Текст книги "The Second Son"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Hoffner took a drink. “So you just asked for one and they gave it to you?”

Mueller stared ahead, his smile at once coy and obvious. “Some of us didn’t have to ask.” The road straightened, and Mueller pressed down on the accelerator.

It was nearly an hour before they turned in from the coast, a dirt path that ran through thick grassland dotted with carob, olive, and fig trees. They were heading up toward Montjuic-Jew Mountain, according to Mueller-one of those ancient hills on which ancient cities plant themselves. Mueller had promised a fortress at the top that had seen ancient Romans or Muslims or whichever invading conqueror the Catalans had so bravely sent back into the sea, time and time again. Hoffner had always thought cities like this too comfortable in their pasts to make any present-day swagger seem more than a borrowed vanity: the fading libertine-wrinkled, bronzed, and smelling of a too-sweet cologne-drawing strength only from memory.

And yet it wasn’t all that long ago that the hill had known sheep and cows and goats and, somewhere off in the distance, those long stalks of yellow wheat that a woman could thresh and grind into whatever might keep a family alive: twelve hundred years of tradition rooted out by a city once again desperate to move beyond itself. The world had come to Barcelona in 1929, and sheep and cows and goats were not what the world was meant to see. Instead, it was a mechanical fountain that swayed under the lights; a grand palace to rival any of the most lavish in Europe; pavilions to tease with tastes of Galicia, Valencia, and Andalucia; and views of the city to make even the worst kind of frippery seem worthwhile.

The World’s Fair had transformed Montjuic, or at least that part of the hill which faced the city. It was now a glowing tribute to Barcelona’s past, present, and future. For Hoffner, though-coming up on it from the backside-it was little more than a rise of brush and thick trees, with a few tracks leading nowhere.

“Bit of a risk, leaving the car up here,” Mueller said, as he downshifted and willed the old sedan up the slope. They were well into the tree cover now, grateful for a respite from the sun. “We’ll do a little painting before we go. Find it a good spot.”

It was impossible to mount Montjuic head on. Instead, they lumbered up one of the slaloming paths until, about fifty meters from the top, they stopped. Mueller pulled up hard on the hand brake before stepping out to find a few rocks. He wedged a handful behind each of the wheels and then headed back to the boot.

Hoffner was lighting a cigarette as he gazed up the hill.

“Smells like sugared beets,” he said.

“Does it?” Mueller found a small jar of something and placed it on the fender. He went back to his rummaging.

Hoffner said, “At least the sun’s not making it through here.”

“At least.” Mueller reappeared with a small paintbrush and limped around to the side of the car.

“The path’s still good,” said Hoffner. “We could take it up a bit farther.”

“We could.” Mueller knelt down. “If you like cracked axles and blown tires. We’d also hit the cliff. At least that would make it easier coming down.”

Mueller unscrewed the top of the jar. Mixing the paint with the brush, he began to slather the doors in some sort of design. Hoffner tried to decipher it upside down, but the dripping made that impossible. He got out on the driver’s side and stepped around the car.

It was letters: CNT-FAI.

“Anarchist trade union,” Mueller said, admiring his work. “Leave it to the Spanish to unionize the one group bent on tearing the whole works down. ‘Don’t like anything that smacks of organization? Come, join our organization…’ ” He took some water from the canteen and washed off the brush. “Must have a hell of a time collecting dues.”

When he had everything back in the boot, Mueller closed it and started up the hill. Hoffner had no choice but to grab the rucksack and follow.

“So you just leave it there?” Hoffner said, doing what he could to adjust the ropes on his shoulders. “No one touches it?”

Mueller nodded without turning. Even with the limp he was putting distance between them.

Hoffner said, “A few letters on the side and everything’s fine?”

Again Muller nodded.

When Hoffner began to feel it in his legs, he said, “So why didn’t we paint it in the first place, avoid the hill altogether, and just drive into town?”

