Текст книги "The Second Son"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“This is Barcelona. This is what we do.”

“Is it?”

She drew her hand in the air across his chest. “They’ll be a bit big for you here, but the rest should be good.”

“And your husband can do without them?”

“There is no husband.”

“Brother?”

There was a moment in the eyes, and she started for the window. “I’ll write down the address. There should be some food. You look like you could use some sleep.”

The key for the building proved unnecessary. A woman-small, veined, and gray-sat perched on a low stool that stood propping open the front door. She held a pile of green and red peppers on her lap and was slicing them into a bucket. She held the knife by the back of the blade and moved through the peppers with alarming speed. Even when she looked up to see Hoffner staring at her, she continued to slice.

The street was like most of the rest, narrow, and with buildings no more than five or six stories high. They seemed to be leaning into each other with rounded shoulders, as if the whole thing might collapse with a little push. Or maybe it was this woman who was holding them in place? She wiped the knife on her skirt for no apparent reason and went back to her slicing.

Hoffner said, “I’m going to number four. I have the key.”

She reached into the bucket and dug through for something.

Hoffner pulled the valise-cum-satchel off his back. His shoulders were going stiff. “The doctor-” It struck him only now that he had no idea what her proper name was. “I have the key from her.”

The woman brought out a slice of red pepper and held it out to him. The knife was still in her fingers.

“Have it,” she said.

Hoffner took the wedge. It was crisp and wet, and the sweetness settled at the back of his throat. He nodded as he swallowed. “Thank you.”

She moved her legs to the side. It was a token gesture, and he picked up his bags and sidestepped inside.

The staircase was almost completely dark. Hoffner smelled almonds and garlic, and something else he couldn’t quite place, but it seemed to go well with the taste still in his mouth. At the second landing, a dim bulb sprouted from the wall and gave off just enough light to bring out the metal 4 on a door halfway down the hall. He stepped over and slotted the key into the lock.

The place was charming enough, walls a bright yellow, windows with sheer drapes in white and pale green. Beyond them stood a wrought-iron balcony that ran the length of the wall. A low sofa sat across from the windows, along with a few chairs and pillows scattered about. There was a table, a bookcase-small things of meaning set along one of the shelves-and an archway that led off to what might be a kitchen. It was neat, inviting, and showed nothing of the life being lived inside it.

Hoffner set down the bags and moved across to the drapes. He pulled them back and noticed that one of the windows had been left open. There was hardly any sound from the street, but for some reason the smell of almonds was stronger here. A window across the way showed a woman sleeping in a small room. She was lying on her back, her hair billowing from some unseen fan. The rest of her lay perfectly still until her hand came up and wiped at something on her cheek. Just as easily the hand fell back to the bed. The stillness returned, and Hoffner wondered if she would remember it ever happening.

Hoffner turned back to the flat and now saw through to the kitchen. There was an icebox, sink, stove, small table, and a man seated at one of the three chairs. He was older than the woman from the street, though not much bigger, and he was peering over at Hoffner. An opened newspaper lay across the table.

The man said, “You have a key.” It was a statement, nothing more.

Hoffner needed another few moments. “Yes,” he said. “The doctor-she gave it to me.”

The man continued to peer across at him. The face showed no fear, no distrust, not even curiosity. It was a look devoid of content. “Are you English?”

Again Hoffner needed a moment. “No.”

“German?”

“Yes.”

The man nodded. “You look German or English. I don’t mean it to offend.”

“It doesn’t. Does she do this often?”

“Do what?”

“Allow people to stay.”

The man thought a moment, then shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of, no.”

“And you live here?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’d be aware of it.”

The man waited. This seemed to make sense. He pushed the chair back and stood. He was a good head shorter than the doctor. “I have some hard eggs in the shell,” he said, “if you’re hungry.” He stepped over to a cabinet, pulled out a plate, and set it on the table. He went to the icebox.

It was always small men who gave Hoffner trouble when it came to age. The back was ramrod straight, but even then he put him at close to eighty. The hair was a fine white.

“She mentioned some clothes,” said Hoffner. It seemed inconceivable that they would have once belonged to this man, but given the circumstances and the last few minutes, Hoffner was open to anything.

The man placed two eggs on the plate. “There’s a closet in the other room. I can show you.” He placed a kettle on one of the burners, lit the gas with a match, and then pointed Hoffner in the direction. “It’s through here.”

