Once, not long ago, in more difficult times it was necessary for a woman to get over the Spanish border. She was driving fast through France on a hot summer night. She had not slept in a couple of days. The roads were narrow and straight, bordered with plane trees. In the headlights the trees sometimes transformed themselves to seventeenth century courtiers dancing stately minuets. She found herself wishing she lived in more graceful times.
When she came to a small town where the gas station was still open she stopped to refuel. When she asked for the rest room the attendant shrugged and waved vaguely at the bushes. As she crouched in the dark she heard low voices. The cafe next to the gas station was unlit, but at the outdoor tables people were talking softly in the night. She stood a moment near the tables and wondered if a cup of coffee would be possible. She looked at her car, the gas station now closed and dark. No time.
``Coffee?'' a waiter asked. Coffee. A sugar lump on the saucer.
A few cigarettes glowed red at the tables in the warm night. Who were these people? Why did they sit in darkness? To save electricity? To avoid notice?
They murmured quiet greetings as she drank her coffee. Headlights flickered in the plane leaves. She sat very still. Two cars with Paris plates rolled through the dark town. Seventy kilometers to the border and now they were ahead of her.
She approached two men who sat smoking in the darkness.
``I need help,'' she said. ``I must get to the border. I can't be seen. An inheritance thing.''
Cigarettes flared. Silence.
``We know who you are,'' one said.
How could they?
``Follow,'' a cigarette said.
Through gates and fields and rock strewn mountain roads, by the light of the stars she followed the old Citroen. Before dawn they left her on a paved Spanish road. Handshakes. Farewells.
She started down the mountain road. When she turned a corner there was a road block. Her heart sank. So. Deceived. They pulled her from the car and searched her. They ripped through her car and emptied her suitcase. They huddled in their cars and talked on their radios. Then they stamped and handed back her papers and apologized.
``The Basques,'' they said, ``have something planned.''
``I know nothing of the Basques,'' she said, ``I must get to San Sebastian. An inheritance problem.''
They gave her most careful directions. Smiling she drove on to Pamplona.