The Second Son

She was still looking at Hoffner. “You call Gardenyes a friend?”

Hoffner recognized the toying disdain in the eyes. Men like Gardenyes were a necessary irritation to a woman like this-a woman who could sit perfectly straight in a ward filled with the dying. It gave her an uncommon strength.

“He calls me one,” said Hoffner. “You can take that as you like.”

Half a minute later the three Spaniards were on their way back to the car. Gardenyes assured Hoffner that he would look into the names and locations Wilson had provided-“Yes, yes, of course, no worries, we’ll be in touch.” It was a flurry of empty promises, leaving Hoffner alone with the desk and the woman behind it.

* * *

She called herself Mila, and he had been right to think her older. Not that much older, but enough distance from thirty to make sense of the steadying compassion she showed as they walked along one of the rows. It was one thing to reassure with a well-schooled, naive precision. It was another to understand the terror that a bleach-soaked sheet and a paper-thin blanket could bring to a man staring hopelessly up at an endless ceiling.

One of the men propped himself on his elbows as she came closer. His face was full with color, healthy even, and held a look of unbridled hatred. His right hand was thickly wrapped. He glanced at Hoffner and, for a moment, seemed uncertain whether he would say anything. Mila came to the end of his cot, and the hatred got the better of him.

“Did you decide on it?” the man said. “Was it you?”

She stood there, allowing him to stare through her. “Yes,” she said, “it was. It’s a terrible thing. I’m sorry.”

There was a silence, and the man again looked unsure. He had expected more, a reason-the details for why his leg was no longer his. A man would have comforted with such things and forced the hatred to run its course.

“The other will be fine,” she said. “And the hand. But it doesn’t make any more sense of it, I know.”

The man continued to stare up at her; then he turned his head, and his eyes seemed to search for something. Finally, he began to shake his head slowly. “You’re sorry,” he said, but the hatred was already draining from him.

“I am. It’s a terrible, terrible thing.”

Hoffner saw it at once: she knew this one would never give in to self-pity. It was why she could console. She began to walk and Hoffner followed.

Ten beds down, she stopped again. “If he’s here, he’ll be in with these. I heard German from a few of them.”

She left him to it. There were six men-boys, really-all with various degrees of injuries, the worst with half his face covered in white bandages. Traces of red had seeped through where the eye would have been. Georg was not among them.

The interviews were brief. One of the boys had, in fact, been involved with the games, a javelin thrower now living in Paris whose left leg was in plaster up to the mid-thigh. He had taken a bayonet somewhere along the Diagonal but had managed to get a round off before his attacker had done more damage. The loss of blood had kept the boy in bed for over a week.

“Bit ironic,” the boy said. “A bayonet. Just imagine what it would have been if I’d been a hammer thrower.”

Hoffner was glad for the resiliency. “And you were part of the German team?” he said.

“I’m a German. What else would I be?”

The boy remembered no one resembling Georg, no filmmakers. It had all been catch-as-catch-can, half the team making it only as far as Paris before being told to turn back (to wherever they had come from) as a war had broken out. Hoffner ran through the names from Georg’s wire. It was pointless. None of the boys recognized a single one.

Mila was writing out something when Hoffner drew up.

“I thought there were no files,” he said, through a half smile.

She continued to write. “We’d have nowhere to put them even if this was one.” She quickly finished with it, set it to the side, and looked up at him. “Was he your German?”

Hoffner found himself taking a moment too long with the gaze. “No.” He nodded back at the beds. “Nice boy. He wants to get in on the fighting. That’s a shame.”

“Is it?”

“Yes-it is.”

She seemed surprised by the answer. “He’ll have his chance.”

“Really?”

“A leg like that-young and healthy-takes about three weeks. You think we’ll still be singing in the streets three weeks from now?”

“I wasn’t pla

“No, I’m sure you weren’t.”

For some reason Hoffner had his pack of cigarettes in his hand. He shook one to his lip and saw her staring up at him. “Right,” he said, and removed it.

She looked over her shoulder and said to the nurse nearest her, “I’m taking five minutes. I’ll be outside.” She opened the drawer, slid the sheets in, and stood. “I’m assuming you have more than one in the pack?”

It took a bit of muscle to hoist up the window at the far end of the corridor, but she managed it. She stepped out onto the roof, and Hoffner followed.

The view was mostly trees with a few buildings cut in between. The heat lay across the black-tarred roofing like exhaustion and seemed to rise to just below the chin. Hoffner felt his neck instantly wet. He lit her cigarette, and she let out a long stream of smoke.

“You’ve come a long way for one German,” she said, as she stared out across the trees. “You think he’ll mean as much to you when you find him?”

Hoffner lit up. “Nice to hear when. There’s been a lot of if with everyone else.”

“I might have said if, but that wouldn’t make me much of a doctor, would it?”

“Woman doctor. That’s uncommon.”

She ignored the obvious. “So where in Germany?”

He wiped his neck and his fingers grew slick. “Berlin.”

“That’s not a nice place to be these days”-she looked over at him-“or maybe it is? Is it a nice place to be?”

He took a long pull and nodded out at the buildings. “I’m guessing these saw a lot of the fighting.”

She stared at him until she knew he was growing uncomfortable. “No,” she said. “Everyone needs a hospital. They left it alone.”

“You must have been busy.”

“Yes.” She continued to look at him. It was impossible not to let her. “Finding someone in Spain these days. That’s-” The word trailed off. He expected her to say more, but she did well with silence.

He said, “He’s not here to fight. I’m thinking that should make it easier.”

“Easier to keep him alive or easier to find him?”

Hoffner had yet to figure out why she had taken him out here. He imagined it was an answer he might not want to have. “Both, I think.”

“Such is a father’s love.” The words were almost indifferent. She took a pull as she looked out again. It was several long moments before she said, “You speak a beautiful Spanish.”

Hoffner was studying the face. There was a thin line of perspiration above the lip. It pooled in tiny beads. She showed no thought of brushing it away. “Thank you.”

“That’s also uncommon.” She took a last pull and dropped the cigarette to the roofing. It hissed at the touch of the tar. “Are the rest of the clothes in your valise as ridiculous as the ones you’re wearing?” She gave him no time to answer. “A decent pair of boots, a hat?” She ran her toe over the cigarette. “And I’m sure you’ve got a place to stay?”

“I appreciate the concern.”

“Do you?” She looked directly at him. “You’ll need that and the clothes if you want to find this nonfighting boy of yours. Why did he come, by the way?”

“Does it matter?”

He felt her eyes across him. She offered a quiet smile. “You can’t trust Gardenyes.”

“I think I know that.”

“Good. We have an extra room. And some clothes.”

The sudde

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