by Len Melvin
Malouf took the coin from her and stuck it in his pocket. “Like I said, it’s a leader from where I come from.”
“He’s a leader in Los Angeles?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“Sorry. I’m sure you haven’t heard of every leader that’s around.”
“Yeah, but to be put on a coin it seems like you’d have to be really famous.”
“Well, he’s not that good of a leader.”
Beaux held out her hand. “Can I see it again?”
“You’ve already seen it,” he said.
“Fine. Okay.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But tell me this. Why does the year on the coin say, ‘2056’?”
Next to her, Bobby continued to study the chess board. Across the room, the conspirators were deep in conversation. Malouf took a long sip from his beer and then propped his elbows on the bar and clasped his hands together. He breathed a deep sigh of resignation and turned full in his seat and stared at Beaux for a long moment. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“If I tell you, will you not go over to their table?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“If I tell you, you have to agree not to go over there.”
Beaux glanced at the couple in the booth and turned back to Malouf with a reluctant nod. “Okay.”
Malouf put a hand on her knee and moved his head close to hers. He put his other hand on her chin and tilted it sideways so that he could whisper in her ear. “Because that’s the year my father gave it to me.”
Chapter Thirteen
Simon laid a fork across the rim of the glass that had been placed in front of him and pushed three other empty glasses toward the bartender. He dipped two sugar cubes into the glass of absinthe and then placed them onto the fork. He flicked a lighter over them until they ignited and then put his elbows on the bar and watched the flames lick at the cubes of sugar. After a moment he picked a water bottle from the bar and sprinkled drops over the cubes, extinguishing the fire. The cubes of sugar dissolved, and the liquid below became a cloudy, tinted shade of green. He pushed a two Euro coin across the bar and sipped from the drink.
Bar Marsella was beginning to fill up. The ceiling might fall in at any moment on Barcelona’s oldest bar but at one in the morning, no one cared. Cobwebs covered the bottles that sat on shelves along the walls, like a white, stringy kudzu. Intermittent signs in Spanish prohibiting singing and tables of four or more sitting together, were remnants of the Franco era, a risible testament of El Caudillo’s sense of paranoia. The mirrors that lined the walls were grimy so that an accurate reflection of one’s self was simply not feasible. A chandelier that hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room was covered in dust and strips of ceiling paint hung precariously from the walls over the absinthe-indulging crowd.
“Un otro.” Simon held his glass up to the bartender.
“Señor, no fighting tonight. Okay?” Dark, tired eyes peered down at Simon from over a thick, black mustache that drooped down around the corners of the bartender’s mouth. He pointed at the door where two thickset men stood, staring in their direction.
Simon gave the bartender a thumbs up. The bartender nodded and poured another absinthe. Simon repeated the sugar cube ritual and sipped on the bitter substance that smelled like licorice.
Around the bar, an unsettling amalgam of rough, weathered, down and out, gritty, blue-collar seaport workers; a let’s-get-drunk crowd, were peppered amid long-haired backpackers drawn to the cheap drinks and the fresh, wide-eyed, just-showered tourists eager to indulge in a banned hallucinogen in the seedy Raval district. A group of Greek sailors in the corner spoke loudly, trying to communicate with a table of French girls seated next to them who were having none of it. A tall, thin, athletic group of Germans were singing soccer songs in another corner as they ignored the hurled taunts of thick-bearded, stocky men from Manchester. Finally, the Germans began shouting in unison, “Four World Cups. Four World Cups.”
“Two World Wars. Two World Wars,” was the immediate riposte and the men at the door turned their attention from Simon.
“Deutschland über alles,” the Germans replied and both groups rose from their seats. The men at the door moved between them, yelling in Spanish, arms outstretched.
Nationalism is everywhere these days, Simon thought. Even in Spain with the Catalans vying for their independence. Except the Spanish didn’t fight in bars. They were the best at street protests, but fighting was considered unseemly, although, there had been a spate of bombings lately which had rattled Barcelona.
