Don Julio slung the leg of jamón serrano onto his shoulder in one swift motion. It was almost the same size as him. He grasped the trotter with both hands to ensure it didn’t slip off his chef whites and thud to the carpeted floor.
At 6:30 AM, the Rey Carlos Hotel dining hall lay eerily silent. Just one other server set the impossibly long buffet table, placing dishes and spoons onto the tablecloth with a soft plush. It seemed the more carefully the silver trays were set, the more destructive the morning diners were. At least the Spanish guests had the decorum to eat a light breakfast. Tourists had no such restraint.
“Why so early, Don Julio?”
Don Julio couldn’t even remember the name of this lanky teenage waiter in a waistcoat.
“Last day,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep.” Then he dumped the leg of jamón down on his station. “La ultima pata.”
When the waiter boy wished him a happy retirement, Don Julio sucked his teeth instead of answering.
Soon, the endless dishes sprawled along the buffet table. Cutlery and plates gleamed. Julio set about positioning the leg of ham in the jamonero device. His paring knife was sharpened almost to the point of disappearance.
The breakfast rush started with an insufferable American couple. They’d arrived on a cruise ship and would stay a few days before flying back.
“You know we just love Spanish hah-mone.” The woman, whose hair looked like an unruly wasp’s nest, murdered the pronunciation.
Upon catching sight of Julio’s uniform name tag, the man remarked to his wife that the server must be named after the famous tequila brand. Did he think that was the first time anyone had made the joke?
“You know, it’s illegal for us to bring it to America,” said the woman. “It’s not considered sanitary there.”
“Is that so? How much you like madam?”
She said “más… más…” until her plate was entirely shrouded in pig. People like her had no respect for the farmers who nurtured the land and grew the animals. She’d probably make a jamónburger if she could find some ketchup and a bun.
As he tightened the screw to stop the leg from slipping from the jamero device, Don Julio winced. His claw-like cutting hand ached—forty years of grasping the handle. Was this to be Julio’s final leg of Serrano?
Just cut the ham. Make it thin. Thinner than you ever have. Make it dissolve on their plates and in their mouths. You do it, but these silly tourists and Madrileño Bluetooth baboons with their not-so-secret Dominicana side women will never appreciate the fine art you perform as the customers of your old bar did.
The Rey Carlos Hotel looked impressive in its glamour shots. The grand marble vestibule, perfectly manicured gardens, and Art Deco stone facade. Even Generalissimo Franco was said to have stayed here more than once. But if you looked close enough, you saw hundreds of flaws—the mould in the roof, floors with decades-old stains, and cutlery that never sparkled, no matter how hard you polished. It wasn’t a patch on Julio’s old Bar La Esquinita with its intricate tiles and original stainless steel counter. Even so, it seemed the hotel would outlive Don Julio’s career.
The diners jumped up and down, refilling their plates with low-grade cheeses and tasteless fruit. The hotel built its image on quality but sold quantity. Plates clattered, voices mumbled and Flamenco guitar music gently ebbed through the long dining room.
Despite their love of the breakfast buffet, enough guests ordered slices from the cortador de jamónes that the seven-kilo leg soon whittled down to one or two. The meat closest to the bone was always the most succulent.
A lady in a smart dress smoothed her right hand. Her face displayed a discomfort Don Julio knew all too well. She transferred the plate of ham to her left hand to avoid dropping it.
Don Julio inspected his cutting hand. It unfurled, loosened somehow by the woman’s pain.
Further back in the line, the Madrileño businessman dropped his phone as his hand spasmed. He cried out in pain.
Don Julio raised his hand to attract the attention of those in the line. “Momento.” He left his station and set off around the dining room. It was his last day. What could they do, fire him? After standing on the hard floor of his serving station for ninety minutes, the carpet felt luscious through the soles of his dress shoes. On every third or fourth table, guests inspected their right hands in disbelief. One diner thrust her hand under their armpit to dull the pain. Two tables over, a child in a yellow football shirt raised an arm above his head, swinging it wildly in hope of attracting attention. Julio watched as diners swallowed painkillers and argued with their companions in hushed voices. The guitar music played on.
