The Second Son: A Novel (25 page)

Hoffner was just opening his eyes when he saw Gabriel step through the door.

“Did you sleep?” said Gabriel.

Hoffner propped himself on an elbow and shook his head.

Gabriel said, “Is she up?”

They had set up a small barricade around Mila’s piece of the floor. She said it was unnecessary—she would be sleeping in her clothes—but the woman whose house was now the makeshift barracks had insisted. It might be a new kind of war, but not that new.

Hoffner pointed over to the chest of drawers—with the three chairs and blankets spread over them—and said, “She’s in the master suite.”

Gabriel stepped over and rapped a hand against the wood. “Good morning, Doctor.”

He rapped again, then a third time, and Mila’s voice came from behind him. He turned to see her coming through the front door. She was carrying a tray.

“I’ve found some coffee,” she said, “and something that looks like cheese. They said it was cheese. I’m hoping it’s cheese.”

Hoffner sat up. She looked clean, as if she had found a washbasin. The face, though fresh, showed the weight of the night, the age lines more creased as they edged out from the eyes. She had taken care with little else, her hair pulled back to mask its wildness, and the neck speckled pink from exhaustion or the sun. It was a completely unadorned Mila who maneuvered her way through the beds, and it was this careless, untended beauty that brought a tightening to the muscles in Hoffner’s gut.

She set the tray down and handed him a cup. He found himself staring into the dark liquid.

“You’re up early,” he said.

“Four was early,” she said, as she gave another to Gabriel. “You didn’t hear the boy come in?”

Hoffner shook his head.

“He was whispering through the blanket before he finally pulled it back,” she said. “I think he was hoping to catch a glimpse of something.”

“Did he?” Hoffner drank. The coffee tasted of cheese.

“It was dark,” she said, “but let’s hope.” She pulled over one of the chairs and sat. “There was an arm that needed patching. They have a sniper—at night—somewhere up in the hills. It wasn’t so bad.”

Hoffner said, “And they don’t have a doctor of their own?”

“I’m guessing he likes his sleep.”

This was something he would have to remind himself of. Places like this held no surprises for her, at least when it came to the doctoring.

She picked up a wedge of cheese, sniffed it, and took a bite. “I told them I needed to get into Zaragoza. They said it was impossible. I mentioned you.” She sipped at the coffee as she stared at Hoffner. “They said they’re very eager to meet you.”

*   *   *

With no basin or water in the barracks, Hoffner was forced to do what he could to rub the sleep from his face. His eyes felt swollen and his mouth tasted of red onion as he followed Gabriel and Mila across the square and into a one-room shack. Funny, but he hadn’t had onions in days.

The place was dirt-floored and smelled of cooking oil and something sweet—crushed sugarcane or three-day-old sweat, it was impossible to say which. A woodstove stood at the back, tin cups, and a coffeepot resting on top. The exhaust pipe drove up through a hole in the ceiling that was just too wide for its spout. Had it been raining, there would have been no point in lighting it. Then again, it was August; why light the thing at all?

Three men stood leaning over a small table near the stove. Their backs were to the door, and they were pointing at various positions on a map. From the look of the clothes and the rank smell in the air, Hoffner was guessing they had been up all night.

The tallest of the three was the first to turn. He was somewhere in his twenties with a handsome face, a wild, full beard—a beard that inspired confidence—and arms the size of unstripped logs. The hair was thick there as well, as were the tufts climbing up through the top of his open shirt. Two thin suspenders kept his trousers above his narrow waist.

The man kept his eyes on Mila for a moment too long. Hoffner chanced a side glance and saw it in her face as well, a look of complicity, recognition in the light of day. Neither showed regret. Neither showed anything beyond this single moment.

The man turned back and said to one of the others, “Tura. He’s here.”

Hoffner chafed at his sudden feelings of betrayal. They were ludicrous. He had said nothing to her, nothing to himself about her, except perhaps that she was his to protect. And maybe that was most ludicrous of all. He forced himself to keep his eyes on the men at the table.

