The Second Son: A Novel (17 page)

Ten beds down, she stopped again. “If he’s here, he’ll be in with these. I heard German from a few of them.”

She left him to it. There were six men—boys, really—all with various degrees of injuries, the worst with half his face covered in white bandages. Traces of red had seeped through where the eye would have been. Georg was not among them.

The interviews were brief. One of the boys had, in fact, been involved with the games, a javelin thrower now living in Paris whose left leg was in plaster up to the mid-thigh. He had taken a bayonet somewhere along the Diagonal but had managed to get a round off before his attacker had done more damage. The loss of blood had kept the boy in bed for over a week.

“Bit ironic,” the boy said. “A bayonet. Just imagine what it would have been if I’d been a hammer thrower.”

Hoffner was glad for the resiliency. “And you were part of the German team?” he said.

“I’m a German. What else would I be?”

The boy remembered no one resembling Georg, no filmmakers. It had all been catch-as-catch-can, half the team making it only as far as Paris before being told to turn back (to wherever they had come from) as a war had broken out. Hoffner ran through the names from Georg’s wire. It was pointless. None of the boys recognized a single one.

Mila was writing out something when Hoffner drew up.

“I thought there were no files,” he said, through a half smile.

She continued to write. “We’d have nowhere to put them even if this was one.” She quickly finished with it, set it to the side, and looked up at him. “Was he your German?”

Hoffner found himself taking a moment too long with the gaze. “No.” He nodded back at the beds. “Nice boy. He wants to get in on the fighting. That’s a shame.”

“Is it?”

“Yes—it is.”

She seemed surprised by the answer. “He’ll have his chance.”

“Really?”

“A leg like that—young and healthy—takes about three weeks. You think we’ll still be singing in the streets three weeks from now?”

“I wasn’t planning on being here.”

“No, I’m sure you weren’t.”

For some reason Hoffner had his pack of cigarettes in his hand. He shook one to his lip and saw her staring up at him. “Right,” he said, and removed it.

She looked over her shoulder and said to the nurse nearest her, “I’m taking five minutes. I’ll be outside.” She opened the drawer, slid the sheets in, and stood. “I’m assuming you have more than one in the pack?”

*   *   *

It took a bit of muscle to hoist up the window at the far end of the corridor, but she managed it. She stepped out onto the roof, and Hoffner followed.

The view was mostly trees with a few buildings cut in between. The heat lay across the black-tarred roofing like exhaustion and seemed to rise to just below the chin. Hoffner felt his neck instantly wet. He lit her cigarette, and she let out a long stream of smoke.

“You’ve come a long way for one German,” she said, as she stared out across the trees. “You think he’ll mean as much to you when you find him?”

Hoffner lit up. “Nice to hear
when
. There’s been a lot of
if
with everyone else.”

“I might have said
if
, but that wouldn’t make me much of a doctor, would it?”

“Woman doctor. That’s uncommon.”

She ignored the obvious. “So where in Germany?”

He wiped his neck and his fingers grew slick. “Berlin.”

“That’s not a nice place to be these days”—she looked over at him—“or maybe it is? Is it a nice place to be?”

He took a long pull and nodded out at the buildings. “I’m guessing these saw a lot of the fighting.”

She stared at him until she knew he was growing uncomfortable. “No,” she said. “Everyone needs a hospital. They left it alone.”

“You must have been busy.”

“Yes.” She continued to look at him. It was impossible not to let her. “Finding someone in Spain these days. That’s—” The word trailed off. He expected her to say more, but she did well with silence.

He said, “He’s not here to fight. I’m thinking that should make it easier.”

“Easier to keep him alive or easier to find him?”

Hoffner had yet to figure out why she had taken him out here. He imagined it was an answer he might not want to have. “Both, I think.”

“Such is a father’s love.” The words were almost indifferent. She took a pull as she looked out again. It was several long moments before she said, “You speak a beautiful Spanish.”

Hoffner was studying the face. There was a thin line of perspiration above the lip. It pooled in tiny beads. She showed no thought of brushing it away. “Thank you.”

“That’s also uncommon.” She took a last pull and dropped the cigarette to the roofing. It hissed at the touch of the tar. “Are the rest of the clothes in your valise as ridiculous as the ones you’re wearing?” She gave him no time to answer. “A decent pair of boots, a hat?” She ran her toe over the cigarette. “And I’m sure you’ve got a place to stay?”

“I appreciate the concern.”

“Do you?” She looked directly at him. “You’ll need that and the clothes if you want to find this nonfighting boy of yours. Why did he come, by the way?”

“Does it matter?”

He felt her eyes across him. She offered a quiet smile. “You can’t trust Gardenyes.”

“I think I know that.”

“Good. We have an extra room. And some clothes.”

The suddenness of it caught Hoffner off guard. “You’re being very generous.”

“This is Barcelona. This is what we do.”

“Is it?”

She drew her hand in the air across his chest. “They’ll be a bit big for you here, but the rest should be good.”

“And your husband can do without them?”

“There is no husband.”

“Brother?”

There was a moment in the eyes, and she started for the window. “I’ll write down the address. There should be some food. You look like you could use some sleep.”

*   *   *

The key for the building proved unnecessary. A woman—small, veined, and gray—sat perched on a low stool that stood propping open the front door. She held a pile of green and red peppers on her lap and was slicing them into a bucket. She held the knife by the back of the blade and moved through the peppers with alarming speed. Even when she looked up to see Hoffner staring at her, she continued to slice.