No one could raise a complaint. What would they say? “Excuse me, manager. My hand hurts, and the quality of your buffet meat is to blame.” As usual, Don Julio had sampled a few slices to ensure the quality of his cut, and it was fine (just like his right hand). In fact, his grip felt stronger than ever. A few of the guests collected their belongings and returned to lick their wounds in their rooms. Only their plates remained, scraps of ham still lying idle. Julio returned to his station pondering the meaning of his last ham’s revenge.
By 10 AM, the rush had reduced to a trickle of latecomers, and Don Julio’s jamón was all but bone. Mohammed, the Moroccan manager approached, laying an extremely hairy hand on Don Julio’s pristine white shirt. “It is a sad day, Don Julio. The final day of the great cortador del Hotel Rey Carlos.
Julio held his tongue. He could have told Mohammed that it was still six and a half months until his pension kicked in and that it was not his decision to leave. He could have said he’d have to borrow a few thousand Euro from his son just to make ends meet. He could have unloaded all the evidence of poor management, dwindling guests, equipment thefts, and health-code violations. And the rat the size of a chihuahua he saw scrambling out of the kitchen bin one time. Instead, he lowered his head and said, “Asi es.” Although he’d asked for a no-fuss exit, Julio still expected a few handshakes, a card—something to represent his fifteen years of service.
Mohammed smoothed his slicked-black hair. “Hold on. Let me get something.”
Even though his final shift had ended, Julio was in no rush. Delia would be waiting at home with a plain meal and conversation about money worries and broken plumbing. He could wait another five minutes. He fiddled with the paring knife in his pocket.
Mohammed returned with an entire leg of ham still wrapped in green cellophane. “For you, amigo.” He hefted the thing over to his employee. “It’s the best we have. Ibérico pata negra.”
Don Julio shook hands and mumbled his thanks. Those things cost 700 Euro. He slung the ham onto his shoulder, just as he had thousands of times before, and walked out of the hotel with his prize ham. The doorman called out, “See you tomorrow, Don Julio,” as he walked down the front steps. No point correcting him. Traversing the path flanked by pristine hedges, he saw the American cruise couple smoking on a bench. Perhaps he should ask them to swap his leaving gift for a bottle of aged tequila. He walked on towards the stop for bus number 12. The ham already felt more like 80kg than eight.
Julio waited and watched. A few sailboats weaved into the harbour on their way to Real Club Náutico. He tried to imagine the number of bus trips he’d taken back from his morning shift by bus—thousands, probably—though none accompanied by a shrink-wrapped leg of Ibérico. It suddenly felt wrong to transport the ham by bus. What would he do? Buckle it into the seat next to him? Cradle it in his arms like a cured-meat baby? No, he should walk. Besides, it would give him time to enjoy his last morning of freedom before facing Delia, the bills, and the refurbishments.
Hoisting the ham onto his shoulder like a battle-tested club, Don Julio stood and climbed the steps leading up to the hills above the city, to La Alta, a barrio that acted like the last 30 years of development in the city below hadn’t occurred.
The soles of his feet pressed into the concrete steps and his legs burned. Although he wasn’t in bad shape, the extra weight made the climb hard work. Soon, his balding head gleamed with a sheen of sweat. Julio wondered whether the ham was sweating under its plastic bodice too. At least his hand had loosened up. It had been decades since his two hands looked like they both belonged to the same person. When he ran his own place, he’d stabbed a boy with his cutting knife. The kid survived but with a withered arm.
After a few hundred steps he sat and rested. His trousers would be dusty and Delia would scold him. “Why do you make me do extra work?” she’d say.
“These pants have no use now,” he’d reply. Then, she’d snatch them from him, smacking the dust off on the way to the laundrette, and that would somehow be another point to her.
Julio flung his jamón down with a thud and caught his breath. What the hell was he supposed to do with it—praise Mohammed with every artery-blocking sliver he folded into his mouth? The thing would last for months, and the whole kitchen would smell salty and acrid. Neighbours would covet the ham and would pop in for a coffee and a bocadillo of Andalucía’s finest pata negra. Soon he’d be wearing his uniform again, standing for hours in the kitchen, listening to their inane questions about porcine intelligence and acorns. Why had he decided to walk? It would take him another 45 minutes, perhaps an hour with the extra passenger.
