Murray Bigelow stepped close to the artist and in a lowered voice said, “Look, Groves, this is getting complicated. Make it easier on all of us by just letting it go. It ain’t worth it, fighting with Kendall. Let it go. Believe me, we know what he’s like when he’s crossed.”
“I’m not afraid of crossing him,” Jordan said.
“You don’t work for him,” the groundsman said.
“C’mon, Jordan,” Eastman said, and he took the artist’s arm. The artist shoved the man’s hand away and gave him a hard look. The others came forward then and surrounded Jordan Groves — Murray Bigelow and Rob Whitney, another of the waiters, a man Jordan’s age who had lost his dairy farm to the bank, and Carl James, a onetime traveling salesman, soft and pink and in his early sixties, and the teenage boy, Kenny Shay, the skinny blond son of the storekeeper Darby Shay. By their squared, open stance and their hands held loosely at their sides they made it clear that they weren’t physically threatening the artist so much as trying merely to herd him peacefully into his car.
Jordan Groves looked from one to the other and said, “Don’t do this, fellows.”
From the veranda Russell Kendall shouted, “I can’t reach the sheriff, so you’ll have to put him off the property!”
Carl James turned and said, “That’s not really our job, Mr. Kendall.”
“If you want a job, you’ll do what I tell you!”
“Be reasonable, Jordan,” Buddy Eastman said. “You ain’t helping anybody this way. We got no choice but to do what he says.”
The artist looked from one to the other — the three waiters, the groundsman, and the teenage boy — and slowly shook his head. “Then I’m afraid you’re going to have to do what he says. If you’re able.”
Buddy Eastman grabbed Jordan by his left wrist and pulled him forward and threw an arm around his neck, and Murray Bigelow and the others jumped in. They wrestled Jordan around to the front of the car, cursing at him, while he cursed back and struggled to get free. He managed a sharp head butt across Bigelow’s face, sending him staggering backward, blood spurting from his nostrils, and he disabled Rob Whitney by kneeing him hard in the groin. Whitney grabbed his crotch, let out a howl of pain, and sat on the ground like a sack of potatoes. The teenage boy, Kenny Shay, let go of Jordan and quickly danced away. Fighting with a very large, very angry grown man was not something the boy was ready for.
That left Buddy Eastman and the remaining waiter, Carl James, to handle Jordan Groves alone, and they were not up to it. The artist got one arm free of Carl James’s grip and shoved the man off him. He threw two quick punches that landed on James’s ear and throat, and the man, nearly falling, backed away, dropped his hands to his sides, and watched from a safe distance. Taller and heavier than his remaining opponent, the artist swung Buddy Eastman around and got his other arm free. He moved into a trained boxer’s stance and said, “I’ll take you apart, Buddy, if I have to!”
Eastman put up his fists for a second, glared at Jordan Groves, then lowered his hands and said, “Groves, for Christ’s sake, get some sense! Go home!”
Both men were panting and red faced. Slowly the artist brought his fists down. He walked around the front of his car and opened the driver’s door. For a few seconds he stood there and looked across the broad, mint green lawn to the clubhouse veranda, crowded now with gaping spectators, and he saw what a foolish, harmful thing he had done to these men, four men and a boy who were his neighbors and whom he regarded as friends. What kind of man was he? A common brawler? Fighting with men who were his friends and neighbors in front of his sons. It was a shameful thing to have done. He blamed the woman, Vanessa Von Heidenstamm, for it. It was her fault. He blamed what she had said to him and what she thought she knew about him. Most of all he blamed her because she had turned her back on him. That was what had made him act this way.
He got into the car and started the motor. Then he drove slowly away from the clubhouse. Halfway down the hill to the main road, he looked into the rearview mirror and saw the ashen faces of his sons in the backseat, both of them sucking furiously on candy. He said, “Let’s go swimming at Wappingers Falls, boys.”
“That’s okay, Papa,” Bear said. “We want to go home now.”
“Home? Okay, we can go swimming at home instead.”
“We don’t need to go swimming or anything, Papa. We just want to go home.”
“What about you, Wolf?”
“Yes. Let’s go home,” Wolf said.
Jordan sighed. “All right.” Then, after a few seconds, he said to his sons, “What happened back there, it was bad, I know. Really bad. I’m sorry you had to see it. But when a person insults you, you can’t put your tail between your legs and act like you deserve it.”
“I know, Papa,” Bear said.
