Eldorado Network

by Derek Robinson

Genres: World War II; War & Military; Spy Thrillers; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

1941. Hitler rampant. Spain neutral. Madrid, like Casablanca, the launching pad for spies from all sides. The most daring and audacious is codenamed 'Eldorado'. Young, inexperienced, hotheaded, he had no right to survive, let alone succeed. Now his network is the most valuable in Europe, and the fates of armies lie in his hands. But who does he work for? Or is he only in it for himself? One thing's for sure. War may be a dirty business, but it certainly brings home the bacon. Based on a true story, The Eldorado Network is the first novel in Derek Robinson's acclaimed Luis Cabrillo Quartet. A tense and gripping espionage thriller from a master of action and suspense.

Release date: March 1, 2012

Publisher: MacLehose Press

Print pages: 448

Sample

When Luis Cabrillo awoke he did not open his eyes.

It was seven o’clock; the sunshine had just reached his face, easing him out of sleep and warming his skin most pleasantly. He knew what he would see when he opened his eyes: a sky of such a clean and tranquil blue that it would seem illuminated, lustrous, a soaring reminder that heaven was indeed more than a priest’s promise; not that Luis believed in heaven, but in Spain even agnostics acknowledge that God makes a good case for His existence. Good, but not good enough.

The sunlight bathed his eyelids while he enjoyed the excellence of the sky in anticipation. It was going to be another good day: no cares, enough comforts, all the enjoyment and entertainment he wished. His eyes opened and he saw, through the high, half-open casement window, a sky of infinite sweep and tenderness. He stretched his arms above his head, grasped the brass rails of the bed-head, and breathed the beautiful air deep into his lungs.

Luis Cabrillo was twenty-two years old. He was securely locked in an apartment on the third floor of a house in the middle of Madrid. It was 27th May 1941, and he was as happy as any young man who had been locked in a third-floor Madrid apartment for over two years could be.

Distant feet sounded on the stairs, climbing slowly. To Luis Cabrillo the sound was as comforting as an old, familiar tune: he recognised the steady rhythm, the pause for rest on the landing below, the slowing of pace as the stairs became steeper, the change of tone when linoleum gave way to wood. There were five steps to the board that squeaked, then three to the one that creaked, and two more to the top. (That final footfall always came slightly later and heavier, as if to celebrate its arrival.) Shuffle. Clink of crockery. Pause while one might count to six, before the key rattled into the lock. A click, a clank. The door opened. In came breakfast.

‘I finished Stamboul Train last night,’ Cabrillo said. ‘Excellent, most enjoyable. Get me more Graham Greenes if you can.’

The old man put the breakfast tray on the table, carefully, so as not to spill the coffee. His breath was whistling softly in his throat, and he could see little red sparks drifting across his eyeballs. ‘She told me to tell you something,’ he wheezed. ‘But I’ve gone and forgot.’

‘I still have a few of Ernest Hemingway’s short stories to read,’ Cabrillo said. ‘Try and get me some more of his stuff too. Hemingway. Can you remember that? Also a man called Joyce, James Joyce. Can you remember? I’d better write them down.’ He got out of bed.

‘I can remember, I’m not that stupid.’ The old man went over to the window and looked down at the street. His body, once thick and powerful from a life of labouring, was now thin and shrunken, so that the front of his trousers had to be gathered in a big tuck under his belt. Only his fists remained their old size, and the skin on his heavy fingers was mottled like the margins of an old book.

‘I’ll write them down,’ Cabrillo decided. ‘There’s a couple more I want you to look for. Russians in translation. You can’t be expected to remember them.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘No eggs. You forgot the eggs.’

‘That’s it. That’s what she told me to tell you. You don’t get no eggs today.’ The old man perched on the windowsill and rested his head against the glass. ‘I told you I’d remember it.’

Cabrillo looked for an explanation. None came. ‘What went wrong?’ he asked. ‘No eggs … That’s never happened before. Did somebody drop the bowl, or something?’

‘Drop the bowl?’ The old man chuckled wheezily. ‘Nobody dropped the bowl, my lad. We’ve got plenty of eggs downstairs. You’re the one without the eggs.’ He yawned as the sunlight warmed him.

‘What d’you mean? I don’t understand.’ Cabrillo split open a roll and buttered it. Rolls and coffee: that was all the tray held. ‘You know I always have eggs for breakfast. What’s up? What’s the matter with you all?’