As he set off, Julio considered how the ham no longer felt like the club of a brave defender; it sprawled dead weight over his shoulder like an injured combatant being returned to the reserve line. The medic would take one look and instruct the soldier to dump the body in the “dead,” “dying,” or “to be treated later” tent.
Eventually, the road levelled out, and he reached the rows of fincas that encircled La Alta. A few cars blazed past on their way to the supermarkets in the city. Apart from that, the way remained empty.
If only the weight on his shoulder was a flagon of cold beer or iced punch. Julio looked at his watch and didn’t really take note of the time. He was late, but not for anything in particular.
Up to the left, the little track up to the caldera emerged. How long had it been since Don Julio had climbed it and stared into the abyss of the dormant volcano crater? Well, he’d come this far. Why not complete the Sisyphusian task of hauling his penance to the very top of the island?
Julio had sweated through his shirt, which was now smeared with green plastic and dirt. His shoulders, neck, and back throbbed from the weight, but his legs moved on. Past withering grape vines and abandoned stone huts. He side-stepped a skull lying on the path—a goat. Fifteen minutes more and the black rocks of the crater came into view. Suddenly, the horizon opened, and there were no more steps to climb. This was as high as Don Julio would ever reach. He took in the views of the rocky hills around.
Legend has it the native Guanche threw Spanish soldiers into the crater and aimed rocks at their broken bodies. Then the vultures would clean up.
The thought of explaining his epic journey home and dumping the soiled ham on the kitchen table did not appeal. He felt like a fool already. A fool for having lost the bar he loved, a fool for dedicating years to the fading glory of the Rey Carlos Hotel, and a fool for giving up his dignity for a piece of overpriced meat. One hundred metres below, at the bottom of the crater, a couple of stone piles marked the death of the conquistadores. Nothing for the natives that had lived here for centuries.
Julio’s hands grasped the very end of the leg. He adopted a wide stance to avoid slipping on the loose volcanic gravel. The ham swung above his head, once, twice in a helicopter motion, and on the third revolution, Don Julio let go. The force almost took him over the edge too, and he staggered backward. The green club rotated through the air, casting a stark shape against the dull black rock. It flew down, down, past the overhang and towards the very epicentre of the crater. Don Julio braced himself for a catastrophic explosion of gas and lava as the ham punctured a hole in the volcanic floor. Instead, dust kicked up, and a low thud echoed back after half a second.
Don Julio breathed in the fresh mountain air and rubbed his hands together. “Asi es,” he muttered. “Asi es la vida.”
He turned to go, and his pocket buzzed. Delia’s caller ID flashed up and Julio’s nimble fingers rejected the call before he even told them to. Lunchtime. A quick text reply informing that he was stuck at the hotel, and would be back late. Delia promised to save him a plate.
Phone returned to his pocket, Julio shot down the path back towards La Alta, his feet unencumbered by the weight of forty years of service.
Things weren’t all bad. As long as he stayed in this liminal realm between the hotel and La Alta, he could be himself. Nobody could tell him what to do, and he could allow his mind to wander freely between past and present. That is, after all, what all men wanted—to just be.
The gravel path framed by scorched grape vines soon turned into asphalt, and broken shacks made way for houses shrouded in messy electrical cabling. Then came Cervecería La Alta, a bar that Julio vaguely remembered stopping in years ago. He drew back the bead curtain and entered.
Bright lights and the babble of TV news greeted Don Julio. Half a dozen patrons sat scattered around the room, which was big enough to hold four times their number. This was the kind of place where you didn’t ask to see the menu—the options included weak tap beer, brandy, and whatever the barman’s wife had in the pot. The coffee machine lay silent, probably unused since 9am that morning. Still, the others in the place revelled in their blissful existence, shielded from the outside world by newspapers and TV football analysis.
Perhaps I could just move in here, thought Julio. Perhaps this will be the place I spend my retirement.
The bearded barman greeted him. “¿Qué le pongo, caballero?”
Don Julio didn’t respond. His eyes lay transfixed on the two ugly legs of Serrano hanging from the other end of the bar. They had been there so long, the fat traps plugged into the bottom had overflowed, giving the concrete floor below a ghostly sheen. The meat would be very dry by now. And the barman—so full of life, with such lustrous hair—oh, what Julio would give to be back behind the counter of Bar Esquinita, serving his customers, talking about the regular aspects of neighbourhood life.
“¿Caballero?”
