The moment that Pepito walks through the doorway, he is aware of the synchronized twist of heads towards him. He loves that. He pauses for a moment and meets their eyes with a thrill in his gut before he lifts his hand and slips the hem of his jacket behind him so that the butt of his gun hovers menacingly in its holster. Then he launches himself with his left foot first and strides over to the bar. He pulls out a stool, wiping the worn surface with his sleeve before he hitches his leg and sits down. He orders a shot of bourbon, no ice. And he checks his watch.
11.56pm. He's early, four minutes to be precise. When his drink is pushed in front of him he lifts the glass to his lips and flips his head back, draining the bourbon in one fluid gulp. He wipes his mouth and orders another with a flick of his wrist and swivels around, resting his back against the bar. Pulling his phone from his pocket he checks the text again, his eyes occasionally darting up to witness the naked gyrations of a lone dancer on the tiny stage in front.
same time same place
Same message. He checks his watch again. 11.58am and counting, so he settles back with his elbows hitched up on the bar behind, legs splayed at the knee and waits. He waits for Raphael to enter.
Raphael Rodriguez Menendez. El Niño. Loner, thief, pick-pocket and the youngest member of the most prolific family of con artists that ever worked the crowded streets of Barcelona. A minor misdemeanor. A twitching, nervous, fibrous youth part recruited, part rescued by Pepito for his invaluable knowledge of ludicrous scams, local criminals and all that was to be scraped from the noxious underbelly of petty crime. Employed, solely for the purpose of gratifying Pepito's nocturnal need. His secret passion. His double life. The greatest role of his middle years and the reason for the clothes. But I digress. In fact, I will digress even further, for in order for a person to truly, fully and completely believe they must become aquainted with the premise that anything is possible - if you want it badly enough. But first, a line has to be crossed. That thin, wavering, invisible line between doubt and acceptance. Many had crossed that line, Raphael had crossed that line, Pepito himself had crossed that line many years before, although he was never really sure when he took the first step. He'd have to go back, way back, beyond the clothes, past his mother's death, back through the years until, finally, he came to rest at the beginning. And even beyond the beginning to where it all may have really began. With a man, a horse and cart and the random misfortune of a stone in the middle of the road. But I see you need to know more, I see you are not fully convinced so I will add, in the hope that you will understand, that the man was Pepito's father. Not an ordinary man by any stretch of the imagination but a brave, fearless, quick-thinking fool who acted not entirely of his own inclination but with the cut of a policeman's uniform to sustain him. The same uniform that was found scattered in various fragments over a thirty metre radius when they recovered his body. But this was before Pepito was born, as he lay half formed and helpless in his mother's swollen belly, waiting patiently to be born as he waits patiently, over fifty years later, for Raphael to enter. His foot bobbing rhythmically to the beat of the music, his eyes gorging on the heavy, oiled breasts of the lone dancer in front and his thoughts circling around Raphael.
But where were the thoughts of his father on that fateful spring day in 1949, as he strutted dutifully through his beat with his head held high and his hand lightly resting on the holster at his hip? Not heroism surely, not that in a few short moments he would be clearing the church, bellowing instructions to the air while with sweated palms he hoisted the ticking creation of an anarchist onto the back of a cart. But his thoughts must have been somewhere and perhaps they lay still, with his wife in bed, his arm curled around the bulge of her belly, his fingers fluttering over the tight mass of hair below as he brushed her lips with a kiss. Or perhaps he was thinking of his son who lay coiled peacefully as his mother slept, oblivious to the caress of the man who rose that day to meet his death. Wherever his thoughts were on that bright spring day we can never know them or the man who held them, just like Pepito. And just like Pepito he must become for us an absent figure, a fleeting shadow, a myth woven together from fact. The facts themselves spilled from his mother's own lips. Lips that remained chastened by that kiss for they were never touched by another man. Lips that grew old and puckered yet still retained the taste of that last kiss with a fervour which naturally tainted the memory and exalted the image to a boy. To a small boy. To a small impressionable boy like Pepito. Who hung on her every word, devouring the image of his father with a thirst only quenched by her tales. Tales, which although technically true, were invariably stretched in the telling, for she worshiped her dead hero, her husband, her love. She worshiped the man she thought he was and kept his belongings and even his gun under lock and key in the depths of her trunk. The same gun that now nestled in the holster at Pepito's hip - an Astra Model 400 with a 9mm cartridge. Why his mother kept it is anyone's guess. Perhaps she thought that if she held onto it he would come back to her some day, pick up the gun and reclaim his life. Cock the barrel and kiss his wife. But most likely, she kept it because she could never let go, never quite give up what had once been his. Never ease her grip on the pieces of his life - like the clothes, or the gun, or his only son.
And so Pepito grew up. And he took his time. With a melancholy mother breathing down his neck and his father's ghost weighing on his back when he took his first steps in his sheltered life, it was only natural they would lead straight back to his father. In fact, his heart was set from an early age to clothe himself as his father once had and give up his soul for his country. Uphold the law and shield the good. Protect the innocent from the barbarous enemy. But it was not to be. And it was never his choice. To put it quite simply - his mother wouldn't let him. And who could blame her? Who could blame an anxious single mother? An anxious, lonely, desperate, single mother. As soon as Pepito was old enough, somewhere around his teens, she set him to work in the tobacco shop to keep him out of trouble.