The man called Tura continued to speak quietly to the third in their company: there was an occasional murmured response, a shake of the head, but this was how it passed for nearly a minute. Hoffner thought the big one might interrupt again, but instead they all stood waiting until the third man finally nodded and headed to the door. Only then did the one called Tura reach for his cigarette—a weedy, self-rolled thing propped on the edge of the table—and turn to the room.

It was a hard face, square and lined, and with a day’s growth to make the cheeks seem even more brittle. There might have been something oafish to it—the wide brow and high forehead—but the eyes were too focused and the color too deep a brown to hide the raw intelligence. This was a stare of perfect conviction. It held Hoffner’s gaze even as the cigarette smoke drifted past him.

“You’re the German,” the man said. It was a peasant voice, guttural and crackling.

“And you’re Buenaventura Durruti.”

Hoffner had seen too many of the posters across Barcelona, photographs in every newspaper from Moscow to London, not to know him at once. Strange to come face-to-face with the soured breath of an ideal.

Durruti looked over at Gabriel. “Sleep hasn’t improved you, Ruiz.”

Gabriel nodded. It was as much as he had brought to the conversation.

Durruti took a pull on the cigarette. “So. You have a son in Zaragoza, and you’d like to find him.”

Hoffner took a moment. “No,” he said.

Durruti was not one to show surprise. The eyes moved to Mila, then back to Hoffner. Smoke trailed from Durruti’s nose. “You have a son?”

“Yes.”

“But not in Zaragoza.”

“No.”

Durruti took another pull and nodded. “I must have misunderstood.”

“Yes.”

Durruti finished the cigarette and dropped it to the floor. “And yet you’re eager to make your way into a city garrisoned with more than a thousand rebel troops.” He crushed it out under his boot. “That would be reckless even by my standards.”

Hoffner said, “The doctor has a brother—”

“Yes,” Durruti said. “I know. The doctor and I are old friends.” He pulled back his shirtsleeve and showed the bandage; the bullet had hit him just below the elbow. “The fascists have good aim. They’re also smart with a target. I’ve been told they’re even better in daylight.” Stepping to the stove, he picked up the coffeepot; he kept his back to Hoffner as he poured. “So this son—the one not in Zaragoza—he knows something about guns. Tell me about these guns.”

Hoffner looked again at the big one; he was standing by the map, his arms crossed at his chest. He, too, was forcing himself to keep his eyes on the table. Hoffner said, “I’d take a cup of that coffee if you have it.”

Durruti handed him the one he had just poured and looked at Mila. “Doctor?” She shook her head, and Durruti went back for another. Again he kept his back to them.

“They’re German,” said Hoffner.

“Yes,” said Durruti, “I know.” He took hold of a can and dripped some thick milk into the coffee. “And they’re in Zaragoza?”

“I told you, my son isn’t in Zaragoza.”

“That’s right.” Even with something this simple, Durruti was taking no chances. He stirred the coffee. “But they do have guns in Zaragoza. German guns.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I would.” Durruti set the spoon down and turned. “That’s why I’m telling you—so when you take your doctor in to find her brother, you won’t be surprised when you get shot by one of your own.”

Hoffner watched as Durruti drank. Hoffner said, “You know where they’re coming from?”

“What, these German guns? My guess: Germany.”

Anywhere else, Hoffner would have resented the taunt; here it seemed justified.

He took a drink and then said, “Teruel. My son is in Teruel.”

“With guns?”

Hoffner said nothing.

“And you know this for certain?”

“No.”

Durruti nodded once for emphasis. “ ‘No,’ ” he repeated. The eyes sharpened as he stared across. “You’re very close to being helpful, then not. Why is that?”

“Tell me what it is you want to hear.”