Don Julio looked up. “Oh yes. Brandy, please. And a glass of water.” He wondered if he should tell the guy about the expensive Ibérico he just tossed into the abyss. Why hadn’t he thought of donating it?
When the brandy arrived, he carried it to the corner and sipped quietly. A few of the men sought his approval on one comment or another about the upcoming match, the government, the youth of today, a new-fangled trend. Julio nodded and sipped and smiled a wry smile to indicate he agreed without getting dragged into their diatribes. The ceiling fan whirled and the occasional fly made it through the door curtain.
As Julio sipped his water, and one brandy turned into another, he thought back to his morning shift. It felt like years ago. The only evidence of his battle with a giant ham at the volcano was the stains on his shirt. Two empty glasses accompanied him on the table, but he couldn’t fathom whether he’d been in Cervecería La Alta for minutes or hours.
A tap on the shoulder. “Something to eat?” The barman had scooped up the glasses and replaced them with a fresh one.
Don Julio looked up and saw his younger self looking back at him. He missed his hair. He missed leaving the house without Delia’s familiar shout of, “Take your hat. I don’t want you getting skin cancer.”
“…Meatballs with a red sauce.”
Don Julio assented. “How long have you had this bar?” he asked.
“Perhaps you visited when my father ran this place.” The barman cast his eyes to the ceiling as if his father were leaning down from heaven with an earpiece. Then he pointed at Julio’s ruined shirt. “What happened here?”
“Got into a fight with a jamón,” replied Julio.
The barman nodded towards the two pigs’ legs hanging over his bar. “Don’t you two get any ideas,” he said. Then he let out a ripping laugh.
Don Julio smacked him on the shoulder and laughed along. Soon, they knew each other’s names and family lineages, and Don Julio demonstrated proper technique with the paring knife he kept in his pocket.
Things always seemed better after a good meal. It had been months or even years since he ate a meal alone. But he wasn’t alone. The chatter and grumbles from the other patrons provided enough atmosphere to lift his spirits. If it wasn’t for the brandy running through his veins, he would have felt guilty for leaving Delia to eat her stew alone at the kitchen table. One more, and he would return to reality.
The other patrons drifted out, one by one until the clock reached that strange time between the end of lunch and darkness.
“You know,” said Don Julio, “I used to own a bar myself. Over the fields down there, near Finca Fernandez. Some twenty years back.”
The barman emerged from the back. He filled Don Julio’s glass and sat on the chair next to him.
“You don’t know it? Bar La Esquinita.” Don Julio’s eyes glazed over as he described the wonderful meals Delia would provide, the colourful tiles, and the farmers who would come in to avoid the midday heat. “I didn’t drink back then.”
“¿Y qué pasó al bar, Don Julio?
Julio removed the knife from his pocket and removed the sheath. As he weighed the options of how to construct the story, he passed the blade from hand to hand. “There was a local boy—must have been no more than eighteen. He came in to rob. You know, business worked back then. None of this electric accounting and the tax man claiming his stake. The boy took a bat to the fruit machine. Said he’d keep hitting it till he got the jackpot.”
The barman remained silent, but his eyes moved to the flashing lights of his own fruit machine.
“When I showed him the knife, he didn’t back down.” Don Julio drained the rest of his brandy. “He took it in the arm.” A long pause sounded. “I wasn’t trying… it all happened so long ago.” When Don Julio looked at the knife that had graced his right hand for so many years, he saw blood.
The barman cleared his glass, signaling that, perhaps, it should not be refilled.
“He didn’t lose the arm, but it withered.” Don Julio slurred his words and his eyes felt dewey. “I saw him around town, dragging his right arm like a plank of wood. And over the years, it grew thin. That was the beginning of the bad times—farmers moving to the city. No need for a small bar with a smashed-up fruit machine.” He stretched his right hand, still marvelling at its range of motion. When he looked up, the barman was behind the counter again, preparing his bill. Julio didn’t continue his story to the part about slaving away in the Rey Carlos hotel in exchange for a ham he tossed away.
“It was a pleasure, Don Julio,” said the barkeeper. “Nos vemos pronto.”
When he left the bar, the afternoon had turned into dusk. The mountains could be extraordinary at this time with the sun sinking into the ocean, casting its purples and oranges into the air.