He had gone to Northern England for Leanda’s funeral service and had stayed there a week with her family and friends. He had returned to work but after a week had turned in his resignation and cleaned out his office. Eliot had half-heartedly tried to talk him out of it, but Simon had stopped him with a silent shake of the head. Eliot had mumbled something and gave him a half-clap on the back and was back in front of his computer.
Simon had cleaned out their flat, placing Leanda’s personal items in a box and mailing them to her Mum. He put their furniture by the roadside, not caring about the value. With a bag over his shoulder, ignoring the months left on the lease, he had headed for Heathrow. The first flight out of England was to Barcelona and so he had pulled some cash from his pocket and was on a plane within the hour. He had found a cheap room in a small, family-run pension in the Barrio Gotico, the Gothic neighborhood than bordered Las Ramblas on one side and the Mediterranean on another.
The days had been spent walking the narrow streets, watching the buskers vie for Euros, stopping for a vino tinto at outdoor cafes, sitting for extended times in the vast plazas sipping on cervezas, a slight salve to the conscience. He drank a lot, slept fitfully, and lost track of time.
If only he had paid attention to Leanda and not the man in the brown bowler hat.
A shout and the sound of an overturned table brought Simon from his thoughts. He looked up just as a guy from Manchester broke a chair over the head of a German. Simon stood and rolled up his sleeves.
The bartender stopped him. “Señor, this is not your fight.”
“Maybe it is.” Simon killed the glass of absinthe just as a German was hit over the head with a beer bottle.
The bartender leaned over the bar and grabbed Simon by the arm. “You don’t even know them. Whose side will you fight on?”
“The Germans.”
“Por Que?”
Simon removed the bartender’s hand from his arm. “Lately, I don’t really like the English.” Simon wiped a hand across his mouth. “And, you know, sometimes, you just have to pick a side.”
◆◆◆
A young, dark-skinned singer strummed his worn guitar and belted out ‘The Redemption Song’ to the people sitting at the outdoor cafe. His high, piercing voice bounced off the fifteenth century basilica that dominated one side of Plaza del Pino. Simon sat at a table under the pine tree that the plaza was named for. The singer smiled at him. When he saw Simon, he automatically played that song. He knew that two Euros awaited him.
Simon sipped on a jarra of cerveza and picked at the pan con tomate the waiter had placed in front of him. It was six in the afternoon, the awkward time in Spain between lunch and dinner and he was undecided as to what to do. He could stroll over to the Mediterranean and bask in the warm sun as he gazed out over the tranquil green body of water toward Algeria. He could roam the streets, stopping occasionally at one of the myriad of bars that dotted every street or he could go back to the pension and rest as many Spaniards did at this time.
Undecided, he ordered another jar of beer. Tourists with maps in hand peered upward at the turrets of the basilica, as locals simply attempted to traverse the busy calles amid guides regaling groups of people with stories of Gaudi and Orwell, and Picasso. A flea market selling everything from paintings and drawings to combs of honey and shoes and clothes filled one side of the plaza
so that to negotiate the square was a venture.
The small uneven area between the cafe where Simon sat and the guitar player was the only clear space in the plaza. Directly across from Simon were two girls at a table. Simon could tell instantly that they were American. Americans just had a certain look and between songs he could hear their accents. One of the girls had short black hair, a stern face and sat straight in her chair, a right angle even as she sipped wine in Spain. The other had blonde hair to her elbows, sat with her long legs spread indifferently, and spoke loudly, a profanity-laced diatribe which caused the other girl to place a hand over her mouth at times and bend over in laughter.
They were both talking, engaged with each other in conversation so that neither was paying attention. A black backpack sat beside the chair of the blonde. Simon had been in Barcelona only a while, but he had learned that though it was very safe, as far as personal safety, the thieves in the city were the best.
