The Smoke Merchant

2024

A flash of lightning beyond the window flared so violently that Luis Facudo Sánchez looked up from his laptop and turned toward the glass.

In all his years, he had never seen a storm like this in Nicaragua.

Rain hammered the roof, turned the back lawn to mud, and beat the flower buds mercilessly into the earth. Beyond the cliff edge, the ocean raged—peaceful only that morning, now whipped into chaos by the night hurricane.

In weather like this, any shelter was a gift from fate. And since fate had been growing ever more sparing with its gifts, a man ought to be grateful even for a mercy as small as this.

Luis breathed in the stale stink of tobacco and looked back at the screen.

A minute earlier, a notification had informed him that his latest Facebook account—the thirty-fourth in a row—had been banned.

Luis leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes for a moment. Behind his lids, black letters danced across a white field of pixels. Scabs of dead words burned themselves onto the corneas of his exhausted eyes.

“To hell with you all.”

Despair surged over him, swallowing him whole. He opened his eyes and stared through the monitor, drawing quick, shallow breaths—useless, frantic breaths that filled his lungs and left him suffocating all the same.

Back in 2004, in that web that had once bound millions together in a shared impulse to connect, electronic surveillance had been practically impossible. Then, during the Madrid train bombings exactly twenty years before, it might, in theory, have saved countless lives...

Luis’s hands clenched into fists.

“If it had only been used to solve real problems, of course.”

Now, in 2024, against the backdrop of the thirteenth pandemic wave, surveillance across the global network seemed perfectly natural, ordinary.

Normal.

At least it does—right up until the moment you become its target.

Luis got up from the desk, its wood split and scarred by the humid climate, crossed to the door, and pulled it open.

And froze on the threshold, transfixed, staring out into a void flooded with darkness.

2024

Luis opened his eyes.

Waking to the sound of waves lapping the shore was a damn fine thing.

Beyond the open panels of the glass wall, as always, were the Pacific Ocean and a turquoise sky. Between them, a hazy horizon ran as far as the eye could see. White pelicans drifted across it in small, languid flocks; now and then the hungriest dropped from the sky toward the water after prey, only to rise again, as if hoping to smoke their catch in the rays of the hot Nicaraguan sun. In the distance, the dark triangles of sails stood out against the light, while a motorboat hurried away, shrinking to a lone dot.

And only at the very edge of sight, just above the floor line, did the dark lip of the cliff appear in a thin stroke. From there, a narrow staircase, its steps cut straight into the rock, led down to the beach. Luis often went down to savor the ocean’s music, where the foam hissed softly as it licked the gray volcanic sand.

If this was not paradise on earth, it was certainly something very close.

Luis gave the tireless landscape a sleepy smile, rolled onto his back, and stared up at the room’s snow-white ceiling. The window, with all its serenity, was to the right of Sánchez’s bed; to the left stood the door, and beyond it a world of business and bustle.

But for a long time now—ten years, give or take—Luis had been spared the need to spring up at the gunshot of an alarm clock and rush off, yawning, to some urgent matter. Now he woke to the surf, took his time getting ready, and then drank his morning coffee with a cigar on the veranda, considering where to drive first. The sea gave rhythm to his thoughts; they flowed in an orderly stream, and in those moments Luis felt his life had finally come to true peace.

Alas, it was self-deception: the moment he lost his grip, even for an instant, the events of twenty years ago would burst out of the closet of memory where Sánchez so stubbornly kept them locked away. What followed was a script he knew by heart: the next night Luis would wake again in a cold sweat, torn from sleep by nightmares of that fateful day after which he and his enterprise had emigrated here, to Nicaragua.

Another pull of smoke. And another—a little faster than he should have, already slipping out of the rhythm set by the tide.

When Luis’s day began with memories like these, it never boded well. It did not cause any great trouble, especially with his flexible schedule, but it spoiled his mood: now, until nightfall, Sánchez would be bracing himself for the inevitable denouement in his dreams. His thoughts would start tangling like mooring lines in the hands of a green sailor, and the most important matters would have to be set aside for later.

Today, it seemed, Luis had wandered into the same old trap again—grown too relaxed while gazing at the ocean, so deceptively untroubled in its calm. His morning coffee and cigar only confirmed the suspicion: after the very first absentminded sip, a dark stain blossomed on the chest of his striped polo shirt.

In outline, it reminded Luis of Spain.

“And it had all started so well...” Sánchez muttered, lighting his cigar.

The fragrant smoke curled upward. A good cigar could brighten any day. And to begin this day without one would have been a kind of death.

Luis knew cigars; he had been in the business of making them for a long time.

That was the business Sánchez had moved to Nicaragua twenty years before.

After changing into a clean T-shirt, Luis climbed behind the wheel of his Toyota Hilux, battered by the rough plantation roads, and drove toward the gate. Pulling up beside the guard booth, he rolled down the window and called out affably to the gray-haired guard:

“Hey, José! Where’s Franco?”

“Good morning, Don Sánchez.” José looked as if he were bursting with pride. “He’s fallen ill and asked me to cover for him, but I can’t leave my own post either, so I’m spread thin. Buried in work!”

“*Tranquilo, amigo*, I have no doubt you can handle anything,” Luis said with a smile.

He liked José: a simple, open-hearted old man, well read and surprisingly knowledgeable about tobacco. That was how they had first struck up a conversation, and since then they had often talked, discussing everything from Columbus’s voyages to later milestones in Nicaragua’s history, both pleasant and otherwise. Unlike Luis, José rarely left the resort; his job was to guard the door to the utility room on the ground floor of the checkpoint, and he spent most of his time perched on a wobbly stool with his nose in a book.

Today, though, seemed to be an exception. The surly Franco usually manned the gate, so after the morning’s disappointments, Luis was pleased to see the far more amiable José.

“You flatter me, Don Sánchez,” the guard replied, though his smile made it immediately clear how much he appreciated the compliment.

“Not at all,” Luis said, grinning, “but if you don’t raise that barrier soon, I’ll be forced to take my words back!”

“Ah, forgive me, Don Sánchez…” José caught himself and at once reached for the red button, pressing it with his wrinkled palm. “Have a good day!”

The barrier slowly crept upward.

“You too, my friend,” Luis called, pressing down on the gas.

Hotel Mukul, with its seclusion and the friendly José, fell away behind him. With every mile, Luis drew closer to Granada, a city full of noise and bustle. The rhythm there was different, more businesslike, and each day on the way to the office Sánchez adjusted to it all over again. The last traces of sleep and a certain languor dissolved. His hands steadied; his thoughts came into focus.

First order of business: call Johnson in New York the moment he arrived, before the man escaped to lunch. He should have done it from home, of course, but then there was a good chance Johnson would not yet be awake. Calling from a mobile had long since become bad form: the Chinese, having cornered the mobile market, had made calls to the States outrageously expensive, and all halfway functional messengers had been blocked the year before.

Second: visit the plantations. There were problems with the equipment again, and he needed to put pressure on the repair company to get everything fixed.

“Though putting pressure on a native Nicaraguan is a hellish task in itself…”

Third: stop by the canal construction site to see Ji, have lunch at her canteen, and clear up a few things with the local engineers who quietly supervised the supply of premium tobacco from Nicaragua’s plantations to China…

And since the round trip to the canal would swallow a substantial part of the day, the list of tasks could end there. A couple more calls, papers to sign, emails to check—that went without saying—but in the larger scheme of things, that seemed to be it.

The call to New York was the easiest part.

“Hey, old friend,” said Johnson—a big man in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, bulldog jowls, and a vulture’s stare—as his avatar appeared on the phone screen. “Get the documents?”

“I’ve already sent them back.” Luis sat on the edge of his desk and gave him a reproachful look. “You missed them again?”

“Keisha made an absolutely divine stew today,” Johnson admitted reluctantly. “We’re only human, Luis. I haven’t even made it to my inbox yet.”

“All right, noted. In short: everything looks great. When are we sending the container of cigars to the States?”

“We’ll sort that out separately.”

