CHAPTER THREE
Alex pulled himself through the doors of Café No Mismo the next morning just in time to catch Victoria’s sharp look.
She rounded the counter and grabbed him by both arms. “I was worried! You don’t seem to be in bad shape, but my God!”
“Victoria, I’m sorry, I can explain.”
She offered him a blank stare before she continued. “No need. Your friend told me everything. These protests are getting out of hand—and I support them, but not when my staff get hurt. Are you sure you don’t need another day off? I’ll manage without you for a day or two.”
“My… my friend?”
“Short, tanned fellow. I think his name was Jacob, or Jago or something? He came down to tell me in person. It was strange, but sweet. Is he, umm…?”
“No,” Alex said quickly. True, this conversation must have taken place before Jago had cast him out with the fury of the Archangel Michael, but how had he known where to go or who to talk to? “We are just friends.” If that, he qualified in his head.
“Okay, fine. Take today off, at least. I know I’m fussing—”
“I can’t take time off. I got robbed last night.”
“I’m sorry… What? How?”
Alex rolled his eyes. “The kind of boy who’s a bad idea.”
“I see. You are feeling better then. Look, go home. I’ll pay you for today, just—"
“Victoria? I’m good, really. Reporting for duty.” He raised his hand in a mock salute, deliberately keeping his wrist limp.
“Please,” she answered. “The last thing we need in here is more uniforms. Have you eaten? If you’re going to work, you’re going to eat. Hold on.”
Thanking her, Alex sat at one of the tables in the corner. Café No Mismo served the best pan con tomate within four blocks of Plaza Mayor, and when Victoria returned with a plate of it, he savoured each bite, chasing it with the long espresso she’d brought alongside.
Monday’s quiet trickle of customers gave them a chance to start on the week’s prep, while No Mismo’s front window had one of the best views of the plaza.
By one o’clock, he’d served barely a half-dozen customers.
He skewered an olive and a spicy pepper to the last anchovy and set it on the platter while Victoria put the last touches on the new fixed price lunch.
“Beef cheek?” Alex asked.
“Try it. You’ll die.”
When she popped a tender morsel into his mouth, Alex nearly did, moaning with pleasure. What he wouldn’t have given for a glass of Bobal to go with it.
“I told you. How are those gildas?”
“Slimy, and my hands smell like anchovy.”
Victoria plucked one from the platter and inhaled the combination in one bite. She tilted her head from side to side. “Hmm, we’ll get there.”
“Didn’t you come back from San Sebastián raving about these?
” Alex asked, scrubbing his hands and signalling to a young lady customer he’d be with her shortly.
They weren’t San Sebastián yet, but at least the police weren’t arresting them for propagating Basque cuisine.
He sent the customer on her way with a cheerful smile, sandwich in hand.
“Well, hello again.”
Alex looked up to see who Victoria was talking to, a knot forming in his stomach as he spied Jago, who stood red-faced, shooting him small, embarrassed glances, even as he tried to return Victoria’s smile. “Hello. I’d like a vermouth, and do you have a blanco y negro?”
“Give me a few minutes.” Victoria shot Alex a conspiratorial look as she absconded to the back table, baguette and two types of sausage in hand. “Alex?”
“Got it,” he said, scooping ice into a glass and looking for the orange slices.
“How are you feeling?” Jago asked, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
“Fine, thank you. Sweet or dry?”
“Dry. Alex?”
The two watched each other from beneath darkened brows, hesitant to speak as Alex poured.
“I only meant for you to get out of my room. Not the apartment.”
Alex slid the drink across the bar. “You sounded a bit more forceful than that.”
“You gave me a shock. I’m sorry, it’s not an excuse for shouting at you like that. I…” Jago shot a nervous look toward Victoria as she piled the bread high with red and black meat. “I didn’t know what you’d think.”
“Think about what?”
“Some people think it’s a creepy hobby.”
Alex shook his head, none the wiser. “What is?”
“Taxidermy. Stuffing animals. Birds, mostly.”
“That’s what you were doing? That’s your big secret?”
Jago smiled shyly, lifting the drink to his lips. “So now you know. And now you think I’m like Norman Bates in Psycho, right?”
“Not unless you’re planning to don old woman drag and corner me with a knife in the shower.”
“Gee, thanks for spoiling!” Victoria chirped, returning with a thick blanco y negro stuffed with sausage. “That’ll be—”
“On the house.” Alex turned quickly to Victoria. “It’s the least I can do, for yesterday. I mean, before… you know what I mean.”
“It’s more than he can do,” Victoria said with bone-dry intonation. “Someone got robbed last night.”
