Spanish Bombs

Sitting in wire chairs outside a Bilboa cafe, the stench of the old world was peculiarly calming. Fran, an American born, forty year-old expatriate, and Gavin, his twenty-two year old brother enjoyed Spanish coffee too deep in the Casco Viejo district for tourists.
"So you're an assassin?" Gavin asked.
"...a soldier," Fran answered quickly, "an avenging angel...We are the cleansing ying to a poisoning yang. We are justice."
"Let me see if I got this straight. Someone you've never met, asks you to go somewhere you've never been and kill someone you don't even know; is that right?"
"That's about it."
"Assassin."
Fran laughed or coughed. Gavin could not tell the difference anymore. "I don't have to convince you," Fran said, "All will be clear one day. We are from the Spanish Moors. We were born with vision.
"...and insanity."
"Let me ask you a question," Fran said as he sat back on his chair. "What is the difference between killing in cold blood or killing in hot blood."
"Never given it a thought. Never believed I had to."
"Give it a thought right now."
"OK," Gavin said, "cold blood is when... I mean hot blood is when you kill angry."
"So what's the difference? Both times someone ends up dead."
"That justifies what you do?"
"No. A bleached white sense of what is right justifies what I do. Killing in cold blood allows me to enjoy this coffee and Spain. Like I said before, I was blessed with vision."
"...and insanity."
"Let's play a game."
"Ok, this should be fun."
"I am looking at the reflection in the window behind you. Without staring, pick out anyone sitting behind me."
"How about the waiter?"
"Waiters and taxicab drivers are exempt."
"Ok, the man in the blue blazer."
"Perfect. Now for the sake of our game, let's give him a name...how about Jack Vernout."
"That works for me."
"...and the girl?"
"We'll call her Bess."
"No last name."
"No, no last name."
"I like your game."
"Now we are going to imagine the two men sitting at the next table are his bodyguards. Let say that Jack is a Belgium terrorist working for a leftist German faction."
"You'll have to give me a second to grasp that one."
"While you are absorbing that information, let's pretend he was the one responsible for the bombing of the Bonn airport two years ago. Twelve people were killed that day; no one who should have. Twelve killed in cold blood. Then we'll pretend he was responsible for blowing up a small boat in the Marseilles bay killing a local judge. That one didn't get any ink."
"Not a nice guy, is he?"
"He also cut the throat and burned the dying body of a woman who had the audacity of getting pregnant with his child."
"He what?"
"And oh yeah, he hates dogs."
"You invented a monster."
"What should we do with him?"
"What do you mean?"
"You and I have the power to end him. We have something that no one else in this cafe has; we have knowledge. What should we do to him? Should we kill him? Should we let him live?"
"I don't know."
"You have to know. Once you see something you cannot not see it. If you come across an accident and are the only one there, can you walk away? If you see a car bearing down on a kid, and you have the power to move her, can you just pretend you didn't see it?"
"But to kill..."
"Who is more of a monster, the man who starts the fire or the man who sees the flames and walks out of the building without telling anyone?"
"I don't know."
"One day you will."
"What would you do?"
"If I was pretending that man was the terrorist Jack Vernout, I would have already found out his habits and routines. Like for example, whenever he comes to Bilboa, he comes to a simple cafe in the Casco Viejo with his bodyguards and a new plaything. I would have, for example, found out that his only real routine is to go to the toilet right before he orders desert. He would have his bodyguard check out the restroom so I would have to use a small bomb cleverly disguised as a toilet paper roller. I could set the timer by some remote devise on my watch or pager. Then before he enjoys his blueberry tart, just after he leaves the table, I would start the process to erase him."
"You are really fucked up?"
"I know. Would you like a blueberry tart? They are incredible here."
Gavin shook his head no and watched as the stranger in the blue blazer stood from his chair. "You're letting this pretend terrorist get away."
"Perhaps," Fran said as he watched the man walk toward the restrooms through the reflection on the window. "I better check my watch, huh?" He pulled his sleeve back and twisted his left arm until the face of the watch was fully visible. He smiled at Gavin. "It's this easy." With his right hand he reached toward his watch and twisted the small button the side. "...a cleansing ying. More coffee?"
"No, thank you."
"What should we do with the rest of the day?" The explosion knocked them both out of their chairs. They were not injured. The Bilboa police questioned everyone and detained no one. Fran wanted to go the Guggenheim again. Gavin didn't want to go anywhere. He sat in the hotel balcony overlooking the river and didn't say a word. When he finally went to sleep that night he found Fran sitting against the wall with a blank stare and no expression.
"You're fucking insane," Gavin finally said.
"I know," Fran said nodding, "I know."