“Between helpings of Keisha’s stew?”

“I’d like to say yes… but I’m not sure I can tear myself away from it.” Johnson chuckled. “Hell, all right, I’ll get back to work before I start looking too pleased with life. Can’t have them seeing me like that at the office. I’m even thinking of firing a couple of interns, just to keep everyone sharp. Kidding!” He laughed again. “All right, come on, you’ve got my full attention now, old pal!”

“I believe you,” Luis lied, and ended the call.

They dealt with the problem at the plantation even faster than expected: it turned out the bungling repairmen had simply forgotten to reconnect a cable, which was why the machinery had been acting up.

“Well, that’s one less headache,” Luis thought as he climbed into his Toyota Hilux and drove off.

He was already expected at the construction site of the Nicaragua Interoceanic Canal, which the locals jokingly called the Eternal One: the Chinese, usually so quick about everything, had been at it for five years now, and progress was still strangely slow. The reason, however, was prosaic enough—the scheming of the wily Americans. The Chinese canal had been conceived from the start as an alternative to the Panama Canal, and U.S. operators, unwilling to tolerate competition, were forever throwing wrenches into the Asians’ works.

On the long drive, the ghosts of the past began catching up with Sánchez again, and he stubbornly fought them off with cigar smoke, trying to dissolve his dread in nicotine. Xing, the engineer through whom Luis conducted his business with China, must have noticed the faint irritation in his voice.

“You seem troubled today, *péngyou*,” Xing observed.

Don Sánchez gave the man standing before him a gloomy stare. It wasn’t that Luis especially disliked working with the Chinese, but there had never been any real problems with them either—except, perhaps, Xing himself, whose manner was somewhat unsettling. Most of the time he was calm and composed, but now and then he would take on such a lofty tone that one might think Luis’s fate depended entirely on Chinese goodwill, as though the former tobacco magnate would be reduced to begging in the streets if they decided to pack up and leave tomorrow.

“Or maybe I’m just working myself up today, and he didn’t mean anything by it…”

“Does it have anything to do with our joint venture?” Xing asked, cutting into his thoughts.

“Not at all,” Luis answered honestly. “Our venture isn’t under any threat.”

Afterward, having exchanged greetings with Ji—who, for some reason, was especially warm to him today—he headed home, eager to be nearer the soothing Pacific. A premonition of something wrong, something deeply unpleasant, seemed to be ripening inside him, though Luis couldn’t imagine how events from twenty years ago could cast a shadow over his present life. Perhaps they would only bring another run of sleepless nights, nothing more—but he had survived those before. It would not be a problem.

The universe was quick to answer Luis’s question. Late that evening, as Sánchez sat at his computer, scrolling through his email over a cigar, a message arrived from an old acquaintance in Spain.

With trembling hands, Sánchez opened it and read:

“Hello, Luis!

It’s Major Hugo. How are you, old friend? I can scarcely remember the last time we saw each other. More than ten years ago, surely—and since then, only letters…

I’ve just reread the beginning of this letter and wondered: did I really write that? I used to be brief, precise, and now look at me. We’re getting old, I suppose. Sentimental.

But enough idle chatter—down to business! It seems I have finally paid off my debts in Spain and will soon make my long-held dream come true. Nicaragua awaits! See you soon!

U.H.”

Luis’s gaze drifted from the major’s open letter to Albrecht Dürer’s *Melencolia*, which hung on the wall to the left of his desk. Framed by the tobacco smoke curling from the tip of his cigar and filling the room, the German master’s work seemed still more mystical, more strange.

There was a certain irony in this, since, in Sánchez’s view, tobacco was the one sure salvation from any melancholy.

Yet even that irony paled beside another, far more unexpected one: the chief ghost of his past—Major Hugo—had decided to move closer to Luis.

1491

The news that an old acquaintance, Christopher, had arrived in Seville filled Mario Vargas with a blessed sense of anticipation. A banker who had given many years to the service of the Delgado banking house did not have so many friends that he could afford to ignore the arrival of one of them in southern Spain.

And if, strictly speaking, the two were not all that close, the reason lay solely in Christopher’s wandering life, not in any clash of character or temperament—Spanish against Italian.

Though what sort of Italian is Columbus, really? Mario thought with an inward smirk, sitting on the terrace of a tavern and watching barefoot urchins dart along the street. His friend had long since put down roots in Spain and even meant to sail under her banner... but to where? Mario had heard every kind of theory, and he had no doubt that Columbus had come to Seville for that very purpose: he was looking for patrons capable of backing his next expedition.

Perhaps Christopher also hoped to borrow money from Vargas himself, which would explain why he had so readily agreed to meet after the banker sent a street boy to deliver his invitation to dine.

But there was no use guessing, Mario thought, tracing the greasy grain of the tabletop with his finger. Soon enough his friend would pass beneath the entrance arch and, stopping halfway over the threshold, exclaim...

“Well, Mario, can it really be you?!”

Vargas started and, turning at the scrape of shoes, saw Columbus standing before him. He was there, barely two paces away, nose lifted, hat pressed to his chest, a sly smile playing about his lips.

“Christopher!” Mario cried, rising in haste.

The friends embraced, then sat down together at the table. A serving girl in an apron came over, took their order, and withdrew, leaving Mario and Columbus to enjoy each other’s company.

“You’ve grown pale,” Vargas observed at once, studying the traveler.

“I am simply dead tired, my friend,” Columbus replied with a strained smile. “The road is my home, but sometimes this mortal flesh reminds me that rest is required... at times rather too insistently.”

He chuckled, but Mario could see that his old acquaintance was truly worn out.

“You should listen to your body more often,” he said. “None of us is getting any younger. Perhaps you ought to consult Ibn Butlan’s *Tacuinum Sanitatis*? Its counsel may help hold old age at bay and keep a man hale a little longer.”

“Am I to talk of old age at forty?” Christopher said, breaking again into a broad smile. “Besides, what makes you think I have not read that treatise? Even on the road I try to eat properly, whereas, looking at you, one might not detect such strict obedience to the rules...”

As he spoke, Columbus cast an eloquent glance at the plump cheeks of the man seated opposite him.

“That is the Christopher I know!” Mario exclaimed without offense. “But do take care of yourself; our meetings may be rare, but I would not have them cease altogether.”

* Tacuinum Sanitatis, “Almanac of Health”—a medieval medical treatise on healthy living. The work is based on an eleventh-century tract by the Baghdad scholar and physician Ibn Butlan. In the late fourteenth century, the text was translated from Arabic into Latin in several versions and richly illustrated.

“Don’t worry. Many, many undertakings still lie ahead of me... many, many...”

He heard the echo of his own words and glanced toward the serving girl, who had just come back from the kitchen with a pitcher of wine and several clay cups. She set them on the table, smiled at the guests, and slipped inside again—presumably for the fruit and cheese Mario had asked her to bring.

“She’s a sight for sore eyes,” Columbus remarked, his gaze lingering on the pretty girl as she walked away. “Even in your dark Sevillian alleys, the true flowers of life manage to bloom.”

“As though the sun never stops shining in Genoa, and there are no slums or crooked houses like the ones on the outskirts here!” Mario exclaimed with a good-natured snort.

“Of course there are in Genoa. Or do you think I moved to Savona at twenty, and then left Italy altogether, just for the sport of it?” Columbus replied with a smile.

His eyes, unlike his gaunt body, burned with the fire of a soul that drove Christopher on, relentlessly, toward new feats and discoveries.

“Well, let us put idle barbs aside. Better tell me what brings you to Seville, my friend. Surely you have been to see your son at the monastery of La Rábida?”

“No, I have not reached him yet,” Columbus said with a grimace. “But I shall go to Diego as soon as I have concluded my business here. Though the chief matter, I fear, has already ended in complete failure—there is hardly another word for it. Then again, failure has long been my constant companion, so I have ceased to despair whenever a new one overtakes me.”

“What went wrong this time?” Mario asked cautiously.