For a long moment they looked at each other. Both were chewing: Cabrillo on his buttered roll, the old man on his gums. Cabrillo was puzzled, a little annoyed; the old man was thinking. ‘Nothing the matter,’ he muttered.

‘Well … For God’s sake go and get me my eggs, then.’ Cabrillo pulled off his pyjama top. A seam split. He bundled the garment and tossed it in the old man’s lap. ‘And get me some more pyjamas too, while you’re at it.’

The old man opened the bundle and found the split seam. His fingers clumsily fitted the edges together. ‘It’ll mend,’ he said. ‘Besides, you can’t have new pyjamas. That’s what she told me to tell you. The money’s all gone.’

Luis Cabrillo stopped eating. For a few seconds he stopped breathing. So did the old man, startled by the impact of his own remark. His words seemed to fill the room, expanding in power and meaning until they made him afraid of what he had said. ‘That’s why you got no eggs,’ he explained nervously. ‘No money, see. All gone.’

‘But that’s impossible!’ Cabrillo put down his cup without looking and slopped coffee over the table. ‘I gave you enough to last for three years, at least! What have you done with it all? Where’s it gone? You can’t be serious, I don’t believe you, it’s too …’ He began pacing about the room, searching the walls for an answer, pounding pieces of furniture with his closed fist. ‘Three years! God in heaven, what’s become of it? I gave you a fortune, you said yourself when … This is absurd, it’s crazy. How can you have the gall to try and tell me—’

Cabrillo turned angrily, accusingly, and saw that the old man was gazing absently at a little dribble of coffee running off the edge of the table. Cabrillo slammed his palm against the spillage and made it spatter everywhere. ‘Listen!’ he shouted. The old man twitched and turned his head. ‘What the hell’s going on here? Three years, we agreed! Now you wander in and park your ancient backside on my windowsill and casually tell me my money’s all gone! Where has it gone? Because it certainly hasn’t all gone on me, has it?’

‘Yes,’ the old man said. He eased himself from the windowsill and used the pyjama top to mop up the spilt coffee. ‘Yes, my friend, it’s all gone on you. Every last peseta.’

‘Gibberish! Junk! Poppycock! That’s utterly impossible, and you know it.’ Cabrillo found himself gasping for breath. His heart had started thudding like a badly tuned engine. There was a taste in the back of his mouth which he had almost forgotten: panic, or fear, or was it the excitement of risk? ‘Go and fetch my eggs, damn you!’ he ordered.

‘Every last peseta,’ the old man said. Slowly he refolded the pyjama top so that the dry part was outwards, and he polished the table. ‘See … things have changed while you’ve been here. Prices have gone right up. Food’s not as cheap as what it was. Oh no. Nothing’s cheap any more. It’s the war, see. Money won’t buy what it used to, not even yours, and you can’t blame us for that. Blame the war.’

‘Blame the war? You think I’m feebleminded?’ Cabrillo cried. ‘The silly bloody war’s been over for years, you doddering old fool!’

The old man licked a finger and tried to rub out a scratch. ‘No, no, no,’ he said patiently. ‘Not that war, not our war. I’m talking about the one they’ve got going on now. The Adolf Hitler war. The big one.’

‘My God,’ Cabrillo said. ‘Is that still happening? I thought the Germans beat everybody. I thought it was all over.’

‘Oh no,’ the old man said. ‘It’s still going on. They say it’s only just really begun.’

‘I’ll be damned.’ Cabrillo sat on the bed and massaged his face.

‘It’s your own fault, isn’t it? If you won’t read a newspaper or listen to the radio, how do you expect to know what’s happening?’ The old man shuffled towards the door.

‘Has the money really all gone? Truly all?’

‘Every last peseta.’

‘Jesus … You might have given me some warning.’

‘Well, funny you should say that. I’ve been meaning to mention it. As a matter of fact she kept asking me to tell you there wasn’t much of it left. Every morning she mentioned it.’

‘So why didn’t you?’

‘Must have forgot,’ the old man said. Cabrillo listened to the sound of his footsteps going downstairs: an old, familiar tune, being played backwards for the last time.

He went over to the mirror.

‘No money,’ he told himself accusingly. ‘So what the hell are you going to do now, idiot?’

