"Have you had a scrap with him?"
"He's a beastly fellow. He lives with La Escandalosa, who's an old fox
in truth, sixty years at the very least, and spends everything she
robs with her lovers. But she feeds him and he ought to have some
consideration for her. Nothing doing, though; he's always kicking her
and punching her and pricking her with his dirk, and one time he even
heated an iron and wanted to burn her. If he takes her money, well and
good; but what's the sense of his burning her?"
They reached Casa Blanca, a squalid section consisting of a single
street; Vidal opened a door with his key; he lighted a match and the
pair climbed up to a tiny room with a mattress placed on the bricks.
"You'll have to sleep on the floor," said Vidal. "This bed belongs to
my girl."
"All right."
"Take this for your head," and he threw him a woman's rolled-up skirt.
Manuel pillowed his head against the skirt and fell asleep. He awoke
at dawn. He opened his eyes and sat down upon the floor without a
thought as to where he might be. Through a tiny window came a pale
glow. Vidal, stretched out on the mattress, was snoring; beside him
slept a girl, breathing with her mouth wide open; long streaks of
rouge stained her cheeks.
Manuel felt nauseated by the excess of the previous day's drink; he
was deeply dejected.
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