Columbus looked at him from under his brows before answering, reluctantly:

“I met again with Their Most Catholic Majesties, Isabella and Ferdinand. We had had an audience before, and their invitation to meet here stirred in me the hope that they might at last take an interest in my expedition and agree to finance it. But, to my disappointment, the royal couple refused me yet again...”

“You chose a poor moment for such petitions,” Vargas observed. “Castile seems poised to crush Granada and drive out the Moors, but that requires an unbroken stream of gold. Take my word for it, as a representative of the Delgado banking house: the debts of the Crowns of Castile and Aragon are greater than ever.”

“I have heard as much, straight from the horse’s mouth! But what am I to do, my friend? I am not growing any younger, and each lost year robs me of the chance to make another voyage to lands of which we know only the vaguest outlines... Fortunately, there is business to be done here on the mainland as well. And it is precisely such a matter that brings me to you today.”

Columbus folded his hands before him and laced his fingers together.

He is going to ask for money after all, the banker thought. But what sum could be at stake if even Their Most Catholic Majesties of Castile and Aragon—God preserve their immortal souls—have refused Christopher? Unless the entire House of Delgado suddenly decided to abandon the financing of war in favor of the financing of science...

But could anything be more profitable than war?

As though prolonging the theatrical tension of the pause, the familiar serving girl approached and set a basket of fruit and cheese on the table.

“Well then, shall we drink to our reunion?” Mario suggested, hoping to ease the slight strain between them.

Christopher nodded eagerly. Vargas poured wine into two cups, slid one toward his companion, took the other in his hand, and said:

“To your health, my friend. I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual, Mario,” Columbus replied with a smile.

They drank, and both reached for the food at once.

“So, what business is it you have with me?” Mario asked casually.

Columbus drew a sharp breath through his nose, looked at his companion, and said:

“I want you to introduce me to the German painter Albrecht Dürer.”

Mario gave his friend a baffled look, and Christopher at once added:

“I heard Herr Fugger introduced you to Herr Dürer.”

He looked meaningfully at his old acquaintance, and Mario nodded slowly.

Vargas did indeed know Jakob Fugger well—one of Germany’s most influential and, truth be told, wealthiest bankers. And it was through Fugger that Mario had met Albrecht, for the banker was a welcome guest in the painter’s house.

The only question was how Christoph had come by this knowledge. From Jakob himself? But if so, why would Columbus need Mario as an intermediary to meet Dürer, when Fugger could easily have arranged the encounter? A swarm of questions filled Vargas’s mind like smoke unable to find its way up a chimney, shrouding his thoughts, hiding them from his host, and leaving him unable to linger over them until he had drawn at least something out of their enigmatically smiling guest.

But was the guest ready to speak?

“Let us suppose that is true,” Mario murmured. “But does it really matter who introduced us?”

“I merely wished to show that I had done my homework,” Columbus replied with another mild smile. “I made inquiries about Dürer in particular, and was pleased to learn that we have a mutual acquaintance in you. While Castile settles its military affairs, I must prepare thoroughly for my next audience with Isabella and Ferdinand. I cannot endure another refusal.”

“So there will be another audience?” Mario asked, surprised.

“After the inevitable fall of Granada, I shall certainly try to remind Their Majesties of my existence,” Columbus said. “Unless, of course, France agrees by then to provide me with everything I require—and believe me, there are grounds for such hope...”

Mario nodded slowly once more. Columbus was a zealot in his cause and sought patrons wherever he could reach them. He had already been driven out of Portugal for it... only to be invited back later, with assurances that not a hair on his head would be harmed—though no support, mind you, was ever promised.

And now France had appeared on the horizon.

How had Christoph put it? “The road is my home”? It seemed this applied not only to voyages toward unknown shores, but also to wanderings along the financial byways of Europe.

“So, can you arrange a meeting between Herr Dürer and me, Mario?” Columbus asked directly.

“I think I can,” Mario replied uncertainly. “I haven’t seen Albrecht myself in quite some time. I’ll try to make inquiries through the esteemed Jakob. And perhaps it would be easier to arrange a meeting if you told me plainly what your interest is, my friend. Do you wish to purchase Albrecht’s work?”

“You may call me superstitious, but I’d rather not lay out all my plans in advance,” Columbus said with a faint, apologetic smile. “Let us say only that word has reached me: Herr Dürer has in his possession a certain object that might prove very useful to me. If that is so, I should like to acquire it from him. And I would prefer that no one but you and I, Mario, know of this intention. You may, of course, tell Herr Fugger that I wish to visit the artist’s studio in order to purchase several paintings. That pretext suits me perfectly. I need only be alone with the German, if only for a few moments. Will you do this for me, Mario?”

Vargas froze. Columbus had a gift for spinning intrigue out of thin air. Without saying anything remarkable, he had roused the banker’s curiosity. What mysterious object could Dürer possibly have? How had Christoph learned of it, and why was he so eager to obtain it?

“Tell me, my friend, how much longer do you intend to remain in Seville?” Mario asked.

“As long as necessary. Unless, of course, I am called first to serve under the French flag... The coming months will show how serious their interest truly is. But why do you ask?”

“I intend to write to Jakob soon, and if Albrecht agrees to receive us, I want us to leave at the first opportunity.”

“Us? We? Does that mean, my friend...”

“Yes, Christoph,” Mario said. “I want to go to Germany with you. Besides, it has been a long time since I last saw Albrecht.”

“And no doubt you are curious to know exactly what I hope to find there?” Columbus asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Naturally.”

Christoph took a sip of wine, turned the glass in his hand, and said:

“Make the arrangements quickly, my friend. I cannot wait to meet Herr Dürer.”

Mario raised his glass, and in silence they drank to the success of the venture ahead.

2004 / 2024

“Darling, put the kettle on,” her voice sang from the hallway.

Luis marveled, not for the first time, at his wife’s talent for radiating joy in the first raw minutes of the day. For Sánchez, waking at six in the morning was something close to torture: first the sun dragged you out of sleep with its white glare; then came the realization that it was only Tuesday; then a low, inward groan as the day’s obligations settled on your shoulders, and a furtive yearning for Saturday.

Only when he rolled over and saw Evita’s sleepy smile did Luis remember why he took part in this whole frantic enterprise called “life.” In another second, unless he pulled his wife into his arms at once, she would flutter out of bed, humming some new “absolute favorite” song, and make for the shower. The water would drum against the plastic curtain, and Evita would sing louder—a bright, chiming alarm clock it was impossible to ignore.

After that, Luis usually got up and went out onto the balcony to smoke a fragrant morning cigar. More precisely, these were robustos carefully cut in half, a vitola of Sánchez’s own invention, made for the smoky ritual of greeting the dawn. The idea had come to him by accident on the morning after Christmas, when the remains of drunkenness and sleep had stolen the steadiness from his hands and left the cigar in two stumps. The “Luis Sánchez format,” as he jokingly called it, let him savor the aroma of the tobacco even in the morning rush of preparing to meet Madrid’s daily grind.

The cigar usually lasted just long enough for Evita to come out of the shower and send her gentle phrase floating onto the balcony:

“Darling, put the kettle on.”

“Yes, dear.”

The rush of tap water, the click of the piezo igniter on the gas burner...

In an instant, blue tongues of flame were licking the belly of the small, gleaming kettle. Soon it would whistle cheerfully, calling Evita and little Pablo to the kitchen for tea while Luis made the coffee. He loved sitting there with a cup of fresh espresso, watching his wife and son hurry through breakfast. Cereal, tea, the eternal “Mom, I don’t want broccoli for dinner,” a backpack with textbooks missing, the scramble, the descent to the underground garage, and the long haul from Hortaleza to the school near Atocha station, threading through Madrid’s endless traffic.

Today would be a little different.

Today Luis had to go to the far side of the city, leaving before his son could discover he had forgotten his math textbook or that his pen had run out of ink. Today Evita would take Pablo to school on the commuter train, then go on to her art studio.

“Maybe you should take a taxi?” Luis asked his wife, watching Pablo crunch his cereal.