The singer finished his set and began moving among the tables, a cap extended, upside-down, inviting tribute. He gave a wide smile and a nod of the head as Simon tossed a two Euro coin into the hat. Simon glanced back at the girls just as a small boy passed by and in a swift, fluid motion put a hand through the strap of the backpack. The small boy kept moving, never hesitating, his cadence normal, as he headed toward the exit of the plaza. Simon was on his feet, trying to follow him through the dense sea of people. He weaved through the oncoming crowd, striving to keep the small boy in his line of sight. The boy took a left onto a small street and an older boy took the backpack from him as he passed and headed another way.
Simon moaned and put a hand unconsciously to his knee as he switched directions. He followed the older boy through the narrow streets, limping as he tried to keep up. The boy reached Las Ramblas and merged into the mass of people crowding the famed street. Simon hurried after him barely managing to keep him in sight. Another boy, much older with a stocky build, crossed the boy and the backpack changed hands again. Luckily, the older boy was headed back in his direction.
Simon halted, stood in the shadow of one of the many shops and watched as the boy entered the main entrance of La Boqueria, the largest open-air market in Europe. Simon followed, dodging the people huddled over chocolates, nuts, and fruits and the tourists taking pictures, and saw the boy duck into a bathroom.
Simon approached the door of the bathroom and pushed on it. It was tightly shut. He backed up a step and gave a swift kick, easily breaking the door in. The boy, one hand already in the backpack looked up startled.
Simon held out his hand. “Give that to me.”
The boy hesitated and then a faint hint of amusement painted the corners of his mouth. He pulled a thin knife from his pocket. “Ven aqui, Cabron.” He waved the knife in front of Simon. “Ven aqui.”
Simon unclasped his belt and pulled it from his waist. The heavy buckle flashed in the light as he swung the belt in figure eights in front of him. The boy backed away for a moment and then darted forward, the knife whipping through the air and tore at Simon’s wrist. Simon rushed the boy, grabbed his hand and banged it against the wall until he dropped the knife. He wrapped the belt around the boy’s neck, pulled it tight and then smashed his head against the wall. The boy hit him in the face with his free hand and Simon slammed his head into the wall again. The boy slumped over, and Simon kneed him in the groin. Simon unwrapped the belt from the boy’s neck as he slid to the floor. He cowered in the corner before crawling under the stall of a toilet.
Simon watched him for a moment and then put his belt back on and clicked the buckle into place. He grabbed the backpack and moved a portion of the shattered door to the side. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the boy peeking at him from under the stall. A small crowd of shoppers had gathered, drawn by the noise, and stepped back as Simon exited the bathroom in his blood-spattered shirt. Simon pointed back at the bathroom. “Ladron. Thief.”
◆◆◆
The two girls were standing beside the table where they had been sitting, talking to an officer of the Mossos d’Esquadra who appeared disinterested or either didn’t understand English. Or both. The girl with blonde hair was frantic as she pointed to an exit of the plaza.
“Goddammit, don’t just stand there. Someone stole my fucking backpack.” The musicians had stopped playing and the people sitting at the tables ignored their jamon serrano and cervezas as they watched the girl. The waiters had turned from the futbol on the television and stood grinning at the latest Yanqui to get something stolen in Barcelona. “My laptop was in the backpack. It’s got everything I’ve been working on. You have to find it.” The girl with short black hair held the elbow of the blonde girl in restraint. The blonde put her face up into the officer’s face and screamed something unintelligible.
“Christina.” Her friend tugged at her elbow. “Christina.” She yanked Christina back when she poked her finger in the officer’s chest.
“I swear to God, I will kill the motherfucker that stole my backpack. You’ve got to do something,” she said to the officer. She rubbed her hands across her eyes. “You don’t understand. Everything I’ve been working on is on my goddamn laptop. And it’s in the backpack!” Christina sat down into the chair and put a hand over her face, her body heaving.
Simon had been watching from the crowd, smiling, curious as to whether the officer was about to be assaulted. He made his way to where Christina sat and slung the backpack onto the table. “This one?”