On this day—27th May 1941—Louis Cabrillo was certainly the best-read 22-year-old Spaniard in Madrid, probably in Spain, possibly in Europe. Throughout the previous two years and one month he had been in hiding, never leaving his third-floor apartment, and reading on average a book and a half a day, say ten books a week, which came to about eleven hundred books in all. The old man—he was the building’s caretaker—bought the books for him at secondhand bookstalls or from foreigners he accosted outside hotels or railway stations. All the books were in English; Spain’s censors automatically banned anything in Spanish that seemed interesting, whether it was subversive or not; or perhaps they defined subversion as anything interesting; so Cabrillo read whatever British and American books the old man brought him. The old man knew no English, so the result was extreme variety: everything from Zane Grey to Bertrand Russell, and from P. G. Wodehouse to Walt Whitman. In one memorable week Cabrillo read sixteen novels, plus an 1896 book on how to play rugby football, a veterinary guide to pig breeding, and the Royal Automobile Club’s Handbook for 1923. Of them all he found the pig-breeding manual by far the most interesting. He was impressed to learn that a boar’s penis is shaped like a corkscrew, and the more he read about the sexual habits of the domestic pig the more he came to understand that animal’s challenging yet-slightly cynical expression.

This two-year feast of reading was an attempt to repair his education, which (he now saw) had been a disaster.

Luis’s father had been a traffic manager with Spanish Railways: a restless, questioning, dissatisfied man who wanted to make sweeping changes in the running of the whole Spanish railway system. His ideas were good but his manner was abrasive; he was too impatient to spare the time to try to persuade people; he had a talent for turning a discussion into an argument and an argument into a scathing denunciation. What’s more, he was bad at his job. Routine work bored him. He let the daily chores pile up until the backlog created an exciting conflict which was worth tackling, at which point he tackled it with enormous skill and enthusiasm. Meanwhile, rail traffic in the rest of his section moved sluggishly in fits and starts. Whenever this poor performance was pointed out to him, Luis’s father struck back with an angry, brilliant analysis of how superbly the entire railway network could be operated once his ideas were adopted. He was not a popular man.

The trouble with Luis’s father was that he was too difficult to be tolerated and yet never quite incompetent enough to be sacked. (Also he had an uncle who was a director of the company.) So he constantly got transferred.

The Cabrillo family rarely stayed longer than a year in any one town. By the time young Luis was fifteen they had lived in Barcelona, Seville, Cadiz, Ayamonte, Badajoz, Cordoba, Bilbao, Madrid (twice), Valencia, Valladolid, Alicante and Zaragoza. Luis had been to twenty-seven different schools in thirteen towns, and he had been kicked out of twenty-three of them. The other four schools were actively considering expulsion at the point when Señor Cabrillo announced that he was transferred yet again and thus saved them the trouble of deciding.

What was wrong with the boy? ‘Luis is highly original,’ wrote one headmaster, ‘and this must be curbed if he is to make any progress.’ Many tried; all failed. Trying to curb Luis’s originality was like trying to train a butterfly to travel in a straight line.

He had inherited his father’s restless, questioning nature. There were many aspects of education which he refused to accept, starting with history. When he was nine he wrote an essay on the Spanish Empire which pointed out, amongst other things, what good luck it was that the U.S.A., not Spain, got California, because now America made all those terrific movies in California, and everybody agreed that Spanish movies were fucking abominable. This was a phrase which Luis had just picked up without bothering to examine its meaning too closely. His teacher beat him and burned the essay in the school yard. Luis was hurt, not so much by the cane as by the school’s refusal to discuss his case or even to define his crime.

From that day on, he knew that school was a battlefield, and he was determined never to surrender.

The battles were fought in every classroom. When he was twelve, Luis refused to read Don Quixote because, he told the teacher of Spanish literature, he found Cervantes unreadable.

‘How fascinating!’ the teacher said. ‘And how privileged we are! Luis Cabrillo, despite his inky fingers and his scabby knees, knows better than Spain’s greatest writer!’

‘I didn’t say that, sir,’ Luis replied. ‘I said I can’t read Don Quixote, because it’s boring.’

‘But this is a revelation!’ the teacher said. ‘One wonders how all those millions of intelligent men and women who have read and enjoyed Cervantes’ masterpiece could have been so mistaken, so misled, so misguided.’ The class tittered. ‘Were they all just poor hoodwinked fools, Cabrillo?’

‘That’s not the point, sir,’ Luis said. ‘What other people like is none of my business. All I know is Don Quixote bores me, and I can’t read a book if it bores me. Can you, sir?’

‘We’re not here to discuss my tastes, Cabrillo.’

‘There you are, then. If it bores you too, sir, why don’t we chuck it out and read something interesting?’