“Why, when the station is practically next door?” Evita said, surprised. “We’ll be there by eight, maybe even a bit earlier. Provided our young man hasn’t forgotten to pack his bag again...”

“Hey,” Pablo protested, his mouth full of cereal. “I’m not little anymore. I’m grown-up, Mom.”

Luis turned away so his son wouldn’t see him smile.

“As you say, Mr. Grown-Up,” Evita nodded gravely. “Third grade is no joke.”

“See? That’s what I’m saying,” Pablo said, pleased.

“Very soon you’ll start working too,” his mother went on, “just like your dad, and we’ll only see you early in the morning and sometimes in the evenings...”

Taken aback by this unexpected turn, Pablo nearly choked on his cereal, while Evita gave Luis a meaningful look.

“Honey, you know I’d love nothing more than to spend time with both of you, but work...” Sánchez sighed. “What can you do?”

“I know,” Evita said with a sad smile. “I just miss those evenings when we were all together.”

“I hope things will be different in a couple of years,” Luis said. “I’m going to start my own business eventually, with a flexible schedule...”

“I think I heard that plan a couple of years ago,” Evita remarked.

“Maybe. But back then I probably said four years,” Luis replied with a faint smile.

“All right. I won’t torment you any longer.” She came over and kissed him on the nose. “A hard day ahead... for all of us.”

Pablo nodded solemnly, as if the words had been meant mainly for him. How badly he wants to grow up, Luis thought, watching his son. But why? Isn’t it better to stay a child as long as you can? Three, four, even five lessons are nothing compared with working from dawn till dusk over bloated budgets for massive construction projects.

Luis finished his coffee and got up from the table.

Time to get back to the numbers.

As he was putting on his shoes, Pablo finished the last of his cereal and followed Evita into the hallway to see his father off to work.

“Bye-bye, Daddy,” his wife sang out.

“Bye, Dad,” his son sniffled.

Smiling, Luis ruffled the boy’s curly hair, then took Evita’s hand. His wife looked at Sánchez with tender affection.

“I’ll try to be home early today,” he promised.

Judging by her slight squint, she didn’t quite believe him. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. But he had to say it: Luis wanted his wife to know that he truly did long to spend more time with them, and that all this construction frenzy wasn’t an end in itself, but only a way to provide for the family.

Evita doesn’t understand that Sánchez has a clear plan. She doesn’t believe that, if everything goes right, in just a couple of years they’ll have their own business. Yes, at first they might have to work even harder than they do now. But that would only be temporary—the price of a secure, free future...

In another couple of years, Luis repeated in his head in his wife’s voice as he crossed the underground parking lot toward the dark green SEAT León parked deep inside.

At this point Evita would laugh and squeeze his shoulder, with no anger or resentment in the gesture. There’s nothing wrong with a man dreaming of escaping the daily grind and spending more time with his wife and son. On the contrary, it gives you the certainty that you’re doing everything right.

Like taking your son to school on the commuter train so your husband can make it to a meeting with contractors.

And there was the old León, as green as Evita’s eyes. Luis had deliberately bought light-colored seat covers—when his wife sat beside him, her dark hair fell beautifully over the beige fabric. The comic books on the back seat were a reminder of Pablo. Somewhere in the depths of that seat, there was surely more than one stolen candy wrapper hidden away.

Luis got behind the wheel, started the engine, and, glancing at the tobacco-leaf-shaped keychain dangling from the rearview mirror, smiled despite himself: Pablo had given him that keychain for his last birthday.

Sánchez loved driving Pablo to school. The traffic made him nervous, but it was their time, father and son, when the two of them could talk about anything, sing badly along with the radio, or argue over the colors of passing cars.

Today the dark green León would carry only the voice of the radio, but tomorrow Pablo would say in his familiar falsetto:

“Dad, change the station.”

Or:

“Oops, I forgot my notebook.”

Or:

“But you promised me ice cream...”

But that was all tomorrow. Tomorrow, very soon.

Luis switched on the radio and steered the León up the ramp, out of the underground hush of the garage and into the bustle of Madrid.

“We remind our listeners that there are three days left until the Spanish parliamentary elections,” the announcer’s voice said lightly from the speakers.

Luis winced and changed the station. Listening to politics while driving was the worst possible choice. Especially on a morning like this—sunlit, cloudless... Why spoil the mood with thoughts of parliament, elections, deputies?

What a glorious March day, Sánchez thought, humming softly along with the next song.

But less than half an hour later, the latest spring hit was cut off.

“Breaking news!” a frantic female voice blared from the speakers. “Our press service reports that at approximately 7:40 a.m., explosions occurred on several commuter trains bound for Madrid’s Atocha station. The number of casualties is still being confirmed! Stay tuned!”

Luis stared at the car stereo in stunned disbelief. For a moment it seemed as if the words themselves had taken shape before his eyes, coupling into a whole train of letters, only to detonate and scatter through the cabin like dust. His heart thrashed wildly.

Panic attack, Luis understood with sudden, dreadful clarity. He slammed on the brakes. Fortunately, the car behind him managed to swerve aside, and Sánchez escaped with no worse than a long, furious blast of the horn and the indignant shouts of the terrified driver. Far worse was the fact that Luis could barely breathe—as if a moment ago he had known how, and now had completely forgotten, had lost the knack altogether. His hands shook as if palsied. He couldn’t hold the steering wheel; his fingers simply refused to obey.

By some incomprehensible miracle, Sánchez managed to switch on the hazard lights, so the approaching drivers would not have to guess why a lone dark green León sat frozen in the middle of the highway.

This can’t be real, Luis thought. But it is.

He couldn’t know for certain, and yet somehow he knew that Evita and Pablo had been on one of those trains. Somehow he knew he was alone, utterly alone.

There was a knock at the driver’s window. Luis Sánchez turned his head with an effort and stared in bewilderment at a stern-faced stranger of about thirty-five who had appeared out of nowhere beside the León and was now looking questioningly at the man inside.

The stranger shouted something.

“Roll down the window,” Luis read on his lips, and, fumbling for the switch, he obeyed the grim outsider’s request.

“I think we ought to stop meeting under circumstances like this,” the stranger said. “There are plenty of other occasions, far more pleasant ones than the death of your family. Don’t you agree, Luis?”

Sánchez nodded slowly. How had he failed to recognize that Stern Face at once as his old comrade, Major Hugo? Although back then they had not yet met, and Hugo had not been a major, but a captain...

Luis glanced reflexively at the dashboard, and his expression darkened.

Something was clearly wrong. The clock read 7:52, which meant Hugo could not physically be here.

Right now he should have been on his way to Atocha station, joining the other officers and paramedics in rescuing those who had not died, only survived the blasts.

But Pablo and Evita were no longer among the living, Luis thought with unexpected calm. They hadn’t been for a long time—though it was strange, Evita dying, she whose very name meant “alive.”

How anyone could give such names to mortal beings, Sánchez did not know.

“Should I get out of the car?” he asked Hugo.

“No, there’s no need,” the future major said, shaking his head. “You can just wake up.”

Luis squeezed his eyes shut until his jaw ached... then snapped them open. Around him was the dark bedroom of his house at Hotel Mukul. For a while Sánchez lay there, gulping air, trying to catch his breath and steady himself. Then, as the hypoxia ebbed and his mind cleared a little, Luis dared to sit up. The room was still swaying gently from side to side, slowly mooring itself in space.

Sánchez let out a breath of relief and looked around, disoriented, searching for his phone.

His fingers found it on the nightstand. He picked it up and tapped the screen.

Five a.m.

Well, it could have been worse.

Sánchez lay back down and stared at the ceiling. He knew sleep wouldn’t come back. But this time he had managed far more than a couple of weeks ago, when a nightmare had jolted him awake at two in the morning.

Will I carry that day with me for the rest of my life—March 11? Luis wondered, gazing into the gray expanse above him. Will this pain never recede?

He wanted to believe it was Major Hugo’s letter, with its news of the major’s imminent move to Nicaragua, that had set it all off. But nightmares came for the smoke peddler even without letters.

