Charlie Martz and Other Stories by Elmore Leonard Page B

every day the old man . . .” The American grinned. “Every day he wears this sort of blue-on-blue dressing gown that reaches almost to the ground. He lies there in the sun and after a while he gets up and says, very, very slowly, ‘I believe I shall make my way down to the sea.’” The American shook his head, grinning his sincere grin. “Then he comes up, changes under the dressing gown and spends the rest of the morning scraping the tar off his feet.”
    â€œFrom the oil tankers,” Paco said.
    â€œI’m the only one using the pool.”
    â€œI suppose they like the salt water.”
    â€œDo you like it better?”
    â€œOh, I don’t swim very much.”
    â€œWorking all day.” The American nodded understandingly, looking away for a moment, then back to Paco. “Is Torremolinos your home?”
    â€œNerja.”
    â€œNerja. I understand it’s beautiful up there. The caves and all.”
    â€œVery beautiful,” Paco said.
    â€œBut you live in Torremolinos now.”
    â€œYes, I have a room here.”
    â€œYou go to school?”
    â€œDo I go now?”
    â€œI mean did you?”
    â€œFor two years in Sevilla.”
    â€œI thought so. You speak very good English. Excellent.”
    â€œI think I learn most of my English in Madrid.”
    â€œWonderful city.”
    â€œI was in a hotel there three years.”
    â€œHow old are you now? If you don’t mind my asking.”
    â€œTwenty-four.”
    â€œI see.”
    What is there to see? Paco thought. He watched the American put a cigarette to his mouth; a Reyno. Paco slipped his lighter from a side pocket and flicked it lit as he reached across the counter.
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œNada. ”
    He waited while the American looked across the lobby to the wrought iron clock against the white wall. He checked his watch with the clock.
    â€œAlmost dinnertime.” The American’s grin formed again. It came and went, as if actuated by a switch.
    â€œI don’t know if I’ll ever get used to eating so late. You always eat this late? I mean does every body?”
    â€œNine, or ten perhaps.”
    â€œThe people in the villages too?”
    â€œPerhaps a little earlier.”
    â€œThey work hard and get hungry, I guess.”
    â€œOr there’s nothing to do so they eat and go to bed.”
    The American took time to grin before looking at his watch. “It’s been nice talking to you, but we’re supposed to meet the Grahams—the English couple from London?—in the lounge.”
    Paco smiled politely. “Enjoy yourselves.” To tell him the Grahams had not yet returned from Tangiers would only lead to more conversation.
    â€œThank you. I mean, gracias .”
    Paco stood motionless with his hands on the edge of the counter waiting for the American to cross the lobby. “He did see,” Paco said, his tone becoming very serious, “you don’t learn about Spain at the Castellana Hilton and taking one-day trips to Toledo and Escorial and hurrying back to Madrid to eat in the good restaurants.”
    â€œNo,” the manager said. “You come to Torremolinos.”
    â€œYou learn about a country,” Paco went on, “by living in one place and talking to the people.”
    â€œAh, the people,” the manager said. “Of course.”
    â€œHe feels the Spanish people are very warm and sincere.”
    â€œUnlike the French.”
    â€œHe feels the Spanish people have dignity.”
    â€œBut think too much about death.”
    â€œHe wonders about that.”
    â€œThey must all read the same book.”
    â€œHe feels the Spanish people have remarkable poise.”
    â€œIn the face of appalling poverty.”
    â€œHe would like to live here.”
    â€œWith many servants,” the manager said.
    â€œHe feels the ideal would be to have the temperament of the Spanish and the material