The Second Son

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“The cigarette.”

“Oh-yes.”

“What else did you think I was saying?” This was payment for the kiss on the forehead. “Was the young captain helpful?”

Hoffner took hold of the water jug and poured out a glass. He handed it to her. “Yes.”

“You must be very good at what you do.”

“You don’t need to be so good.”

She took a drink. “You should stop saying that. It’s not the truth, and it’s not all that endearing. He would have shot you.” She finished the glass and held it out to him. He poured a second, and he drank.

She said, “I’ll need to find a place to wash some clothes.” She sat and moved to the edge of the bed. She picked up her chemise and dress from the floor. “I can do it in Teruel while you”-she had to think a moment-“do whatever it is you’ll be doing there.”

Hoffner watched her slip the clothes over her shoulders. She reached back to button the collar of the dress, and he said, “You don’t have to come, you know. It’s probably safer if you head back to Barcelona.” At least he was trying to sound noble.

She reached for her hose and began to slide them on. “So it’s this you’re not terribly good at.” She finished and looked back at him. “I don’t want to go back to Barcelona, Nikolai. And I don’t think you want me to, either. Do you?”

He waited and then shook his head.

“You see? That wasn’t so hard.” She stood.

Hoffner was suddenly aware he was sitting in nothing but his shorts. He stood, found his shirt, and began to button the buttons with a newfound resolve.

She reached over and picked up his pants. She held them there and waited. “There’s no rush, Nikolai. The pants aren’t going anywhere.”

He nodded absently, took them, and slid them on.

She said, “You’re not going to tell me you don’t do this sort of thing, or that you haven’t for a very long time, or ever-are you?”

He looked across at her and, not wanting to betray himself, again shook his head.

“Good.” She moved closer and brought his suspenders up and over his shoulders. She smoothed them against his chest. “Even if it’s true, what would be the point in saying it? Love isn’t meant to stand back and stare at its past.”

She gazed up at him and then stepped over to her shoes. She slid her feet in and bent over to buckle them, and Hoffner-aware of a sudden and deep numbing at the back of his head-stared across at her and let himself believe in all things possible.

Teruel was in a state of mild panic. Sitting a thousand meters above sea level-and now with no telephone lines to the north-it had become an island of misinformation at the southern tip of Nationalist Aragon. The Civil Guards who had secured the city for the rebels strode about in their capes and tricorn hats as if the future of Europe lay in the balance. They coughed out orders, looked out through field glasses onto an endless horizon, and smoked cigarettes that gave off the smell of soured bark. All this was understandable. They had spent the better part of the last week staring off in the other direction toward Valencia-another pointless exercise-where rumor had it that anarchists were opening up the prisons and filling their ranks with rapists, murderers, and thieves. It might not have been the truth-most of the inmates were of the political variety-but always good to parade out the apocalypse when trying to stir up a bit of vigilance. Now, with Teruel’s imagination well beyond reason, the Guardia had positioned fifty of their own and one hundred of the town’s bravest caballeros inside buildings, along the old aqueduct, and atop the red ceramic roofs. Three hundred eyes, give or take, stared out silently at the Zaragoza road.

Remarkably, Hoffner and Mila drove up the slope without a single shot being fired. It was either a miraculous show of self-restraint or a level of cowardice as yet unknown in Spain. Hoffner was undecided as he sat behind the wheel and spoke with the sergeant in charge.

“Yes,” Hoffner said, “the road was completely empty.” For some reason Teruel was a good ten degrees hotter than anywhere else in Spain. “The telephone lines were untouched.”

“And you left Zaragoza this morning?”

It was the third time the man had asked, although this attempt came off more as a hope than a question; the Safe Conduct papers and the mention of Captain Doval had placed Hoffner on something of a pedestal. Hoffner was a man with co

“No,” said Hoffner, a bit more forcefully. “Not this morning. Last night. We were at a tavern this morning.”

“In Albarracin.”

“Yes,” said Hoffner. “That’s right. In Albarracin. You can telephone-” He caught himself. “Obviously you can’t telephone. We left there an hour ago. No one was on the road. I need to see your commanding officer.”

“So you think sending out a group would be all right? To check the lines?” The man’s hope had become faith in this German.

Hoffner knew it would take them two hours to find the downed poles, another two to remount them-if, in fact, they were clever enough to take shovels, wire splicers, and whatever else one needed to resurrect the dead. That would give him until early afternoon to find Georg in a town filled with anxious Spaniards. Then again, Captain Doval might already have sent out a crew to fix the wiring, but what was the point in worrying about that?

“Good, yes,” Hoffner said. “Send out a group. Absolutely. Now, where do I find someone in charge?”

The man shouted over to one of the other guards. “The colonel here says the road is clear.”

Hoffner hadn’t mentioned a rank; still, it was nice to hear he had merited a promotion.

“Take five men,” the sergeant continued, “rifles, a spool of wire, and find someone who knows what he’s doing with the lines.” He looked back at Hoffner and said quietly, “They like to think it’s coming from someone with clout. You know-a little pull.” Hoffner understood why the SS would have no trouble fitting in here. The man said, “You’ll want Alfassi. He’ll be having something to eat down in the Plaza del Torico. Ferrer’s. Straight on. You can’t miss it.”

Maybe it was the heat or the height or the horror of what lay just beyond the walls, but fascist Teruel was showing a good deal more spirit than had Zaragoza. The square was cluttered with people and animals; stands were filled with fruit and foods, some of which Hoffner had never seen-large gourds, and thin stalks with a kind of yellow flower sprouting along the sides. He imagined they were all edible, but why shatter the mystery? Planted in the middle was a small fountain and column, with a bronze bull standing atop it. A few children were howling up at the bull, while a young priest, dressed in full cassock, sat on the edge of the fountain and rinsed his eyeglasses under one of the spouts. Without warning, the priest howled back, and the children darted off. Laughing, the priest shouted after them and a woman crossed herself as she walked past. The priest nodded piously and began to wipe his glasses on his sleeve. Murderers at the gate, and this was all the comfort Teruel required.

Hoffner had parked the car on one of the side streets. He and Mila were now walking toward a narrow building on the far side of the fountain. As with everything in this part of the world, it was an odd mixture of styles, thin alabaster columns along the second floor facade, and a pink Mudejar tower peeking out at the top left. As the floors climbed, the windows moved from simple rectangles to arches to half-moons, with the usual ironwork balconies stretching out below them. It was the perfect place to meet a Spaniard called Alfassi.

Hoffner opened the door and Mila led them inside. The thick stone walls resembled a fortress grotto, damp and cool, although here there were hanging bulbs and tables and chairs, and a wooden bar that ran the length of the wall. Animal parts hung from metal hooks above, with two large pig heads the centerpieces of an otherwise ragtag display. As in the square, Hoffner was hard-pressed to define what most of this was-a few legs of something that seemed caught between a cow’s and a goat’s-but the conversation was light, the smells surprisingly good, and the presence of the Guardia almost nil. There was only one, sitting across from a gray-haired woman, his tricorn hat propped on the table between them. She was dressed all in black and, except for the face and hands, showed only two slivers of skin on each of the wrists. From the expression on the man’s face, she seemed to be in the midst of a nice harangue. Even with the rifle leaning against the table, he looked utterly helpless.