“Evita, Pablo… I miss you…” Luis whispered, his eyes closed.

Now he had his dream job and an ocean of free time, and no one left to share it with. No one to hurry home to from the plantation, though hundreds, thousands of times he had imagined his wife and son waiting there…

Time, eternal and indifferent, shifts imperceptibly, like the earth’s magnetic pole, altering the degree of our existence. For reasons unknown, it erases and creates things in the fabric of our everyday world. A metronome ticking out each person’s fate, while none of them knows what tomorrow will bring.

Or whether they will have a tomorrow at all.

1491

Just as Columbus had expected, Jakob Fugger did not refuse to help. In response to Mario Vargas’s letter, he sent word that young Albrecht was at present traveling through Europe—the customary undertaking of apprentice artists eager to refine their craft under established masters. According to Herr Fugger, Dürer was due to arrive in the Alsatian town of Colmar in early December and to remain there for several months. As for the reason, Jakob could not say with certainty, though he did mention Martin Schongauer, whose talent Albrecht “greatly admired and from whom he plainly wished to learn.”

“Herr Fugger has promised to write to Dürer about your interest,” Mario announced when he and Columbus met to discuss the German banker’s letter. “Jakob is confident that Albrecht will be glad to receive us in Colmar.”

“Well, that is excellent news,” Christopher said, barely hiding his elation. “I propose we spend the coming week making preparations and set out for Colmar at once thereafter.”

“So soon?” Mario asked, surprised.

“Granada still stands,” the traveler observed, with a touch of melancholy. “And it would be foolish to expect the Moors to raise the white flag tomorrow. If you have urgent business, my friend, I can visit Herr Dürer alone.”

“No, no—I believe I shall be able to accompany you,” Mario hastened to assure him. “Besides, I remain curious about this peculiar object you hope to find in Albrecht’s possession.”

To this, Christopher offered only an enigmatic smile.

The following week proved a veritable nightmare for Mario. Only with great effort did he manage to ready himself for the journey in the time allotted. At one point Vargas seriously considered abandoning the dubious enterprise of traveling to Colmar altogether, yet his banker’s instinct told him he must go with Columbus. All the more so because Christopher had let slip, in conversation, that the item in Dürer’s keeping might help him secure funds for his forthcoming voyage to the shores of China. The expedition itself promised considerable profit, and although Albrecht’s role in the matter remained unclear, Vargas decided the time invested would repay itself many times over.

Anyone only slightly acquainted with Columbus might have dismissed him as a somewhat unhinged adventurer. But Mario had known Christopher for many years and had never ceased to marvel at the relentlessness with which he pursued his aims.

And the journey to Colmar, it seemed, was to become another step along the path to a new expedition.

Two weeks on the road became a genuine ordeal for the banker: he had long since put down roots in Seville and had grown unaccustomed to prolonged travel, to carriages jolting over ruts, to dust and wind, to the uncomfortable beds of roadside inns and the coarse fare prepared by inept cooks in tiny provincial towns whose names even the locals sometimes forgot. Mario chafed at every hardship of the journey and impatiently awaited the moment when they would at last reach Colmar, where they might spend at least a few days free of the confines of their carriage.

Vargas’s mounting irritation could hardly escape Columbus’s notice; yet, surprisingly, his old friend’s sufferings did not distress Christopher—they amused him endlessly.

“A settled life in Seville has made you terribly soft, my friend,” he observed as they dined at an inn near Toulouse. “And yet I recall a time when you dreamed of joining me on an expedition to distant, uncharted shores!”

“That was ages ago!” Mario snorted. “That was my younger self speaking, before he had acquired... ahem... a certain burden of obligations. These days I’d sail with you only to nearby shores—and well-charted ones at that!”

“And soft featherbeds and fine wine as well, I suppose?” Columbus asked, his eyes narrowing. “Just as in Ibn Butlan’s treatise?”

“Most assuredly, my friend! Most assuredly...”

By the end of the second week on the road, however, Mario found himself thinking that things were not so dreadful after all. Or rather, they had only seemed so at first, from sheer force of habit; now, as the journey drew to its close, riding in a carriage no longer felt quite so exhausting, nor the beds at the inns quite so unforgiving. Strictly speaking, Vargas now reached his cot, lay down, and fell asleep at once, instead of spending half the night tossing about in search of a comfortable position.

“I must admit, one could live like this,” Mario remarked as they approached the ramparts of Colmar.

Christopher glanced at his companion with a faint half-smile.

“Habits, my friend, make the passage of time more bearable, but alas, they are only a by-product of the problem of survival, not its solution. Like the ticking pulse of a chronometer, habits merely conceal time’s slipping away, turning our daily existence into a monotonous labyrinth of melancholy.”

Mario had no answer. Of course, he had no intention of changing his way of life; he could not turn himself from a banker into an explorer-adventurer with a snap of his fingers, even if he wished to. And Vargas doubted he truly wished to swallow road dust forever. Even if the reward were meetings with remarkable men like Dürer in picturesque places like Colmar, Mario would scarcely have agreed to trade fates with anyone like Columbus.

And yet, truth be told, somewhere deep down he envied his old friend his ease on the road. For such men, it seemed, the whole world lay open, and only misfortune—in the form of Castile’s protracted war against the Moors—could keep them from reaching the farthest corners of the earth.

Still, Christopher himself had not lost hope in the blessed Spanish monarchs, Isabella and Ferdinand; as soon as he returned from Alsace, he intended to seek an audience once again.

For now, however, the travelers were welcomed by the jewel of the Décapole: Colmar, one of the ten free cities of Alsace, joined together back in 1354 by Emperor Charles IV. The local craft guilds had purchased their civic privileges from the Holy Roman Empire, granting the towns of the Décapole almost complete political autonomy. They maintained their own courts, markets, fairs, and taxes. And certain cities, Colmar among them, had secured from the emperor the right to exclude Jews from within their walls.

It was here, according to Jakob Fugger, that Dürer had taken lodgings, and in late November Columbus and Mario arrived in the storied town. After some difficulty finding accommodations—the hour was late—they unloaded their baggage, ate a hasty supper, and went to sleep, weary from the long road. They decided to call on Dürer in the morning: Albrecht would surely consider it a flagrant breach of etiquette if Vargas and Columbus appeared at his door in the dead of night.

“The landlord says the young German rents rooms near Martin Schongauer’s house,” Columbus noted when he and Mario met for breakfast at dawn. “About half an hour’s walk from here.”

“You want to set off straight after we’ve eaten?” Vargas asked.

Christopher nodded.

“We’ll send the boy ahead to announce us. If Herr Dürer is willing to receive us, I see no reason to delay.”

Mario found nothing to object to.

An hour later, the lad Christopher had hired returned with word that the painter would receive them.

“Well then, are we agreed?” Columbus asked with a smile.

Vargas gave a noncommittal grunt and again said nothing. What was the point of empty words when the key to Dürer’s “secret” was so close at hand?

After a short walk through the sleepy streets of Colmar, the friends arrived at the house where Albrecht was staying. Christoph knocked on the low oak door, coughed into his fist, and clasped his hands before him, plainly struggling to contain his agitation.

How strange, Vargas thought. Albrecht is more or less the same age as Diego Columbus—young enough to be Christoph’s son. Why, then, is the traveler so unnerved?

There was no time to consider the answer. The door creaked open, and a pale young man looked out, his untidy red hair just brushing his sloping shoulders.

Mario recognized Dürer at once. The painter had looked exactly the same at their one previous meeting, except that his hair had been shorter.

“Good morning, Albrecht,” Vargas said with a broad smile. “I trust you recognize me?”

“Yes, of course, Herr Vargas,” the German replied, with the trace of a smile. “I received a letter from Herr Fugger, warning me to expect a visit from you and...” Dürer shifted his gaze to Christoph. “Herr Columbus. It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is entirely mine,” the traveler replied warmly.

“Come in, gentlemen. There is no sense in talking on the threshold.”

