The Second Son

“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 can forgive.” 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 unca

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.”