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Rien! ” It is nothing, he said, hands flying up. We lashed our gear then. He watched. I
mounted the Lightning Rocket, turned the key and kicked it over. As the engine revved, the
old man tilted an ear down as though to hear what it had to tell him.
Head cocked then like a curious pup's, the old man's eyes opened big when I revved again,
dismounted and held a hand up, an invitation. He would not move. I nodded and said, “ Oui.
He nodded too but stood still, listening.
Oui oui, ” he said at last, moving smoothly, one leg over, two hands on, settling in, revving
and feeling the time between himself and the machine.
He squeezed the clutch lever without looking at it, found first gear and eased into it, accel-
erating up the street, slowly at first. When the engine roared the old man did not hesitate but
slipped into second easy as two follows one, wound it out and double clutched to third. Doing
nearly sixty approaching the corner, he double clutched back to second and leaned into the
corner till the foot peg shot sparks off the pavement. We couldn't see him then but heard him
come out of the turn winding up, shifting, winding up, shifting, winding up and away.
How could we not love Biarritz? It was a love meant to last. With warm hearts we me-
andered through town to the border and into Spain, San Sebastian, where tapas were inven-
ted, where we stopped at the first bar to find the counter lined with big, fat sardines, little cups
of olives, fried squids, salamis, crackers, peppers, the works, for a penny a round. I was set, but
John didn't like that weird shit, and Bruno was itching for something a bit more third world,
where less money could generate more volume.
So we rode down to the beach promenade, because Bruno knew San Sebastian. He told
us to park and wait. Then he waited while we found our money and gave him some, not too
much, about three dollars. John looked wary. I felt the same, but Bruno shrugged and shook
his head, like we were fucked up for thinking that, but if we wanted to choose an outlook on
the negative side of potential rather than on a friendship secured, that would be our doing,
not his, and he left.
He came back in ten minutes with four baguettes, a pound of cheese, a few bottles of
wine—at seven cents (7¢) each—another can of sauerkraut and a few pounds of lunch meat.
Oh, and some sugar sprinkled donut holes for dessert. He still had last night's jar of mustard
in his pack, hardly half empty. Oh, and he had a guy in tow who he met at the market—not to
worry; the guy had chipped in a dollar. The guy was David Rayall, my college classmate, the
friend I'd left home with long ago. It was like that back then.
Bruno spread the stuff out on a bench, on the wrapping paper it came in, and then dove
in, building a sandwich that could gag a horse. As we came to learn, the horse comprising
the lunchmeat may have gagged on just such a sandwich. But while we with $5 a day and
whatever else we might need in case of emergency hung back, he of the caput fortunes ate with
a vengeance. Bruno drank wine from the bottle like it was milk, glug, glug, glug, and in mere
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