6

He slipped into his heavy jacket and walked toward the square. A gaggle of tourists stood in front of the church. Two were photographing the clock. It was Pedraza’s least photogenic feature.

Americans, clearly. The women shivered in light sweaters over what was sold in the less sultry months as “cruise wear.” Americans thought that all of Spain was warm and sunny the year long. The Department of Tourism did little to disabuse them of that notion.

One of the men was telling another about the discomforts with which he had passed the night. Gastric upsets, chills, all of it due to bottled water and the lack of central heating.

The young man listened, nodding throughout the recital. “Exactly,” he would say at the end of each sentence. “Exactly.”

One of the women wore a black felt beret. He imagined her in Madrid, thumbing through the phrase book to make its purchase. It undoubtedly made her feel very Spanish, very in tune. She had not noticed that only the old men wore them.

“Here comes a native!” she shrieked, pointing at him with one hand, snatching at her husband’s sleeve with the other.

She broke from the others and fell into step beside him. “Can we take your picture?” she asked.

“You don’t have to ask him, for God’s sake, just take it!” the man shouted.

Jackson R.W. Bishop raised his hands so that they obscured his face.

“You’re scaring him, Frank,” she said. “He doesn’t understand and you’re scaring him.”

“Aw, bullshit.” Frank clicked the shutter anyway.