“Father Norberto,” Adolfo sighed. “So learned yet so misguided.” His older brother was a Jesuit priest who had never wanted to be anything else. After his ordination seven years ago he was given the local parish, St. Ignatius, as his ministry. Norberto knew a lot about many things. The members of his parish lovingly called him “the Scholar.” He could tell them why the ocean smelled or why the sun turned orange when it set or why you could see clouds even though they were made of drops of water. What Norberto didn’t know much about was politics. He had once joined a protest march against the Spanish government, which was accused of financing death squads that killed hundreds of people in the middle 1980’s. But that wasn’t so much a political crusade as a humanistic one. He also didn’t know about church politics. Norberto hated being away from his parish. Two or three times a year Father General Gonzalez-the most powerful Jesuit prelate in Spain-held audiences or hosted dinners for church dignitaries in Madrid. Norberto did not go to these functions unless commanded, which he seldom was. Norberto’s disinterest in his own advancement allowed the power and funding in this province to go to Father Iglesias in nearby Bilbao.
Adolfo was the expert in politics, something Norberto didn’t admit. The brothers rarely argued about anything; they had looked out for one another since they were boys. But politics was the one area where they disagreed passionately. Norberto believed in a unified nation. He had once said bitterly, “It is bad enough that Christendom is divided.” He wished for what he called “God’s Spaniards” to live in harmony.
Unlike Norberto, Adolfo did not believe in either God or Spaniards. If there were a God, he reasoned, the world would be doing better. There wouldn’t be conflict or need. As for that creature called a “Spaniard,” Spain had always been a fragile tapestry of different cultures. That was true before the birth of Christ, when the Basques, Iberians, Celts, Carthaginians, and others were first united under the rule of Rome. It was true in 1469, when Aragon and Castile were joined in an uneasy alliance by the marriage of Ferdinand II to Isabella I. It was true in 1939, when Francisco Franco became El Caudillo, leader of the nation, after the devastating Civil War.
It was true today.
It was also true that within this confederacy the Castilians had always been victimized. They were the largest group and so they were feared. They were always the first to be sent into battle or exploited by the wealthy. The irony was that if there were a “real” Spaniard, the Castilian was it. His nature was industrious and fun-loving. His life was filled with the honest sweat of hard work and passion. His heart was filled with music, love, and laughter. And his home, the land of El Cid, was one of vast plains dotted with windmills and castles beneath an endless blue sky.
Adolfo savored the pride of his heritage and the blow he’d struck for both of those tonight. But as he entered the harbor, he turned his attention to the boats moored there. The harbor was located behind the enormous nineteenth-century Ayuntamiento, the town hall.
Adolfo was glad it was night. He hated coming back when it was light and all the gift shops and restaurants were visible. Catalonian money was responsible for transforming San Sebastian from a fishing village to a tourist spot.
Adolfo maneuvered carefully and skillfully around the numerous pleasure boats moored there. The fishermen usually kept their vessels out of the way, near the wharf. It made unloading the fish easier.
But the pleasure boats dropped anchor wherever their owners chose. The crews then rowed to shore on dinghies. For Adolfo the pleasure boats were a daily reminder that the needs of working men did not matter to the rich. The requirements of the fishermen didn’t matter to the powerful and wealthy Catalonians, or to the tourism they encouraged to benefit their-hotels and restaurants and airlines.
When Adolfo reached the wharf he tied his boat in the same spot as always. Then, slinging his canvas grip over his shoulder, he made his way through the groups of tourists and locals who had gathered when they heard the explosion. A few people near the wharf, who had watched him come in from the bay, asked what had happened. He just shrugged and shook his head as he walked along the gravel path, through a row of gift shops and past the new aquarium. It was never a good idea to stop and talk to people after completing a job. It was only human to want to lecture or to boast and that could be deadly. Loose lips not only sink ships: they can undo those who sink them.
Adolfo continued along the path as it turned into Monte Urgull, the local park. Closed to automobile traffic, the park was the site of ancient bastions and abandoned cannon. It was also home to a British cemetery from the duke of Wellington’s 1812 campaign against the French.
When he was a boy, Adolfo used to play here-before the ruins were promoted from weed-covered wreckage to protected historical relics. He used to imagine that he was a cavalry soldier. Only he was not fighting the imperious French but the His “hastardos from Madrid,” as he knew them. The exporters who drove his father to an early grave. They were men who bought fish by the ton to ship around the world and who encouraged inexperienced fishermen to ply the waters off San Sebastian. The exporters didn’t want to develop a regular team of suppliers. Nor did they care whether they destroyed the ecological balance of the region. Bribes to officials made certain that the government didn’t care either. All they wanted was to fill a new and unprecedented demand for fish as it replaced beef on tables throughout Europe and North America. Five years later, in 1975, the exporters began buying fish from Japan and the opportunists left. The coastal waters were theirs again. But it was too late for his father. The elder Alcazar died a year later, having struggled long and hard to survive. His mother died just a few months after that. Since then, Norberto was the only family Adolfo had.
Except, of course, for the General.
Adolfo left the park after the Museum of San Telmo, a former Dominican monastery. Then he walked briskly along dark, quiet Calle Okendo. The only sounds were the distant waves and muffled voices from television sets coming through open windows.
Adolfo’s tiny second-floor apartment was located on a small side street two blocks to the southeast. He was surprised to find the door unlocked. He entered the one-room apartment cautiously. Had someone been sent by the General or was it the police?
It was neither. Adolfo relaxed when he saw that it was his brother lying on the bed.
Norberto closed the book he was reading. It was The Moral Discourses of Epictetus.
“Good evening, Dolfo,” Norberto said pleasantly. The old bedsprings complained as he sat up. The priest was slightly taller and heavier than his brother. He had sandy brown hair and kind brown eyes behind wireframe glasses.
Because Norberto wasn’t constantly exposed to the sun like his brother, his skin was paler and unwrinkled.
“Good evening, Norberto,” Adolfo said. “This is a pleasant surprise.” He tossed his threadbare bag on the small kitchen table and pulled off his sweater. The cool air coming through the open window felt good.
“Well, you know,” Norberto said, “I hadn’t seen you in a while so I decided to walk over.” He looked over at the ticking clock on the kitchen counter. “Eleven-thirty. Isn’t this rather late for you?” Adolfo nodded. He dug into his bag and began pulling out dirty clothes. “There was an accident on the bay. An explosion on a yacht. I stopped to assist the police.” “Ah,” Norberto said. He stood. “I heard the blast and wondered what it was. Was anyone hurt?” “Unfortunately, yes,” Adolfo said. “Several men were killed.” He said no more. Norberto knew about his brother’s political activism, but he didn’t know anything about his involvement with the General or his group. Adolfo wanted very much to keep it that way.
“Were the men from San Sebastian?” Norberto asked.
“I don’t know,” Adolfo said. “I left when the police arrived. There was nothing I could do.” As he spoke he began throwing the wet clothes over a line strung by the open window. He always brought spare clothes on the boat so he could change into something dry. He did not look at his brother.
Norberto walked slowly toward the old iron stove. There was a small pot of stew on top. ” “I made some cocido at the rectory and brought it over,” he said. “I know how you like it.” “I wondered what smelled so good. Not my clothes.” He smiled. “Thanks, Berto.” “I’ll warm it for you before I head back.” “It’s all right,” Adolfo said. “I can do that.