Savage Coast by Muriel Rukeyser Read Free Book Online Page A

cab.
    â€œWe want no Fascists,” he said.
    â€œNo Fascists,” they agreed, “no money, no law, no generals.”
    â€œAll right,” said Toni, “no Fascists, that’s excellent. But the rest—”
    The driver opened his mouth.
    â€œNever mind,” he said, against his will, clamping his jaw. “We have a United Front.”
    Toni’s voice came up. The Hungarians were trying to pull him away.
    The radio turned on, savage loud, in the café. Shaking the entire street, the music walked through, mastering all motion, Beethoven, the Fifth coming tremendous on the scene.
    An old woman rushed frighteningly through the people attached to the back of the truck. From the wide sprung mouth, the cheeks’ distortion, it was seen that she was screaming. The music would not permit her shriek.
    She laid hold of one of the boys, dragging at his leg, stretching her cheeks again in that blotted-out cry. His face changed; his lips closed twice, mumbling, under the music, as he recognized his mother. No sound came, as if a wind were against them.
    The great music continued.
    The driver bent quietly over his wheel, reached down, and the truck started to roll, spreading the crowd back on itself.
    Dragging, the old woman stumbled a few steps with it, as the boy watched her holding his leg, still astonished, still motionless, unable to be heard.
    The truck picked up speed as it shifted gear; she was forced to let go; it moved toward Barcelona, out of the grasp of the crowd.
    Only the symphony occupied the air.
    Screaming above it, hooting, Helen heard—perhaps! the train whistle! She looked at the mother, to see if it might instead indeed be she; but the cheeks had gone loose, the mouth was shut.
    Helen ran back to the train, her arms heavy with the peaches,the strong music overriding everything but her fear that it had gone. There was no train whistle.
    The train had not moved.
    She climbed into the car.
    THE FAMILY WAS still sitting there, eating the sausage. Helen spilled her armful of peaches into the grandmother’s lap. “A truck has just gone off;” she was out of breath, and, feeling the childishness of language now, the complete childishness, in an undefined situation, waited for them to speak.
    The grandmother was master. “We will finish our meal, and then go into the town,” she stated. She wiped a peach off carefully, the bloom rubbing off, leaving the fruit smooth golden against her black skirt, and gave it to her grandson. He took it, nodding to Helen. His skin was only a shade of pink different, more even. Helen was very moved by the graceful turn of his shoulder, his head, refined and delicate, held precisely on the slim clear-oil neck.
    â€œYour son is very fine-looking,” she admired.
    The man was cutting meat for her. “Is his mother blonde?” she asked. The two heads were dark, of another race. The man nodded.
    â€œYes, very blonde.”
    â€œHow old is the boy? Twelve?”
    Toni was standing at the compartment, a tin cup in his hand, looking at the boy with his purpled, bitter stare. “Give him seven more years, then, and he’ll be old enough to be an Anarchist, and go off and fight.”
    The father looked up at him. “He could be worse,” he answered, the distinction and loyalty coming out in his words.
    A boy carrying a large wicker basket of bread came down the train, calling his sales.
    â€œGo after him, go,” said the father pushing his son with a little gruff gesture, poking him between the delicate shoulder-blades,sending him after bread. The son turned down the aisle without a word.
    â€œAre they going to war?” asked the old grandmother. She did not look at Toni, but offered almonds from a square of paper outstretched. “I cannot hear any guns,” she said. “Is there fighting near here?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know; nobody says anything definite. Come out, Helen, the team sent