Under the Volcano - Malcolm Lowry [44]
"And you!"
He began to button his shirt, which was open to the waist, revealing, above the two belts, the skin more black than brown with sun; he patted the bandolier below his lower belt, which slanted diagonally to the holster resting on his hip-bone and attached to his right leg by a flat leather thong, patted the thong (he was secretly enormously proud of his whole outfit), then the breast pocket of his shirt, where he found a loose rolled cigarette he was lighting when Yvonne said:
"What's this, the new message from Garcia?"
"The C.T.M." Hugh glanced over his shoulder at his cable, "the Confederation of Mexican Workers, have sent a petition. They object to certain Teutonic huggermugger in this state. As I see it, they are right to object. Hugh gazed about the garden; where was Geoff? Why was she here? She is too casual. Are they not separated or divorced after all? What is the point? Yvonne handed back the cable and Hugh slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. "That," he said, climbing into it, since they were now standing in the shade, "is the last cable I send the Globe."
"So Geoffrey--" Yvonne stared at him: she pulled the jacket down at the back (knowing it Geoff's), the sleeves were too short: her eyes seemed hurt and unhappy, but vaguely amused: her expression as she went on paring blossoms managed to be both speculative and indifferent; she asked: "What's all this I hear about you travelling on a cattle truck?" "I entered Mexico disguised as a cow so they'd think I was a Texan at the border and I wouldn't have to pay any head tax. Or worse," Hugh said, "England being persona non grata here, so to speak, after Cardenas's oil shindig. Morally of course we're at war with Mexico, in case you didn't know--where's our ruddy monarch?"
"--Geoffrey's asleep," Yvonne said, not meaning plastered by any chance, Hugh thought. "But doesn't your paper take care of those things?"
"Well. It's muy complicado... I'd sent my resignation in to the Globe from the States but they hadn't replied--here, let me do that--"
Yvonne was trying to thrust back a stubborn branch of bougainvillea blocking some steps he hadn't noticed before. "I take it you heard we were in Quauhnahuac?" "I'd discovered I might kill several birds with one stone by coming to Mexico... Of course it was a surprise you weren't here--"
" Isn't the garden a wreck ?" Yvonne said suddenly.
"It looks quite beautiful to me, considering Geoffrey hasn't had a gardener for so long." Hugh had mastered the branch--they are losing the Battle of the Ebro because I did that--and there were the steps; Yvonne grimaced, moving down them, and halted near the bottom to inspect an oleander that looked reasonably poisonous, and was even still in bloom:
"And your friend, was he a cattleman or disguised as a cow too?"
"A smuggler, I think. Geoff told you about Weber, eh?" Hugh chuckled. "I strongly suspect him of running ammunition. Anyhow I got into an argument with the fellow in a dive in El Paso and it turned out he'd somehow arranged to go as far as Chihuahua by cattle truck, which seemed a good idea, and then fly to Mexico City. Actually we did fly, from some place with a weird name, like Cusihuriachic, arguing all the way down, you know--he was one of these American semi-Fascist blokes, been in the Foreign Legion, God knows what. But Parián was where he really wanted to go so he sat us down conveniently in the field here. It was quite a trip."
"Hugh, how like you!"
Yvonne stood below smiling up at him, hands in the pockets of her slacks, feet wide apart like a boy. Her breasts stood up under her blouse embroidered with birds and flowers and pyramids she had probably bought or brought for Geoff's benefit, and once more Hugh felt the pain in his heart and looked away. "I probably should have shot the bastardo out of hand: only he was a decent sort of swine--"
"You can see Parián from here sometimes."
Hugh was offering the thin air a cigarette. "Isn't it rather indefatigably English or something of Geoff's to be asleep?" He followed Yvonne down the path. "Here, it's my last machine-made one."