Chapter 3
The tall, unshaven man hands out postcards as they come off the train. Most of the arrivals – the ones with excess baggage and bewilderment, who are the only ones he targets – shake their heads or avoid the glossy object like it is a recklessly lunged knife.
Then somebody plucks a card from his outstretched hand.
“Hostal?” says the postcard man urgently, shouting above the noise of the heaving station. “Very good. Very cheap.”
“I like the last bit,” says the young man, shifting the bulging rucksack on his shoulders and examining the card. He adds a swift “Sí, sí,” which is almost all he knows. He shows her the picture on the card, which is indeed appealing but could, of course, have been doctored.
“I know this wee street!” she cries, happily. “Is in Triana. Is ok.”
“You go fast. Taxi. Andale!” urges the older man. “Say to hostal, it is Miguel.”
The girl nods gratefully and moves off. The young man follows. He still needs to check out the place in their new guidebook– Hostal Esmeralda, he likes the name – to see if it’s one of the promising few he’s already marked out in felt-tip.
No way are they taking a taxi.