3 Portugal July 20 Up a steep hill in ancient Santo Alvaro, Bernie Rodgers licked his dry lips and adjusted his threadbare beret to block the hot sun. Dressed shabbily in torn dungarees and dirty boots, he led an old horse and older cart with a poor family in it. Six nuns followed on foot, their cornettes starched white wings catching the slight breeze, hoping for flight. Thin, his beard thick and itchy, Bernie was hungry and tired after his long trip and yawned accordingly. His repast three nights before included fresh fish, fig tart, and some of the best red wine hed ever had. Ecstasy. Now he wanted a repeat performance after only meager oatmeal that morning. Dried dates and water only made him hungrier. Two frail, aged women passed his group going downhill with market baskets; they talked of their worthless husbands, the solstice, the price of tomatoes, and the war in Africa which they claimed sent up much more dust in the Sirocco wind. Bernie only understood a local word or two here and there. He doffed his wool saucer with respect. A whining Alfa Romeo coupe, dark red and shiny, its Milan fiery dragon logo polished to perfection, passed them going downhill in first gear. The posh, spectacled man at the wheel looked satisfied, well fed, fat. He had departed from the fourteenth century monastery at the top of the hill where an older model Rolls Royce sedan was parked behind the driveway gate like a rare caged animal. It seemed an odd pairing, sitting next to a monks humble horse-drawn wagon. Bernie put hands to hips as the red car purred out of sight downhill. He thought of the plentiful Standard Oil that was being shipped in from America and sold illegally to the Axis powers by the Portuguese merchants and grew a smile. An 8C Alfa, eh? Fast and thirsty. Keep up the straw man deals. And my stocks will rise and rise. 0 que, Senior? asked the grey-haired mother, feeding her children small pieces of blood orange. Bernie spoke the native tongue as best he could. Hmm? Oh-h-h, just that