Climbing out of the shower without pretext was always emotionally flat for Fran. He could stand undisturbed for hours without feeling anxious or drained. Something, however, always disturbed him. "The Spanish police is looking for you," Gavin said pointing to the morning paper. Fran sat splay legged on the divan wrapped in a oversized, too-thick terry towel, white robe. "Is says here that the explosion murdered three people. One was a German industrialist named Dieter Lund, not Jack Vernout. The other was Helmet Grosse, Lund's associate and then a waiter. I thought you said waiters and cab drivers were exempt."
"Not exempt from dying," Fran said, "but exempt from star billing."
"It doesn't bother you?"
"Of course it bothers me? Soon we will hear the Dieter Lund was really a terrorist. Then it will be justified."
"What of the waiter? How is that justified?"
"Bloodletting is a dirty business. He died on the right side of a virtuous war."
"He died because you put a bomb in a toilet."
"Fuck you."
"...and today his mother and father are crying because someone murdered a German businessman."
"Fuck you. And fuck that waiter's mother and father. They're lucky."
"Lucky?"
"They can spend the rest of their miserable little my-boy-was-a-waiter life knowing their son died for no reason. There was nothing they could have done to save his life. You should pity whoever knew that motherfucker Vernout. He's dead because he was a virus. He could have been saved."
Gavin wanted to just walk out of the room. "When did you get so fucked up?" he said.
"What do you want me to say?"
"Say? I don't have a clue what I want you to say."
"What is it you want?"
"Ok...ok, I give up," Gavin stood with his hands palms out, "you have my attention. Tell me about how fucked up life is."
"Are you angry?"
"Fuck yes."
"Then there is nothing I can tell you. You already know. Maybe you don't know that you know, but it will all come clear?"
"Now you're just talking shit."
"How can you tell the fly about the spiderweb? But fuck this. I want to go to San Sabastian. There is a young friend I want you to meet. Perhaps she has a friend."
"What about the police?"
"What makes you think the police are not the ones who wanted Vernout killed?"
Silence!
Gavin sat back on the sofa and resigned. "San Sabastian? Ya, that sounds alright."

The road to San Sabastian was a hundred kilometers of twists and turns disappearing in and out of the lower Pyrenees Mountains. They drove in silence. The Citršen was an uncomfortable box with wheels. It was consistent for Fran. Gavin had the time to watch Fran from a spectator's prospective. Even as a child, Gavin could see that Fran was larger than life only moments at a time; that watching Fran was like waiting for a dormant grenade to explode. Most of the time, he was inhaling and only occasionally would puff instead of exhaling. Most of those who ran into Fran would remember the puffing and judge him by that. Gavin thought it was how Fran wanted it. Most of the time he just lived. But when he was angry...
There were times, whether you were watching or not, the grenade would explode. Those times were poetry. Anger or defense, discuss or disgust, the battle was never boring. There were times he appeared brilliant; but perhaps it was only passion. Passion sometimes looks like brilliance when in motion. Gavin was sure Fran left a swath of injured in his wake. No survivors; that was the one quality a little brother admires in a big brother.
The Atlantic ocean was a dim blue.