The Barcelona Brothers by Carlos Zanón, John Cullen Read Free Book Online Page B

“Isn’t this Simon a model for you folks? You exchange hugs with the first guy you meet on the stairs, and then he goes on up with the gas canister!”
    The audience appears to be irrecoverably lost. Professor Malick could try to get it back and maybe even return it to the state of respectful silence it was in just a few moments ago. But telling that tale was obviously a mistake. Whether a story works or not always depends on the ears of those listening to it. Maybe it would be better to work one-on-one for a while, or to wait until there’s a big turnover in the clientele.
    Alex sees him approaching. He looks in his direction and happens to catch a glimpse of a silhouette slipping behind some cases of wine and going through a door that must lead to the storeroom, or maybe to the toilets. Whenever Alex enters a room, any room, his head goes into the darkest corners of the space and places there shadows and persons that he alone can see. On this occasion, perhaps it’s Simon of Cyrene. The thing is, no one likes being laughed at after having been cruelly put to death on a cross.
    The Professor is carrying a cup of hot coffee. “What’s the matter, son?” he says to Alex, placing the cup in front of him. “You didn’t laugh.”
    “I’m not much in the mood for laughing.”
    “This is missing a shot of cognac. I ordered a coffee with cognac.”
    “Are you sure?” the man behind the bar asks.
    “Yes.”
    “Coming up right away.”
    The Professor remains at Alex’s side, staring at him fixedly. His insistence disturbs Alex. No chance he’s going to pay anyattention to him. He knows these guys who aim to fill the gap left by the loss of faith. He thinks they make priests and nuns look good. Priests and nuns at least have enough decency not to guarantee one hundred percent success within three days.
    “You won’t laugh until tomorrow. There will be no laughs for you today. But the person you’re waiting to hear from will call.”
    “They always call in the end, don’t they?”
    “Not always.”
    “Yes they do.” Thanks to the
barista
’s diligence, a coffee with cognac is now steaming on the bar in front of Alex. He asks, “How much do I owe you?”
    “Nothing,” Professor Malick replies. “Save all the money you can. You’re going to need it. She’s crazy. Everyone is. You’re the one sane person in a ship of fools. Come back whenever you want. I’ll pay today. The next time, tomorrow, you’ll pay.”
    “Thanks …” Suddenly embarrassed, Alex pronounces the word in a stupid daze.
    Professor Malick lets out a guffaw, which serves among other things as a warning to the competition. He’s in a jocular mood today. So much so that he didn’t and doesn’t care about what happened a few minutes ago. When Alex gets back to his table, Allawi’s just about finished perusing the last page of the newspaper.
    “No calls.”
    “That lunatic over there bought me a drink.”
    “Malick? He’s a good guy. Smart, too. And he’s got a good business strategy. I should set up something like that in my own place. Do you like soccer?”
    “Not much.”
    “But the team you root for is Barça, right?”
    “Espanyol.”
    “Fuck! How is that possible?”
    “It has to do with my father.”
    “You like my sweater?” Allawi asks Alex, modeling it for him. It’s white with brown, blue, and yellow stripes running over the shoulders and arms. “Cheap and good-looking. You want one?”
    “Is it stolen?”
    “Springfield. On sale.”
    “Tell me about Tanveer.”
    “Just what I told you. People are fed up. Some because they’ve had it up to here, and others, well, sure, because they’re bored, and as far as they’re concerned, any kind of ruckus is a party. They all want to organize—what do you call them?—mobilizations, or some such. You people from here, you love that sort of thing, don’t you?” Allawi doesn’t expect an answer. “The truth is, I still don’t know whether I liked Tanveer or