Hoffner followed him down a short corridor and into a bedroom. A simple metal-spring bed jutted out from the far wall, with a small table, washing pitcher, and basin next to it. A wooden armoire stood along the near wall. The man unlatched the armoire and pulled open the doors.

He said, “They might be wide in here”-he ran his hand across his chest-“but otherwise they should fit well enough.”

Shirts and trousers hung on hangers, with two pairs of boots wedged underneath. The man stared at the clothes and then placed his hand on one of the sleeves. He stood quietly for several seconds. He closed the doors and said, “You’ll want a bath first.”

Hoffner stood in the doorway. “I’m called Nikolai.”

The man looked over. It was the first sign of emotion to reach his face. “You have a Russian name.”

“Yes. My mother.”

The man showed a moment’s surprise, then approval. “Mine as well,” he said. He seemed to grow taller with this. “I’m called Dmitri Piera. I am the father of your doctor. I’ll go run that bath.”

Hoffner slept first, two hours-maybe more-long enough to feel a different kind of heat when he woke. This one left pockets of cooled air to breathe and made sitting remarkably pleasant. He had bathed in the tub and now wore a shirt, suspenders, and trousers from the armoire as he sipped from a glass at the kitchen table. Both father and daughter had been right about the chest.

Piera offered coffee but said tea would be better. He also explained the other smell. Hazelnuts. He was guessing someone had peppers.

“It might be calcots,” he said, “but the onions are hard to find these days.”

Hoffner set his glass on the table. “I need to thank you for all this.”

Piera set his glass down as well. “She gave you the key, and the clothes were here. She’ll tell me why when she gets home.”

“You have great faith.”

It was the first hint of a smile to cross Piera’s face. “You’re in the wrong house for that.”

“She’s a good doctor.”

Piera dropped a piece of sugar into his glass. “Were you injured?”

“No.”

“Then how would you know?”

“She’s not?”

Piera stirred the tea with a spoon and set it by the glass. “Not easy for a woman to be a doctor.”

Hoffner thought it brave to show this kind of pride in a child. He said, “The clothes-there was a husband?”

Piera took a sip. “There was, but they aren’t his. He was small like me. That’s a long time ago.” Piera was happy to leave it at that. He was on his feet again, opening a drawer at the counter and pulling out a thick wedge of bread. He found a slab of butter inside the icebox and brought it to the table. An old army knife appeared from his pocket. He opened it and began to slice the bread.

“She doesn’t like that I use this,” he said. “She has a proper knife, but what can you do?” He smeared a piece with butter and handed it to Hoffner. He did the same for himself and took a healthy bite. The sound of the door opening brought a momentary lift to the air. Both men listened as the door clicked shut. Piera ran his tongue along his teeth and swallowed. He said, “We’re in here.”

Mila appeared at the archway. She held a bag filled with something, and her hair was now loose and pulled back over an ear. Hoffner imagined the skin had a remarkable smoothness. She stepped over and gave her father a kiss on each cheek. She looked at Hoffner.

“You found the clothes,” she said. “And a bath. That’s good.” She set the bag on the counter and began to pull out the contents: vegetables, fruit, something in a brown paper wrapping.

“You should sit,” said Piera.

Mila continued with the food. “They had fish and escarole. And we have fruit and some cream.”

Hoffner was on his feet. “I can help with that. I also have to thank you-”

She shook him off easily. “No, I enjoy it. And no, you have no reason to thank us. Just sit.” Hoffner did as he was told, and Piera took another sip of his tea. Mila said, “They’re changing the vouchers again, so tomorrow I need to stop down at Casa Cambo and see what we can get.”

Piera said, “You’ll tell them you’re a doctor?”

“I always do.” She reached up for a pan hanging over the stove. “Did you tell him about your son, Nikolai?” She might have spoken with the same ease of only moments ago, but Hoffner heard something else in it. She set the pan on one of the burners and said, “Nikolai has a boy. How old did you say he is?”

This wasn’t something she was likely to have forgotten. More than that, Piera was suddenly rigid in his chair, staring at his glass.

Hoffner said, “Twenty-five. You’re sure I can’t help you?”

Mila poured a drop of oil in the pan and unwrapped the fish. “He was filming the Olimpiada,” she said, too casually. She rinsed the pieces under the tap. “And now he’s gone missing. Nikolai has come to find him. His son.” She lit the burner with a match and gently placed the pieces in the pan. “I usually do just a bit of garlic and salt. That’s all right?”

