the colonel was about to bring the meeting to a close when Ucha asked one last question:
‘And you, sir, what will you do?’
‘When?’ replied Olmedo.
‘When they close San Marcial, as we all know will happen. Where will you go? Because you’re a part of this too,’ he added leaning back in his chair, well aware that he had lost the battle but, also, that he could still inflict some pain.
That was the only question Olmedo had feared, because it was the only one he didn’t have an answer to. The people from Madrid had suggested that, if he so wished, he could be destinedfor the central offices of the Ministry. The last few missions he’d been involved in had not been easy and they wanted to compensate him for his good work. Apart from a likely promotion in due course, he would not want for new special commissions, as there were many aspects of the army that needed reorganising. And if he did not want to be far from his homeland, the Mediterranean he was so attached to, they could post him to Valencia. But in both cases he’d have to leave the city, and doing that meant being away from Gabriela, as she would not follow him. He could always ask for an extended leave of absence, or even take early retirement, but he didn’t really want to. Although he sometimes felt tired and worried, he was too young to be inactive. He knew he was good at his job, and early retirement would make him miserable, miserable like someone who, trained to fly planes, is reduced to driving horse carts. Besides, he loved his profession, the army life, the camaraderie shared in effort, the closed world of the barracks, the respect of honour, courage and loyalty, even the harsh, terse language, provided it didn’t get too crude. He felt at ease as a part of a solid, enduring organisation that extended from King Don Juan Carlos I down to the last soldier in San Marcial – a brotherhood that would come to his help whenever he might need it. He liked all that, even if some people might question it upon hearing his report. Indeed, he would find it very hard to devise or invent for himself a satisfactory life outside that of the military. And so, fully aware of the attention everyone was paying to him at that moment, from the colonel to the lieutenant in charge of the minutes, he replied:
‘I don’t know, I don’t know what I’ll do if they close down San Marcial.’
He noticed everyone went quiet as he walked into the canteen. Bramante, Ucha and three or four other officers who appeared to be conspiring in a small circle near the bar stopped talking when they saw him. He drank a beer near other officers and promptly left, unable to stay there to eat in their company.
He drove towards the promenade. With the arrival of April the wind had changed and carried a slight warmth that encouraged tourists to walk along the beach, with the bottoms of their trousers rolled up, and their shoes in their hands, like pioneers braving the cold water. To the west, the mountains were wearing their new green suit, having cast off the grey heavy coat of clouds with which they robed themselves in winter.
Olmedo sat on the terrace of the restaurant of the navy headquarters – his uniform did not look out of place there – and chose a tastier dish than those available at the canteen. Alone, facing the wide beach, he searched for a response to the only question he had not known how to answer. What would he do when they closed down San Marcial?
He asked for only one glass of Rioja, but the waiter, who recognised him and was grateful for his tips, left the bottle on the table for him to refill his glass at will while he nibbled some delicious tomato-topped bread and waited for the fish.
He had to make a decision, could no longer postpone it. No matter how the details came to be arranged, there were two possible roads ahead of him: one looked easy and clear and would take him to professional success, quite likely towards a promotion, prestige and the
‘And you, sir, what will you do?’
‘When?’ replied Olmedo.
‘When they close San Marcial, as we all know will happen. Where will you go? Because you’re a part of this too,’ he added leaning back in his chair, well aware that he had lost the battle but, also, that he could still inflict some pain.
That was the only question Olmedo had feared, because it was the only one he didn’t have an answer to. The people from Madrid had suggested that, if he so wished, he could be destinedfor the central offices of the Ministry. The last few missions he’d been involved in had not been easy and they wanted to compensate him for his good work. Apart from a likely promotion in due course, he would not want for new special commissions, as there were many aspects of the army that needed reorganising. And if he did not want to be far from his homeland, the Mediterranean he was so attached to, they could post him to Valencia. But in both cases he’d have to leave the city, and doing that meant being away from Gabriela, as she would not follow him. He could always ask for an extended leave of absence, or even take early retirement, but he didn’t really want to. Although he sometimes felt tired and worried, he was too young to be inactive. He knew he was good at his job, and early retirement would make him miserable, miserable like someone who, trained to fly planes, is reduced to driving horse carts. Besides, he loved his profession, the army life, the camaraderie shared in effort, the closed world of the barracks, the respect of honour, courage and loyalty, even the harsh, terse language, provided it didn’t get too crude. He felt at ease as a part of a solid, enduring organisation that extended from King Don Juan Carlos I down to the last soldier in San Marcial – a brotherhood that would come to his help whenever he might need it. He liked all that, even if some people might question it upon hearing his report. Indeed, he would find it very hard to devise or invent for himself a satisfactory life outside that of the military. And so, fully aware of the attention everyone was paying to him at that moment, from the colonel to the lieutenant in charge of the minutes, he replied:
‘I don’t know, I don’t know what I’ll do if they close down San Marcial.’
He noticed everyone went quiet as he walked into the canteen. Bramante, Ucha and three or four other officers who appeared to be conspiring in a small circle near the bar stopped talking when they saw him. He drank a beer near other officers and promptly left, unable to stay there to eat in their company.
He drove towards the promenade. With the arrival of April the wind had changed and carried a slight warmth that encouraged tourists to walk along the beach, with the bottoms of their trousers rolled up, and their shoes in their hands, like pioneers braving the cold water. To the west, the mountains were wearing their new green suit, having cast off the grey heavy coat of clouds with which they robed themselves in winter.
Olmedo sat on the terrace of the restaurant of the navy headquarters – his uniform did not look out of place there – and chose a tastier dish than those available at the canteen. Alone, facing the wide beach, he searched for a response to the only question he had not known how to answer. What would he do when they closed down San Marcial?
He asked for only one glass of Rioja, but the waiter, who recognised him and was grateful for his tips, left the bottle on the table for him to refill his glass at will while he nibbled some delicious tomato-topped bread and waited for the fish.
He had to make a decision, could no longer postpone it. No matter how the details came to be arranged, there were two possible roads ahead of him: one looked easy and clear and would take him to professional success, quite likely towards a promotion, prestige and the
Similar Books
