Bunuel_Luis_My_Last_Breath

play "The Star-Spangled Banner." Everyone rose, of course-exceptme. Afterwards, and with excessive fanfare, they played the "Marseillaise";after the first two measures, I leaned back and put my feetup on the table. At that point, a young man walked over and toldme in no uncertain terms that my behavior was unconscionable, towhich I replied that nothing was more unconscionable than nationalanthems. We traded insults for a while until he marched off in ahuff, deeply offended.Half an hour later he was back and full of apologies, but, obstinateas ever, I refused to shake his outstretched hand. (When I arrived inParis, I proudly told my story to my surrealist friends; today, itseems embarrassingly childish, of courseÑalthoug the surrealistsloved it.)During the crossing, I also had an odd "sentimental adventure,"once again perfectly chaste (long, long walks on the deck), with aneighteen-year-old American girl who'd decided she'd fallen in lovewith me. She was setting out alone on the standard European tour,but doubtless she came from a family of millionaires, since a Rollsand chauffeur were waiting for her at the pier. The first day out, shetook me to her cabin to show me a picture of a handsome youngman in a gold frame."That's my fiance," she informed me. "We're going to get marriedwhen I get back."Three days later, before we left the ship, I went to her cabinagain and saw that the picture had been torn to shreds."It's your fault," she said simply.I said nothing, not wanting to denigrate the frivolous fantasy ofa too-slim American girl on her first trip to Europe. (Needless tosay, once she drove off in her Rolls, I never saw her again.)By the time I arrived in Paris and was reunited with Jeanne, Ididn't have a penny to my name. Her family lent me enough moneyto allow me to return to Spain, and I arrived in Madrid in April1930.