home.
When the church bells tolled eight o’clock, Tejada gently suggested an end to his game with Toño. They kept Toño firmly between them as they passed the Gypsies. They reached the Plaza Bib-Rambla early, but Nilo was waiting for them, enjoying the curiosity he had aroused. The waiters in the plaza all knew Nilo Fuentes. The porter at Number Five frequently spent an hour or so in the square after work before limping home, and he bought a drink or something to eat whenever he could. Some of the younger waiters were impatient with his endless stories of the past, but, after all, Old Nilo didn’t seem to have any family, and a man needed to talk to someone. So Manolo, the waiter at the Café-Bar Durandal, had nodded kindly at the porter when he hobbled into the café that evening and took a seat at a table by the window. “Evening, Nilo.”
“Evening, son.” Nilo propped his cane against the table.
“How are you?” Manolo asked with real concern. “Is your leg bothering you?”
“No, no, can’t complain.” Nilo was hugging a pleasant secret to himself. He smiled. “Bring a bottle of costa , will you. And some bread.”
“Here? To the table?” Manolo was hesitant. Table service was an extra three pesetas, and Nilo didn’t normally have that kind of money to waste. Sometimes, if his leg was bothering him and business was slow, the manager gave him a seat at a table by the kitchen, instead of making him stand at the bar, and quietly forgot to charge him extra, but a window table was reserved for paying clients.
“I’m dining with friends,” Nilo explained grandly. He was clearly receiving three pesetas’ worth of pleasure from the explanation. Manolo shrugged and went to get the old man his wine, wondering who on earth would be dining with the porter.
The waiter’s curiosity was piqued further when the Tejadas arrived, a few minutes later. Nilo beamed at the group as they entered the café and levered himself out of his chair to greet them. “Hello, Señorito! And this must be your lady.” He shook Tejada’s hand and then kissed Elena’s.
“My wife, Elena Fernández,” the lieutenant confirmed. “And this is our son, Carlos Antonio. Toño, this is Guardia Fuentes.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Nilo bent to greet Toño and then straightened again. “Sit, sit! I’ve ordered wine, but I didn’t know what else you’d want. The cheese is good here usually.”
“You know the place,” Tejada replied, deferring to his host. He looked around for a waiter, and Manolo, who had been hovering nearby trying to figure out who Old Nilo’s guests were, appeared quickly.
The business of ordering took some time, but once their drinks arrived and were tasted, a little silence fell. Nilo broke it by turning to the lieutenant and saying, “And now, tell me what you’re doing in Cantabria.”
Tejada answered briefly, and then went on at more length under Nilo’s prompting. The old guardia listened and asked questions with both interest and intelligence, and by the time the first of their tapas arrived, he had somehow shifted to telling a funny story about a rural patrol in the Sierra Nevada thirty years earlier, when his partner had mistaken a bear’s den for an outlaw’s hideout. The story reminded Tejada of someone he had known at the academy who had nearly ruined a set of exercises by firing on his own side because he was too stubborn to admit he was color-blind. And then Elena couldn’t resist describing the time her students had been tested for color blindness and one of them had switched the color codes on the answer cards as a prank. That led, naturally, to Nilo asking about Elena’s career as a teacher, and although she knew it was a dangerous subject, she ended up talking about it more than she usually did with strangers. Thankfully, the old man was not shocked by the revelation of her life in Madrid during the Civil War. “It was a bad thing, happening in the summer like that, when so
When the church bells tolled eight o’clock, Tejada gently suggested an end to his game with Toño. They kept Toño firmly between them as they passed the Gypsies. They reached the Plaza Bib-Rambla early, but Nilo was waiting for them, enjoying the curiosity he had aroused. The waiters in the plaza all knew Nilo Fuentes. The porter at Number Five frequently spent an hour or so in the square after work before limping home, and he bought a drink or something to eat whenever he could. Some of the younger waiters were impatient with his endless stories of the past, but, after all, Old Nilo didn’t seem to have any family, and a man needed to talk to someone. So Manolo, the waiter at the Café-Bar Durandal, had nodded kindly at the porter when he hobbled into the café that evening and took a seat at a table by the window. “Evening, Nilo.”
“Evening, son.” Nilo propped his cane against the table.
“How are you?” Manolo asked with real concern. “Is your leg bothering you?”
“No, no, can’t complain.” Nilo was hugging a pleasant secret to himself. He smiled. “Bring a bottle of costa , will you. And some bread.”
“Here? To the table?” Manolo was hesitant. Table service was an extra three pesetas, and Nilo didn’t normally have that kind of money to waste. Sometimes, if his leg was bothering him and business was slow, the manager gave him a seat at a table by the kitchen, instead of making him stand at the bar, and quietly forgot to charge him extra, but a window table was reserved for paying clients.
“I’m dining with friends,” Nilo explained grandly. He was clearly receiving three pesetas’ worth of pleasure from the explanation. Manolo shrugged and went to get the old man his wine, wondering who on earth would be dining with the porter.
The waiter’s curiosity was piqued further when the Tejadas arrived, a few minutes later. Nilo beamed at the group as they entered the café and levered himself out of his chair to greet them. “Hello, Señorito! And this must be your lady.” He shook Tejada’s hand and then kissed Elena’s.
“My wife, Elena Fernández,” the lieutenant confirmed. “And this is our son, Carlos Antonio. Toño, this is Guardia Fuentes.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Nilo bent to greet Toño and then straightened again. “Sit, sit! I’ve ordered wine, but I didn’t know what else you’d want. The cheese is good here usually.”
“You know the place,” Tejada replied, deferring to his host. He looked around for a waiter, and Manolo, who had been hovering nearby trying to figure out who Old Nilo’s guests were, appeared quickly.
The business of ordering took some time, but once their drinks arrived and were tasted, a little silence fell. Nilo broke it by turning to the lieutenant and saying, “And now, tell me what you’re doing in Cantabria.”
Tejada answered briefly, and then went on at more length under Nilo’s prompting. The old guardia listened and asked questions with both interest and intelligence, and by the time the first of their tapas arrived, he had somehow shifted to telling a funny story about a rural patrol in the Sierra Nevada thirty years earlier, when his partner had mistaken a bear’s den for an outlaw’s hideout. The story reminded Tejada of someone he had known at the academy who had nearly ruined a set of exercises by firing on his own side because he was too stubborn to admit he was color-blind. And then Elena couldn’t resist describing the time her students had been tested for color blindness and one of them had switched the color codes on the answer cards as a prank. That led, naturally, to Nilo asking about Elena’s career as a teacher, and although she knew it was a dangerous subject, she ended up talking about it more than she usually did with strangers. Thankfully, the old man was not shocked by the revelation of her life in Madrid during the Civil War. “It was a bad thing, happening in the summer like that, when so
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