The proprietor shrugged and called out deferentially to the gentleman.
“Mil perdones, Don Ambrosio. Habla usted inglés?”
“Solamente español, Chucho.”
“He say he only speak Spanish. No one speak English here but me ’cause I work with gringos to the norte. Most not even talk Spanish, got a language of their own…”
“I couldn’t care less about that. What I want to know then is what he is writing in that infernal book?”
Chucho raised his eyes heavenward as though seeking inspiration there. “Don Ambrosio he is a very great man, he is also a great, how you say it, he is a poeta.”
Hearing his name spoken the don turned and smiled at the officers.
“Poesía, si.” He riffled through the book, found the right page, then read from it with great Latin feeling.
The bored officers turned their attention back to their tough steaks while the poem was being read aloud. Chucho stayed and listened to the poem with wide-eyed appreciation, turning reluctantly away only when the officers called out loudly for their bill. As always they cursed him and called him a thief. He reluctantly lowered his price, still charging three times what he normally would.
Only when the Englishmen had paid and gone did the Don flip back through the pages of the book to check his memory. Dragoon guards, yes, and Bengal cavalry. And Bombay infantry. And how many men there were who died every day. He looked through the handwritten pages and nodded happily. Good, very, very good. More than enough. His visit to the village was coming to an end.