The Second Son: A Novel (2 page)

The girl glanced over. She smiled and winked and went back to her barman.

“And yet she knows I’m a capitalist at heart. How it kills me.” The Bulgarian picked up his rucksack from the floor. It was holding a new Zeiss Ikon, courtesy of the English Pathé Gazette Company. The Bulgarian had promised to get the camera back in one piece. Hoffner wasn’t holding his breath.

“Fifteen pesetas for an hour,” said the Bulgarian, as he hoisted the strap over his shoulder. “It’s a crime.”

“Enjoy the Swedes,” said Hoffner. He picked up his own bag.

The dozing Czech or Russian opened his eyes. Hoffner stood. He left a few coins on the table and headed for the door.

*   *   *

His room smelled of wood polish and garlic and stared out at the expanse that was the Plaza Catalonia. His hotel, the Colón, stretched the length of one side of the square and seemed to be perpetually in direct sunlight. Eight in the morning, nine at night, there was no escaping the glare. Hoffner thought it must have been some sort of architectural coup, but all it did was make the room unbearably steamy.

He had worked his way through descriptions of the square, the view of Barcelona, the taste of the food—a letter each day required topics to fill it. Lotte had written back with things far more compelling: their four-year-old Mendy had remembered to flush the toilet twice in the last three days; Elena, their cook and nanny, had experimented with Spanish rice (a gesture of solidarity for an absent father—not a success); Sascha, his brother, had inexplicably come calling—it was three years since they had last spoken. Lotte reminded Georg that she had never been fond of his brother. And finally Nikolai, Hoffner’s father, had insulted the gardener. Something to do with the placement of a ladder. Lotte hadn’t been terribly clear on the details but, save for the appearance of his brother, Hoffner was glad to hear that things were moving along at their usual pace. He would be home soon enough. Until then, he would continue to live for her letters. He started to write.

My love,

Have I mentioned it’s hot? Very hot, and they seem to think that water makes you less of a man. I wouldn’t mind it so much, but I get thirsty from time to time and they offer wine or whiskey, and I find myself no less thirsty. Can you imagine it? (I hope you’re laughing. I need to know I’m still wonderfully funny and charming to you.)

I smell awful. There’s no reason to bathe (see water reference above). And yet, among the other journalists, I’m one of the few I can actually bear the smell of. There’s a nice Frenchman who I think has an unlimited stash of women’s perfume, and I’m coming close to asking him for some, but several Czechs have asked him to dance, so I think I’ll hold off for as long as I can.

I ate bull’s tail yesterday. Thick brown sauce. A little like brisket but stringier. And then apples, I think, in the same sauce. Not quite as effective. The whiskey was a help there.

I miss you—terribly. I’m amazed I’ve waited this long to say it. And Mendy. I try not to think about that. I suppose he’s still trying to be very brave, but I do hope there have been some tears. Selfish of me, I know, but at least that way I can think I’m not forgotten (yes, there are always a few lines of self-pity in here, so you’ll just have to bear with me—you always do).

Still, I am finding it fascinating here. All these idealists pretending to be athletes. I suppose it makes some sort of point. They’re all very kind to me when they find out I’m a German. “Brave, German,” they say. “That’ll show Hitler.” Of course I don’t tell them I work for an English company. I think it would deflate me a little in their estimation, and you always get a better reel of film and an interview when they think more of you than they should.

As for being a Jew, no one cares here. It’s almost as if I’d forgotten what that was like. You say you’re a Jew, and they say
Oh
and move on as if you’ve asked for the salt. There are the few who realize I’m a German, and the pieces start to click together, but for the most part there’s nothing more to it.

Can you remember what life was like when that was true? Can you imagine raising a son without having to explain that? They manage it here quite wonderfully, even with their aversion to water. Excuses aside, your father and I will have to sit down and have that talk when I get back. It can’t go on. Is he still thinking the racial laws will be recalled? Is he still trying to stay as quiet as he can? Does he still shake at night?

