Bizirik Berriro (Alive Again)

Chapter 3

Things were incredibly hectic the next two weeks. Iñaki set to work putting up the most recent Athletic squad poster from the BBK bank, and the rest of us frantically cleaned every square inch of the place until it gleamed. The best seafood was ordered and Iñaki and his cuadrilla worked their butts off, poring over their recipes and trying to decide which things they could make to look more like something that Juan Mari Arzak would make without compromising their Bilbao charm, making it better than anything that anyone in Donosti could possibly put out. I'd never seen a group of portly men in their sixties so dedicated to anything other than the txikiteo, the occasional bilbainada --which these men didn't partake in because none of them could carry a tune--, or Athletic matches themselves. Pepa, Iñaki's wife, stepped in on occasion to check on her husband to make sure he was doing okay, and every time she was shooed out of the kitchen by Iñaki and Basilio, occasionally Sebas as well.

"It's okay, they're just working really hard," I reassured her.

"A little too hard," Pepa replied, her face downtrodden. "He has ulcers, you know?" I nodded. He was probably popping pills like a junkie back there.

"He's just excited."

"Is the entire squad really coming or is he just telling tales?" I shook my head.

"No, they're all coming. Unai managed to convince them to have their big event here. Urrutia's even said to make an appearance."

"My God," Pepa said, crossing herself, as though it were the Pope himself who was going to be ordering pintxos and txakoli and not a bunch of footballers and their bosses.

"It's nuts." The elderly woman bobbed a head of strawberry blonde curls up and down in agreement.

"Just make sure he gets home tonight. And tomorrow night. And--"

"I got it. Don't worry." Pepa left, pulling her wheeled shopping cart behind her and making a left turn out of the restaurant and the Plaza Nueva. I wondered if I was going to survive the ordeal and I wasn't even doing the cooking.

Thursday finally arrived, and I felt like I was running on pure adrenaline. I'd gotten an average of four hours of sleep a night the past two weeks and had the headache to prove it. I popped an ibuprofen from the kitchen stash and chased it down with some tap water. We weren't opening that day for anyone other than the club, and even though I'd actually been able to sleep in, I decided to give Iñaki a break and open for him so he wouldn't have to.

So everything was ready. The bar had become the headquarters for an Athletic peña that didn't actually exist, and the red and white stripes everywhere in the form of flags, scarves and pendants, along with the occasional ikurriña, were making my headache worse. I slumped over the bar and closed my eyes, trying to calm down and wait for the ibuprofen to take effect.

"What are you doing here already?" asked Iñaki, standing in the doorway.

"Opening," I said groggily, squinting while my temple throbbed. I made a mental note to buy a more potent painkiller next time I was at the pharmacy.

"Why? You should be asleep still!"

"I didn't want you to do all the work," I replied.

"You look terrible!"

"It's just a headache. I took some ibuprofen for it. It'll go away." Iñaki laughed as he walked past the bar into the kitchen, and looked at the work I'd done in the kitchen.

"You did all this, Iane?" he asked.

"Most of it."

"You didn't have to, you know."