“You what?” The way Jago’s tone matched Victoria’s was uncanny.
“It’s not a big deal. My own stupid fault. I got drunk.”
Victoria rolled her eyes. “Ooh, boy.”
“Yes, remember your boss is standing right there.” Jago smirked again.
“Okay, well not that drunk, maybe—”
“I think this would be an excellent time for someone’s first break,” said Victoria. “Don’t you, Jago?”
Jago nodded with approval. “In that case, another vermouth please.”
“Orange juice will do just fine,” Alex said quickly. “Please.”
“Please.”
“Please!” Victoria pointed to a table at the far end of the café. “Orange juice it is. Now please, before I ban you both?”
With an apologetic smile, Alex carried Jago’s mountainous sandwich to the table, where Jago took gentle but firm hold of his hand.
“I mean it, Alex. I’m sorry I lost my temper. You caught me by surprise, but that’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry.”
“Okay, stop.” Alex tried to ignore how reassuring it felt to have Jago’s hand on his. “You’re more than forgiven. Who knows? If you didn’t let me spend the day at your flat, I might have spent it in hospital, and we know how you feel about those.”
Jago rubbed his thumb over the back of Alex’s knuckles as he let go.
“Thanks for saying that. We need to be careful these days. All these protests? So many different people working out what they want this country to be and claiming their little parts of it. Old men trying to hold on to their power. The church. The king. The military. The Basques. Catalonia… It takes more than the devil’s death to turn Hell into Heaven. ”
An orange juice appeared on the table to Alex’s right with a soft bump, before Victoria greeted another customer—a regular he recognised—with a cheery hello.
He took a sip of juice, watching for any movement in Jago’s eyes.
“It’s getting better though, isn’t it? We can more or less do what we want, in Madrid at least. We can do what we want without the law bothering us. ”
“Ah yes, we. Men like us. And the law? The magical law, changed just last year? Poof! 1979, we’re legal. 1954, we weren’t. 1932, we were. 1928, we weren’t. 1822...”
“Sorry, is this a reverse history lesson?”
“Point being, the law doesn’t mean shit.
Men will fuck whether the law says they can or not, and police will beat them for it whether the law says they should or not.
You can be a good little Catholic boy who loves his mother and says his rosary while yearning for the loins of men.
So, you come to Madrid. You fuck your brains out.
Maybe you fall in love. What happens when the little Catholic boy goes back home?
Does he hide? Does he change? Who are you when you go back to Andalusia? ”
The words weren’t exactly revelatory, but Alex could see himself in them.
“So where exactly are you from?” Jago asked, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Oh, my god. Excuse me, but that is heaven. Try some?”
“I just ate. And Los Angeles.”
Jago paused another bite halfway to his mouth. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Alex nodded, teasing a smile. “Not the cool one. The one just outside Cordoba that would blow away with the dust in a strong enough storm.”
Jago laughed. “That’s cute. You should use that line next time you’re on the prowl. It’ll get their attention.”
“What makes you think I don’t?”
Jago washed down another bite of sandwich with his vermouth. “And are you a good Catholic boy who came to Madrid to fuck his brains out and occasionally get robbed? For real, by the way?”
Alex winced. “It was just a few hundred pesetas. No big deal.”
“I hope you at least got a blow job for it.”
“I got nothing for it. Just…” He pulled the used napkin from his pocket. “Ugh. Let me get rid of this. I’ll be right back.”
“That was his?”
“I think so,” Alex said, not remembering how he’d come into possession of it and deciding that was for the best.
“Can I have it?”
“Why? What are you going to do with it?”
“What are you going to do? Throw it in the trash?”
“What else would I do?”
“In that case, it’s no use to you. Can I have it?”
Alex shook his head with an incredulous smile and handed it over.
“I know. I have strange hobbies. So did Dali.”
“Dali has strange everything.”
“True, though he had decent taste in men, once upon a time.”
“Wait, Dali’s not queer.”
“I assure you he is. Gala too. Bisexual or whatever you want to call it. Their marriage is genuine, but our nation’s great Surrealist is as at home on the fruit tree as you or I.”
Alex swirled his orange juice, unsure what to believe and wishing he had some vodka.
“What?” Jago asked.
“Just you. I mean, the way you speak. It’s colourful, is all.”
“A bit more colour in the world can only be a good thing, wouldn’t you say? We lost too much colour under Franco. Especially in the south.”
“And where are you from, exactly?”
“A small town, like you, outside Grenada. Fuente Vaqueros.”
Alex paused his drink halfway to his lips.
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Of course I’ve heard of it. Lorca’s hometown.”