Piera’s jaw clenched. “That’s enough,” he said quietly. He stood and moved out from behind the table.

Mila pressed the back of a fork onto the fish. She stared down into the pan. “The clothes look good, don’t they?” she said, but her father was already past her. He was in the living room when she finally looked up. It was impossible not to see the frustration and sadness in her eyes.

Hoffner stood quietly. For some reason, he felt shame. Not that he knew what role he had played in getting them here, but the knowing or not knowing was never essential. Shame relied on a kind of empathy-deep, blind, and unthinking until the moment it was too late-and all the more startling because it was so rarely his. That he felt it now, standing awkwardly in a kitchen with a woman he hardly knew and who was unable to meet his gaze, struck him as both exhilarating and terrifying.

He said, “The fish-it’s smoking.”

She looked over at him. The oil popped, and she turned to the pan and quickly flipped the pieces. She said, “Did you sleep?”

“Yes.”

She nodded and sprinkled some salt. “And no word from Gardenyes?”

She knew there wouldn’t have been. Still, it was better to ask than chance the silence.

“No,” Hoffner said. “He’d know to find me here?”

“He’d know how to find you. That’s all.” She lifted one of the pieces with the fork and bent closer to smell it. She set it back in the pan and added more oil.

Hoffner said, “You might have told me.”

“Told you what?”

“Whatever it is I’m doing by being here.” He watched her flip the pieces again. “I’m not in the habit of making old men so uncomfortable.”

She took the pieces out of the pan and laid them on a plate. “That’s not for you to worry about.”

“Still-”

“Still nothing,” she said, as she brought the fish to the table. “You have a meal, a bed, and clothes.” She laid a cloth over the plate. “And tomorrow you’ll go and look for your son.”

“And these clothes I happen to be wearing?”

She was now tearing at the escarole and placing the strips in the pan. When she finished, she took a jar from the bag and, opening it, poured in white beans. She stirred them quietly.

Piera’s voice came from behind Hoffner. “She has a brother.” Hoffner looked back and saw the small man holding a bottle; it held a pale liquid. “He wears a different uniform now.”

Piera stepped over and placed the bottle on the table. He went to the shelf and brought over three glasses.

“Knives and forks are in the second cabinet,” he said, nodding to the one by the sink. Hoffner stepped over and found them. He set three places.

The silence waited with them until they were all seated. Mila pulled the cloth from the fish and placed a piece on each plate. She did the same with the escarole and beans, while Piera filled the glasses; she then took her fork and began to eat. The men followed.

“Where is he now?” Hoffner said.

He saw Mila run her fork through the escarole as she stared at her plate.

Piera said, “He fights for the fascists. He’s not my concern.” Piera scooped up some beans.

“Zaragoza,” she said, as she reached for her glass. “At least that’s where they say he was three days ago.”

Piera took his time chewing and swallowing. “Your son is a journalist?” he said.

Hoffner watched Mila as she drank. “Yes,” he said. “Newsreels.”

“Very interesting.” Piera sucked at something at the back of his teeth and took another forkful.

Mila said, “My father is a Communist. So was my brother-a long time ago. Communists aren’t very forgiving.”

Piera picked up his glass. “Nothing to forgive,” he said plainly. He drank.

“He means nothing he canforgive.” Mila brought up another piece of fish. “He thinks it makes him clever to say it.” She ate.

Had Hoffner known the quickest way over the balcony and down to the pavement below, he would have taken it. Instead he was left to jab at a few beans with his fork.

He said, “I also have a son who fights for the fascists.”

Both father and daughter looked over. The same stare of betrayal filled their eyes.

“No,” Hoffner said easily. “Not the one with the newsreels. He also has a brother.” Hoffner went back to his fish. It was uncanny how moist she had kept it in the pan.

Mila said, “And he fights here, the other one?”

Hoffner shook his head as he ate. “No. The older boy is in Berlin-I think. I haven’t seen him in quite some time.”

“And you regret it?”

There was very little subtlety with her now. It made her somehow more endearing.

Hoffner said, “Not for me to regret what he is.”

“No, I meant-”

“I know what you meant,” he said, and took his glass. He drank. He then looked at Piera. “I don’t know this wine.”

Piera needed a moment. “Penedes,” he said. “Light. Nice with fish.”

Hoffner nodded and finished his glass, and Mila said, “And the younger one-does he regret it?”

She showed no backing down. There was no point in not answering.

