“In the pig’s asshole,” Thomas Hudson said.
“What’s the matter. Was my Latin faulty?”
“I wouldn’t know, Ignacio.”
“But your Latin was excellent. I know from people who were at school with you.”
“My Latin is very beat up,” Thomas Hudson said. “Along with my Greek, my English, my head, and my heart. All I know how to speak now is frozen daiquiri. ¿Tú hablas frozen daiquiri tú?”
“I think we might show a little more respect to Tom.”
“Tom was a pretty good joker.”
“He certainly was. He had one of the finest and most delicate senses of humor I’ve ever known. And he was one of the best-looking boys and with the most beautiful manners. And a damned fine athlete. He was tops as an athlete.”
“That’s right. He threw the discus 142 feet. He played fullback on offense and left tackle on defense. He played a good game of tennis and he was a first-rate wing shot and a good fly fisherman.”
“He was a splendid athlete and a fine sportsman. I think of him as one of the very finest.”
“There’s only one thing really wrong with him.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s dead.”
“Now don’t be morbid, Tommy. You must think of Tom as he was. Of his gaiety and his radiance and his wonderful promise. There’s no sense being morbid.”
“None at all,” Thomas Hudson said. “Let’s not be morbid.”
“I’m glad you agree. It’s been splendid to have a chance to talk about him. It’s been terrible to have the news. But I know you will bear up just as I will, even though it is a thousand times worse for you being his father. What was he flying?”
“Spitfires.”
“Spitties. I shall think of him then in a Spitty.”
“That’s a lot of bother to go to.”
“No, no it isn’t. I’ve seen them in the cinema. I’ve several books on the RAF and we get the publications of the British Information Bureau. They have excellent stuff, you know. I know exactly how he would have looked. Probably wearing one of those Mae Wests and with his chute and his flying togs and his big boots. I can picture him exactly. Now I have to be getting home to lunch. Will you come with me? I know Lutecia would love to have you.”
“No. I have to meet a man here. Thanks very much.”
“Goodbye, old boy,” Ignacio Natera Revello said. “I know you’ll take this thing the way you should.”
“You were kind to help me.”
“No, I wasn’t kind at all. I loved Tom. As you did. As we all did.”
“Thanks for all the drinks.”
“I’ll get them back from you another day.”
He went out. From beyond him, down the bar, one of the men from the boat moved up to Hudson. He was a dark boy, with short, clipped, curly black hair, and a left eye that had a slightly droopy lid; the eye was artificial but this did not show since the government had presented him with four different eyes, bloodshot, slightly bloodshot, almost clear, and clear. He was wearing slightly bloodshot, and he was already a little drunk.
“Hi, Tom. When did you get in town?”
“Yesterday,” then speaking slowly and almost without moving his lips, “Take it easy. Don’t be a fucking comedian.”
“I’m not. I’m just getting drunk. They cut me open they find security written on my liver. I’m the security king. You know that. Listen, Tom, I was standing up next to the phony Englishman and I couldn’t help but hear. Did your boy Tommy get killed?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh shit,” the boy said. “Oh shit.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Of course not. But when did you hear?”
“Before the last trip.”
“Oh shit.”
“What are you doing today?”
“I’m going to eat over at the Basque Bar with a couple of characters and then we’re all going to get laid.”
“Where are you going to have lunch tomorrow?”
“At the Basque Bar.”
“Ask Paco to call me up from lunch tomorrow, will you?”
“Sure. Out at the house?”
“Yes. At the house.”
“Do you want to come around with us and get laid? We’re going up to Henry’s Sin House?”