Dürer stepped back from the doorway, and Mario, ushering Columbus in ahead of him, followed his friend inside.

Albrecht’s lodgings were small and sparsely furnished—at least the living area was: a table beneath the single window, two benches beside it, and, in the corner, buckets of water and a washbasin. Everything else was taken up by canvases, panels, easels, and the other tools of a painter’s trade. Because a broad-crowned tree stood just outside the window, the room was dim, even gloomy. Mario caught himself thinking that he would not be able to endure the place for long.

And yet, judging by the sheer number of paintings crowding the studio, Dürer, for all his pallor, was plainly aflame with his work; he lived for his art. Still, Columbus could not shake the feeling that the master existed in a constant melancholic half-dream—a ghost of an artist, forever bound to this somber place.

“Please, sit if you wish.” Albrecht gestured toward the table and benches. “Forgive the disorder. The messenger warned me of your visit, but I did not expect you so soon.”

“Oh, we have come a long way,” Columbus said, looking around with keen interest. “We were eager to see you... And as for the disorder—this is your workshop, after all. Even if only a temporary one. I imagine an artist’s dwelling must be somewhat... ascetic.”

“All the same, I am embarrassed,” Albrecht admitted.

“It is perfectly all right,” Mario said reassuringly.

Christoph was in no hurry to sit. Stopping beside an easel, he studied Dürer’s work with fascination.

“It is not yet finished, and the light is too harsh at this hour,” Albrecht observed.

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Christoph murmured. “And yet...”

“This is no mere caprice, Herr Columbus,” Dürer said firmly. “Reality is deceptive by daylight. It only cloaks a monochrome world in color. That is why I prefer to show finished works only at dusk.”

The painter tried not to offend his guest, but it was clear that the traveler’s behavior had annoyed him.

Columbus turned to his host and said with a smile, “Forgive me; it is hard to look away. All these figures... a most peculiar sensation... mesmerizing, and yet... repellent.”

“Thank you,” Dürer replied with a polite smile. “To capture human ugliness in a drawing is simple. But try to do the same in words, and no one will want to read it. Paintings, however... paintings command attention.”

He cast a skeptical glance at his unfinished work, then turned back to Columbus and said:

“When the occasion arises, I shall certainly show you the finished version. But now, if you will permit me, shall we turn to business? Let me say at once that I am deeply flattered by your interest in me, a fledgling artist, and in my work. Señor Vargas.” Albrecht looked at the banker. “I confess, I thought that during your last visit you praised my paintings merely out of politeness.”

“Not at all,” Mario said, shaking his head. “I am no great connoisseur of the visual arts, but Albrecht, your painting truly interests me.”

“Thank you, Señor Vargas. I am glad to have been mistaken.” Dürer smiled at the banker, then turned to his companion. “Am I right to assume that Señor Columbus was inspired by your praise and sought this meeting because of it?”

“In truth, matters stand somewhat differently,” Christopher said politely. “I did not learn of you from Mario. And my interest is not only—or even primarily—in your paintings, remarkable though they undoubtedly are, but in something else you possess.”

Albrecht looked at him in surprise.

“Something I possess?” the painter repeated. “I confess, I do not know what you mean. Could you clarify, Señor Columbus?”

Judging by his bewilderment, he was not pretending. Christopher fixed him with a piercing gaze, then said:

“I am speaking of the map by the late geographer Toscanelli, Herr Dürer. My... sources tell me it is in your possession. Is that true?”

Mario frowned. A map? They had come all this way because Columbus was interested in a map belonging to some dead geographer? Why had Christopher kept up the suspense for so long? Why hadn’t he asked Mario to have Jakob find out the artifact’s price from the painter, instead of declaring his interest in person?

“Yes,” Albrecht replied after a pause, his voice slightly hoarse with agitation. “I have it. But...” He faltered. “And yet, I should have guessed that you sought this meeting because of it. You are looking for a shorter route to China, are you not?”

“That is correct,” Columbus answered slowly. “So, may I see Toscanelli’s map?”

Watching their locked gazes, Mario suddenly thought the adversaries were well matched: Columbus was trying to bring the weight of age to bear, yet Dürer, despite his youth, held his ground admirably, though at first he had seemed distracted, even flustered.

What sort of map was this? And why was Columbus so certain that Albrecht had brought it with him on his journey across Europe?

Perhaps because of its value?...

“Listen,” Christopher said. “I have been searching for this map for many years, ever since I learned of its existence from a letter by Toscanelli. My friend and I have come a long way from Seville to Colmar just to lay eyes on it...”

“Just to lay eyes on it?”

“Of course not only that,” Columbus said with a smile. “I need this map to secure backing for my expedition—to support my theories with the work of the eminent Toscanelli. That would greatly increase my chances of success. You, Herr Dürer, could render me an invaluable service. What do you say?”

“I say I shall fetch the map at once,” Dürer replied. “And if it is indeed the one you seek, we can discuss the price. Wait here, gentlemen.”

With that he left the room, leaving the two friends alone.

“An extraordinarily astute young man,” Columbus said, glancing cheerfully at Mario. “Extraordinarily…”

On the canvas set upon the easel, fishermen, casting anxious glances about them, were hauling from the water, along with their nets, a boy who gazed up at the sky.

2024

The trill of the hotel telephone made Luis start. He reached out, lifted the receiver, and pressed it to his ear.

“Don Sánchez?” a hoarse voice crackled through the static.

“Yes, Franco,” Luis replied, recognizing at once the impassive tone of the guard at the resort checkpoint.

“You asked to be told when Don Navarro arrived.”

“He’s just come through the gates?”

“Yes, señor.”

“Thank you, Franco,” Luis said, replacing the receiver before the clipped echo of the disconnect tone had faded.

He couldn’t concentrate. Sánchez’s mind was far away. Today was D-Day, and zero hour was closing in.

Luis still hadn’t decided how he felt about Major Hugo’s move to Nicaragua. On the one hand, they had kept in touch all these years; if not exactly friends, they were certainly close acquaintances. On the other, Luis had no particular desire to have a man from the past—the very past he had fled to Central America to escape—living next door.

Why else had he left Madrid, with its daily mourning and its reminders of the wife and son he had lost, only for Madrid to come and find him here, in this volcanic oasis of Chibcha civilization?

By the mere fact of his arrival, Hugo was already changing the world Luis had grown used to beyond recognition. When fragments of that terrible tragedy seeped through in emails and rare phone calls, Sánchez could endure them, however painfully. But such proximity...

Luis did not want to look out the window and see Hugo there, because his cursed memory would instantly sketch, behind the major’s back, a railway station and mangled carriages twisted like tin cans of beans bursting in a bonfire.

Only instead of tomato sauce, everywhere there was...

Sánchez stood up abruptly, cutting off another flashback, his hands and knees trembling.

Just as they had then, behind the wheel, in 2004.

Enough. Stop. Lock the memories away.

But now he was about to see Hugo, and there would be too many of them in any case.

From outside came the roar of an engine—a van, by the sound of it, and probably more than one.

A minute later the sound died, replaced by others: brakes screeching near the house, doors slamming, indistinct voices muffled by distance.

“So he’s here.”

Luis realized how foolish he must look from the outside—standing frozen in the middle of the room, straining to catch the sounds drifting in from beyond, trying at the same time to separate the present from the residue of the past without losing his mind. But what could he do against a ghost from long-vanished days that had crept up on him unawares?

Except light a cigar.

For Sánchez, it was a dependable way to steady himself. With a cigar in hand, he felt space dissolve into smoke and ash, while time seemed to pause in a gray-and-crimson smolder.

The snip of the guillotine cut the vitola’s cap swiftly and cleanly—as though severing the spine of the Ouroboros, that symbol of eternal return.

The strike of a match; the glow of tobacco turning dark thoughts to ash.

And the smoke of burning doubts, rising toward the ceiling.

At the very moment Luis began to feel that he had almost regained his composure, the room filled with the insistent knocking of his expected, uninvited guest.