‘Because I’m not paid to be interested, Cabrillo.’

‘I’m not paid at all, sir.’

For that remark Luis was beaten; but he still refused to read Don Quixote.

Next year, at a school run by nuns, he got into deep trouble over the teaching of the Catholic faith.

The subject was the apparently miraculous revelations at Fatima in Portugal, in 1917. Luis’s class was told that the Blessed Virgin Mary appeared, in an oak tree, to three peasant children while they were tending sheep. She gave them important messages from God. Fatima, the nun said, had now become a place of pilgrimage for thousands, millions of devout Catholics, who attend the Basilica and Chapel of the Apparitions, which was built on the actual spot where—

‘Why didn’t God just tell the Pope?’ Luis asked.

Sister Theresa was elderly, heavy, benign except when opposed, and slightly deaf. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said.

‘Why didn’t God just tell the Pope?’ Luis, repeated, more loudly. ‘If God had something important he wanted the Church to know, why did he send the Virgin Mary to tell three little kids in Portugal?’

‘Why does the sun rise in the east and not in the west?’ Sister Theresa replied, with a rather tense smile. ‘Because God knows which way is best.’

‘Yes, but they might have got it all wrong,’ Luis said. ‘I mean, they were only kids. Suppose they didn’t understand? Or maybe they had rotten memories. They might have forgotten the really important bits.’

Sister Theresa’s tense smile was losing its grip on her stony face. ‘God selects His messengers with care,’ she said.

She and Luis exchanged stares, while the rest of the class hid behind its hands and willed the argument to go on.

‘It still strikes me as a funny way to do a simple job,’ he said.

‘It strikes you as funny, does it?’ Sister Theresa said icily. ‘I hope you will remember that remark when you are older and you discover that God is infinitely wiser than you are.’

Luis grunted.

‘Now then. To return to the Basilica—’

‘What were the messages?’ Luis asked.

‘Don’t interrupt, you discourteous little thug,’ Sister Theresa barked.

‘I apologise, Sister. It just seemed to me that if God went to all that trouble, we ought to know what’s on His mind.’

Sister Theresa clenched her jaw and pursed her lips until her sparse moustache bristled. ‘When it is necessary for you to know, then you will be told,’ she declared. The class shifted restlessly and looked at each other. ‘There is no great urgency about the matter,’ she added. Luis shrugged his shoulders, and she could see that several other children were looking puzzled or sceptical or, even worse, amused. ‘Which is not to say that the divine messages were not extremely important at the time,’ she said sternly. ‘Our Lady announced the end of the Great War. She also warned us against the evil spread of Godless Russian Communism, which despite the valiant efforts of the Catholic Church has come about, and she predicted that unless men cease from sinning an even worse war will follow.’ Sister Theresa gave Luis a look of grim satisfaction: Make something of that if you can, you little fiend.

‘I heard there was another message,’ Luis said. ‘A secret one.’

‘That need not concern us,’ Sister Theresa said firmly, ‘as it was written down by one of the children, at the instruction of Our Lady, and placed in a sealed envelope which is now entrusted to the care of the Bishop of Leiria.’

‘Why doesn’t he open it?’ Luis asked.

‘The time is not yet right.’

‘Who says?’

Sister Theresa stiffened. ‘Cabrillo, I give you leave to reconsider your question,’ she said, snapping her fingers nervously.

Luis thought about it. ‘It doesn’t make any sense, Sister, that’s all,’ he said. ‘What’s the point of God going to all that trouble to send us a message in 1917 if some Bishop won’t tell us what it was?’

‘The Church knows greater mysteries than your weak faith can comprehend, my son,’ said Sister Theresa. Her finger-clicking grew louder.

‘Yes, of course,’ Luis agreed. ‘I have never questioned that, Sister. I just wonder who is really in charge: God, or the Bishop of Leiria?’

‘God through the Bishop,’ Sister Theresa ruled.

‘I bet he’s opened it,’ Luis said. There was a sharp intake of breath by the rest of the class, but Luis could not stop himself. ‘I bet he opened it and read it and it’s not a message from God at all, it’s just a load of old Portuguese rubbish, and that’s why he won’t tell—’

‘Foul-mouthed wretch!’ Sister Theresa shouted. She crashed her leatherbound Bible against Luis’s head and knocked him off his seat. ‘Evil, poisonous brute!’ Her large shoes kicked him to the front of the class. Another beating was on its way. Sister Theresa died of a stroke the following year, and all the other nuns blamed Luis Cabrillo; but by then Luis was in another town, another school, and another battle.