The street was like most of the rest, narrow, and with buildings no more than five or six stories high. They seemed to be leaning into each other with rounded shoulders, as if the whole thing might collapse with a little push. Or maybe it was this woman who was holding them in place? She wiped the knife on her skirt for no apparent reason and went back to her slicing.

Hoffner said, “I’m going to number four. I have the key.”

She reached into the bucket and dug through for something.

Hoffner pulled the valise-cum-satchel off his back. His shoulders were going stiff. “The doctor—” It struck him only now that he had no idea what her proper name was. “I have the key from her.”

The woman brought out a slice of red pepper and held it out to him. The knife was still in her fingers.

“Have it,” she said.

Hoffner took the wedge. It was crisp and wet, and the sweetness settled at the back of his throat. He nodded as he swallowed. “Thank you.”

She moved her legs to the side. It was a token gesture, and he picked up his bags and sidestepped inside.

The staircase was almost completely dark. Hoffner smelled almonds and garlic, and something else he couldn’t quite place, but it seemed to go well with the taste still in his mouth. At the second landing, a dim bulb sprouted from the wall and gave off just enough light to bring out the metal 4 on a door halfway down the hall. He stepped over and slotted the key into the lock.

The place was charming enough, walls a bright yellow, windows with sheer drapes in white and pale green. Beyond them stood a wrought-iron balcony that ran the length of the wall. A low sofa sat across from the windows, along with a few chairs and pillows scattered about. There was a table, a bookcase—small things of meaning set along one of the shelves—and an archway that led off to what might be a kitchen. It was neat, inviting, and showed nothing of the life being lived inside it.

Hoffner set down the bags and moved across to the drapes. He pulled them back and noticed that one of the windows had been left open. There was hardly any sound from the street, but for some reason the smell of almonds was stronger here. A window across the way showed a woman sleeping in a small room. She was lying on her back, her hair billowing from some unseen fan. The rest of her lay perfectly still until her hand came up and wiped at something on her cheek. Just as easily the hand fell back to the bed. The stillness returned, and Hoffner wondered if she would remember it ever happening.

Hoffner turned back to the flat and now saw through to the kitchen. There was an icebox, sink, stove, small table, and a man seated at one of the three chairs. He was older than the woman from the street, though not much bigger, and he was peering over at Hoffner. An opened newspaper lay across the table.

The man said, “You have a key.” It was a statement, nothing more.

Hoffner needed another few moments. “Yes,” he said. “The doctor—she gave it to me.”

The man continued to peer across at him. The face showed no fear, no distrust, not even curiosity. It was a look devoid of content. “Are you English?”

Again Hoffner needed a moment. “No.”

“German?”

“Yes.”

The man nodded. “You look German or English. I don’t mean it to offend.”

“It doesn’t. Does she do this often?”

“Do what?”

“Allow people to stay.”

The man thought a moment, then shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of, no.”

“And you live here?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’d be aware of it.”

The man waited. This seemed to make sense. He pushed the chair back and stood. He was a good head shorter than the doctor. “I have some hard eggs in the shell,” he said, “if you’re hungry.” He stepped over to a cabinet, pulled out a plate, and set it on the table. He went to the icebox.

It was always small men who gave Hoffner trouble when it came to age. The back was ramrod straight, but even then he put him at close to eighty. The hair was a fine white.

“She mentioned some clothes,” said Hoffner. It seemed inconceivable that they would have once belonged to this man, but given the circumstances and the last few minutes, Hoffner was open to anything.

The man placed two eggs on the plate. “There’s a closet in the other room. I can show you.” He placed a kettle on one of the burners, lit the gas with a match, and then pointed Hoffner in the direction. “It’s through here.”

Hoffner followed him down a short corridor and into a bedroom. A simple metal-spring bed jutted out from the far wall, with a small table, washing pitcher, and basin next to it. A wooden armoire stood along the near wall. The man unlatched the armoire and pulled open the doors.

He said, “They might be wide in here”—he ran his hand across his chest—“but otherwise they should fit well enough.”

Shirts and trousers hung on hangers, with two pairs of boots wedged underneath. The man stared at the clothes and then placed his hand on one of the sleeves. He stood quietly for several seconds. He closed the doors and said, “You’ll want a bath first.”

Hoffner stood in the doorway. “I’m called Nikolai.”

The man looked over. It was the first sign of emotion to reach his face. “You have a Russian name.”

“Yes. My mother.”

The man showed a moment’s surprise, then approval. “Mine as well,” he said. He seemed to grow taller with this. “I’m called Dmitri Piera. I am the father of your doctor. I’ll go run that bath.”

*   *   *

Hoffner slept first, two hours—maybe more—long enough to feel a different kind of heat when he woke. This one left pockets of cooled air to breathe and made sitting remarkably pleasant. He had bathed in the tub and now wore a shirt, suspenders, and trousers from the armoire as he sipped from a glass at the kitchen table. Both father and daughter had been right about the chest.

Piera offered coffee but said tea would be better. He also explained the other smell. Hazelnuts. He was guessing someone had peppers.

“It might be
calçots
,” he said, “but the onions are hard to find these days.”

Hoffner set his glass on the table. “I need to thank you for all this.”

Piera set his glass down as well. “She gave you the key, and the clothes were here. She’ll tell me why when she gets home.”

“You have great faith.”

It was the first hint of a smile to cross Piera’s face. “You’re in the wrong house for that.”

“She’s a good doctor.”

Piera dropped a piece of sugar into his glass. “Were you injured?”