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so shrill about your father, but you and I both know the time has come.

Did I mention it’s hot? And that I miss you—desperately? It is desperation. I love you beyond all measure. I’m a fool to go away as often as I do. So let’s all go away.

I’ve been told I’m trying
suquet
, tonight. No idea what it is. Maybe fish and potatoes. Think of me when you eat.

Your Georgi

He folded the letter and placed a wrapped piece of chocolate inside for Mendy. He would post it on his way up to the park. He checked his watch. He had time for a nap.

*   *   *

The sun was low across the horizon as Hoffner set the camera on a narrow shelf of stone and tile. He had borrowed a car to make his way up to this particular park—Park Güell—Antonio Gaudí’s homage to sweeping curves and staggering colors and a mind unburdened by things of this world. It was like walking through a child’s gingerbread fantasy, except here all the garden walls seemed to be sprouting from trees or dripping from their branches. Hoffner tried to find a straight line somewhere among them, but it was pointless.

The city below looked equally untamed, pale stone and arching roofs, sudden openings here and there where a column or spire might rise from the disarray. The strangest and tallest was Gaudí’s Sagrada Família, his unfinished cathedral, whose towers looked to be made of sand, as if a spider were caught belly-up and struggling to right itself. Farther on stood the hills and Montjuïc, with its ancient fortress and the new Olympic Stadium. To the left, the sea.

Somehow, staring out, Hoffner felt a sudden rush of calm. It might have been the air of a Mediterranean night or the silence all around him. Or maybe it was just the genius of Gaudí. Whatever it was, Hoffner let himself take it in.

A couple stopped next to him. They stared out for a few moments and then moved on. Somewhere, a lute began to play.

The sun spread across the few clouds, and Hoffner bent over and began to film. It would make a nice opening shot, Montjuïc in the distance, the sky the rust of early sunset, and the first lights beginning to shimmer inside the buildings. Hoffner panned slowly across the city until he heard footsteps on the gravel behind him. They stopped. He heard the flare of a cigarette lighter, then the snap of the top as it clicked shut.

“Hello, Georg.”

Hoffner stopped the crank and slowly stood upright. He turned.

A tall man with a shock of white hair stood staring at him. The man let out a long spear of smoke and offered Hoffner a cigarette.

“Thanks, no,” said Hoffner.

The man nodded once. The hair might have been white, but he was no more than fifty, and his arms in shirtsleeves showed lithe, taut muscle.

His name was Karl Vollman, and he was an Olympic chess player. A German. The two had shared a bottle of whiskey a few nights back. Vollman slid the pack into his shirt pocket and took another long pull.

“It’s a beautiful view,” Vollman said.

“Yes.”

“Just right for your sort of thing.” Vollman deepened his voice. “City of lights, city of dreams—Olimpiada Popular, and Pathé Gazette is there.” He smiled to himself and took another pull.

“No chess tonight?”

“There’s chess every night. Later. Down in the Raval. Seedy and smoky. Just right.”

“I met a Bulgarian who finds it rather silly—chess as sport.”

“I find Bulgarians rather silly, so I suspect we’re even.”

Vollman had spent the better part of the past ten years in Moscow, teaching something, playing chess. He said he liked the cold.

“You just happened to find yourself in Park Güell tonight?” Hoffner said.

“They say you can’t leave the city without seeing it. Here I am. Seeing it.” Vollman looked past Hoffner to Barcelona. “Peaceful, isn’t it? Sad how we both know it won’t be that way much longer.”

Hoffner measured the stare. Whatever else Vollman had been doing in Moscow, he had learned to show nothing in his face.

Hoffner said, “I’m sure they’ll have a wild time of it when the Olimpiada starts up.”

Vollman’s stare gave way to a half smile. “Oh, is that what I was talking about? The Olimpiada.” He finished his cigarette, dropped it to the ground, and watched his foot crush it out. Thinking out loud, he said, “I suppose it’s what you’re here to film, what I’m here to do. Much simpler seeing it that way.”