Mueller continued to walk. “Right foot giving you a little trouble, Nikolai? Tough going on the rocks and roots?”

“I was just asking.”

Mueller slowed, then stopped. He looked up as if he were thinking something through. Hoffner took the opportunity to stop as well. “Why didn’t we drive into town?” Mueller said. “What a good question.” He looked back at Hoffner. “You’d think a cripple would be smarter than that.”

Hoffner started walking again. “Fine. There’s a reason. Just walk.”

Mueller let Hoffner pass him before saying, “You don’t want to be driving a car into Barcelona these days, Nikolai. They’ll either take it and burn it or pull you out so they can beat you before they take it and burn it.”

“And they do this to people who have those mysterious pieces of paper?”

“A car requires a different piece of paper,” Mueller said, as he started up the hill again. “So we walk.”

A small falcon hovered high on the wind ahead of them, its head pressed down, before it banked and sped toward the ground.

They were beyond the trees now, almost to the top, where the grade of the hill grew steeper. Off to the right Montjuic was sheer cliff, two hundred meters of rock face to the sea. Hoffner wondered if the bird might somehow misjudge the sudden rise-fail to pull itself up in time-but that would have required a different kind of instinct, a daring built on fear. It was the bird’s effortlessness that saved it from anything human. The wings came within a half meter of the ground and swept up again, with something small and wriggling caught in its talons.

“They like the rocks and the fortress,” Mueller said, as he brought them to the summit. “Kestrels. Don’t know what it is in Spanish.”

“ Cernicalo,” Hoffner said. He had no idea how he remembered it.

Mueller was only mildly impressed. “Smart little birds. Rats never see them coming.”

The fortress spread out along the summit like two cocked arms, with a long stone tower rising from one of the elbows. The surrounding walls were all angles and points, little diamonds poking out to make any kind of frontal assault an impossibility. Hoffner had expected to see more by way of recent damage-bullet holes, walls breached-but for the most part the fortress was perfectly intact. It was also a product of the eighteenth century, with an enormous cannon on a rotating wheel peering out from one of the turrets. Oddly enough, from the look of things, it was completely abandoned. Hoffner had expected at least one rifle-toting caballero to make an appearance, another silent nod at the crumpled paper. Even the bird was eating quietly.

“You’re an idiot, Toby.” Hoffner unloosed the rucksack. He let it fall and followed it to the grass. It was years since he had felt this kind of ache in his legs. “The only Romans who’ve seen this place have come on holiday to take photographs. The big gun might have been the giveaway.”

Mueller snapped his two pincer fingers together: he needed a cigarette. Hoffner tossed over the pack, then the matchbox. Remarkably, Mueller caught them both. “Ancient Romans didn’t have rotating cannons?” said Mueller. He lit up and tossed back the pack. “Really? I’ll have to make a note.” He pocketed the matches. “It’s no tourists these days. Rumor has it they had some Nationalists locked up inside, but then who’d want to make the trek up here to feed them?”

“You’re assuming they were getting fed.”

Mueller took another quick pull on the cigarette and said, “We need to be down the mountain before it gets too hot.”

He stepped over and picked up the rucksack. He spun it onto his back and started to walk. “We need to go.” He then limped off across the grass-sloped trees to one side, fortress to the other-and Hoffner found a moment’s relief in the absurdity of it.

Hoffner forced himself to his feet. “Not sure how much more walking I’ve got in me, Toby.”

Mueller tossed the cigarette to the grass. “Then this is your lucky day.”

* * *

They were bicycles, black, at least ten years old, but with enough leather on the saddles to make them workable. Mueller had them chained to a tree on the far side where the rutted paths, such as they were, led down into the city.

Hoffner stood a few meters behind and above as Mueller pulled open the lock.

“You’re joking,” Hoffner said.

Mueller double-looped the chain under the seat and pulled up the taller of the two bicycles. He stood waiting for Hoffner to take it before pulling up the other. Both had the letters CNT-FAI painted across the handlebars. Hoffner also noticed how the right-hand pedals on both were fitted with a block of some sort to compensate for Mueller’s limp.

