Later they went down by the Toledo bridge.
“Where are we going?” asked Manuel.
“Here, to a Trappist monastery near Getafe. They’ll give us a feed,” said the soldier.
Manuel quickened his pace.
“Let’s hurry.”
“There’s no need. They bring out the food after they themselves have eaten. So that even if you run, you don’t gain anything by it. We must take our time.”
Manuel moderated his gait. The soldier was a common sort; his nose was thick, his face wide, his moustaches blond. He wore a pointed hat, clothes covered with patches, an old muffler rolled around his throat, and in his hand, a stick.
They reached the monastery, walked into the porter’s lodge and sat down before a table where six or seven men were already waiting.
“Can you write verses?” asked the soldier of Manuel.