The lake was a large reservoir serving the capital some distance away. There were firs and pines on its banks and steep slopes that ascended towards a public road tracing the rim of the stone dam, which was built in an arch like the seats of an ancient amphitheatre. On the side of the road, commanding a splendid view of emerald placid waters and dense forests was a small coffee shop. A few iron tables and some chairs were set on the gravel under the sun, while under the eves of the tiled roof, in the shadow, hung a cage with a pair of canaries. It was a quiet afternoon. Very rarely a car drove down the public road. When it did it passed the sharp bends slowly, crossed the narrow rim of the dam and disappeared in the darkness of the trees on the other side. The birds chirped and sometimes the cicadas joined it, but the canaries in the cage always slept, balancing their bodies side to side on a little plastic swing. There were only two people in the coffee shop at that time. They were sitting on the same side of a table on the gravel in front of the shop itself, as far away from the adobe building as possible.

 

‘Have you made up your mind?’ the man asked. The boy raised the price list. It was a laminated piece of faded card soiled with dried coffee rings. The coffee markings were like rubber stamp impressions on some official document. ‘Orange,’ he replied. The man nodded and snapped his fingers. The waiter appeared at the door of the coffee shop and looked at the raised arm. Then he went back inside. The man lowered his arm and elbowed the boy. ‘You can have beer,’ he said and winked. ‘I promise not to tell.’ ‘Orange,’ the boy repeated.

 

The afternoon heat had begun to silence the birds, but the buzzing of the cicadas increased: it sounded like a repeated telegraph broadcast. The shadow of the two people, of their chairs and of the table in front of them, stretched out on the gravel and fell off the edge of the precipice descending towards the reservoir. ‘Go on,’ the man said. ‘Have a beer. At your age I used to drink a grown man under the table.’ He had a thick growth of dark curly hair that had begun to turn grey down the sides, a long straight nose, narrow lips, and the absolute determination of one intending to be a decorated veteran of life rather than another of its casualties. ‘Is it because of your mother?’ he asked. ‘She would smell it.’ The man gave the boy the side look of an accomplice and grinned. ‘Boy, oh boy.’ ‘Orange juice,’ the boy said.

 

A loud sizzling came from inside the coffee shop and soon the smell of fat reached the noses of the two afternoon customers. The man licked his lips and remembered he had had nothing to eat all day. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

 

He wore a shirt with short sleeves, a pair of immaculately pressed linen trousers and newly bought espadrilles. A sharp crease ran down each trouser leg: it was the latest trend in fashion. The sizzling abated and a radio went on inside the coffee shop. After a careful search its needle came to rest over a sponsored broadcast of popular songs. The cicadas stopped to listen to the music. The quiet afternoon was not so quiet anymore but not noisy either – it was as noisy as lying next to a sleeping partner who snores a little. The man noticed a stain on his shoe. He immediately placed his foot on the strut of the table and began to rub the dust with his thumb. ‘Sixteen,’ the boy answered.

 

The waiter now arrived with the tray under his arm. He was not much older than the boy but his few years of employment had already set his young face in an expression of universal indifference. The man gave their order and the waiter nodded and walked slowly back to the coffee shop, rapping on the tin tray and whistling the tune that played at that moment on the radio. The man watched him return inside the adobe building. ‘Sixteen,’ he echoed. ‘Yes. Of course.’

 

He went back to rubbing his espadrille until the stain was gone and the fabric was neat and white again. After giving it a final inspection, he reluctantly placed his foot on the gravel again. The surface of the reservoir was as flat as a metallic sheet and shone in the sun. Some seagulls arrived and circled the reservoir and screeched and sat on the shining surface. The boy began to rock in his chair. Slowly its iron legs sank deeper into the gravel. He was dressed in a shirt of some premier league football team and an old pair of jeans. His elbows were chafed and his hands rough. His skin had a copper tint. It was the colour of someone who spends time in the sun – not a sunbather; more like a builder or an athlete.

 

A hot wind blew and the tree branches shook. The pine needles fluttered like ornamental tassels and let out a hissing sound. The waiter returned with a bottle of orangeade and a large coffee on his tray. He placed both on the table, tucked the tray under his arm and fished a brass opener from his pocket. ‘We asked for orange juice,’ the man said. The waiter shrugged. ‘We only sell bottled.’ The man picked up the laminated card on the table. ‘It says it here.’ He put his finger on the list and read out: ‘Orange juice.’ ‘That’s old. The business now operates under new management.’