Not that business could be said to be good at present, with the American ships blockading the port. "But the war is virtually over," said Senor Glogauer, "and things will be returning to normal soon enough."
It was Sunday and the bells were ringing all over Havana. Big bells and little bells. It was almost impossible to hear anything else.
After church, Senor Glogauer walked with his son down the Prado towards Parque Central. Since the war, the beggars seemed to have multiplied to four or five tunes their previous number. Disdaining a carriage, Senor Glogauer led his son through the ragged clamorers, tapping a way through with his cane. Sometimes a particularly sluggish beggar would receive a heavy thwack for his pains and Senor Glogauer would smile to himself and put a little extra tilt on his beautifully white Panama hat. His suit was white, too. Karl wore a coffee-colored sailor suit and sweated. His father made a point of making this journey on foot every Sunday because he said Karl must learn to know the people and not fear them; they were all wretched cowards, even when you had to deal with a whole pack of them, as now.
This morning a brigade of volunteers had been lined up for inspection in the Prado. Their uniforms were ill-fitting and not all of them had rifles of the same make, but a little Spanish lieutenant strutted up and down in front of them as proudly as if he were Napoleon inspecting the Grand Army. And behind the marshaled volunteers a military band played rousing marches and patriotic tunes. The bells and the beggars and the band created such a cacophony that Karl felt his ears would close up against the noise. It echoed through the faded white grandeur of the street, from the elaborate stucco walls of the hotels and official buildings on both sides of the avenue, from the black and shining windows of the shops with their ornate gold, silver and scarlet lettering. And mingled with this noise were the smells -smells from sewers and beggars and sweating soldiers threatening to drown the more savory smells of coffee and candy and cooking food.
Karl was glad when they entered the babble of the Cafe Inglaterra on the west side of the Parque Central. This was the fashionable place to come and, as always, it was crowded with the representatives of all nations, professions and trades. There were Spanish officers, businessmen, lawyers, priests. There were a number of ladies in colors as rich as the feathers of the jungle birds (from whom they had borrowed at least part of their finery), there were merchants from all the countries of Europe. There were English planters and even a few American journalists or tobacco-buyers. They sat at the tables, crowded tightly together, and drank beer or punch or whisky, talking, laughing, quarrelling. Some stood at the counters while upstairs others ate late breakfasts or early luncheons or merely drank coffee.
Senor Glogauer guided Karl into the cafe, nodding to acquaintances, smiling at friends, and found a seat for himself. "You had better stand, Karl, until a seat becomes free," he said. "Your usual lemonade?"
"Thank you, Papa." Karl wished he could be at home reading his book in the cool semi-darkness of the nursery.
Senor Glogauer studied the menu. "The cost!" he exclaimed. "I'll swear it has doubled since last week."
The man sitting opposite spoke good Spanish but was evidently English or American. He smiled at Senor Glogauer. "It's true what you people say—you're not being blockaded by the warships. You're being blockaded by the grocers!"
Senor Glogauer pursed his lips in a cautious smile. "Our own people are ruining us, senor. You are quite right. The tradesmen are soaking the life out of us. They blame the Americans, but I know they had prepared for this—salting away their food knowing that if the blockade took effect they could charge anything they liked. It is hard for us at the moment, senor."
"So I see," said the stranger wryly. "When the Americans get here things will be better, eh? "
Senor Glogauer shrugged. "Not if La Lucha is correct. I was reading yesterday of the atrocities the American Rough Riders are committing in Santiago. They are drunk all the time. They steal. They shoot honest citizens at will—and worse." Senor Glogauer glanced significantly at Karl. The waiter came up. He ordered a coffee for himself and a lemonade for Karl. Karl wondered if they ate children.
"I'm sure the reports are exaggerated," said the stranger. "A few isolated cases."
"Perhaps." Senor Glogauer put both his hands over the knob of his cane. "But I fear that if they come here I—or my son—might be one of those 'isolated cases'. We should be just as dead, I think."
The stranger laughed. "I take your point, senor." He turned in his chair and looked out at the life of the Parque. "But at least Cuba will be master of her own fate when this is over."
"Possibly." Senor Glogauer watched the waiter setting down his coffee.
"You have no sympathy with the insurgents?"
"None. Why should I? They have disrupted my business."
"Your view is understandable, senor. Well, I have work to do." The stranger rose. Karl thought how ill and tired the man looked. He put on his own, slightly grubby, Panama. "It has been pleasant talking with you, senor. Good day."
"Good day, senor." Senor Glogauer pointed to the vacant chair and gratefully Karl went to it, sitting down. The lemonade was warm. It tasted of flies, thought Karl. He looked up at the huge electric fans rattling round and round on the ceiling. They had only been installed last year, but already there were specks of rust on their blades.
A little later, when they were leaving the Cafe Inglaterra, on their way across the Parque to where Senor Glogauer's carriage waited, a Spanish officer halted in front of them and saluted. He had four soldiers with him. They looked bored. "Senor Glogauer?" The Spaniard gave a slight bow and brought his heels together.
"Yes." Senor Glogauer frowned. "What is it, captain?"
"We would like you to accompany us, if you please."
"To where? For what?"
"A security matter. I do apologize. You are the father of Wilhelm Glogauer, are you not?"
"I have disowned my son," said Karl Glogauer's father grimly. "I do not support his opinions."
"You know what his opinions are?"
"Vaguely. I understand he is in favor of a break with Spain."
"I think he is rather more active a supporter of the insurgent cause than that, senor." The captain glanced at Karl as if sharing a joke with him. "Well, if you will now come with us to our headquarters, we can sort this whole thing out quickly."
"Must I come? Can't you ask me your questions here?"
"No. What about the boy?"
"He will come with his father." For a moment Karl thought that his father's decision was made from fear, that his father needed Karl's moral support. But that was silly, for his father was such a proud, self-reliant man.
With the soldiers behind them, they walked out of the Parque Central and up Obispo Street until they reached a gateway guarded by more soldiers. They went through the gate and into a courtyard. Here the captain dismissed the soldiers and gestured for Senor Glogauer to precede him into the building. Slowly, with dignity, Senor Glogauer ascended the steps and entered the foyer, one hand on his cane, the other grasping Karl's hand.
"And now this way, senor." The captain indicated a dark passage with many doors leading off it on both sides. They walked down this. "And down these steps, senor." Down a curving flight of steps into the basement of the building. The lower passage was lit by oil-lamps.
And another flight of steps.
"Down, please."
And now the smell was worse even than the smell of the Prado. Senor Glogauer took out a pure white linen handkerchief and fastidiously wiped his lips. "Where are we, senor captain?"