The Second Son: A Novel Read Free

with its ancient fortress and the new Olympic Stadium. To the left, the sea.
    Somehow, staring out, Hoffner felt a sudden rush of calm. It might have been the air of a Mediterranean night or the silence all around him. Or maybe it was just the genius of Gaudí. Whatever it was, Hoffner let himself take it in.
    A couple stopped next to him. They stared out for a few moments and then moved on. Somewhere, a lute began to play.
    The sun spread across the few clouds, and Hoffner bent over and began to film. It would make a nice opening shot, Montjuïc in the distance, the sky the rust of early sunset, and the first lights beginning to shimmer inside the buildings. Hoffner panned slowly across the city until he heard footsteps on the gravel behind him. They stopped. He heard the flare of a cigarette lighter, then the snap of the top as it clicked shut.
    “Hello, Georg.”
    Hoffner stopped the crank and slowly stood upright. He turned.
    A tall man with a shock of white hair stood staring at him. The man let out a long spear of smoke and offered Hoffner a cigarette.
    “Thanks, no,” said Hoffner.
    The man nodded once. The hair might have been white, but he was no more than fifty, and his arms in shirtsleeves showed lithe, taut muscle.
    His name was Karl Vollman, and he was an Olympic chess player. A German. The two had shared a bottle of whiskey a few nights back. Vollman slid the pack into his shirt pocket and took another long pull.
    “It’s a beautiful view,” Vollman said.
    “Yes.”
    “Just right for your sort of thing.” Vollman deepened his voice. “City of lights, city of dreams—Olimpiada Popular, and Pathé Gazette is there.” He smiled to himself and took another pull.
    “No chess tonight?”
    “There’s chess every night. Later. Down in the Raval. Seedy and smoky. Just right.”
    “I met a Bulgarian who finds it rather silly—chess as sport.”
    “I find Bulgarians rather silly, so I suspect we’re even.”
    Vollman had spent the better part of the past ten years in Moscow, teaching something, playing chess. He said he liked the cold.
    “You just happened to find yourself in Park Güell tonight?” Hoffner said.
    “They say you can’t leave the city without seeing it. Here I am. Seeing it.” Vollman looked past Hoffner to Barcelona. “Peaceful, isn’t it? Sad how we both know it won’t be that way much longer.”
    Hoffner measured the stare. Whatever else Vollman had been doing in Moscow, he had learned to show nothing in his face.
    Hoffner said, “I’m sure they’ll have a wild time of it when the Olimpiada starts up.”
    Vollman’s stare gave way to a half smile. “Oh, is that what I was talking about? The Olimpiada.” He finished his cigarette, dropped it to the ground, and watched his foot crush it out. Thinking out loud, he said, “I suppose it’s what you’re here to film, what I’m here to do. Much simpler seeing it that way.”
    Hoffner had felt a mild unease with Vollman the other night. This was something more.
    Vollman said, “I don’t imagine either of us will be in Barcelona much longer, do you?” He looked directly at Hoffner. “All those fascist rumblings in the south—Seville, Morocco. Only a matter of time.”
    Again, Hoffner said nothing.
    Vollman pulled out the pack and tapped out a second cigarette. He lit it and spat a piece of tobacco to the ground.
    “Fascist rumblings?” Hoffner said blandly. “I hadn’t heard.”
    Vollman’s smile returned. “Really? A German, working for the English, in socialist Spain just at the moment the fascists are thinking of turning the world on its head, and he hasn’t heard. How remarkable.” He gave Hoffner no time to answer. “What are you, Georg, twenty-nine, thirty?”
    Hoffner was twenty-five, but why give Vollman more ammunition?
    “Something like that,” Hoffner said.
    “Then you’re still young enough to take some advice.” Vollman spat again. “We both know why you’re in Barcelona. Which means the Spanish