Balance of Power

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 “bastardos 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 wire-frame 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. Why don’t you go home? I’m sure you’ve had a long day.”

“So have you,” Norberto said. “A long day and a long night.”

Adolfo was silent. Did Norberto suspect?

“I was reading just now that in the same way as God is beneficial, good is beneficial,” Norberto said with a smile. “So let me be good. Let me do this for you.” He went to the stove and lit the flame with a wooden match. He shook the match out and removed the lid from the pot.

Adolfo smiled cautiously. “All right, mi hermano,” he said. “Be good. Even though if you ask anyone in town, you are already good enough for the two of us. Sitting with the sick, reading to the blind, watching children at the church when both parents are away —”

“That’s my job,” Norberto said.

Adolfo shook his head. “You’re too modest. You’d do those things even if the priesthood weren’t your calling.”

The smell of lamb filled the room as the stew began to warm. The deep popping of the bubbles sounded very cozy. They reminded Adolfo of when he and Norberto were boys and they ate whatever their mother had left for them on the stove. When they were together like this, it didn’t seem so very long ago. Yet so much had happened to Spain… and to them.

Adolfo kept his movements unhurried. Even though he didn’t have time for this now, he didn’t want to give Norberto a reason to worry about him.

Norberto looked over at his brother as he stirred the stew. The priest appeared wan and tired in the yellow light of the bare overhead bulb. His shoulders were more and more rounded every year. Adolfo had long ago decided that doing good must be a draining experience. Taking on the sorrows and pain of others without being able to pour out your own — except to God. That required the kind of constitution Adolfo did not have. It also required a kind of faith Adolfo did not have. If you were suffering on earth you took action on earth. You didn’t ask God for the strength to endure. You asked God for the strength to make things right.

“Tell me, Adolfo,” Norberto asked without turning. “What you said a moment ago — was it true?”

“I’m sorry?” Adolfo said. “Was what true?”

“Do I need to be good enough for you and me?”

Adolfo shrugged. “No. Not as far as I’m concerned.”

“What about as far as God is concerned?” Norberto asked. “Would He say that you are good?”

Adolfo draped his wet socks over the line. “I wouldn’t know. You’ll have to ask Him.”

“Unfortunately, He doesn’t always answer me, Dolfo.” Norberto turned now. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

Adolfo wiped his hands on his pants. “There is nothing on my conscience, if that’s what you mean.”

“Nothing?”

“No. Why are you really asking me this? Should I be worried about something?”

Norberto took a mug from the shelf and ladled stew into it. He brought it over to the table and pointed. “Eat.”

Adolfo walked over. He picked up the stew and sipped it. “Hot. And very good.” As he sipped more he continued to watch his brother. Norberto was acting strangely.

“Did you catch anything tonight?” Norberto asked.

“Quite a bit,” Adolfo replied.

“You don’t smell of fish,” Norberto said.

Adolfo chewed on a thick chunk of lamb. He pointed to the clothesline. “I changed.”

“Your clothes don’t smell of fish either,” Norberto said. He looked down.

Suddenly, Adolfo realized what was wrong. He was the fisherman but Norberto was doing the fishing. “What brought this on?” he asked.

“The police telephoned a while ago.”

“And?”