"And start thinking about another of these stories for me. I’ll give you a week for the next one. But don’t fall asleep. And let’s see if we can have a lower body count this time - today’s readers like a slushy ending in which the greatness of the human spirit triumphs over adversity, that sort of rubbish."
"Yes, Don Basilio."
The deputy editor nodded and held out his hand to me. I shook it.
"Good work, Martin. On Monday I want to see you at the desk that belonged to Junceda. It’s yours now. I’m putting put you on the crime beat."
"I won’t fail you, Don Basilio."
"No, you won’t fail me. You’ll just cast me aside sooner or later. And you’ll be right to do so, because you’re not a journalist and you never will be. But you’re not a crime novelist yet, even if you think you are. Stick around for a while and we’ll teach you a thing or two that will always come in handy."
At that moment, my guard down, I was so overwhelmed by gratitude that I wanted to hug that great bulk of a man. Don Basilio, his fierce mask back in place, gave me a steely look and pointed toward the door.
"No scenes, please. Close the door. And happy Christmas."
"Happy Christmas." . . . The following Monday, when I arrived at the editorial room ready to sit at my own desk for the very Þrst time, I found a coarse gray envelope with a ribbon and my name on it in the same recognizable type that I had been typing out for years. I opened it. Inside was a framed copy of my story from the back page of the Sunday edition, with a note saying:
"This is just the beginning. In ten years I’ll be the apprentice and you’ll be the teacher. Your friend and colleague, Pedro Vidal."
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