"Hemingway, Ernest - The Sun Also Rises" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hemingway Ernest)

"I say. You know this does utilize well."
Bill slapped him on the back.
"Good old Harris."
"I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know."
"Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you."
"I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me."
"Come on and utilize another glass," I said.
"Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all."
"Drink up, Harris."
We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, with his address in London and his club and his business address, and as we got on the bus he handed us each an envelope. I opened mine and there were a dozen flies in it. Harris had tied them himself. He tied all his own flies.
"I say, Harris--" I began.
"No, no!" he said. He was climbing down from the bus. "They're not first-rate flies at all. I only thought if you fished them some time it might remind you of what a good time we had."
The bus started. Harris stood in front of the post-office. He waved. As we started along the road he turned and walked back toward the inn.
"Say, wasn't that Harris nice?" Bill said.
"I think he really did have a good time."
"Harris? You bet he did."
"I wish he'd come into Pamplona."
"He wanted to fish."
"Yes. You couldn't tell how English would mix with each other, anyway."
"I suppose not."
We got into Pamplona late in the afternoon and the bus stopped in front of the Hotel Montoya. Out in the plaza they were stringing electric-light wires to light the plaza for the fiesta. A few kids came up when the bus stopped, and a customs officer for the town made all the people getting down from the bus open their bundles on the sidewalk. We went into the hotel and on the stairs I met Montoya. He shook hands with us, smiling in his embarrassed way.
"Your friends are here," he said.
"Mr. Campbell?"
"Yes. Mr. Cohn and Mr. Campbell and Lady Ashley."
He smiled as though there were something I would hear about.
"When did they get in?"
"Yesterday. I've saved you the rooms you had."
"That's fine. Did you give Mr. Campbell the room on the plaza?"
"Yes. All the rooms we looked at."
"Where are our friends now?"
"I think they went to the pelota."
"And how about the bulls?"
Montoya smiled. "To-night," he said. "To-night at seven o'clock they bring in the Villar bulls, and to-morrow come the Miuras. Do you all go down?"
"Oh, yes. They've never seen a desencajonada."
Montoya put his hand on my shoulder.
"I'll see you there."
He smiled again. He always smiled as though bull-fighting were a very special secret between the two of us; a rather shocking but really very deep secret that we knew about. He always smiled as though there were something lewd about the secret to outsiders, but that it was something that we understood. It would not do to expose it to people who would not understand.
"Your friend, is he aficionado, too?" Montoya smiled at Bill.
"Yes. He came all the way from New York to see the San Fermines."
"Yes?" Montoya politely disbelieved. "But he's not aficionado like you."
He put his hand on my shoulder again embarrassedly.
"Yes," I said. "He's a real aficionado."
"But he's not aficionado like you are."
Aficion means passion. An aficionado is one who is passionate about the bull-fights. All the good bull-fighters stayed at Montoya's hotel; that is, those with aficion stayed there. The commercial bullfighters stayed once, perhaps, and then did not come back. The good ones came each year. In Montoya's room were their photographs. The photographs were dedicated to Juanito Montoya or to his sister. The photographs of bull-fighters Montoya had really believed in were framed. Photographs of bull-fighters who had been without aficion Montoya kept in a drawer of his desk. They often had the most flattering inscriptions. But they did not mean anything. One day Montoya took them all out and dropped them in the waste-basket. He did not want them around.
We often talked about bulls and bull-fighters. I had stopped at the Montoya for several years. We never talked for very long at a time. It was simply the pleasure of discovering what we each felt. Men would come in from distant towns and before they left Pamplona stop and talk for a few minutes with Montoya about bulls. These men were aficionados. Those who were aficionados could always get rooms even when the hotel was full. Montoya introduced me to some of them. They were always very polite at first, and it amused them very much that I should be an American. Somehow it was taken for granted that an American could not have aficion. He might simulate it or confuse it with excitement, but he could not really have it. When they saw that I had aficion, and there was no password, no set questions that could bring it out, rather it was a sort of oral spiritual examination with the questions always a little on the defensive and never apparent, there was this same embarrassed putting the hand on the shoulder, or a "Buen hombre." But nearly always there was the actual touching. It seemed as though they wanted to touch you to make it certain.
Montoya could forgive anything of a bull-fighter who had aficion. He could forgive attacks of nerves, panic, bad unexplainable actions, all sorts of lapses. For one who had aficion he could forgive anything. At once he forgave me all my friends. Without his ever saying anything they were simply a little something shameful between us, like the spilling open of the horses in bull-fighting.
Bill had gone up-stairs as we came in, and I found him washing and changing in his room.
"Well," he said, "talk a lot of Spanish?"
"He was telling me about the bulls coming in tonight."
"Let's find the gang and go down."