“Do you see that car?” he explained as he pointed at an elegant black vehicle with a front grille, round headlights, and gleaming roof rack. “That is one of the new Peugeot 203 sedans that they are now using as taxis. That other one is an English Austin FX3, a wonderful car. And this is a Citro?n 11 CV sedan, known as the Duck . . . Nice, isn’t it?”
Kilian nodded, distracted by the elegance and monumental bearing of the classical facades of the buildings, such as Banco Hispano Americano and La Unión y el Fénix Espa?ol, with their large square and round windows, their columned entrances, their decorative attics, and their wrought-iron balconies.
Exhausted after their intense day, the two young men finally decided to go to the famous café that Jacobo had suggested. Kilian read the lighted sign in amazement, claiming the establishment was one of the biggest of its kind in all Europe. He entered through the double doors after his brother and hesitated, stunned. Just a wide staircase and a few arches with white columns separated them from an enormous two-story room full of voices, smoke, heat, and music. A thin railing ran the length of the second floor to allow upstairs customers to enjoy the view of the orchestra located downstairs in the center of the room. A scene from a film he had seen in Barmón came to mind, a scene where a young man came down a similar set of stairs with a raincoat hanging perfectly from his arm and a cigarette dangling in his hand. Kilian’s heart beat wildly. He took in the myriad of tables, wooden chairs, and booths, the conversation between men and women who, at first glance, seemed distinguished and sophisticated. The women’s V-necked dresses, with bows on the front, were light, gay, well fitting, and short in comparison to the thick half-length skirts and dark wool jackets of the mountain village women, and like Kilian, the men wore white shirts under their jackets, some of which sported a handkerchief, and thin black ties.
For a few seconds, he felt important. No one here knew that barely twenty-four hours earlier, he had been cleaning manure from the sheds.
Jacobo raised his hand to say hello to someone at the back of the room. Kilian turned and saw a man waving at them to come and sit at his table.
“It’s not possible!” his brother exclaimed. “What a coincidence! Come, I’ll introduce you.”
They maneuvered between the tables, on which they could see packets of Bisonte and Camel filter-tipped cigarettes, matchboxes of all shapes and sizes, glasses of anise or brandy in front of the men and champagne or Martini Bianco in front of the women. The place was packed with people. Kilian was fascinated by the size of the room, which allowed some to talk quietly in the corners while others danced near the orchestra. There was nothing like this in the whole valley of Pasolobino, not even close. In summer, dances were held in the town square, and in winter, every now and then, there were small parties organized in sitting rooms, where the furniture had to be taken out and chairs placed in a circle against the wall to make room. The girls remained seated until the boys invited them to take a turn on the improvised dance floor or they decided to dance with one another to the pasodobles, waltzes, tangos, and cha-chas played by an accordion, a guitar, and a violin that could not, for an instant, compete with the catchy, carefree rumba now coming from the trumpets and saxophones.
Just before reaching their destination, Jacobo turned and whispered, “One thing, Kilian. From now on, when we are with other people, we must not speak in Pasolobinese. When we’re alone, it’s fine, but I don’t want to look like a country bumpkin. Okay?”
Kilian agreed, though it would be difficult to stop thinking and speaking in his native language.
Jacobo greeted the man with a hearty handshake.
“What are you doing here? Weren’t you in Madrid?”
“I’ll tell you about it. Sit down with me.” The man pointed at Kilian. “And this must be your brother.”
Jacobo laughed.
“Kilian, this is Manuel Ruiz, a budding doctor based in Guinea for who the hell knows what reason.” Manuel smiled and shrugged. “And this is my brother, Kilian. Another one who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
They shook hands and sat down on a semicircular leather couch. Jacobo sat on a wooden rung-backed chair. The melodious singer, dressed in a silver-trimmed gray jacket, began to sing a well-known Antonio Machín ballad, “Angelitos Negros,” or “Little Black Angels,” and was applauded by the audience.
“You don’t have anything like this in Madrid?” joked Jacobo to Manuel.
“Dozens of them! And twice as big! But I came to sign new papers to work in Sampaka. They offered me a nice contract.”
“You don’t know how happy that makes me! Dámaso is too old for that type of life.”
“If only I was as experienced as Dámaso . . .”
“Fine, but he can’t manage everything. And when are you going down?”
“I’m going back to Madrid tomorrow. They’ve got me a ticket for Thursday on the . . .”
“Ciudad de Sevilla!” both of them exclaimed before bursting into loud peals of laughter. “We’re also going on that ship! Brilliant!”
Jacobo realized then that they had excluded Kilian from the conversation.
“Manuel used to work in the hospital in Santa Isabel. From now on we will have him all to ourselves.” He raised his head, looking for a waiter. “This deserves a toast! Have you had dinner?”
“Not yet. If you like, we can eat here. It’s chopi.”
“Chopi, yes!” Jacobo let out a chuckle.
Kilian understood that this word referred to mealtime and accepted their suggestions from the menu. Just then, a silence descended as the soloist repeated the last verse of his song where he reproached the painter for never remembering to paint a black angel in a church. His performance was roundly applauded, an ovation that increased when the pianist began to play some fast-moving blues that only a few couples dared dance to.
“I love boogie-woogie!” Jacobo announced, clicking his fingers and rolling his shoulders. “It’s a pity I’ve no one to dance with!”
He swept the room and waved to a group of girls two tables away who answered with shy giggles and whispers. He thought about going over and asking one of them, but decided not to.
“Well, I’ll soon be able to sate my needs.”
Kilian, who did not like dancing very much, surprised himself by following the rhythm with his foot. He did not stop until the waiter returned with their order. When he saw the plates, he realized how hungry he was. Since breakfast, he had eaten only the hunk of bread and bacon that Mariana had prepared and the fried squid. He wondered if the smoked salmon and caviar canapés and the cold chicken and beef stuffed with truffles could fill his stomach. He was accustomed to more substantial stews, but he found them delicious, and washed down with several glasses of wine, they did the trick.
When they finished dinner, Jacobo asked for a gin, whining that even here in the biggest place in Europe they did not have a whiskey to his liking. Manuel and Kilian made do with a sol y sombra of brandy and anise.