She didnt say a word until we were through Es Fumeral and then she said suddenly, as if trying to make conversation, This Cova Santa you mentioned. What is it? Another village?
I shook my head. Some underground caverns. A big tourist attraction. The mugs roll up by the bus load during the season to see the stalactites by electric light. Then theyre invited to take part in a barbecue, for which theyve already paid handsomely. Roast sucking pig and plenty of cheap wine. And I mustnt forget the exhibition of folk dancing in national costume. Theyll even allow you to take part. A wonderful chance to experience something of the simple joys of peasant life.
She turned to look at me and I kept my eyes on the road. You hate life then, Mr Nelson, or just people?
I was angry, touched on the raw, I suppose, and showed it. What in the hell is this supposed to be - confession? Three Hail Marys, two Our Fathers and be a good boy in future.
She turned to look at me, no anger in her at all, only a slight frown of enquiry and then she sighed, the breath going out of her in a dying fall.
Ah, I see what it is. Now I see. It is only yourself you hate. Now why should that be?
But now we were close to the dangerous edge of things - too close for comfort.
I said warmly. Ill go to hell in my own way, Sister, like all men. Lets leave it at that.
I put my foot down hard and took the jeep away at the kind of speed which made any further conversation impossible.
About a mile up the Cova Santa road and still following Pepes instructions I turned left into a cart track and climbed into the hills.
On the lower slopes there was a farm or two, terraces of almonds and wheat still in its young growth, but we climbed higher into a wilder terrain of jagged peaks and narrow, tortuous ravines, stunted pines carpeting the slopes.