“So I can’t promise you that it won’t happen again.”
“I know, Papa,” the boy repeated.
In the east, the Spanish border crossing was located a few miles northwest of the Catalan village of Portbou. On January 2, the daily train from Paris arrived at the crossing at 4:15 P.M., right on time. It was the winter of 1937, and the train from Paris was not much, a stubby six-wheel locomotive and tender and two rickety passenger cars. The sky above the leaden sea was mottled gray and the air was damp and cold, which was unusual here, even for January. There were only four passengers, four rumpled unshaven men. They stepped from the second car to the platform one after the other and stood there for a moment. One of the men was Spanish looking, in his early thirties, and wore a dark suit and necktie and snap-brim felt fedora. He carried a briefcase and a single suitcase, as if he were returning from a minor diplomatic mission. A second passenger had a shock of pale blond, nearly white hair across his forehead. He was in his midthirties and wore a brown corduroy sports jacket and dark blue shirt open at the throat. He carried a large, much-scuffed leather suitcase. The third man, also in his midthirties, was short and square shouldered and had a pie-shaped face. He wore a trench coat and beret. His baggage consisted of a small black foot-locker, which he handled with difficulty. The fourth passenger was noticeably taller than the others and a few years older. He lugged a large canvas duffel down the steps to the platform. He walked a few steps with it and stopped and swung the duffel onto his shoulder and carried it there. Compared to his three companions, he was a big man, big overall, and though he was as dark as the fellow in the suit and fedora, he did not look Spanish, and unlike the other two would not have passed for European. He wore a short, fleece-lined leather jacket, plaid flannel shirt, and tan slacks, and he was hatless. More so than the others, his relaxed, self-assured demeanor and his clothing marked him as an American or possibly Canadian or Australian. In recent months there had been many such men crossing from France into Spain at this place, and while they stood out they were no longer unexpected. The four walked to the end of the platform where the conductor from the train directed them into the railroad station. The waiting area was empty and there was no one behind the ticket seller’s cage. There was only the conductor and the four passengers. In the near corner of the high-ceilinged room a coal fire in a round-bellied iron stove gave off a faintly sulphurous smell. The conductor led the men to a closed door next to a filigreed tin sign: ADMINISTRATION DES DOUANES. The conductor opened the door to a small, nearly dark room beyond and stepped aside and let them enter. There was a scarred desk at one end of the room. Behind the desk a bleary-eyed customs official with a long, narrow face smoked a cigarette and in the weak light from a single high window read a day-old copy of Le Temps. He slowly folded his newspaper and turned to the four travelers and held out his hand, palm up. One by one, they placed their passports into the customs officer’s hand. All four passports had been issued by the government of the Republic of Spain — three of them by the ministry of foreign affairs in Madrid. These three the customs officer quickly stamped and returned to their owners. The fourth passport, the one belonging to the tall man in the leather jacket, had been issued at the Spanish embassy in Washington, D.C. It had been issued to Juan Fernandez Carreja. The customs officer studied the photograph for a moment and measured it against the face of the traveler. C’est vous, monsieur? The traveler said, Oui. C’est moi. The officer rubbed out his cigarette and lighted a fresh one and continued to examine the passport. Finally, he asked, Quel est votre nom, monsieur? The traveler said, Je m’appelle…Juan…Juan Carreja. The officer pursed his lips and shook his head no. That was not his name. Quickly, the Spaniard in the fedora stepped forward and whispered in the traveler’s ear, and the traveler said, Juan Fernandez. Je m’appelle Juan Fernandez. The officer nodded. Yes, that was indeed the correct name correctly stated. He stamped the passport and gave it back to the man, who slipped it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. The customs officer kept his hand out, palm up. The traveler looked at the man’s hand for a few seconds, then reached down and shook it. Merci beaucoup, monsieur, he said. The customs officer said nothing, just swung his head from side to side, no again, and caught the eye of the Spaniard. Avez-vous quelque chose pour moi, messieurs? the officer asked him. The Spaniard nudged the traveler, who suddenly understood. He reached for his wallet and took out an American twenty-dollar bill. He folded it twice and shook the man’s hand a second time, leaving the bill behind. Then the four carried their luggage outside to the platform. From there they crossed into Spain on foot. They walked along the railroad tracks a distance of one hundred yards to a second platform and train station and customs officer, Spanish this time instead of French. Here they were greeted with broad smiles and embraces by a small party of uniformed military officers and half a dozen civilians.