11.56pm. He's early, four minutes to be precise. When his drink is pushed in front of him he lifts the glass to his lips and flips his head back, draining the bourbon in one fluid gulp. He wipes his mouth and orders another with a flick of his wrist and swivels around, resting his back against the bar. Pulling his phone from his pocket he checks the text again, his eyes occasionally darting up to witness the naked gyrations of a lone dancer on the tiny stage in front.
same time same place
Same message. He checks his watch again. 11.58am and counting, so he settles back with his elbows hitched up on the bar behind, legs splayed at the knee and waits. He waits for Raphael to enter.
Raphael Rodriguez Menendez. El Niño. Loner, thief, pick-pocket and the youngest member of the most prolific family of con artists that ever worked the crowded streets of Barcelona. A minor misdemeanor. A twitching, nervous, fibrous youth part recruited, part rescued by Pepito for his invaluable knowledge of ludicrous scams, local criminals and all that was to be scraped from the noxious underbelly of petty crime. Employed, solely for the purpose of gratifying Pepito's nocturnal need. His secret passion. His double life. The greatest role of his middle years and the reason for the clothes. But I digress. In fact, I will digress even further, for in order for a person to truly, fully and completely believe they must become aquainted with the premise that anything is possible - if you want it badly enough. But first, a line has to be crossed. That thin, wavering, invisible line between doubt and acceptance. Many had crossed that line, Raphael had crossed that line, Pepito himself had crossed that line many years before, although he was never really sure when he took the first step. He'd have to go back, way back, beyond the clothes, past his mother's death, back through the years until, finally, he came to rest at the beginning. And even beyond the beginning to where it all may have really began. With a man, a horse and cart and the random misfortune of a stone in the middle of the road. But I see you need to know more, I see you are not fully convinced so I will add, in the hope that you will understand, that the man was Pepito's father. Not an ordinary man by any stretch of the imagination but a brave, fearless, quick-thinking fool who acted not entirely of his own inclination but with the cut of a policeman's uniform to sustain him. The same uniform that was found scattered in various fragments over a thirty metre radius when they recovered his body. But this was before Pepito was born, as he lay half formed and helpless in his mother's swollen belly, waiting patiently to be born as he waits patiently, over fifty years later, for Raphael to enter. His foot bobbing rhythmically to the beat of the music, his eyes gorging on the heavy, oiled breasts of the lone dancer in front and his thoughts circling around Raphael.
But where were the thoughts of his father on that fateful spring day in 1949, as he strutted dutifully through his beat with his head held high and his hand lightly resting on the holster at his hip? Not heroism surely, not that in a few short moments he would be clearing the church, bellowing instructions to the air while with sweated palms he hoisted the ticking creation of an anarchist onto the back of a cart. But his thoughts must have been somewhere and perhaps they lay still, with his wife in bed, his arm curled around the bulge of her belly, his fingers fluttering over the tight mass of hair below as he brushed her lips with a kiss. Or perhaps he was thinking of his son who lay coiled peacefully as his mother slept, oblivious to the caress of the man who rose that day to meet his death. Wherever his thoughts were on that bright spring day we can never know them or the man who held them, just like Pepito. And just like Pepito he must become for us an absent figure, a fleeting shadow, a myth woven together from fact. The facts themselves spilled from his mother's own lips. Lips that remained chastened by that kiss for they were never touched by another man. Lips that grew old and puckered yet still retained the taste of that last kiss with a fervour which naturally tainted the memory and exalted the image to a boy. To a small boy. To a small impressionable boy like Pepito. Who hung on her every word, devouring the image of his father with a thirst only quenched by her tales. Tales, which although technically true, were invariably stretched in the telling, for she worshiped her dead hero, her husband, her love. She worshiped the man she thought he was and kept his belongings and even his gun under lock and key in the depths of her trunk. The same gun that now nestled in the holster at Pepito's hip - an Astra Model 400 with a 9mm cartridge. Why his mother kept it is anyone's guess. Perhaps she thought that if she held onto it he would come back to her some day, pick up the gun and reclaim his life. Cock the barrel and kiss his wife. But most likely, she kept it because she could never let go, never quite give up what had once been his. Never ease her grip on the pieces of his life - like the clothes, or the gun, or his only son.
And so Pepito grew up. And he took his time. With a melancholy mother breathing down his neck and his father's ghost weighing on his back when he took his first steps in his sheltered life, it was only natural they would lead straight back to his father. In fact, his heart was set from an early age to clothe himself as his father once had and give up his soul for his country. Uphold the law and shield the good. Protect the innocent from the barbarous enemy. But it was not to be. And it was never his choice. To put it quite simply - his mother wouldn't let him. And who could blame her? Who could blame an anxious single mother? An anxious, lonely, desperate, single mother. As soon as Pepito was old enough, somewhere around his teens, she set him to work in the tobacco shop to keep him out of trouble.