Christina dropped her hands and her eyes widened. “Ahhh!” She jumped to her feet and grabbed the backpack and hugged it. She quickly set it back the table and unzipped it, pulling out a shiny black laptop. She put it back into the backpack and zipped it tight. She flung herself at Simon, hugging him with one arm around his shoulder and the other arm wrapped around the backpack. There was a smattering of applause from the people seated in the cafe, and the officer took the opportunity to edge away. Christina backed up a step, grabbed her face with both hands for a moment as if in disbelief and then surged forward and hugged Simon again. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God, you saved me.” She put a hand over her mouth and exhaled three times in rapid succession. “Oh, my God. You don’t understand. I had all this work on the laptop and hadn’t saved it.”
“Are you okay?” The black-headed girl pointed at the red splotches on Simon’s t-shirt.
“I’m good.”
Christina gasped. “Oh, my God. What happened? I didn’t even see that.”
“The boy that had your backpack didn’t really want to give it back.”
Christina and the black-headed girl stared at Simon. Finally, Christina asked, “He scratched you?”
Simon held out his wrist. “Cut me.”
The black-headed girl put a hand over her mouth and took a step back. Christina stood, silent, her eyes wide. “With a…?
“Knife. Like I said, he really wanted that backpack. I think he might have seen the laptop inside it.”
“Oh, my God, are you okay? You need something? Some bandages?” Christina turned to a waiter. “Ban-da-ges,” she yelled. He stared blankly back at her.
“Ban-da-ges,” she yelled again.
The waiter began backing away, a black tray in his hand and a look of confusion on his face.
“Una jarra, por favor.” Simon said to the waiter. The waiter looked relieved and turned to go to the bar. “All I need is a beer.”
Christina seemed unsure what to do. “Here. Sit.” She pulled back her chair. Without waiting, she began going to other tables for a spare chair. She found one, briefly thanked the people at the table and dragged it across the plaza’s flagstone surface to the table. “Sit,” she ordered again. “Christina.” She held her hand out to Simon.
“Simon.” Simon released her hand and extended his hand to the black-headed girl.
“Madeleine.”
“Nice to meet you guys.”
The waiter set a large jar of beer on the table. Simon took a long sip, set the beer down
and then picked it up and took another. Madeleine leaned forward in her chair. “Tell us what happened.”
Simon told her how the young boy had taken her backpack, how it had been exchanged a couple of times and about the confrontation in the bathroom. Madeleine leaned back, her eyes wide as Simon told about the boy with the knife. “That’s why you always do this.” Simon took the backpack and placed it next to Christina’s chair. He raised the chair up, lifting the bottom slightly off the ground and slipped a strap from the backpack under the leg of the chair, securing it. “They can’t get it when it’s like that.”
Christina propped her elbows on the table, cradling her forehead. “If I had lost that laptop…” She let the thought hang in the air. “Shit,” she turned to Madeleine, “I was so worried about my laptop, I forgot my passport and credit cards were in there.” She leaned down, opened the backpack and pulled a zipper on the inside of the backpack. She let out a sigh as she felt them there. “I need a beer too.”
“Me too.” Madeleine said.
“Tres mas jarras, Simon held up three fingers to the waiter who was leaning against the doorway watching the television that was above the bar.
“You speak Spanish?” Christina asked.
“Nah. I can order some stuff, but that’s about all. Where are you guys from?”
“D.C.” Madeleine said.
“I used to live in D.C.”
“Really? What part?”
“Friendship Heights. And you guys?”
“I live in Adams Morgan.” Christina said, sitting back in her chair. “She lives in Cleveland Park. Near the zoo.”
“Señor.” A thin, tall, dark waiter put the three jars of beer on the table. “I am sorry to bother you.” He stopped and glanced behind him at a short, older man who stood behind him. “This man would like to talk to you for a minute.”
“This is Neb.” Simon motioned at the waiter. “One of the best soccer players in Nigeria but had to leave for various reasons.”