“I always keep a spare,” said Mueller. “Told you it was your lucky day.”

Mueller slotted the valise-cum-satchel into the rack and began to limp with the bicycle over to what passed for a path. He was surprisingly agile as he jumped onto the seat and let the slope take him. Hoffner watched as Mueller’s head bobbled with increasing speed-down, around a turn, and gone. Hoffner shouted after him, “You’re a son of a bitch, Toby!” then stepped up, climbed on, and found some speed of his own.

Hoffner had no reason to worry about the oversized pedal. He was simply holding on as best he could, his grip firmly planted on the hand brakes as the wheels seemed to take every root and rock with miraculous finesse. There was a strange familiarity to it, a thousand years of cigarettes and brandy tossed aside by something almost impatient. Hoffner began to smell the rubber on the tires, and gently released the brakes until he found himself letting go completely. He was actually managing the thing: more than managing it, he was gaining on Mueller. Somehow the bumps were a help as well, relieving the strain from the valise in his lower back. Hoffner might even have heard himself laugh.

“Enjoying yourself?” Mueller shouted over his shoulder.

Hoffner hadn’t the courage to answer as the turns came more quickly. It was nearly fifteen minutes of catching his breath until the taste of sugared beets began to recede, the canopy of trees was thinner-then gone-and the path became smooth. The glare from the sun took several seconds to adjust to as Hoffner looked down: to his amazement he was staring at pavement. He looked up again and saw a massive building farther down the slope-domes and steeples tinted by the sun-and, beyond it, the city and its harbor.

Mueller slowed, and Hoffner gently squeezed the brakes. The two were now side by side as they rode.

“Palau Nacional,” Mueller said. “No guns inside so they left it alone. It’ll be the People’s something-or-other by next week. Could be now.”

Hoffner might have been drawn to the sight of its wide fountain, or its endless steps, or its twin pillar gates planted at the far end of the plaza-these, in their perfect symmetry, were meant to hold the eye-but instead he saw only the city stretching out beyond them. It was a sea of white stone and tiled roofs.

“Bring your knees in, Nikolai,” said Mueller. “You’re beginning to look like an old priest.”

Josep Gardenyes

It was another twenty minutes before they came to even ground. Hoffner was grateful for the cramped feel of the side streets. The smells coming from the open doorways might have left the taste of boiling wool in the mouth, but at least the buildings were packed tightly enough together to make direct sunlight rare: six stories on either side, with balconies draped in red and black. His head was throbbing from the heat or thirst or lack of booze-or maybe just the thought of continued exertion-but whatever it was he knew he needed to get off this horrible machine and find something without wheels to sit on.

It didn’t help that at almost every intersection it was a test to see how well he and Mueller could wend their way around the barricades that littered the streets. Most of the sandbag and brick obstructions were unmanned, although there had been one a few blocks back where they were forced to bring out Mueller’s magical piece of paper. Their interrogator had been without a gun, only a sack on a rope over his shoulder and an airman’s cap stitched with the letters FAI along one side. He stood atop a bullet-strafed sandbag in a white shirt-sleeves rolled high and neat to the upper arm-and an elegant pair of pleated dress trousers, his shoes fine if slightly worn. He would have looked the perfect part-cigarette dangling from his lips, a few days’ growth of beard-had he not been, at best, ten years old. Even so, he spoke with an authority that made the boys back on the coast road look like amateurs.

“You know why we must destroy the fascists?” the boy said, as he glanced across the paper. It was unclear whether he knew how to read.

Mueller nodded vigorously and Hoffner did the same.

The boy said, “So that Spain can be free.”

Mueller pulled a wrapped bar of chocolate from his pocket-Hoffner wondered what else might be inside should he go looking for himself-and handed it to the boy.

“ Salud, friend,” Mueller said. “?Viva la Libertad!”

