There is a scene in Kazan’s Viva Zapata where a close friend of Zapata’s, Brando’s, hasbeen condemned for conspiring with the federales. They are dangerous and know no bounds. He dogged my every step. Everything, Cramden included, goes down in a wide swath of noise and moving parts.
Getting into Tijuana, unlike the crossover to Hell, involves no Stygian water-ride, and if one ofthe border guards be named Charon, at least he has had the good sense to have it Anglicized. I have a theory, of course. There was a ball of pain in the bottom of mylungs, like something inside breathing, a second heart. And after Blood had eaten his fill, I carried him to the air-duct a mile away, and we spent thenight inside on a little ledge.
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