Sánchez turned and stared at the door. He had imagined this moment many times. Ever since Luis’s flight from Spain, Hugo’s letters had been full of questions about Nicaragua—the cigar business, the tobacco plantations, the climate, the women, and the resort where Sánchez lived.

About five years ago, the first hint came: “Maybe I should move down there too, for my twilight years?” It sounded more like a joke than a plan, but over time the question returned more and more often, until, a couple of years ago, it hardened into Hugo’s firm intention to move to Nicaragua.

And now the Major was standing on the other side of the door, waiting for Luis to open it, to let the past spill into the present.

Sánchez took a noisy pull on his cigar. His fingers squeezed it so hard that the body flattened with a pained little groan as the wrapper split.

The soles of the Major’s shoes, visible through the gap beneath the door, blotted out the blazing sun. Judging by the motionless shadow, Hugo stood perfectly still, as if frozen at attention.

Poli is always Poli.

With a sense of inevitability, Luis went to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open.

There was nowhere left to retreat.

“Well, hello there, smoke peddler,” Hugo said.

He said it so casually, as if they had parted only yesterday, and for the first second Sánchez truly felt that the Major had scarcely changed since they had last met in Madrid: the bearing, the close-cropped hair, the large nose of a born bloodhound, the strong jaw. Only when he looked more closely did Luis notice that Hugo’s face had gathered more wrinkles, that his crew cut was dusted with gray, and that his eyes had faded considerably—though, just as before, little tongues of mischievous fire, from God knew where, seemed to dance in them.

Either the fires of the underworld, or simply an inexhaustible thirst for life.

Though Navarro was wearing a shirt and summer trousers, Sánchez’s imagination still placed him in a police uniform, badge gleaming.

“Hello, Hugo,” Luis replied, holding his gaze.

The Major stepped over the threshold; they shook hands and embraced.

“This Nicaragua of yours isn’t really so far away, is it?” the Major observed, stepping back.

“If I’d wanted to go far away, I’d have chosen South America,” Sánchez replied with a shrug.

“And why not North?” Hugo asked, narrowing his eyes.

“How quickly the uncomfortable questions begin!” Luis feigned surprise.

The Major laughed and, clapping his Madrid comrade on the shoulder, said:

“Forgive me. Old habits. As the Russians say, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

Sánchez smiled faintly, with only the corner of his mouth. Hugo still loved sprinkling his conversation with proverbs and sayings from every nation imaginable, eager to display the breadth of his knowledge.

“The Russians also say, I’ve heard, ‘There’s no truth in standing.’ So sit down,” Sánchez offered, before some dangerous silence could settle between him and the Major.

Ash slipped from his cigar and settled soundlessly onto the floor like dry snow.

Ash will never be a cigar again, Sánchez thought, his gaze sliding over the tobacco dust at his feet.

“Care for a cigar?” Luis asked, looking at the Major.

After a brief pause, Hugo replied grimly:

“A man with a cigar is a prime example of terrifying free thought, my friend.”

Before Sánchez could register his surprise, the Major immediately broke into a grin and exclaimed:

“Just kidding! I’d gladly join you, but right now it’s simply impossible—I have to dismiss the porters. But if you have no plans for the evening, we could have dinner somewhere... Where’s the best restaurant around here? Could you book a table for around eight? My treat! I feel like celebrating the start of a new, free life. As the Chinese say: no debts, and the heart is light!”

“As you wish,” Luis said with a nod. “Which house are you staying in?”

“The one just down from yours.” Hugo waved a hand vaguely behind him. “Number eleven, I think. Call if anything comes up. Anyway, I’m off. I need to make sure nothing gets smashed over there. Nobody gets to wreck old Hugo’s things but old Hugo himself!”

The Major laughed again and gave Sánchez’s shoulder a squeeze. He seemed genuinely happy, but something in his eyes set Luis on edge. The Major, however, gave him no time to think it through.

“See you tonight!” Hugo cried, and with a brisk turn he left the house.

As if something had been left unsaid, Sánchez thought later, sinking into his armchair and worrying the frayed end of his cigar.

“No, it’s probably just paranoia. And paranoia must be fought by the Betancourt method...”

Luis had spent many a pleasant evening in the company of Alejandro Gómez Betancourt, the finest tobacco grower in the province of Jalapa. Whenever the subject of paranoia came up, Alejandro would always say, “Just because it seems that way to you doesn’t mean it is.” Perhaps it was devotion to this simple principle that had allowed Betancourt to live to nearly a hundred... as his father had... and his grandfather before him.

A blue ring of dense smoke drifted toward the ceiling.

Luis watched with interest as it slowly dissolved into the air, becoming the past forever. Is smoke mysterious because it is elusive? Perhaps. But why should that make it mysterious? Why should elusiveness be more enigmatic than substance? Maybe because we want to possess it?...

“Smoke is as elusive as time, so stop tormenting yourself over Hugo’s intrusion. Time will tell... tonight will show.”

When he had finished his cigar, Luis called the Sociedad restaurant.

The charming Gabriela—with whom he had long been acquainted as more than merely hostess and regular—asked Sánchez to send her his guest’s meta-dot, his token ID, not only to confirm vaccination against all Covid strains but also to review his culinary and drinking preferences in advance.

As the host, Luis had Navarro’s meta-dot stored in his social cloud, so forwarding it to Gabriela was no trouble. Sánchez then chose a table by the window and immediately called the Major, tapping the number embedded in the meta-dot.

“Navarro,” a dry baritone answered after several long rings.

And again the memories came flooding back: in that same tone, cold and businesslike, the Major used to answer calls when he worked in the Madrid office of Spain’s National Police. Back then Luis, officially a victim, had often felt like a suspect in his conversations with Hugo. Fortunately, Sánchez understood perfectly well that the Major was simply doing his job. Although responsibility for the 2004 Madrid train bombings had been claimed by a group of militant Muslims, the police could not simply take that on faith. After all, any one of the victims might formally have been in collusion with the extremists... At the very least, such a possibility could not be ruled out.

“Go on,” the Major prompted.

“Hugo, it’s Luis,” Sánchez blurted, then caught himself. “I’ve booked us a table for eight; we need to leave at seven.”

“Excellent, my friend!” Navarro said cheerfully. “I’ll be at your door at five to seven!”

“See you then.”

Ending the call, Luis sighed with relief. The agitation and anxiety that had battered his heart at the Major’s arrival had, for the moment, receded.

Surprisingly, Sánchez even managed to get some work done in the hours left before evening—running the figures on fertilizer purchases for the plantations, paying another round of taxes, taking care of a few other small matters. Around six, Luis went to shower; five minutes later he came out and spent another half hour sitting on the bed, gazing vaguely at the clothes hangers spilling from the half-open wardrobe.

Why this reluctance to go anywhere? Just as it had been then, in Madrid...

He had to accept that, for the next few weeks, there would be far too much of Hugo. The man had only just moved here and knew no one but Luis. He needed time to settle in. Of course, the Major wasn’t the sort who had to be led around Nicaragua by the hand, shown where everything was and told what it cost. Still, Luis could certainly expect more unexpected visits and phone calls.

At exactly 6:35, Sánchez began to change. He chose a pale green short-sleeved shirt and lightweight beige trousers. Perfect for any season in Nicaragua.

At five to seven, there was a knock at the door: the Major was punctuality itself. Luis gave his reflection a critical glance in the mirror and went to open up.

Hugo was wearing the same clothes he’d had on during the day. Military men pay little attention to fashion, accustomed as they are to uniform.

“Well then, shall we go, Luis?” the Major asked, smiling.

Sánchez nodded absently.

At precisely seven, the taxi Luis had ordered in advance pulled up.

“Cigar?” Sánchez offered as soon as they set off.

The Major looked at him in surprise.

“This taxi allows smoking,” Luis explained, taking out a travel humidor.

“Then I shall consider it an honor!” Hugo declared cheerfully.

A minute later, the cabin filled with fragrant smoke. José was on duty again at the checkpoint. Seeing him, Luis lowered the window. The guard immediately beamed and called out, “Good evening, Don Sánchez!”

