Read The Seville Communion for Free Online Page B
Authors: Arturo Pérez-Reverte
faxes, air-conditioning and trilingual secretaries, where the Financial Times lay about and guys in expensive cologne casually mentioned Zurich, New York, or the Tokyo Stock Exchange. Just like in the ads.
The sight of Don Ibrahim, El Potro del Mantelete and La Nina Puftales soon brought him down to earth. They were already waiting for him, sure as fate. He saw them as soon as he entered, to the right of the dark wooden bar decorated with gilded flowers. Above them hung a sign that must have been there since the turn of the century: SEVILLE-SANLUCAR-COAST STEAM LINE: TRAINS DAILY BETWEEN SEVILLE AND THE GUADALQUIVIR ESTUARY. They were sitting at a marble table, and Peregil noticed that La Ina fino was already flowing. At eleven in the morning.
"How you doing?" he said, and sat down.
It wasn't a question. He didn't give a damn how they were doing, and they knew it. He could see it in the three pairs of eyes that watched him adjust his shirt-cuffs - a gesture copied from his elegant boss - and then carefully place his elbows on the table.
"I've got a job for you," he announced.
Peregil saw El Potro del Mantelete and La Nina Punales glance at Don Ibrahim, who nodded gravely and twirled the ends of his moustache - a thick, bristly, reddish-grey, handlebar moustache. Despite this rather fierce appendage, Don Ibrahim appeared good-natured and placid. He was tall, very fat, and he did everything solemnly. The Lawyers' Association of Seville had long ago discovered that his legal credentials were spurious, but the time he'd spent practising the law under false pretences had given him a grave and dignified presence. He carried a silver-handled walking stick and wore a wide-brimmed panama hat and a watch and chain curving between two pockets of his waistcoat. He claimed he'd won the watch from Ernest Hemingway in a poker game at the Chiquita Cruz brothel in Havana, in the days before Castro.
"You have our full attention," he said, his paunch causing him to sit at a distance from the table.
Triana and all of Seville knew that Don Ibrahim the Cuban was a con man and a crook, but also a perfect gentleman. For instance, only after a courteous glance at El Potro del Mantelete and La Nina Punales had he spoken for the three of them, indicating that he would be honoured to represent them.
"There's a church and a priest," Peregil began.
"Not a good start," said Don Ibrahim. In one hand - sporting a gold signet ring - he held a smoking cigar, while with the other he brushed ash from his trousers. From his misspent youth in Cuba he'd retained a taste for immaculate white suits, panama hats and Montecristo cigars. He looked like one of the Spaniards who made their fortune in Latin America at the turn of the century then sailed back to Seville with a roll of gold coins, a dose of malaria and a mulatto servant. All Don Ibrahim had brought back was the malaria.
Peregil looked at Don Ibrahim, confused. Was it a bad start because he'd dropped ash on his trousers or because the job involved a church and a priest?
"An old priest," he said, to probe Don Ibrahim and also to make the job seem less daunting. But then he remembered: "Well, two priests actually - an old one and a young one."
"Othu!" exclaimed La Nina Punales, using the Gypsy slang from the banks of the Guadalquivir. "Two priests."
Her silver bracelets jangled on her flaccid arms as she drained her sherry glass. Beside her, El Potro del Mantelete shook his head, apparently mesmerised by the thick mark of lipstick on the edge of La Nina's glass.
"Two priests," Don Ibrahim repeated anxiously as cigar smoke spiralled through his moustache.
"Well, actually there are three of them," Peregil added truthfully.
Don Ibrahim shuddered, dropping ash on his trousers again. "I thought you said two."
"No, three. The old one, the young one and another one on his way."
Peregil saw them exchange cautious glances. "Three priests," said Don Ibrahim, peering at the nail on the little finger of
The sight of Don Ibrahim, El Potro del Mantelete and La Nina Puftales soon brought him down to earth. They were already waiting for him, sure as fate. He saw them as soon as he entered, to the right of the dark wooden bar decorated with gilded flowers. Above them hung a sign that must have been there since the turn of the century: SEVILLE-SANLUCAR-COAST STEAM LINE: TRAINS DAILY BETWEEN SEVILLE AND THE GUADALQUIVIR ESTUARY. They were sitting at a marble table, and Peregil noticed that La Ina fino was already flowing. At eleven in the morning.
"How you doing?" he said, and sat down.
It wasn't a question. He didn't give a damn how they were doing, and they knew it. He could see it in the three pairs of eyes that watched him adjust his shirt-cuffs - a gesture copied from his elegant boss - and then carefully place his elbows on the table.
"I've got a job for you," he announced.
Peregil saw El Potro del Mantelete and La Nina Punales glance at Don Ibrahim, who nodded gravely and twirled the ends of his moustache - a thick, bristly, reddish-grey, handlebar moustache. Despite this rather fierce appendage, Don Ibrahim appeared good-natured and placid. He was tall, very fat, and he did everything solemnly. The Lawyers' Association of Seville had long ago discovered that his legal credentials were spurious, but the time he'd spent practising the law under false pretences had given him a grave and dignified presence. He carried a silver-handled walking stick and wore a wide-brimmed panama hat and a watch and chain curving between two pockets of his waistcoat. He claimed he'd won the watch from Ernest Hemingway in a poker game at the Chiquita Cruz brothel in Havana, in the days before Castro.
"You have our full attention," he said, his paunch causing him to sit at a distance from the table.
Triana and all of Seville knew that Don Ibrahim the Cuban was a con man and a crook, but also a perfect gentleman. For instance, only after a courteous glance at El Potro del Mantelete and La Nina Punales had he spoken for the three of them, indicating that he would be honoured to represent them.
"There's a church and a priest," Peregil began.
"Not a good start," said Don Ibrahim. In one hand - sporting a gold signet ring - he held a smoking cigar, while with the other he brushed ash from his trousers. From his misspent youth in Cuba he'd retained a taste for immaculate white suits, panama hats and Montecristo cigars. He looked like one of the Spaniards who made their fortune in Latin America at the turn of the century then sailed back to Seville with a roll of gold coins, a dose of malaria and a mulatto servant. All Don Ibrahim had brought back was the malaria.
Peregil looked at Don Ibrahim, confused. Was it a bad start because he'd dropped ash on his trousers or because the job involved a church and a priest?
"An old priest," he said, to probe Don Ibrahim and also to make the job seem less daunting. But then he remembered: "Well, two priests actually - an old one and a young one."
"Othu!" exclaimed La Nina Punales, using the Gypsy slang from the banks of the Guadalquivir. "Two priests."
Her silver bracelets jangled on her flaccid arms as she drained her sherry glass. Beside her, El Potro del Mantelete shook his head, apparently mesmerised by the thick mark of lipstick on the edge of La Nina's glass.
"Two priests," Don Ibrahim repeated anxiously as cigar smoke spiralled through his moustache.
"Well, actually there are three of them," Peregil added truthfully.
Don Ibrahim shuddered, dropping ash on his trousers again. "I thought you said two."
"No, three. The old one, the young one and another one on his way."
Peregil saw them exchange cautious glances. "Three priests," said Don Ibrahim, peering at the nail on the little finger of
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