The Second Son

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 ru

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 can look 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.”