test do you think? The friendship test.”
“What’s that?” asked Pablo, who was not much of an expert on friendship.
But Robinsón did not reply, because a voice was calling from the stairs:
“Roberto! Where have you run off to, Roberto?”
The boy made a sudden hushing gesture. Surprised, the cat leaped from his lap and disappeared behind pile of wooden posts in a corner of the attic.
“Roberto! Robeeeeertoooo! If you’re in the chicken coop again, I’m going to take off my shoe!”
Robinsón tossed away the blanket and stood up, exposing the orthopedic device the doctors had placed on him to try to build the muscles of his left leg, which were atrophied due to a recent bout of polio.
“Here, get inside and make room for me,” he whispered, opening the trunk and putting out the lamp, “if my mama finds us here, she’ll thrash us good.”
They nestled into the darkness of the chest and heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Both boys held their breath when the door’s hinges creaked.
“I know you’re up here, Roberto!” the mother exclaimed. “Do you think I can’t smell the tallow smoke? But I’m not a fool, I’m not going to wear myself out poking around in the dark up here trying to find you. If you’re not in the kitchen in five minutes helping me peel potatoes, there’ll be no Christmas dinner for you!”
That said, she slammed the door as she headed back downstairs. Inside the trunk, Pablo and Robinsón could not contain their laughter. When they came out from hiding, it was as if they had been friends their whole lives.
“Sorry, I have to go help my mama,” said the innkeeper’s son as he opened the door to let in a little light.
“What about your hideout? When are you gonna show it to me?” the inspector’s son asked, his curiosity unabated.
“First you have to pass the test, Pablo. Don’t forget. Here, you can borrow the book for a while if you want. Anyway, I know the whole thing by heart.”
“Thanks, Roberto.”
“Robinsón, call me Robinsón,” the boy corrected him, and started down the stairs dragging his lame leg.
That Christmas Eve thirteen people dined together at the inn, a number no one failed to notice. Surrounding the oaken table that dominated the dining room, there was a traveling pharmaceuticals salesman, a livestock dealer built like a wine barrel, a pair of newlyweds trying to get to Lisbon to see the Atlantic Ocean, and four comic actors from a traveling company who livened up the evening with jokes and songs, as well as the hosts Don Veremundo and Doña Leonor, and the provincial inspector, Don Julián Martín Rodríguez. Even though both boys had already taken their First Communion, they were seated at a separate table, and they left off chatting for a while as they slurped their cabbage soup and heartily devoured the duck, which, truth be told, no one refused, despite Catholic doctrine’s prohibition against eating meat on Christmas Eve. Only the traveling salesman dared to object, albeit timidly, that Our Lord would not be happy to see this footed animal served at his table, but Doña Leonor gave the excuse that due to the snow no fish had been delivered to Béjar that week and they weren’t going to celebrate Christmas Eve with vegetable soup. That settled that.
“Salamanca has an excellent climate for raising duck,” said the livestock dealer, his mouth full of food. “There are a lot of chestnuts growing around here, and that’s what ducks love most. But you have to roast the chestnuts first, of course—”
“I’ve heard,” one of the actors interrupted, his booming theatrical voice hoarse with revelry, “that they also eat walnuts.”
“Yes, it’s true,” the dealer avowed, wiping the grease from the corners of his lips, “But that gives the meat an oily taste. In other regions they feed them a slurry of potato, wheat flour, and milk. But I’m telling you: nothing beats chestnuts.”
“And how did you make this delicious sauce?” the newlywed bride asked the hostess.
“Secret recipe,” Doña Leonor replied with a half-smile.
“Well, it’s scrumptious,” said one of the actresses, licking her fingers.
“Chili peppers these days don’t have the punch they used to,” the traveling salesman tried to interject, but no one paid him any mind.
At the children’s table, the conversation took a few unexpected turns:
“Do you know how many hairs there are on a human head?” Robinsón asked, stroking his own hair which was wiry as a bristle brush.
“No,” replied Pablo, who had never really given the matter much thought.
“A hundred thousand!” said the innkeeper’s son, opening his eyes wide as if he had found a treasure. “And you know what else?”
“No, what?”
“You know how snakes lose their skin and grow a new one? We do the same thing with our hair! D’you know how long it takes to replace all the hairs on your head?”
“No, how long?”
“Three years!”
“And what happens if they fall out but no new hairs grow?” Pablo asked.
“What do you think? You end up bald!”
When there was nothing left of the duck but greasy bones and fond memories, the time came for sugar cookies and zambomba drums, sweet wine, and caroling. Don Veremundo offered cigars to all the men, and everyone took one graciously except the fussy traveling salesman, who first wanted to make sure they were not from Cuba. The actors recited some lines to great applause from the improvised audience, and Julián finally took the floor, after some urging.
“Chance or Providence has decided that we would all spend this special night together, though just a few hours ago we were all strangers. I’m not going to lie to you: I would have preferred to spend Christmas Eve with my wife and my little Julia, and not just with my son Pablo and all of you. But since God wanted it this way, let’s enjoy the evening!”
“Give us some good advice for the new year, Inspector!” the livestock dealer requested, chewing his words and a sugar cookie at the same time.
“I’m sorry, I don’t give advice,” Julián said. “You’ll have to excuse me, but usually when people ask for advice, they don’t follow it, and when they do it’s to have someone to blame when it doesn’t work out.”
Everyone laughed at this remark except the livestock dealer, who did not expect such a response. He finally washed down the sugar cookie with a big swig of sweet wine and, turning to the innkeeper, asked:
“And will there be a midnight mass, despite the snow?”
“Of course,” replied Don Veremundo, wiping his nose with his stump, “The townsfolk have spent all day clearing snow off the streets and scattering salt, so anyone who wants to can go to the church of San Juan, it’s not far from here.”
“What, you’re not planning to come with us?” the traveling salesman implored.
“No, you’ll have to excuse me, I suffer from indigestion and I don’t do so well with big meals like this—”
“There’s nothing better for indigestion than Parodium Tonic,” the traveling salesman interrupted, always eager to turn a sale.
“But my wife and son would be glad to go along, wouldn’t they?” Don Veremundo continued, looking at his wife.
“Of course,” replied Doña Leonor, knowing that what her husband really could not stand were the rites and robes. Julián also had little appetite for such things, but his duty compelled him to certain sacrifices, though he would need to follow it with a good dose of spiritual bicarbonate in order to get to sleep.
As