“The younger boy is a Jew,” Hoffner said. “By choice. His brother is a Nazi. There was some unpleasantness. They haven’t spoken in several years. It’s not all that complicated.”

“But you come for the young one when the other is outside your back door.”

Hoffner set down his glass and took the bottle. He began to refill the glasses. “I don’t have the luxury to care about their politics. I know which one will take my help. That makes the decision much easier.”

“Easier for whom?” she said.

“For the one who’ll use it,” said Hoffner. He finished pouring.

“Or for yourself.”

Piera cut in angrily. “Of course for himself.” It was the first raw emotion to reach his voice. “What kind of question-easier for whom? You think he does this out of spite, to punish the other? He helps the one he can. This is a simple thing to understand.”

Piera realized too late how forcefully he had spoken. It was several moments before he went back to his fish.

Hoffner said, “I don’t know why I mentioned it. I’m sorry.”

Mila was looking at her father. “No,” she said, “I’m the one who is sorry.” Piera’s face softened even as he refused to look at her. She turned, and her eyes seemed to smile. The brightness in the face was all the more staggering given the last half minute.

“You’ll find him,” she said.

She sliced her fork into a piece of escarole. Hoffner watched as she drew it up to her mouth. She glanced at him, and it was all he could do to find the fish again on his own plate.

Two hours later he stared out from the balcony, glass in hand, as he listened to the distant sounds of music and voices from the street. Mila sat behind him on a low chair, her knees drawn to her chest. Her head was cocked lazily to one side as she listened as well. Piera had gone to bed.

Hoffner said, “I’ll try and find the place tomorrow.”

“He’ll want to go with you,” she said. “He’ll insist.”

Hoffner nodded.

An hour ago, Piera had given him Hanshen.

It had been something of a fluke, really, or maybe not-or maybe it was just Hoffner’s turn for a bit of good luck. In any event, it was going to save him some time.

Georg’s wire had indicated Hanshen was a German word. That, apparently, was not the case.

The name had come up during the third glass of Orujo and the second game of chess with Piera, a game that had not gone terribly well for Hoffner.

“You’ve played before,” Hoffner said.

“A bit.” The booze and the game were taking the edge off. Piera was smiling.

“Next you’ll want to put some money on it.”

“I’m a Communist,” said Piera. “What would I do with it if I won?”

“You’d figure something out.”

Hoffner made a move and quickly lost a bishop. He tried to convince himself that he was letting Piera win.

Mila was sitting on the sofa, reading a book. “You need to tell him,” she said.

Piera kept his eyes focused on the board.

She repeated, “You need to tell him, Papa.” When Piera continued to stare, she said, “My father was a chess champion. Quite famous. He’s probably working through a different game in his head while he’s playing you.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” said Hoffner.

“No,” said Mila. “It’s supposed to make him feel worse.”

“You’re not bad,” said Piera. “Not good, but not bad. You should come tomorrow. I play every day. At my club. We could find you an eleven-year-old. You wouldn’t beat him, but it would be good for his confidence.”

His club-renowned as the best in the city-was a little room over a Chinese cafe, down in the Raval section of town. It was called Han Shen’s. Everyone knew it.

Now Hoffner knew. He asked about Vollman, the name linked to Han Shen in the wire. Piera didn’t recognize it.

A boy in the street shouted something over the music. A breeze cut across the balcony, and Hoffner turned to see Mila with her knees still pulled up close to her chest. She said, “I need to sleep.”

Hoffner watched as she uncurled herself from the low chair and stood. She drew up to him and kissed him on both cheeks.

She said, “You need sleep, too.”

She placed a tired hand on his chest and then moved to the balcony door. He watched her step inside and turned back to the city. He looked down to the far end of the street and wondered if there was still enough courage for this left inside him.

The Good Germans

Mila was gone by the time he awoke. Piera was in the kitchen, waiting with coffee. There was also a note. It was not from her.

“A little ginger-haired man,” Piera said as Hoffner took it. “I told him there was no point in waking you.”

“Did he say how he found me?”

“He said he came from Gardenyes.” Piera watched as Hoffner opened the envelope. “There was no reason to ask.”

The note confirmed Han Shen. Chess club at a Chink cafe,it read. The club was in the back and up some stairs. Gardenyes gave the address.

As for the rest, Gardenyes had found a Karl Vollman on the Olimpiada rolls. A German. He was a chess player.

Perfect, thought Hoffner.