An unexpected half smile creased the thick lips, and Durruti set the cup down. “Well—I might like to know that you’ll be bombing the munitions factory once you’re inside, or that you’ve a trainload of rifles up the road. Or that maybe you’re doing all this because you truly believe in the revolution and not because it’s something so meaningless as saving a boy’s life. But you can’t tell me any of that, can you?”

Hoffner gave Durruti the moment. “No, I can’t.”

The smile remained. “At least you’re honest.”

“I’ll take the explosives if you want.”

“Will you? That’s kind. I don’t have any, so I’ll save you the trouble.”

Durruti’s power lay not in his arrogance but in his utter lack of pretense. It was an honesty not meant to impress.

Hoffner pulled out his cigarettes. He offered them to Durruti and Durruti took one. Hoffner lit it, then lit his own.

“That’s good,” said Durruti. “At least you know the first rule.” Hoffner said nothing, and Durruti explained. “A stranger in Spain—you should always offer a man tobacco.”

“And the second?”

Durruti took a pull. He glanced at Mila, then back at Hoffner. “You’re not so good on that one.”

Hoffner held the pack out to Mila, even as he said to the big one by the table, “You know these rules too?”

The man looked up. It was clear now how much of a boy he still was. He glanced at Mila but said nothing.

Mila took a cigarette and said to Durruti, “He’s fine on both.” She let Hoffner light hers. She gave nothing away. “So, can you get me inside the city?”

Durruti had watched all this with mild disinterest. He took another pull and said, “They’ll shoot you, then him, and then where will his son and those guns be?”

Mila said firmly, “In Teruel. He won’t be coming with me. You’ll get your guns.”

“Ah,” said Durruti. “So now they’re
my
guns.” He nodded slowly. “There
are
no foreign guns in Spain. You know this, of course.” He seemed to take pleasure in showing his cynicism. “The French won’t come in—Blum’s already said it—not with the Rhineland slipping away. Why provoke more of that? And the English?” He took a pull and shook his head. “Not much money to be gained here either way. They’ll leave it alone. Which leaves us with the Russians.” Even the smoke seemed more aggressive through his nostrils. “They’ll be the ones to send us rifles and colonels, just to make sure we know how to be good Bolsheviks, but the guns will be shit. So will the colonels. They’ve all signed their pieces of paper, those promises to stay away. They’re doing it to keep the Germans and Italians out. Wouldn’t want it to break into a real war, now, would they? And we all know how good you Germans are with a promise.” Durruti took another pull.

Hoffner had expected another bandit anarchist—bullets and ideology ablaze—but Durruti showed a much subtler mind. He knew that his Spain, anarchist Spain, was on its own.

Durruti said, “So no, they won’t be
my
guns. The only hope I have is to end this war before all those German guns find their way through.”

Mila said, “He’s not coming with me.”

“But that’s not true,” Durruti said. He took a last pull and dropped his cigarette to the floor. “He’s the only way I get you inside Zaragoza.” Not waiting for a response, Durruti looked past Hoffner to Gabriel. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

Gabriel had been leaning quietly against a wall. He pushed himself up and said, “I was sure last night. Why should it be different now?”

Durruti nodded. He looked back at Hoffner. “You still have the German clothes you came in?”

It took Hoffner a moment to answer. “Yes.”

“Good. You’ll need to change.”

*   *   *

It made perfect sense. Hoffner was looking for fascist guns and he was looking for Germans. Why not be a German fascist and see where it took him? Mila was less convinced.

“And Gabriel?” she said.

Durruti was placing bricked explosives inside a hollow in the backseat of an old Mercedes sedan. He leaned farther in. “You’ll need someone to shoot the checkpoint guards if the passes fail,” he said. He was making sure each one had a fuse.

Mila stood outside the door. “I could do that.”

“No—you couldn’t.” Durruti brought the cushion down and bolted it by pulling a lever near the window; it looked like a hanging strap. “Neither could your German. It’s why you need Ruiz.”