As he grew older, his conflicts became more dogged. He refused to learn any geography because the school could give him no good reason why he should memorise the principal rivers of Australia. He was in trouble in the art class, where his nude studies were considered too explicit. ‘Unhealthy’ was the word the art teacher used. ‘But this same human body was good enough for El Greco and Goya and Rubens and Raphael,’ Luis argued. ‘There’s acres of flesh hanging in the Prado, isn’t there?’ For once he was not beaten, but was sent out to play soccer. That didn’t work either. He tripped opponents and he handled the ball so often that the teacher who was refereeing threatened to send him off. ‘But tripping and handling are difficult skills,’ Luis claimed. ‘Besides, how can the game ever develop unless new techniques are introduced?’ ‘Shut up, Cabrillo,’ the referee said. ‘Free kick against your team.’ Two minutes later, Luis tripped the referee.

That was the day he left school for good. He possessed only one academic skill: he could read and write English and (to some extent) speak it, no thanks to any of the schools he had passed through. Luis Cabrillo had taught himself English so that he could get his moneysworth out of the American movies, which were his big interest in life. He was about thirteen when he realised that Spanish subtitles were far briefer than the dialogue on the soundtrack. This was not only a swindle but also an insult. In Luis’s experience the only things worth his attention were stuff the authorities wanted to hide. He bought a teach-yourself-English book and studied it all day in school: through geography lessons, algebra lessons, divinity lessons. The book was confiscated. He bought another. Eventually he knew enough English to identify what the Spanish subtitles were avoiding, and sometimes he took it upon himself to fill in the gaps for the benefit of others. When a cowboy punched a gambler through a saloon window, and the Spanish caption offered only a terse ‘Be gone!’, Luis loosely but loudly translated the soundtrack’s actual Beat it, you fourflushing sonofabitch or I’ll kick your teeth past your tonsils. He was thrown out of so many cinemas that he became known to the police. Also to the secret police.

At first that didn’t much matter. It was 1934, he was only fifteen, the disapproval of the police or the secret police meant no more to him than had the disapproval of a whole series of teachers and headmasters. And young Luis had no politics, unless chronic dissatisfaction with everything counts as politics. His parents had other things to preoccupy them: railway timetables for his father, piano-playing for his mother. She was convinced that she had talent, perhaps great talent, if only she could bully her fingers into expressing it. One of the perquisites of her husband’s job was that every time he got transferred the company moved all their belongings, free; so Luis became accustomed to travelling with her scratched and scarred grand piano. He never got accustomed to her tirelessly bad playing. Señora Cabrillo attacked the keyboard as if it were a lengthy combination lock, a bit stiff, a bit grudging, which had to be struck scientifically but ruthlessly in the correct sequence before it would deliver up its treasure. Day after day she kept striking it, year after year, with chords like village carpentry and cadenzas like heavy rope, and still no treasure showed itself. To Luis each of his parents was lost on some endless, pointless search. His father was the Flying Dutchman of the Spanish railway system, and his mother had a stranglehold on her piano if only she could find its jugular. They fed, clothed and housed him, but otherwise took little interest. When the incident of the tripped referee brought about angry and tedious repercussions, he decided to leave school and get a job. Neither parent interfered.

They were living in Barcelona at the time.

The man who wrote film reviews for Barcelona’s biggest evening paper, Luis noted, was also the bullfight critic and sometimes covered football matches. The editor got a letter from Luis proposing himself as the newspaper’s first full-time film critic. Attached was a review of a film currently being shown in the city. It was a miracle of compression: Luis managed to libel the star, the director, the film critic of a rival newspaper, and the owners of the cinema, all in 250 words. But he had a certain style—‘the trouble with this film is that it goes on long after it has finished’, he wrote—and so the editor offered him a job as a copy boy. ‘I have a nose for talent,’ the editor said. ‘Work hard, learn all you can, and maybe one day you’ll be sitting in this chair.’

That was fine and very encouraging, except for one thing: Luis was fifteen and the editor (as he discovered by looking up his file in the obituary department) was fifty-three. Luis took the job but he wasn’t willing to wait thirty-eight years. For a couple of weeks he trotted about the building, carrying copy from writers to sub-editors, from subs to typesetters; taking proofs in the reverse direction; fetching coffee; finding taxis; listening to arguments over pictures, headlines, expenses; getting a sense of the way a daily newspaper gradually winds itself up from a slightly bleary sluggishness through a brisk professionalism to a manic, mannerless, get-the-hell-out-of-my-way rush, as if the paper itself were a wild beast which had to be set free; and then the slump, the anti-climax, the taste of flatness when there was nothing left to do but read the damn thing.