There was nothing else on the man.

The name Bernhardt had proved more interesting, or at least more plentiful. According to Gardenyes there had been nine Bernhardts listed at the Barcelona telephone exchange as of January. Two were printers (brothers), both of whom had left three weeks after the Popular Front victory in February. They had taken five other Bernhardts (sons) back to Germany with them. The last of the listed Bernhardts was a writer living with a Frenchwoman down by the water. Gardenyes had actually dealt with the man. He was a drug addict and most likely dead, but Gardenyes was sending one of his boys to look into it. As for the name Langenheim-and whatever Hisma might be-Gardenyes had come up empty.

Piera said, “You’ve found your boy?”

Hoffner folded the page and slipped it into his pocket. He had the Luger on his belt. “I’m assuming we can walk to this place from here.”

The smell of garlic followed them as they passed the storefronts and drawn metal gates of the Raval’s cramped streets. Why half the shops were closed remained a mystery. According to Piera, a joint order had come down last week from the anarchist CNT and the Communist POUM for everyone to head back to work: the city needed to move again; a few days of gunfire wasn’t going to stand in its way. Workers’ committees were now running the factories, collectives shipping the goods in and out. Then again, maybe the Raval had always been exempt from such things. Places built on corruption and defeat rarely take notice of the world flickering above them.

Even so, Hoffner had expected something a bit more exotic-animal parts dangling from hooks, barrels filled with God knows what-but there was something disappointingly tame to it all. Barrio Chino was little more than a few token lanterns on taut cords and gates here and there with those perfectly upturned oriental roofs; the whole thing felt a bit insincere.

Odder still were the little men and women standing outside or in, sporting their red neckerchiefs in an act of utterly indifferent solidarity. They wore them for security, nothing else. This week it was anarchists. Next it might be fascists. No doubt they had the appropriate colors waiting somewhere in their back rooms.

Piera walked with a stick, the wood as veined as the hand that gripped it. His neck was already beading from the heat.

“I bought this somewhere in here,” he said. “The Chino do well with wood. You can’t speak to them-maybe five words of Spanish among them-but the work is good.”

“They seem to like the neckerchiefs.”

Piera smiled. “It’s ten years since they’ve come here. Can’t see them staying much longer. Mostly roll carts, flophouses, the occasional shop. They work for almost nothing-at least up until a few weeks ago. Don’t imagine the whores get much out of them.”

As if to make the point, a woman emerged from one of the darkened archways. Her dress was pulled down low on the shoulders, the rest too tight around a figure that could best be advertised as replete with extra cushioning. Still, the face looked young even if the hair and skin had both gone an unnatural white-one from a bottle, the other from too many hours lost to needles and men-and there was a kind of girlish enthusiasm in the way she walked and smiled: big pouty lips encircling a remarkably straight set of teeth, and a chest with enough heft to smother a small cat. It might have been the heroin or the pills or whatever else was coursing through her body, but Hoffner let himself believe she took a pleasure in knowing that, despite the recent upheavals, she had never given up the gate.

She steadied herself against a wall, brought her foot up to adjust the strap of her shoe, and broadened her smile for Piera. The little man offered a surprisingly robust nod that seemed to catch even the woman off guard. Piera continued to walk.

“That’s why the anarchists are idiots,” he said. “You think they’ll get a girl like that off the streets?”

Hoffner looked back as they walked. The woman was still watching them, a handkerchief dabbing at the moist folds of skin on her neck. She seemed so much more impressive than a German whore, as if she had expectations of her own: not enough just to hand her the money; there had to be something in it worth her time.

Piera said, “You see.”

He was pointing his stick at a poster plastered across one of the storefront gates. It showed an intoxicated woman in a classic red dress drawn in hard angles, a cigarette dripping from her fat gray lips, her hand roaming into the jacket pocket of some faceless man. Across her chest was written the warning, THE WHORE IS A PARASITE! A THIEF! LET’S GET RID OF HER!

Someone less troubled by the apparent threat had more recently drawn her other hand: it was reaching a bit lower down on the man’s leg, with the words PLEASE! ROB ME! ROB ME! ROB ME! scrawled across the logo for the CNT.

Piera said, “The anarchists promised to close down the brothels.”

“That’s a sad sort of promise.”

“Not to worry. It’s their boys who fill the places every night.”

Hoffner followed him down a few steps and into an open courtyard. Two young boys and a man were kicking around what passed for a ball. The man had set his rifle against a wall.