The boy pocketed the chocolate and nodded them along. Half a block later, Mueller pulled a second bar from his pocket and handed it to Hoffner. “You weren’t thinking that was real, were you, Nikolai?”

Hoffner peeled back the wrapping and took a bite. It was good Swiss chocolate. “I’m glad he didn’t have a rifle.”

“He’s got one somewhere. It doesn’t work, but he’s got one.”

“That’s encouraging.” Hoffner handed the bar back and Mueller pocketed it.

“They’re all so damned sure of themselves,” Mueller said, with a tinge of bitterness.

The streets began to grow more peopled. Men and women-all with the red neckerchief-walked in small groups, bags with food, newspapers. They were inside stores or leaning from balconies, conversations and laughter, caps and hats arrayed in the various emblems of their new-won power. It was a city on a Sunday, like any other, except here there had been no prayers to God or hopes of salvation. They had left those behind. And of course the guns-a rifle over a shoulder or a pistol at the waist. They carried them with the same easy certainty one wears a new pair of shoes: moments here and there to recall the novelty, but always that sense of purpose and pride. That these had been used to kill other Spaniards ten days ago hardly seemed to matter. Or perhaps that was what mattered most of all.

Mueller smiled at a girl in a doorway. She smiled back, and Mueller continued to walk. “One day to take the city, and now it’s boys playing at soldier.”

Hoffner was thinking about the chocolate; he could have used another bite. “So you’re telling me that wasn’t a checkpoint back there?”

Mueller laughed quietly. “With a boy standing guard? They may be arrogant, Nikolai, but they’re not stupid.” He spat something to the ground. “Ten days ago-maybe that was the genuine article. Now it’s for a boy to run out when his friends dare him to stop the two foreigners and see if he can get a bit of chocolate. He’s a hero today. When we find a checkpoint, you’ll know. Trust me.”

They had come to the far end of the Conde del Asalto, a narrow strip of road identical to the rest except it marked the edge of Poble Sec, a workers’ district. The Paralelo-a wide avenue that had seen its fair share of the fighting-was a stone’s throw away, and Mueller found a nice big tree to rest the bicycles against.

“You thirsty, Nikolai?” he said, as he pulled the valise out of the rack.

Hoffner leaned his bicycle up as well. “You won’t get the chain around this, you know.”

“I wasn’t planning on trying.”

“So the painted letters manage it again?”

Mueller handed the valise to Hoffner. “No one takes a bicycle, Nikolai. It’s not the way they do things here.”

“But a fifteen-year-old car-”

“A banker or a judge or some old marquesused to drive one of those. Have you ever seen a banker on a bicycle? The letters, they’re just-” Mueller smiled and shrugged.

“They make sure the girls know who you’re fighting for?”

Mueller kept his smile as he led them across the street. “You’ll like this place. Quiet, serene. Tranquilidad.”

On the far corner was a cafe, tables outside, with just enough tree cover to make sitting out worth the heat. A few were occupied, though it was too early for food. Glasses and bottles with something a deep yellow stood on most of them. Two men-one with a nice full mustache, the other trying desperately to grow one-were at one of the back tables, and Mueller headed toward them.

Hoffner said under his breath, “You know them?”

“Everyone knows everyone in Barcelona these days.” Mueller raised a hand and said, “Gabriel,” loudly enough to draw the mustached man’s attention. The man smiled at once and raised his hand as he stood.

“Toby!” he said, as he stepped around the table toward Mueller.

Gabriel was barrel-chested, though not tall, with the thick arms of a man who had spent his life doing someone else’s heavy work. The cheeks were round, the nose pug, and the thick, thick mustache-on closer inspection-had a ruff of tobacco-dyed hair at its center. His lips curled around a cigarette even as he spoke.