That was the first person he’d told about the boy with one arm. Apart from his wife, no one knew, not even his children. Why had he felt the need to burden another cafe owner? Either way, a lightness came over him. His arms swung freely as Don Julio started the trek back down the hill towards his house and the dilapidated remains of Bar La Esquinita. It would be quicker to take the dirt track on the ridge through the Fernandez Finca.
To his right, the high basalt cliff of Barranco Azul towered over the tiny dirt track that traversed it. Far below, the distant shuffles of animals settling for the night carried in the dusk air. His pocket buzzed, and Don Julio fumbled to extract his phone. Finally, he flipped it open, preparing for Delia’s scorn. “Hello—” as he answered, the phone slipped from his grasp and tumbled down the ravine. It kicked up a little dust and bounced down, down towards the animal shelters. Damn! If he kept his eye on the spot where it finished up, maybe the light would hold for long enough to search. No way he’d find it if he came back in the morning. He already felt the signs of an approaching hangover. Such a stupid old fool. Just when he was looking forward to bursting in the door, telling Delia about his day (omitting a few of the brandies and adding in a few mistruths about his shift). Take a diagonal path down. Small steps. You can do it, you old goat.
When he slipped, the feeling of lightness turned to flight. He skidded and tumbled, ready to soar into the air at any moment. Instead of praying to land, he prayed to fly. Then Thwack, crunch, and the tearing sound of gravelly dirt on skin. His measly dress shoes had no chance. Each smack against the ground slowed his fall, but the land didn’t level off. Julio clawed at the side of the barranco, spinning and tumbling past agave plants and desert rose. Then silence. Stillness.
The pain wasn’t much—scrapes on his hands and a few smacks on the shoulders and knees. The night air shrouded him, and Julio couldn’t inspect his damaged hands against the volcanic soil and dark rock. At least he was on more level ground and he had missed the cacti. As he pulled his right leg under him, a searing pain shot through his muscle, into the bone, and up his spine—a sort of damage highway straight to the brain. He cried a feeble cry and slumped to the ground.
Why him? Why now? Por que?
When he let his hand explore the source of the pain his fingers discovered angry bare flesh, electric to the touch. The wound must have been big enough to fit a golf ball in, and stuck firmly in the middle, up to the hilt, was Don Julio’s jamón paring knife. His waiter’s trousers moistened as a warm blood flow oozed into the fabric.
His mind, a tornado of thoughts, failed to settle. What should he do first? Call—no he couldn’t. Stupid. Remove the knife or leave it in? What would Delia do? Tonto. Stupid old goat, walking down the barranco drunk.
“Ayudaaa,” he cried. “¡Ayudame!” His voice cracked and rasped into the night air. The shape of the hills would funnel the sound down the valley, but Delia, the house, and his old bar were still too far. When he shifted to his other hip, a bolt of pain jolted through his body, flashing white hot behind Julio’s eyes.
He cried again—weaker this time. His right leg slipped and squelched in the slick trousers. Then, an apparition of Delia stood above him. Instead of chiding her husband, she reached out and took his cutting hand and massaged it as she had every night for decades. How could he have taken her for granted? It had been a good life, despite the hard times, despite the fat pigs he cut for every day.
In the distance, the animals stirred. A dog barked in hope of raising another. His shouts would probably be mistaken for a goat. How many times had he ignored a vaguely human-sounding bleat on the track to La Alta? What he wouldn’t give to be in the embrace of his family, his two sons back from Madrid and Delia beaming over hot stew. They’d sit down to dinner at their rustic kitchen table and say things like ‘así es la vida’ and protect themselves with the sign of the cross.
With his phone gone, the livestock on the farm below was his only hope of salvation. No amount of crosses could save him now. Was it goats or pigs? It didn’t matter.
Don Julio gathered his resolve and forced himself onto his good knee. He placed his hands in front of him and thrust forward centimetre by centimetre. There was no light—he’d have to go by sound alone. “Heeeeelp,’ he cried again. His second scream elongated as the knife in his thigh twisting into a nerve, sending shockwaves up and down. In the dusky night, on a hill below La Alta, Don Julio, his stuck leg trailing, crawled through the dirt; in the city below, the guests of the Rey Carlos hotel sipped wine and ate plates of serrano ham cut from the blade of a different man.
