Distant Relations Read Online Free PDF Page A

world.”
    â€œOh, Buenos Aires and Montevideo are my lost cities, they are dead to me. I shall never see them again. France is the final homeland of every Latin American. Paris will never be a lost city.”
    That afternoon Hugo Heredia arrived, without complications.
    â€œShould I follow Master Victor’s orders?” Etienne, the chauffeur, asked as my friend was overseeing the transfer of Hugo’s luggage from the Citroën to the house.
    â€œOf course. They are my guests. I am surprised by your question, Etienne.”
    â€œBut, M. le Comte, you were inconvenienced by having to come from the station by taxi while I was taking the Spaniards shopping. That is not my custom.”
    â€œI repeat, they are my guests. Follow their instructions as if they were my own.”
    â€œThe young gentleman’s as well?”
    Branly nodded, but something kept him from actually enunciating the word “yes.” In spite of himself, his eyes questioned Etienne. The chauffeur realized it, and so that Etienne would not have to avert his eyes in embarrassment every time Branly gazed unblinkingly at him, my friend had no recourse but to ask if there was a reason for such a question.
    â€œThey won’t tell you,” the chauffeur said.
    â€œWho are ‘they,’ Etienne?”
    â€œThe two Spaniards. José and Florencio. They’re afraid to lose their jobs. They don’t want to go back to Spain, you know.”
    â€œBut what happened to José and Florencio?”
    â€œWell, you know how Florencio looks out for José. Yesterday José was unpacking the boy’s suitcases, as any good man would, hanging things up and putting his belongings in the drawers. Then young Victor came in and, according to José, flew into a rage for no reason at all. He whipped off his belt and began beating José; he drove him to his knees. Then he said never to touch his suitcases, not ever, unless he himself gave the order—and not before.”
    José, he added, had gone weeping to the kitchen and Florencio had said he’d go up and give that arrogant young man a good thrashing, who did he think he was? But José had smoothed things over. He reminded Florencio of how young Master Lope had treated them in Zaragoza, that’s how young gentlemen were in Spain, and across the ocean, well! there they were young lords of gibbet and blade. Then they’d thought over their precarious status as immigrant workers and decided to leave things alone.
    â€œYou know how they are, M. le Comte. They know how to console one another.”
    A vulgar spark glinted from Etienne’s rimless glasses, and this time Branly glared at him sternly, unblinkingly, until the robust Celt reddened, coughed, and asked to be excused.
    My friend was not surprised by the fact that while tea was being served in the great hall of the candelabra the father and son pored over the telephone directory of the Parisian metropolitan area.
    â€œIt’s a game we play,” the father said pleasantly. “Everywhere we go, we look to see if we can find our names in the directory. The one who wins claims a prize from the one who loses.”
    â€œYou were lucky in Puebla,” said Victor, scanning the thick book.
    â€œBut you won in Monterrey and in Mérida,” said Hugo, patting his son’s dark lank hair.
    â€œAnd in Paris, too, Papa.” The boy laughed happily. “Look.”
    Father and son, arms about one another’s shoulders, peered closely at the small print of the directory.
    â€œHeredia, Victor,” they read together, laughing, the son more quickly and gaily than his father. “Heredia, Victor, 54 Clos des Renards, Enghien-les-Bains.”
    â€œWhere is that?” asked Victor.
    My friend was still not quite at ease in the world the Heredias had opened to him, a world he consciously desired, though unconsciously—he knew now, free of the confusion of the