“Finally some German reinforcements. You’ve brought-what? – thirty planes, twenty tanks, ten thousand rifles?” He didn’t wait for Mueller to answer before pulling him in for a full embrace. “You smell of sweat and beets.” Gabriel let go. Somehow the cigarette remained fixed on his lip. “You came down from Montjuic, didn’t you? Idiot.” Before Mueller could answer, Gabriel turned back to the table. He motioned for the younger man to come over. “You know him, I’m sure,” he said under his breath. “The mustache is a mistake, but you can’t say anything.”

The younger man was strangely small and with unusually pale features for a Spaniard-light eyes, ginger hair. The hands were also soft and slender. If not for the long narrow nose it would have been hard to place him in this part of the world. There was age in the face that made the patchy stubble above the lip even more of a curiosity. He was called Aurelio, and he shook hands with the kind of firmness of a man one was meant to trust.

“They came down Montjuic,” Gabriel said to him. “On bicycles. In this heat.”

“Good tough Germans,” said the little man, “but not terribly bright.” He smiled and led them back to the table. “We’ll need a drink.”

Hoffner had tried Coca-Cola-once. It had been enough. Gabriel drank nothing else. Cafe Tranquilidad had somehow kept a healthy stash of it. Anarchists, it turned out, liked their American fizzy drinks. Luckily, Aurelio preferred wine.

The little man refilled the empties and set the wine bottle back on the table. “You don’t sound like a socialist, Nikolai, let alone an anarchist.”

They had been through the antifascist arguments-intricate explanations of the cause and its meaning and its essentialness-an animated tour de force that had brought Gabriel’s cigarette out of his mouth for a single moment as he had stabbed at the air with it. Queipo de Llano. Son of a bitch.

Hoffner said, “It’s hard not to be one these days, isn’t it?”

Aurelio’s smile became a quiet laugh, and he brought his glass to his mouth. “Sitting with two anarchists in the middle of Barcelona,” he said. “Each with a pistol on his belt. Yes, I’d say you’re right.” He took a sip. “Did he tell you it was Jew Mountain?”

Hoffner was holding his glass on the table, staring at it. It took him a moment to answer. “Pardon?”

“Montjuic,” said Aurelio. “Did Toby tell you it was called Jew Mountain?” Hoffner had no reason not to nod, and Aurelio said, “Are you a Jew?”

The question caught Hoffner off guard. He waited, then picked up his glass. “Odd question from a godless Spaniard. Or are you trying to make me feel more at home?” He took a drink.

“Don’t worry. It’s not Berlin. No, I was just wondering if he told you because he thought it would make you feel more-I don’t know-connected. Toby has that sort of sentimentality.”

Mueller was finishing off his second glass of wine. He shook his head and swallowed. “The Spaniard accusing the German of sentimentality. That’s rich.”

Hoffner said, “Half-Jew-my mother-so, yes-in Berlin. I didn’t think it mattered here.”

“It doesn’t,” Aurelio said. “But if it did-matter to you, that is-I’d hate to be the one to disappoint. It’s Jupiter Mountain, not Jew. Common mistake. Toby knows it, I think.”

Hoffner looked across at Mueller, who shrugged, and Hoffner said, “Then he’d know it wouldn’t make any difference to me, one way or the other.”

Aurelio glanced at Gabriel and tossed back the rest of his drink. He stared into the empty and said, “Then why are you here?” It was another few moments before he looked directly at Hoffner. The gaze was hard, and Hoffner suddenly felt very much aware of the pistol that was hanging somewhere off the little man’s belt.

Hoffner finished his drink. He placed the glass by the bottle and nodded as if in agreement. “I see. No anarchist, no socialist, no angry Jew. So what am I doing in Barcelona?”

Gabriel said, “It’s a curious place to be these days otherwise.” He looked over at Mueller. “Not that we don’t trust you, Toby, but-” The Spanish shrug had so much more to do with the chin and the tilt of the head than the German.

There was a heaviness in the silence that followed. It lent a truth to what Hoffner said. “I’m looking for someone.”

