“Ugly ’sucker tried his best,” wrapping an arm about Bodine’s neck, “but got his warty ol’ ass handed to him tonight, damn ’f he didn’t.”

“Got your ‘snow,’ Major Marvy. Half a bottle shy, sorry, it’s the best I could do.”

“That’s all reet, sailor. I know so many nose habits between here ’n’ Wiesbaden you’d need three ton ’n’ that wouldn’t last the ’suckers a day.” He pays off Bodine, full price, overriding Bodine’s offer to prorate for what’s missing. “Call it a little lagniappe, goodbuddy, that’s Duane Marvy’s way o’ doin’ thangs. Damn that ol’ toad’s got my pecker to feelin’ pretty good now. Damn ’f I wouldn’t like to stick it inside one them little whores. Hey! Boats, where can I find me some pussy around here?”

The sailor shows him how to get downstairs to the whorehouse. They take you into a kind of private steam bath first, you can screw right there if you want, doesn’t cost any extra. The madame—hey! ha, ha! looks like some kind of a dyke with that stogie in her face! raises an eyebrow at Marvy when he tells her he wants a nigger, but thinks she can get hold of one.

“It isn’t the House of All Nations, but we do aim for variety,” running the tortoise end of her cigar-holder down a call-sheet, “Sandra is engaged for the moment. An exhibition. In the meantime, here is our delightful Manuela, to keep you company.”

Manuela is wearing only a high comb and black-lace mantilla, shadow-flowers falling to her hips, a professional smile for the fat American, who is already fumbling with uniform buttons.

“Hubba, hubba! Hey, she’s pretty sunburned herself. Ain’tcha? You got a leetle mulatto in there, a leetle Mayheecano, honey? You sabe español? You sabe fucky-fucky?”

“Si,” deciding tonight to be from the Levante, “I am Spanish. I from Valencia.”

“Va-len-cia-a-a,” sings Major Marvy, to the well-known tune of the same name, “Señorita, fucky-fucky, sucky-sucky sixty-ni-i-ine, la-lalala la-la la-la laaa…” dancing her in a brief two-step about the grave center of the waiting madame.

Manuela doesn’t feel obliged to join in. Valencia was one of the last cities to fall to Franco. She herself is really from the Asturias, which knew him first, felt his cruelty two years before the civil war even began for the rest of Spain. She watches Marvy’s face as he pays Monika, watches him in this primal American act, paying, more deeply himself than when coming, or asleep, or maybe even dying. Marvy isn’t her first, but almost her first, American. The clientele here at Putzi’s is mostly British. During the War—how many camps and cities since her capture in ’38?—it was German. She missed the International Brigades, shut away up in her cold green mountains and fighting hit-and-run long after the Fascists had occupied all the north—missed the flowers, children, kisses, and many tongues of Barcelona, of Valencia where she’s never been, Valencia, this evening’s home… . Ya salimos de España… . Pa’ luchar en otros frentes, ay, Manuela, ay, Manuela… .