Piera said, “It’s not so much that they’re hypocrites.” The smell of the garlic had soured. “They are, but that just makes them anarchists. The question is, Why bother with morality at all? She harms no one-”

“Except perhaps herself.”

Piera dismissed the idea. “A man in a coal mine harms himself. A man who breathes fumes in some factory all day long harms himself. Work is harmful. What shattering news. It’s still necessary. As is what she does.”

“From each according to her ability-”

“Laugh all you want, but if you need a morality beyond that, find a priest. To go looking for it with an anarchist”-Piera shook his head-“that makes you a fool.”

It was heartening to hear this kind of mutual support among the newly victorious.

They moved through to another narrow street and Piera raised his cane and pointed to an archway. Chinese symbols were printed in thick black ink above the door, along with a more Spanish rendering of the name: HAN SHEN. Below it the cobblestones ran with the remains of some recent spillage; tiny yellow bubbles clung to the stone and gave off the distinct smell of onions and chicken fat. Hoffner was careful to step around them.

Inside, two old Chinese sat silently at one of four tables in the dim light, peeling little stalks of something and tossing the beans into a barrel on the floor. The air was damp, cooler than on the street, and smelled of day-old flowers.

A woman was standing in a long black smock by the stairs that led up to the back room. She had what Hoffner imagined to be the widest face he had ever seen. It was as if someone had taken the skin and bones and hammered them flat until the nose had all but disappeared; likewise the eyes and mouth seemed to crease to the very edges of the flesh. To make matters worse, her skin was a kind of mottled gray, and her hair looked as if it had been planted on the scalp in tiny clumps of baled black hay. Hoffner might have taken her for one of those sideshow curiosities one sees for a few coins at a country tent, but there was too much of the familiar in the way she stared across at them to make that mistake.

He said to Piera, “Cafe’s a kind way of putting it, isn’t it?”

Hoffner had seen enough of these faces back in Prenzlauer Berg not to appreciate the stamp of opium. On a German complexion, the needles and pipe left a kind of sticky residue; yellow and smooth, it sank the cheeks and narrowed the pupils to blackened pinpoints. With a Chinese, the face flattened and grew pale. It might have been bloating or bone disintegration, but whatever the reason, the addict was no less recognizable. This, however, was the most pronounced case Hoffner had ever seen.

He said, “You’re sure it’s only chess they play here?”

“The chess is upstairs,” said Piera. “What they do in the basement is someone else’s business.”

The woman was now walking toward them. Her head teetered from side to side but thus far remained planted on her neck. Piera reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. He placed it in her hand, and they stepped past her to the stairs.

It was a long narrow room above, bare wooden floors and the kind of stone walls that seemed to undulate from too many coats of white paint. A row of small windows were open at the topmost edge of the far wall; they made the air breathable. Fifteen or so tables filled the space, each with a hanging bulb above, along with a small colored shade in deep reds and oranges. There was probably something Chinese to the design, but Hoffner didn’t recognize it. Much to his relief, the place smelled of tobacco and sweat.

Only four of the tables were occupied, a pair of men at each, except for the nearest, where a young man sat by himself, staring at his board. Every few seconds he glanced up at the chair across from him with a look of mild confusion; he seemed genuinely surprised to find it empty.

Piera said, “They used to bring the addicts up here when the asaltoscame to arrest them. Those long coats and perfect buttons, with their little truncheons in their hands-and staring in here with no idea who was on the drugs and who was simply crazy.”

“Until someone vomited or passed out,” said Hoffner.

“You’ve never played tournament chess, have you?”

The young man stood and moved over to the empty chair. He looked at it for several seconds before muttering something to himself and sitting. Again he began to examine the board.

“Does he ever win?” Hoffner said.

“Every time, I imagine.”

One of the men a few tables down looked up, not quite so young, rail thin, but with dark slicked-back hair. There were bruises on his face, along with some scabbing on the forehead. Evidently not everyone in the streets had fought with bayonets and guns. The man recognized Piera. He nodded and went back to his game.

Piera said, “He once drew three games with Capablanca. Rome, 1921. Remarkable player.”

Hoffner had given up following chess a long time ago, but even he recalled the great Cuban player.

Piera said, “He can tell you every move of every game, show you how Capablanca held the pieces before he moved them-forefinger and thumb, middle finger and thumb, entire palm-and how much time he took with each piece in the air. It’s like watching a film.”