The Second Son

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.

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 ru

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 u