Free The Traitor's Emblem by Juan Gómez-Jurado Page B

fast.”
    The coal man deigned to glance at Paul for the first time, looking him up and down. Paul was wearing his black trousers, white shirt, and sweater, and still looked like a waiter. Compared to the corpulence of the big man in front of him, Paul felt like a weakling.
    “How old are you, lad?”
    “Seventeen, sir,” lied Paul.
    “Even my aunt Bertha, who was terrible at guessing people’s ages, poor thing, wouldn’t put you at any more than fifteen. Besides, you’re too scrawny. Get lost.”
    “I turn sixteen on May twenty-second,” said Paul, sounding offended.
    “In any case, you’re no use to me.”
    “I can lug a basket of coal perfectly well, sir.”
    He climbed up onto the cart with great agility, took a shovel, and filled up one of the baskets. Then, trying not to let the effort show, he put the straps over his shoulder. He could tell that the fifty kilos were destroying his shoulders and lower back, but he managed a smile.
    “See?” he said, using all his willpower to keep his legs from buckling.
    “Kid, there’s more to it than picking up a basket,” said the coal man, taking a packet of tobacco out of his pocket and lighting a battered pipe. “My old aunt Lotta could pick up that basket with less fuss than you. You need to be able to carry it down steps that are as damp and slippery as a showgirl’s crotch. The cellars we go down to almost never have any light, because the building administrators don’t give a damn if we smash our heads open. And maybe you could get one basket down, maybe two, but by the third—”
    Paul’s knees and shoulders could no longer take the weight and the boy fell facedown onto the pile of coal.
    “—you’ll tumble over, as you’ve just done. And if that were to happen to you on those narrow stairs, yours wouldn’t be the only skull to get broken.”
    The lad clambered up on stiff legs.
    “But—”
    “There’s no ‘but’ that’ll make me change my mind, kid. Get off my cart.”
    “I . . . could tell you a way of making your business better.”
    “Just what I need . . . And what would that be?” asked the coal man with a mocking laugh.
    “You lose a lot of time between finishing one delivery and beginning the next because you have to go to the warehouse to collect more coal. If you bought a second cart . . .”
    “That’s your bright idea, eh? A good cart with steel axles to take all the weight we carry costs at least seven thousand marks, not counting the harnesses and horses. Have you got seven thousand marks in those tatty trousers? I’d guess not.”
    “But you—”
    “I make enough to pay for the coal and to keep my family. You don’t think I’ve thought about getting another cart? I’m sorry, kid,” he said, his tone softening as he noticed the dejection in Paul’s eyes, “but I can’t help you.”
    Paul bowed his head, defeated. He’d have to find work somewhere else, and quickly, because the landlady’s patience wouldn’t last much longer. He was getting down from the cart when a group of people approached them.
    “What’s this, then, Klaus? A new recruit?”
    Klaus’s assistant was returning with the doorman. But it was another, older man, short and bald, with round glasses and a leather briefcase, who had addressed the coal man.
    “No, Herr Finken, it’s just a kid who came looking for work, but he’s on his way now.”
    “Well, he has the mark of your trade on his face.”
    “He seemed determined to prove himself, sir. What can I do for you?”
    “Look, Klaus, I have another engagement to get to, and I thought of settling up this month’s coal. Is that the whole lot?”
    “Yes, sir, the two tons you ordered, every ounce.”
    “I trust you absolutely, Klaus.”
    Paul turned on hearing those words. He’d just understood where the coal man’s real capital lay.
    Trust. And he’d be damned if he couldn’t convert that into money. If only they’ll listen to me, he thought, returning to the group.
    “Well, if