“Prevent a good table from going to waste.”
Don Ernesto did not know whether to laugh or protest.
“You don’t even know me.”
Raúl shrugged.
“I know enough.”
“And what is that?”
Raúl rested his forearms on the table.
“That someone who spent his life being there for others shouldn’t have dinner alone on his birthday.”
Ernesto lowered his gaze.
That simple, dry phrase touched a wound that even his own children had refused to look at.
“People get busy,” he murmured. “Life changes. Priorities…”
“Yes,” Raúl interrupted, without harshness. “But affection shouldn’t be postponed like a dentist appointment.”
Ernesto did not answer. His eyes grew slightly moist, though he immediately blinked and regained control.
Outside, a low, deep, growing sound began to be heard.
At first it seemed like distant thunder.
Then another.
And another.
Several people in the restaurant turned toward the entrance. The sound of engines drew closer until it made the windows tremble softly.
Ernesto frowned.
“What the hell…?”
Raúl gave a slight smile.
“I think your party is arriving.”
The headlights of several motorcycles lit up the parking lot in a line that seemed taken from a movie. One, two, five, eight motorcycles entered slowly and lined up in front of the place, shining under the yellow streetlights.
The hostess stood motionless.
Some tables fell silent.
The door opened.
First came in a huge man with a thick beard and a vest with patches.
“Is that him?” he asked, looking at Ernesto.
Raúl lifted his chin.
“The birthday boy.”
The man’s expression changed in an instant. He walked straight to the table and extended his hand firmly.
“Beto,” he introduced himself. “I was told there was a celebration today that couldn’t be allowed to die.”
Ernesto, still processing everything, shook his hand.
“Ernesto.”
Behind Beto, others began to enter: a tall young man with a mischievous smile, a gray-haired woman with her hair tied under a bandana, a dark-skinned man with a booming voice, two young people with dusty boots, and another quieter man with a noble gaze.
In less than five minutes, the empty chairs stopped being empty.
The waiter, who at first did not know whether to be alarmed or offer them the menu, ended up running from one side to the other, arranging glasses, bringing sodas, beers, and extra plates.
“Now then,” Beto said, sitting down. “Tell us who the brave man is who made it to seventy-two.”
Ernesto let out a genuine laugh. It came out by surprise, almost as if he had forgotten he still knew how to do it.