Hoffner had felt a mild unease with Vollman the other night. This was something more.

Vollman said, “I don’t imagine either of us will be in Barcelona much longer, do you?” He looked directly at Hoffner. “All those fascist rumblings in the south—Seville, Morocco. Only a matter of time.”

Again, Hoffner said nothing.

Vollman pulled out the pack and tapped out a second cigarette. He lit it and spat a piece of tobacco to the ground.

“Fascist rumblings?” Hoffner said blandly. “I hadn’t heard.”

Vollman’s smile returned. “Really? A German, working for the English, in socialist Spain just at the moment the fascists are thinking of turning the world on its head, and he hasn’t heard. How remarkable.” He gave Hoffner no time to answer. “What are you, Georg, twenty-nine, thirty?”

Hoffner was twenty-five, but why give Vollman more ammunition?

“Something like that,” Hoffner said.

“Then you’re still young enough to take some advice.” Vollman spat again. “We both know why you’re in Barcelona. Which means the Spanish know why you’re here. And if the Spanish know—well, wouldn’t you think the Nazis would know as well?”

Hoffner didn’t like the shift in tone. “And do the Nazis know why
you’re
here?”

Despite himself, Vollman liked the answer. Again he smiled.

“English, Russians,” he said, “Italians, Germans. Aren’t we all just waiting for the Spaniards to figure it out for themselves? And when they do”—Vollman shook his head with as much pathos as a man like him could muster—“that’s when we take sides. And that’s when the real games begin.” He took a last pull. He was oddly quick with a cigarette.

Hoffner said, “You mean when they start killing each other.”

Vollman hesitated even as he showed nothing. He tossed his cigarette to the ground and then bobbed a nod out at the city. “You keep on getting whatever it was you were getting. When you need more, you know where to find me.”

Vollman started off.

“It’s Paris,” Hoffner said.

Vollman stopped. He turned.

“The city of lights,” Hoffner said. “Not good to be confusing Paris and Barcelona these days.”

Vollman waited. There was no telling what he was thinking. He said nothing and moved off. Hoffner watched as Vollman stopped for a few moments by the lute player, dropped a coin in the man’s hat, and headed for the stairs.

*   *   *

Back at his room, Hoffner was finishing his third glass of whiskey when he placed an empty sheet of paper on the desk. His head was spinning—from Vollman, from the booze—but there was always one place he could go to clear his mind.

He began to write.

A ladder?

Brilliant, Papi. Make sure the gardener doesn’t take a shovel to your head the next time.

It’s past eleven. They’re all heading off for dinner, so you’re the best I can do for company. Don’t pat yourself on the back. I’ve had a few, and we both know what that does to my letters to Lotte. You won’t tell her.

I can’t promise coherence. Then again, there isn’t a lot about Spain these days that inspires it, so I think I won’t worry. Oh, and there’s nothing else to tell about the police, except that their hats are ludicrous. I’d try to draw you one, but it would come off looking like a dying bat or a headless peacock. Wonderfully appropriate but not terribly accurate.

So that leaves the politics. Yes, the politics. At last. Just for you. I can hear you laughing. I had a strangely unnerving conversation tonight—the place seems to thrive on strangely unnerving conversations—but there’s no point in going into that. Still, it put me in the frame of mind.

You’d feel right at home. It’s like Berlin after the Kaiser, except here the Lefties manage it without a dinner jacket or soap. They take the worker thing very seriously. Lots of shirtsleeves and bandanas. It’s Mediterranean Marxism, which has a kind of primitive feel to it—everyone sweating and opening shirt buttons and going without shoes. They have rallies all the time and write large, imposing posters with lots of dates on them. Women wear trousers a great deal, which seems to go counter to the whole heat-inspired politics of the Left. Wouldn’t a dress be cooler? It makes you wonder how much the cold had to do with paving the way for Hitler, but that’s for another time. (If the line above is blacked out by the censor, I probably deserved it, so don’t worry.)