Aurelio lapped at the last of his glass. “Better that than being looked for, I suppose.”

Gabriel opened a third bottle of the Coca-Cola, and said, “You’re a policeman?”

Again Hoffner looked across at Mueller. There was nothing there. Hoffner picked up the bottle of wine. “Was. Yes.”

“The shoes,” said Gabriel. “I imagine that’s universal.”

“I imagine it is.” Hoffner poured himself another.

“The Germans who’ve come have all been wild eyes and young or dripping with nostalgia. I’m sure you’d recognize them.” He drank. “The first are useless. They think we’ll take on Hitler once we’re through here, the great International rising again. They don’t know Spain at all, do they?” He began to play with the bottle cap. “The second-also useless, but with years and years of dreamed-up arrogance to stand on. They’ve been through it before, they understand how to organize. That was quite a success all those years ago, your little Rosa Luxemburg and her band. They took Berlin for-what? – ten minutes? But then these Germans see it differently.

“Luckily,” he said, tossing the cap into a bucket on the floor, “they’re all happy to kill fascists, so we drink with them, and listen to their empty tales of struggle-workers of the world with their pretty houses and gardens and weekends by the sea-and know they haven’t the slightest idea of what it is to live every day with a boot clamped down on a throat.” Gabriel looked directly at him, and Hoffner wondered where the amiable man of only minutes ago had gone. “You seem to be neither, so you can understand our interest.”

Hoffner thought about drinking the wine. For some reason, though, he was wanting water. He looked around for a waiter.

“My son’s the Jew,” he said. The waiter was nowhere to be found. “We’ve worked it in reverse-half to full. He came to film the games, and he went missing.” Hoffner looked back at the table and found a canteen in front of him.

“The waiter,” Aurelio said. “He’ll expect you to have brought your own. It’s a miracle they had the wine.”

Hoffner nodded his thanks and drank.

“My son could be one of your young Germans,” he said, “but I doubt it.” Hoffner screwed the top on and handed it to Aurelio. “Not that I care as long as I get him out of here.”

Gabriel said, “So an old German with no politics, and a young Jew with no sense. It’s a compelling story.”

“You seem overly concerned in a city draped in red.”

“Euphoria’s a nice thing for a day or two, but I’m not so convinced this is as finished as everyone seems to say.”

“So, a Spaniard with sense.”

The round cheeks squeezed up and around the eyes, forming a smile. “I can guarantee you Toby’s thinking the same thing.”

Mueller had been running one of his pincer fingers along the table’s edge, staring at it as it went back and forth.

Gabriel said, “He knows better than to trust any of this good fortune, don’t you, Toby?”

Mueller looked up. He bobbed an indifferent nod.

Gabriel said, “It’s because you’re a criminal, isn’t it, and criminals always know better.”

Mueller said, “Is he around today?”

“Tell me, Toby,” said Gabriel, “do you think the fascist generals are done for? Are we anarchists as unstoppable as we think we are?”

It was clear Mueller was uncomfortable with this, and not because he was any less savvy than the rest. He just didn’t like the distraction. “Is he in the back?” he asked.

Gabriel said, “Toby can tell you who’s the best man to get a voucher from, where you can still find a bit of ammunition, and how to get a truckload of whiskey down the coast. He’s always been good with those sorts of things.” His cigarette had lost its flame; even so, it stayed on his lip as he continued. “You remember that banker we pulled from his car-paying off scabs to work during one of the general strikes? What was that-’thirty, ’thirty-one? We needed to know which gas station he used on Fridays. Toby figured it out. That’s why he got to keep the car.” Gabriel laughed-it was tobacco-laced, and he pulled the dead cigarette from his mouth. A fresh one was in its place and lit within seconds. “What Toby won’t do is look into the future. I haven’t decided which I admire most. Yes, he’s in the back. I wouldn’t take too long with it.”

Mueller stood and reached into his pocket. Hoffner stood as well, and Mueller placed two pairs of women’s nylons on the table.

