,
the
other
five
from
the
village
had
all
been
killed
and
the
boy
was
in
very
bad
shape
and
they
were
using
him
as
an
orderly
to
wait
on
table
at
the
staff
.
He
had
a
big
,
blond
,
ruddy
Flemish
face
and
huge
awkward
peasant
hands
and
he
moved
,
with
the
dishes
,
as
powerfully
and
awkwardly
as
a
draft
horse
.
But
he
cried
all
the
time
.
All
during
the
meal
he
cried
with
no
noise
at
all
.
You
looked
up
and
there
he
was
,
crying
.
If
you
asked
for
the
wine
,
he
cried
and
if
you
passed
your
plate
for
stew
,
he
cried
;
turning
away
his
head
.
Then
he
would
stop
;
but
if
you
looked
up
at
him
,
tears
would
start
coming
again
.
Between
courses
he
cried
in
the
kitchen
.
Every
one
was
very
gentle
with
him
.
But
it
did
no
good
.
He
would
have
to
find
out
what
became
of
him
and
whether
he
ever
cleared
up
and
was
fit
for
soldiering
again
.
Maria
was
sound
enough
now
.
She
seemed
so
anyway
.
But
he
was
no
psychiatrist
.
Pilar
was
the
psychiatrist
.
It
probably
had
been
good
for
them
to
have
been
together
last
night
.
Yes
,
unless
it
stopped
.
It
certainly
had
been
good
for
him
.
He
felt
fine
today
;
sound
and
good
and
unworried
and
happy
.
The
show
looked
bad
enough
but
he
was
awfully
lucky
,
too
.
He
had
been
in
others
that
announced
themselves
badly
.
Announced
themselves
;
that
was
thinking
in
Spanish
.
Maria
was
lovely
.
Look
at
her
,
he
said
to
himself
.
Look
at
her
.
He
looked
at
her
striding
happily
in
the
sun
;
her
khaki
shirt
open
at
the
neck
.
She
walks
like
a
colt
moves
,
he
thought
.
You
do
not
run
onto
something
like
that
.
Such
things
don
’
t
happen
.
Maybe
it
never
did
happen
,
he
thought
.
Maybe
you
dreamed
it
or
made
it
up
and
it
never
did
happen
.
Maybe
it
is
like
the
dreams
you
have
when
some
one
you
have
seen
in
the
cinema
comes
to
your
bed
at
night
and
is
so
kind
and
lovely
.
He
’
d
slept
with
them
all
that
way
when
he
was
asleep
in
bed
.
He
could
remember
Garbo
still
,
and
Harlow
.
Yes
,
Harlow
many
times
.
Maybe
it
was
like
those
dreams
.
But
he
could
still
remember
the
time
Garbo
came
to
his
bed
the
night
before
the
attack
at
Pozoblanco
and
she
was
wearing
a
soft
silky
wool
sweater
when
he
put
his
arm
around
her
and
when
she
leaned
forward
her
hair
swept
forward
and
over
his
face
and
she
said
why
had
he
never
told
her
that
he
loved
her
when
she
had
loved
him
all
this
time
?
She
was
not
shy
,
nor
cold
,
nor
distant
.
She
was
just
lovely
to
hold
and
kind
and
lovely
and
like
the
old
days
with
Jack
Gilbert
and
it
was
as
true
as
though
it
happened
and
he
loved
her
much
more
than
Harlow
though
Garbo
was
only
there
once
while
Harlow
—
—
maybe
this
was
like
those
dreams
.
Maybe
it
isn
’
t
too
,
he
said
to
himself
.
Maybe
I
could
reach
over
and
touch
that
Maria
now
,
he
said
to
himself
.
Maybe
you
are
afraid
to
he
said
to
himself
.
Maybe
you
would
find
out
that
it
never
happened
and
it
was
not
true
and
it
was
something
you
made
up
like
those
dreams
about
the
people
of
the
cinema
or
how
all
your
old
girls
come
back
and
sleep
in
that
robe
at
night
on
all
the
bare
floors
,
in
the
straw
of
the
haybarns
,
the
stables
,
the
corrales
and
the
cortijos
,
the
woods
,
the
garages
,
the
trucks
and
all
the
hills
of
Spain
.
They
all
came
to
that
robe
when
he
was
asleep
and
they
were
all
much
nicer
than
they
ever
had
been
in
life
.
Maybe
it
was
like
that
.
Maybe
you
would
be
afraid
to
touch
her
to
see
if
it
was
true
.
Maybe
you
would
,
and
probably
it
is
something
that
you
made
up
or
that
you
dreamed
.
He
took
a
step
across
the
trail
and
put
his
hand
on
the
girl
’
s
arm
.
Under
his
fingers
he
felt
the
smoothness
of
her
arm
in
the
worn
khaki
.
She
looked
at
him
and
smiled
.
"
Hello
,
Maria
,
"
he
said
.