He quite enjoyed it but after a couple of weeks he was still just a copy boy.

The paper published its film reviews on Tuesdays and Fridays. The following Tuesday, as he picked up the cinema critic’s copy, Luis respectfully asked him which film he intended to honour with his comments on Friday. When Friday came round, Luis again collected the man’s words, took them to the entertainments editor, and hung around until he was given the pages to be set. He went away and hid them inside his shirt. The typesetters, he knew from observation, would need about twenty minutes to do their work. He delayed until the last possible moment, and then gave them his own film review.

It almost got through. The printers accepted it—Luis’s version looked convincing, even to the extent of a few corrections in the entertainments editor’s green ink—and after that, time was so short that nobody bothered to read the proof very closely. This was not unusual: the film critic was stiflingly tedious. In fact Luis’s rogue column was actually printed in a few thousand early issues meant for the suburbs. As the bundles were being loaded onto the vans, they were recalled for pulping. His headline had given him away.

New French Film Is Good News For Insomniacs, the editor read as he glanced through his rush copy. He read it again. It looked odd; not like the usual stuff: too crisp, too sharp. He read the opening paragraph and laughed aloud, twice. Then he picked up the phone, killed the column, (they put in a picture of swans at sunset instead) and fired Cabrillo on the spot.

Luis found out later where he had gone wrong, and it taught him a lesson. ‘You can be too good,’ he told his father. ‘Now if I’d written a dull, boring headline, the kind of thing they run every week, my piece would have gone through.’

‘So why didn’t you?’ His father never went to the cinema and rarely read a newspaper.

‘Because the whole point was to show them how much better it can be done.’

‘For God’s sake,’ his father complained, ‘I thought you said that’s why they sacked you.’

‘So it is,’ Luis said angrily. ‘And I lost a week’s pay.’

‘Well, serve you right. You knew your job, didn’t you? You should have stuck to it. Suppose I needed a locomotive—’

‘I’m not a damn locomotive,’ Luis said. His father stared. ‘Oh, to hell with them,’ Luis muttered. ‘It was a lousy job anyway.’

‘Then get yourself another. I can’t keep you in cinema-tickets.’

He went to work for a wine merchant and for ten days he corked bottles. Next morning he arrived with both hands heavily bandaged. ‘Broke my fingers in a boxing-match,’ he announced. ‘Can’t cork.’

The owner swore a bit, found him a fairly clean white coat and put him in the front office, to help attend to customers. At first the arrangement worked well. Luis was quick and courteous. He was old enough and grown enough to have the beginnings of a presence, yet he still conveyed some of the innocence and vulnerability of youth. And he was handsome as only a young Spaniard can be, with a trace of melancholy, a hint of tragedy, and a glimmer of amusement that anyone should be taken in by either. His eyes were a cool, dark brown. His skin was flawless, shaded olive and stretched over high cheekbones and strong brows in memory of some distant Moorish ancestor. He had a brief but brilliant smile for the customers’ wives which made them forget their boring husbands. For the husbands, sampling wines, he had an attitude of interest and respect which made them feel like Baron Rothschild. Luis rarely spoke, he simply attended; but he was a definite asset to the front office.

On the afternoon of Luis’s second day in the white coat, the owner received a semi-important local politician and his wife. For half an hour they tasted samples which Luis poured, holding each bottle in a white napkin and demonstrating a small flourish of pride, while the owner released his limited wine-vocabulary a word at a time, like toy balloons: mature … discreet … robust … challenging … brave …

He opened a fresh bottle and handed it to Luis.

‘Now this is something different,’ he said. ‘Those others are good wines, excellent wines some of them. But this I have kept apart for several years, awaiting …’ He leaned forward and watched closely as Luis poured. ‘… awaiting a palate which can appreciate the gift of time.’

Luis stiffened. The politician’s wife noticed this, and glanced at him. Luis finished pouring, but omitted the usual small flourish.

They raised their glasses and examined the wine. ‘Once in a lifetime,’ the owner said. ‘Perhaps, if God wills it, twice. Ten years ago, when I was privileged to make this discovery, it was so small and so rare that I made the decision that I must bottle it all mys