The Second Son

Everything came clear as the three emerged. It was cars everywhere, in every shape, size, and state of disrepair. They were parked at odd angles, up against the wooden fencing or in klatches across the ring. A few were burned out, most stripped of their tires. The glare off the windscreens made it necessary to bring a hand up. They were Spanish, German, American, and even one of those Dutch Spykers with its ludicrously heart-shaped grille. This particular one had lost its front axle and looked as if it were kneeling in prayer or, better yet, waiting for a swift kick to the backside; even it understood this new Barcelona. Elsewhere a group of about ten saloons stood in an oval, lost in some frozen rally race, eternally waiting for the one just ahead to step on the gas.

These were the remnants of a now extinct race-the bourgeoisie-branded and on display. The markings were simple, the letters CNT-FAI meant to codify and classify for future generations.

Hoffner said, “I’m guessing we can have our pick.”

Aurelio moved them across the ring as he spoke. “You bring one of these back to life,” he said, “it’s yours for the taking.”

They passed a man who was rummaging through the open bo

Hoffner said, “He has no idea what he’s doing, does he?”

“With the car?” said Aurelio. “Of course not. To melt it down and make it into something that fires a bullet? That he knows how to do.”

Hoffner looked back and saw the man toss out another large piece of something. “Clever,” he said.

“Very-if he can find some bullets.”

Aurelio nodded them over to one of the openings in the fencing and ushered them through. The light was now in the form of hanging lamps along the vast scaffolding maze underneath the seats. Deeper in, Hoffner saw two enormous water tanks with a truck that looked almost roadworthy nestled in between. Aurelio led them over, and the smell of gasoline became suffocating.

“Best station in the city,” said Aurelio. “The cemetery out there might give the boys something to play with, but it’s the gas that’s the real prize.” He shouted over to the truck. “You’re loaded?”

“Loaded,” a voice shouted back.

“How many jars?”

“Six.” The voice became Gabriel’s as he stepped out from behind the truck. “Enough to get us out and back.”

He looked exhausted. Worse, his left ear was bandaged, and the right eye and cheek were swollen. The gashes were deep and well-placed: something metal, thought Hoffner, maybe even brass. Whoever had done this had pla

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Gabriel said. Even with the swelling, he still had a cigarette tacked onto his lip. The thick mustache was all but swallowing it.

“Good to hear. Same men who took Gardenyes?”

Gabriel ignored the question and stepped over for Mila’s bag. “Doctor.” The hand was also black and blue, and two of the fingernails had been torn off.

Mila said, “I should have a look.”

“At what?” Gabriel took her bag and headed to the back. “I’ve had a bit of a sore throat, but aside from that…”

Hoffner followed Gabriel as Aurelio helped Mila into the cab. “You’re lucky to be alive,” Hoffner said.

Gabriel reached the back and pulled up the flap. “Not so much luck.” He tossed the bag in.

Hoffner drew up next to him and saw the two dead bodies laid out against the jars of gasoline. Both were dressed in the usual getup-suspenders, trousers, neckerchiefs-except these had small bullet holes just below the right eyes. From the tiny shards of glass, one of them had worn eyeglasses. The back of the heads had been completely torn off.

Gabriel said, “The Nazis are going to have to send in better than these if they think they’re going to help the generals win the thing. I mean, how clever do you have to be to remove a gun from its holster before you try to torture and beat a man to death? Guns stay outside the room. It’s the first rule, isn’t it?”

Hoffner saw the stacks of rifles, rolls of bandages, and packages of food strewn haphazardly throughout the hold. He looked back at the Germans. “They’re quick learners,” he said.

“That’s a pity.”

These two couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Hoffner noticed the Bifora wristwatch on one of the arms and thought, They really have no idea what they’re doing, do they?

Hoffner said, “You took the gun when one of them leaned in to pull out the fingernails. Lots of screaming and distraction.” He didn’t need to turn to sense Gabriel’s appreciation.

“Yes,” Gabriel said.

“You shoot well with your left hand.”

“Close range. Not that difficult.”

“And you keep them as souvenirs?”

Gabriel took hold of Hoffner’s bag and tossed it in. “Better if they’re missing. A dead body gets replaced by someone not as good at dying. Let them wonder for a few days where their friends have gotten to.” He let go of the flap and started back to the cab.

Hoffner asked, “They wanted to know if you’d found Bernhardt?”

Gabriel stopped at the door and took the handle. He looked back. “Have I?”

“Not yet,” said Hoffner, “but you will.”

It was three hours later, and a hundred kilometers of safe Republican territory behind them, when Gabriel shut off the headlights.

The sun was long gone, but he continued to drive. Not that there had been much to see since the outskirts of the city. It was fields and hills and, somewhere in the distance, mountains, but even with a full moon there was little chance of seeing any of it as more than vague shadows. Towns had come and gone as pockets of light, with the occasional barking of a dog to remind them of lives being plotted and endured along the way. They had passed two checkpoints. The men at each had gone through their papers; the dead Germans had been admired and forgotten.

After that, Hoffner, Mila, and Gabriel had settled into an easy silence. The constant jolts to the chassis, and the grinding of the gears, continued to beat out a comforting rhythm.

Hoffner stared out through the windscreen. It was a road incapable of holding its line for more than thirty meters at a time. Now, with the light gone, he was strangely aware of the smell of manure. He hadn’t smelled it before but knew it must have been there.

“You know the road?” he said.

Gabriel’s left hand was resting on the steering wheel in a pose far too casual for the speed. Mila sat sleeping between them.

“Let’s hope.” Gabriel lit his next cigarette. He set it on the edge of his lip and tossed the match out the window.

Hoffner said, “It seems very peaceful.”

“It does.”

“But you don’t believe it.”

“I don’t.”

“You do know you’re wi

“Yes, so I’ve heard.”

“Tell me,” said Hoffner. “What is it that makes me so lucky to have found the one group of anarchists in Spain who can’t enjoy the taste of victory?”

Gabriel fended off a smile. “Common sense?”

“That’s never it.”

“Then an instinct for your own kind. You wouldn’t know what to do with it either.”

A curve forced them to the left, and Gabriel brought his full focus to the road. He ground the gears until the cab hitched at the loss of speed. Hoffner gripped the dashboard and placed an arm across Mila. She continued to sleep.

Hoffner said, “I think this is different.”

“Then you’d be wrong. It’s never different. Not when you’ve been through it before.”

Hoffner waited for more. Instead, Gabriel reached his hand down to a small tin box on the floor. He flipped open the lid, pulled out a Coca-Cola, and handed it across to Hoffner. For the fifth time in the last two hours, Hoffner opened a bottle and handed it back. This was the last of the stash Gabriel had brought.