‘You can call me Friedrich,’ said Edison’s father, as the Alfa burbled impatiently at a traffic light. Eduardo, he explained, was his fifth child, the first letter of each of his six children’s names (Carlos, Orlando, Cristobal, Henrietta, Eduardo, and Sonia) spelling out an anagram for the name of his import car business, COCHES de Altamira (Cars of Altamira).
‘He likes to be called Edison,’ volunteered Francis helpfully.
‘Who does?’
‘Eduardo. Your son. You didn’t know?’
‘Edison?’ Friedrich laughed scornfully. ‘No, I didn’t know. What a crazy kid!’
Francis flushed. He’d betrayed a confidence. He lapsed into shamed silence as the car accelerated to insert itself expertly into a small space between two trucks, Friedrich giving a placatory wave to the indignant driver behind.
‘You like cars, then?’ Friedrich was pleased at Francis’ smile and nod. He turned on the radio to a pulsating samba beat, and chirped the tires as the light turned green. He was plainly older than Mr. Stapleton, but acted years younger. He shouted over the radio and rumbling engine. ‘Want to change gears?’ Thrilled, Francis nodded enthusiastically. At the next light, Friedrich placed Francis’ hand on the gearshift knob and guided it through the shift sequence. On the entry ramp to the autopista, Francis ran through all the gears, revelling in the variations in engine note at each shift, as Friedrich drifted from lane to lane, weaving expertly through the traffic, at one point avoiding slow-moving cattle trucks by driving on the shoulder of the expressway. This was a world of exhilarating freedom, far from the careful piloting of the serviceable but dull family Ford by Mr. Stapleton. On the exit ramp for El Rosal, Francis downshifted crisply. They had entered a busy district. Friedrich turned off the radio. At another light, Francis thanked his tutor.
‘My pleasure, sonny. Say,’ he said as the light changed, ‘Eduardo says you’re smart.’
‘Well, no, not really, I’m not good at math, and I can’t speak Spanish the way he can.’
‘You gotta have math to run my business. And you gotta speak Spanish to live here. But Eduardo, he’s not so smart. I tell him that. Here’s the dealership. The house is behind it.’
Making a shortcut through the enormous forecourt of the family business, Friedrich swung the Alfa onto a shabby side street. Francis caught a glimpse of a steel and glass island in a sea of exotic vehicles gleaming in the sun, set about with dozens of fluttering flags, each bearing the logo of an expensive make: Ferrari, Lamborghini, Porsche, Aston Martin, Mercedes-Benz, Alfa Romeo.
‘Some day, some of that could be Eduardo’s. But he’d have to get his grades up. And to stop calling himself Edsel. EDSEL! That was one bad car, right?’
‘The Edsel? Yes, but–’
‘You’re his friend. I understand that. You cover for him. But Edsel!’ He laughed.
The car had reached an electronic gate bearing the name ‘Cochecabana’ on its ironwork. It swung open noiselessly, apparently unbidden, to reveal a manicured lawn alive with automatic sprinklers, a small pond complete with flamingos and a fountain in its centre, all concealed behind a high wall topped with razor wire. A colossal house, more a palacio than a cabana, was at the end of a tiled driveway. Running alongside the car as it came to a full stop under a pillared portico two storeys high, was Edison in his swimming trunks.