“We ask for guns and you bring us this,” Gabriel said. “You’re a good man, Toby. Maybe you canlook into the future.”

Mueller said, “It’ll take more than a pair of these for the two of you to catch a girl. They’re all wearing trousers these days, anyway.”

Aurelio reached over for his and stuffed it in his pocket. “Every little bit helps.”

Mueller squeezed a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Live to enjoy this.” He nodded at Hoffner to follow him.

Hoffner stepped out. “Good luck with your boy,” Gabriel said.

Hoffner picked up the valise and satchel. “Good luck with your war.” He turned and began to weave his way through the chairs toward the cafe door.

Josep Gardenyes-no one ever remembered his real name-sat at a table in the back against a wall and ate hungrily from a bowl. It looked like soup, but who would have been crazy enough to eat soup in this weather, except maybe Josep Gardenyes, whose real name no one could ever remember.

Hoffner stopped and set his bags by the bar while Mueller made his way between the empty tables. This time he had been told to stay back. Mueller pulled up, and Hoffner watched as the two men spoke.

Gardenyes was a weathered forty and not one for embraces or warm smiles. His thin glance at the bar, though brief, was enough to make clear how beautifully Gabriel and Aurelio had played it: despite himself, Gardenyes needed protecting. He might have resented the caution but he accepted the loyalty.

Mueller nodded to Hoffner, and Gardenyes pushed the bowl to the edge of the table. This was as much of an invitation as he was likely to give. Hoffner went over and pulled back a chair.

Gardenyes said, “For a policeman you have interesting friends.”

Whether it had been Mueller or the shoes, Hoffner decided on a lazy smile. “Former policeman,” he said.

“I don’t think there is such a thing.” Gardenyes was now speaking Catalan.

“You do find them from time to time,” Hoffner answered in kind. He sat.

A faint light of respect played in Gardenyes’s eyes. “A German bull-ex bull-with Catalan. I’m even more concerned.” The eyes began to show a smile.

“I spent time here as a boy,” said Hoffner. “Not that difficult to pick it up.” He looked into the bowl and found a few empty mussel shells, the remains of an overcooked potato, and the skin from a fish resting high on the rim. “Were the prawns fresh?” he said, as he picked up the potato and squeezed it in his fingers.

The smile reached Gardenyes’s lips. “I can have them make you a plate.”

Hoffner nodded and dropped the potato back in. He picked up a knife and continued to sort through the food. He said, “You like suquet, Toby?”

Mueller had found two more glasses and was pouring the wine. “Fish stew? Fine by me as long as they don’t put beef in it.” He set the bottle down. “No beef this time. That was disgusting.”

Hoffner was still with the knife, propping up and examining the underside of the skin, when Gardenyes said, “You spent time north of here?”

“Yes,” said Hoffner. Even the bones had been eaten.

“And now you’ve lost your son.”

The smile remained on Gardenyes’s face even as Hoffner looked over. Hoffner said, “Not yet, I hope.”

“That’s a bit cold.”

“Why? It’s what you wanted to hear me say.” Hoffner set the knife down. “I can guarantee you my son isn’t dead, if that’s what you’re thinking. As for lost, that would mean he was mine to lose. He wasn’t.”

Gardenyes studied Hoffner’s face before looking past him to a man standing by the door to the kitchen. Gardenyes motioned for two more and Hoffner brought out his cigarettes. Gardenyes took one and Hoffner lit it.

Gardenyes said, “Not every day you get to light the cigarette of a dead man.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Hoffner.

Mueller set the bottle down, took hold of his glass, and said, “They’re not going to kill you, Josep.” He drank.

“Oh, yes, they will. And when they do, Gabriel and Aurelio will tell them I was a criminal, too dangerous, and they’ll save themselves.”

Hoffner said, “And here I thought it was your anarchists who were running things now.”

“You’re in Spain,” said Gardenyes. “There are anarchists and there are anarchists.”