now, standing awkwardly in a kitchen with a woman he hardly knew and who was unable to meet his gaze, struck him as both exhilarating and terrifying.
He said, “The fish-it’s smoking.”
She looked over at him. The oil popped, and she turned to the pan and quickly flipped the pieces. She said, “Did you sleep?”
“Yes.”
She nodded and sprinkled some salt. “And no word from Gardenyes?”
She knew there wouldn’t have been. Still, it was better to ask than chance the silence.
“No,” Hoffner said. “He’d know to find me here?”
“He’d know how to find you. That’s all.” She lifted one of the pieces with the fork and bent closer to smell it. She set it back in the pan and added more oil.
Hoffner said, “You might have told me.”
“Told you what?”
“Whatever it is I’m doing by being here.” He watched her flip the pieces again. “I’m not in the habit of making old men so uncomfortable.”
She took the pieces out of the pan and laid them on a plate. “That’s not for you to worry about.”
“Still-”
“Still nothing,” she said, as she brought the fish to the table. “You have a meal, a bed, and clothes.” She laid a cloth over the plate. “And tomorrow you’ll go and look for your son.”
“And these clothes I happen to be wearing?”
She was now tearing at the escarole and placing the strips in the pan. When she finished, she took a jar from the bag and, opening it, poured in white beans. She stirred them quietly.
Piera’s voice came from behind Hoffner. “She has a brother.” Hoffner looked back and saw the small man holding a bottle; it held a pale liquid. “He wears a different uniform now.”
Piera stepped over and placed the bottle on the table. He went to the shelf and brought over three glasses.
“Knives and forks are in the second cabinet,” he said, nodding to the one by the sink. Hoffner stepped over and found them. He set three places.
The silence waited with them until they were all seated. Mila pulled the cloth from the fish and placed a piece on each plate. She did the same with the escarole and beans, while Piera filled the glasses; she then took her fork and began to eat. The men followed.
“Where is he now?” Hoffner said.
He saw Mila run her fork through the escarole as she stared at her plate.
Piera said, “He fights for the fascists. He’s not my concern.” Piera scooped up some beans.
“Zaragoza,” she said, as she reached for her glass. “At least that’s where they say he was three days ago.”
Piera took his time chewing and swallowing. “Your son is a journalist?” he said.
Hoffner watched Mila as she drank. “Yes,” he said. “Newsreels.”
“Very interesting.” Piera sucked at something at the back of his teeth and took another forkful.
Mila said, “My father is a Communist. So was my brother-a long time ago. Communists aren’t very forgiving.”
Piera picked up his glass. “Nothing to forgive,” he said plainly. He drank.
“He means nothing he
Had Hoffner known the quickest way over the balcony and down to the pavement below, he would have taken it. Instead he was left to jab at a few beans with his fork.
He said, “I also have a son who fights for the fascists.”
Both father and daughter looked over. The same stare of betrayal filled their eyes.
“No,” Hoffner said easily. “Not the one with the newsreels. He also has a brother.” Hoffner went back to his fish. It was uncanny how moist she had kept it in the pan.
Mila said, “And he fights here, the other one?”
Hoffner shook his head as he ate. “No. The older boy is in Berlin-I think. I haven’t seen him in quite some time.”
“And you regret it?”
There was very little subtlety with her now. It made her somehow more endearing.
Hoffner said, “Not for me to regret what he is.”
“No, I meant-”
“I know what you meant,” he said, and took his glass. He drank. He then looked at Piera. “I don’t know this wine.”
Piera needed a moment. “Penedes,” he said. “Light. Nice with fish.”
Hoffner nodded and finished his glass, and Mila said, “And the younger one-does he regret it?”
She showed no backing down. There was no point in not answering.
“The younger boy is a Jew,” Hoffner said. “By choice. His brother is a Nazi. There was some unpleasantness. They haven’t spoken in several years. It’s not all that complicated.”
“But you come for the young one when the other is outside your back door.”
Hoffner set down his glass and took the bottle. He began to refill the glasses. “I don’t have the luxury to care about their politics. I know which one will take my help. That makes the decision much easier.”
“Easier for whom?” she said.
“For the one who’ll use it,” said Hoffner. He finished pouring.
“Or for yourself.”
Piera cut in angrily. “Of course for himself.” It was the first raw emotion to reach his voice. “What kind of question-easier for whom? You think he does this out of spite, to punish the other? He helps the one he can. This is a simple thing to understand.”
Piera realized too late how forcefully he had spoken. It was several moments before he went back to his fish.
Hoffner said, “I don’t know why I mentioned it. I’m sorry.”
Mila was looking at her father. “No,” she said, “I’m the one who is sorry.” Piera’s face softened even as he refused to look at her. She turned, and her eyes seemed to smile. The brightness in the face was all the more staggering given the last half minute.
“You’ll find him,” she said.
She sliced her fork into a piece of escarole. Hoffner watched as she drew it up to her mouth. She glanced at him, and it was all he could do to find the fish again on his own plate.
Two hours later he stared out from the balcony, glass in hand, as he listened to the distant sounds of music and voices from the street. Mila sat behind him on a low chair, her knees drawn to her chest. Her head was cocked lazily to one side as she listened as well. Piera had gone to bed.
Hoffner said, “I’ll try and find the place tomorrow.”
“He’ll want to go with you,” she said. “He’ll insist.”
Hoffner nodded.
An hour ago, Piera had given him Hanshen.
It had been something of a fluke, really, or maybe not-or maybe it was just Hoffner’s turn for a bit of good luck. In any event, it was going to save him some time.
Georg’s wire had indicated Hanshen was a German word. That, apparently, was not the case.
The name had come up during the third glass of Orujo and the second game of chess with Piera, a game that had not gone terribly well for Hoffner.
“You’ve played before,” Hoffner said.
“A bit.” The booze and the game were taking the edge off. Piera was smiling.
“Next you’ll want to put some money on it.”
“I’m a Communist,” said Piera. “What would I do with it if I won?”