“Good evening, José. Covering for your friend again?”

The guard nodded vigorously.

“Let me introduce you.” Luis gestured toward his companion. “This is Don Hugo Navarro, an old acquaintance of mine from Madrid.”

“Yes, yes, Franco told me you’d arrived, señor! Very pleased to meet you! I’m José, the security guard—if you have any questions, please come to me!”

The Major nodded distractedly. His eyes did not rest on José; clearly, the guard held no interest for him whatsoever.

Fortunately, the barrier was already raised, so Luis took his leave with a clear conscience. “See you later, José.”

“Have a safe trip, esteemed señors!” José called out just before the tobacco dealer closed the window.

The taxi moved on.

“Quite the chatterbox, isn’t he?” Hugo remarked with a smirk. “I hope the rest of the staff are not quite so intrusive?”

Luis shook his head. He made no attempt to persuade the Major that José was a good man. Why bother? Not everyone likes chatterboxes. And smooth talkers like the Major himself dislike them twice as much—perhaps they sense competition? Who knows... Ironically enough, Hugo had no intention of keeping quiet himself. At first, he peppered Luis with questions about everything flashing past the taxi window: the jungle, the evening sun, the distant volcano...

When they passed one of Sánchez’s fields, the questions turned to how difficult it was to grow tobacco and make cigars, and how much time the work took.

“The tobacco has already grown, hasn’t it?” Hugo asked, narrowing his eyes.

“No, there’s still a month to go before the harvest,” Luis replied with a gentle smile. “The leaves still have to draw in the sap of the earth and the strength of the sun.”

The Major looked at his friend with respect and, taking a pull on his cigar, murmured through the smoke, “You certainly know your tobacco. This cigar is pure magic. The flavor, the aroma...”

“Don’t jinx the harvest with too much praise,” Sánchez said, smiling.

“I won’t,” Hugo promised.

By the time they reached the restaurant, only the last third of the cigar remained.

“Shall we stop and finish them?” Hugo asked, looking at the lit windows, where green tablecloths glowed and the bright dresses of busy waitresses flickered past.

“Why?” Luis shrugged. “We can finish them inside. They like smoke there.”

The Major grunted and followed Luis into the Sociedad. As he made his way to their table, cigar smoke trailing behind him, Luis realized he had not felt so emotionally wrung out in a very long time.

*As if... as if the Major had just interrogated me.*

In truth, however, that had only been the prelude; the real interrogation took place over dinner.

It began innocently enough: once the aperitifs arrived, Hugo savored his wine with obvious pleasure, praised Luis’s choice of restaurant, and then launched into a brief discourse on how hard it was for an honest officer in Spain’s National Police to make it all the way to retirement.

Only when the heavy steaks arrived did Hugo finally lay his cards on the table.

“I’m a straightforward man, Luis,” the Major said, leaning back in his chair. “You know that perfectly well. And more than that, I consider you a friend. So I’ll speak plainly: I’d like to discuss with you, Luis, the possibility of exporting your cigars to Spain.”

Navarro’s words surprised the purveyor of smoke, but they also put him at ease. He had not expected Hugo to raise such a subject. Though, now that he thought about it, all the earlier questions—including their conversation in the taxi—fit neatly with the Major’s present interest.

And since the tobacco trade was far closer to Luis’s heart than anything else—including memories of long-ago dealings Sánchez had no desire whatsoever to return to—the dinner began to take on a decidedly more comfortable tone.

“I’m thinking about how to provide for my old age,” Hugo went on with a smile. “Obviously, not tomorrow or the day after. And I do have some savings put aside. But they won’t last forever. There are people willing to buy your cigars under their own brand who—again, I’ll be frank with you—are prepared to pay me handsome commissions as long as your deal, potential though it may be, remains viable. So what do you say?”

“It’s hard for me to answer,” Luis admitted. “You haven’t given me any details.”

Hugo leaned in and lowered his voice:

“The importers I’ve spoken with are ready to buy a million cigars a year from you, provided the price doesn’t exceed one dollar apiece.”

Luis looked at the Major and only just stopped himself from whistling in surprise.

“Your people, Hugo, are either fools or they control cigar sales in Spain at the state level,” Sánchez observed. “Only Cuba’s Habanos can move that kind of volume in Spain. Nicaraguan companies, meanwhile, get nothing but miserable crumbs. Which leaves me with a dilemma. Doing business with fools is dangerous and expensive; doing business with the people who control the Spanish tobacco market, as history teaches us, is unprofitable. They want dirt-cheap, medium-grade cigars, just enough to keep the country’s cigar monopoly supplied.”

“You’ve heard of the Don de Colón brand, haven’t you?” Hugo offered the name like a confession—he had clearly done his homework. “Around here they say it’s rolled in Nicaraguan prisons, and that their volume in Spain is about half a million cigars a year. Apparently, that’s as much as they can produce.”

“Of course I’ve heard of them. And?”

“The people I’m talking to belong to that second category, but it seems they’ve lost their taste for dirt-cheap cigars. The point is, six months ago something happened... well, what always happens when quality control is impossible.”

The Major took a sip of wine and continued.

“A shipment of three hundred thousand cigars arrived in Spain completely defective. Not only had the convicts botched the rolling so badly the draw was like trying to smoke a log, but the tobacco was so loaded with ammonia your eyes started watering before you even lit the thing.”

“A bad draw comes from rushing, rolling in the rain, and no output inspection,” Luis noted, narrowing his eyes. “And ammonia is the first sign of poor fermentation.”

“I’m no expert in these technical matters.” Hugo spread his hands. “But I am an expert in connections. And those ‘connections’ are now trying to get their money back.”

“Prisons mean the government, and I doubt getting a refund will be easy.”

“That’s their problem... and I imagine they’ll solve it. But finding a new cigar supplier—that is precisely the problem they’ve authorized me to deal with. And for solving it, my ‘importers’ are prepared to pay me very generously.”

The Major’s smile widened, less a grin than a shark baring its teeth.

“You think I could be your cigar supplier?”

“Well, you are our smoke salesman.” Hugo’s smile widened too. “Who else but you?”

“Without specifics on volume, vitola, and price, I’m afraid this conversation is empty. Every year, hundreds of wealthy men descend on Nicaraguan cigar factories, convinced they can become cigar barons by inventing a brand name and some bogus story about why their cigars are the finest in the world. And every year the factories grow richer producing cigars those men will never be able to sell. Smokers have no need for yet another new brand with a manufactured legend. These rich men end up smoking their own stock with friends, then disappear, only to be replaced by a new wave of fortune hunters. Cigar fever for affluent sybarites. To make a million dollars in this business, you have to spend five million building the brand and roughly as many years grinding it out. And very few have the stomach for that kind of work.”

“You know the cigar trade better than I do, but from what I’m hearing, success depends on having a market where you can move millions of sticks—and I am exactly your door into that damned market.”

Hugo coughed into his fist and added, more quietly:

“If you’re open to it in principle, and ready to talk numbers and quantities, we’ll come back to this in a couple of days. I want to visit a few factories, collect their offers, and give the Spaniards some ‘alternative’ options—to nudge us neatly toward a deal.”

The Major fixed Luis with a hard look from under his brows.

“The question is whether you’re willing to keep talking at all.”

After a pause, Sánchez said:

“In principle, yes. But right now those words carry no more weight than... than cigarette smoke.”

“Naturally,” Hugo nodded. “Naturally, my friend...”

He lifted his glass of wine and held it in the air.

“Shall we drink to making it happen?”

“I try not to drink before an undertaking I actually want to succeed,” Luis said with a smile.

“Well then, let’s at least drink to my comfortable old age... which may yet come about—for any number of reasons, including your agreement!”

Hugo chuckled and winked at Sánchez, and the other man finally raised his glass.

As the two glasses met with a bright clink, the last trace of interrogation vanished from Luis’s mind.

For the rest of the evening, they talked of nothing but tobacco.