“Okay, well notthatdrunk, maybe—”
“I think this would be an excellent time for someone’s first break,” said Victoria. “Don’t you, Jago?”
Jago nodded with approval. “In that case, another vermouth please.”
“Orange juice will do just fine,” Alex said quickly. “Please.”
“Please.”
“Please!” Victoria pointed to a table at the far end of the café. “Orange juice it is. Nowplease, before I ban you both?”
With an apologetic smile, Alex carried Jago’s mountainous sandwich to the table, where Jago took gentle but firm hold of his hand.
“I mean it, Alex. I’m sorry I lost my temper. You caught me by surprise, but that’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry.”
“Okay, stop.” Alex tried to ignore how reassuring it felt to have Jago’s hand on his. “You’re more than forgiven. Who knows? If you didn’t let me spend the day at your flat, I might have spent it in hospital, and we know how you feel about those.”
Jago rubbed his thumb over the back of Alex’s knuckles as he let go. “Thanks for saying that. We need to be careful these days. All these protests? So many different people working out what they want this country to be and claiming their little parts of it. Old men trying to hold on to their power. The church. The king. The military. The Basques. Catalonia… It takes more than the devil’s death to turn Hell into Heaven.”
An orange juice appeared on the table to Alex’s right with a soft bump, before Victoria greeted another customer—a regular he recognised—with a cheery hello. He took a sip of juice, watching for any movement in Jago’s eyes. “It’s getting better though, isn’t it? We can more or less do what we want, in Madrid at least.Wecan do what we want without the law bothering us.”
“Ah yes,we. Men like us. And the law? The magical law, changed just last year? Poof! 1979, we’re legal. 1954, we weren’t. 1932, we were. 1928, we weren’t. 1822...”
“Sorry, is this a reverse history lesson?”
“Point being, the law doesn’t mean shit. Men will fuck whether the law says they can or not, and police will beat them for it whether the law says they should or not. You can be a good little Catholic boy who loves his mother and says his rosary while yearning for the loins of men. So, you come to Madrid. You fuck your brains out. Maybe you fall in love. What happens when the little Catholic boy goes back home? Does he hide? Does he change? Who are you when you go back to Andalusia?”
The words weren’t exactly revelatory, but Alex could see himself in them.
“So where exactlyareyou from?” Jago asked, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Oh, my god. Excuse me, but that is heaven. Try some?”
“I just ate. And Los Angeles.”
Jago paused another bite halfway to his mouth. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Alex nodded, teasing a smile. “Not the cool one. The one just outside Cordoba that would blow away with the dust in a strong enough storm.”
Jago laughed. “That’s cute. You should use that line next time you’re on the prowl. It’ll get their attention.”
“What makes you think I don’t?”
Jago washed down another bite of sandwich with his vermouth. “And are you a good Catholic boy who came to Madrid to fuck his brains out and occasionally get robbed? For real, by the way?”
Alex winced. “It was just a few hundred pesetas. No big deal.”
“I hope you at least got a blow job for it.”
“I got nothing for it. Just…” He pulled the used napkin from his pocket. “Ugh. Let me get rid of this. I’ll be right back.”
“That was his?”
“I think so,” Alex said, not remembering how he’d come into possession of it and deciding that was for the best.
“Can I have it?”
“Why? What are you going to do with it?”
“What are you going to do? Throw it in the trash?”
