He shuffled down the street, huddled into the heavy old winter coat to keep the nipping wind from biting into his bones. In the distance he could hear the chanting, the screaming, sounds of breaking glass. Every few years it happened, another coup, another general switching sides, proclaiming himself for the people. Ah, it got old. All those young men, young women, hearts passionately hoping for change...but change never came.
The tavern was up ahead: warmth, a bit of food, a glass of beer, and, maybe, Gabriel. He was a good kid, was Gabriel. He pushed open the door, ducked in. The haze of smoke made him cough, a gurgling, wet cough. Not good.
"Tio 'Turo!" It was Gabriel's voice. He was seated in a nook beside the fireplace, and waved him over. He shuffled back there, a little bit faster, then sat down, slowly, joints creaking, taking off his coat. He ran his hand through his iron gray hair and grinned at the younger man.
"Gabriel. Why aren't you out in the streets? Eh? Singing and chanting and supporting - eh, who is it this time?" He coughed again.
Gabriel slouched in his seat, turned his beer around and around on the tabletop, frowning. He flicked a glance up. "Eh, old man. I think you've made me cynical. All your talk about the old days. About Il Padre, and the men who took him down. And the men who followed those men."
Arturo snorted. Lizbet came swaying by with a tray, stooped to drop a kiss on his head. "And what'll it be for you tonight, Señor Arturo?"
"The usual, sweet apple of my heart." He winked up at her. She rolled her eyes, then, when he coughed again, she frowned.
"Arturo. That doesn't sound good. You should see the doctor."
He waved her worries away impatiently. "No, girl. I'm old. Just a bit sick, is all. Go get me my food and beer." She frowned again, then sighed and turned away. Arturo turned his attention to Gabriel.
"So. You've actually listened to what I've been saying, eh? A surprise."
Gabriel ducked his head, his thick black hair draping his face. "You said it's all the same, they're all the same." He glanced up. "I've read the papers. I can see what you're talking about. This General Subito...underneath it all, he's just like Martinez. And Gustavo. And Il Padre. They all just want the power."
Arturo nodded, pursing his lips. "I'm sorry to have taken your innocence away, boy. But, yes, all the same. Nothing changes. Sometimes people change, though, when the power is taken away - if they survive." He turned and spat, shrugged. "Sometimes they don't. All you need to do, boy, is keep yourself and your family alive. Don't go playing with power. Don't put your trust in people who want power."
Gabriel looked at him thoughtfully. He reached out, squeezed Arturo's hand. "Yes. Sometimes people change. I trust mother, my sisters." He paused. "You..." he added quietly.
Arturo blushed slightly, looked away. Lizbet was coming back with his food and beer. He grumbled quietly, "No idea why you trust me, boy." He hacked into his palm, glanced down, closed his fingers on the red phlegm.
Gabriel smiled slowly. "I know. But I do. You've given me all you learned, back then."
His words faded from Arturo's hearing. He was seized by another fit of coughing, but this one kept on and on. He vaguely realized he was slipping off his chair. Gabriel's face was close above him, Lizbet's right behind, pale and worried. "Tio 'Turo?! 'Turo!"
A hand was patting his cheek. He smiled, reached for it, held it tight. "Good boy," he wheezed. "You're a good boy, Gabriel. Glad I met you. It's all different than it was for me, back then..."
"'Turo, don't you go dying on me!" Gabriel hissed. Arturo could see a tear dripping down his cheek. He doubled up, hacking and choking, then reached up to pat the boy's cheek.
"Y'know who I was? I ruled," he sighed softly. "Wasn't worth it, boy. Remember that."