The San Sebastián bar was thick with the scent of roasted coffee, frying txistorra and seventy years of unadulterated Basque bloody-mindedness.
At the end of the counter sat Koldo. According to the local census, he was a retired army colonel who had spent thirty years yelling at recruits until his throat resembled dried beef. To his neighbours, he was the man who threatened to confiscate footballs that landed in his hydrangeas. But to anyone who tried to talk to him, he was an absolute nightmare of nominal pedantry.
A sleek man in a tailored suit slid onto the adjacent stool, straightened his silk tie and flashed a smile that belonged on a billboard for cosmetic dentistry.
‘Good morning,’ the newcomer purred, extending a pristine hand. ‘My name is Doctor Iñigo Zabala.’
Koldo did not shake the hand. He merely stared at it as if it were a dead flounder, then slowly raised his gaze to the man’s eyes.
‘Is it?’ Koldo growled, taking a deliberate sip of his cider. ‘Your mother laboured for fourteen hours in a hospital in Bilbao, screamed at the midwife, pushed you into the light and thought, Ah, beautiful. We shall name him Doctor?’
The newcomer blinked, his smile faltering. ‘Well, no. I am a doctor of cardiology. It is my title.’
‘Precisely,’ Koldo slammed his glass onto the zinc bar, making the cider splash. ‘A title. An occupation. A piece of paper you paid a university to print! Your name is Iñigo. You were Iñigo when you were wetting your nappies, you will be Iñigo when they lower you into the dirt and if you try to order a coffee from Joseba by calling yourself Doctor, I will personally throw you into the Bay of Biscay.’
Iñigo quietly withdrew his hand, paid for his espresso and migrated to a table far across the room.
Joseba, wiping down the taps, sighed deeply.
‘You are going to drive away the few paying customers I have left, Koldo.’
‘I am performing a public service,’ Koldo grunted, adjusting his beret. ‘People have lost their minds. Yesterday a fellow tried to tell me his name was Professor Unai. No, my friend. Your mother had a burst of inspiration after a hard labour and named you Unai. You just happen to read books for a living.’
‘And you?’ Joseba asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘What should I call you?’
‘Koldo,’ the old man snorted, reaching for his coat. ‘If I wanted to be called Koronel, I would have had it tattooed on my forehead. Koronel is what men called me when they wanted permission to go to the toilet.’
He stood up, dusted the pastry crumbs from his trousers and marched out into the persistent drizzle of Old Town, entirely satisfied that the English language, the Basque language and basic common sense had been successfully defended for another morning.
