COMING TO CONCLUSIONS

The Autobiography of Peter Tristan Stuart

by

Gene C. McCoy

CHAPTER 10

Part 3

At six o'clock the next morning I left the Playa Monte Mar to drive into Torremolinos, and after parking the car, I stopped to pick up fresh churros, then carried them with me to the Bar Central to meet Birgitta. She was already sitting at an outside table dressed in an attractive skirt and blouse, and over her shoulders she wore a light stole.

"Good morning," I said and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek before sitting down. "I'm glad to see you're wearing a skirt and blouse," I said. "I should have mentioned to you last night that we might be going in and out of churches."

"I figured as much when you said we were going to spy on priests and poor people, so I wore a skirt this morning. I know the Spanish don't like women to wear pants or shorts in a church. How are you?" she asked.

"I'm fine, thank you. How're you? I bought churros for us," I said and put the warm pastries on the table.

"I'm excited," she replied. "I've never been a spy. I bought some churros for us, too." She pulled a bundle from a canvas bag and placed it on the table. There were two tennis rackets sticking out of the bag. "I brought you a tennis racket, and I also ordered cafe con leche for both of us. Okay?"

"Perfect," I replied and smiled. "I love to have my needs anticipated."

"Anticipating other people's needs is what makes life fun," she said and picked up a churro.

"That's what love is all about, isn't it?" I said.

"It's a big part of it," she said and smiled as the waiter served us coffee and milk.

Leaving Torremolinos we headed toward Gibraltar on the main coastal highway. We passed Fuengirola and Marbella, then at San Pedro de Alcántara I turned away from the coast to head toward the mountains and Ronda.

"Have you ever been to Ronda? I asked.

"No," she replied. "Have you?"

"No, but I know it's a famous village." I said.

"Famous for what?" she asked.

"It has the world's largest bull ring, and it was the place where Pedro Romero was born, "I replied.

"Who's Pedro Romero?"

"He was a famous Spanish bullfighter about the time of the American revolution. According to bullfight historians he killed five thousand six hundred bulls in an eight year period. That's almost two bulls every day." I said and laughed.

"You know a lot about Spain," she said. "And you speak perfect Spanish.

"Not really," I said. "I just happened to be rereading Hemingway's Death in the Afternoon. I don't generally store facts in my head."

She was silent for several miles as we passed through grape vineyards and olive groves heading up into the winding mountain road.

"You drive the car very well," she said. "I went with a man to Morocco in a big American car, and he made me nervous. I can always tell whether a person is a good driver by the way they hold the steering wheel."

"What do you look for?" I asked.

"You have to hold the wheel with your hands at about ten and two o'clock like this." She held her hands up as though grasping a steering wheel. "If they show their knuckles they're not good drivers."

I looked at my hands. They were at ten and two, and my knuckles were not showing. "You're right," I said . "That's the way race drivers hold the wheel, too.

"I know," she said.

"You're very observant. Maybe you should be a writer," I said .

"I do write a little bit, but mostly letters to my father. He's a writer. He owns a newspaper in Stockholm."

"No wonder you're married to a journalist," I said

"Yes," she gasped. "My husband works for my father, at least he did when I left Stockholm six months ago. Now that he's living with another woman, I don't know if my father kept him on or not."

"Did you ever work on the newspaper?" I asked.

"No," she replied. "I'm trained as a social worker, but we don't have social problems in Sweden.

"Yes, I said. "I've heard that everything in Sweden is perfect."

"Perfectly boring," she said and laughed.

"With your training as a social worker, you'll enjoy what I'm going to show you in Ronda. At least I hope you do, and that it's not perfectly boring," I said and turned to look at her.

She smiled. "I know, and I'm looking forward to seeing how this food program works - to being a spy."

I reached back to the rear seat, grabbed the stack of Caridad reports, and handed them to her. "Take a look at these reports. They make up these things for every town in Spain. Somewhere in the pile there's one for Ronda. They're in alphabetical order."

She thumbed through the pile of papers, and pulled out the sheets for Ronda, then studied them. "How unbelievable! My God, the amount of work to hand write all of this." She rubbed her hand over the sheet of paper with a loving gesture. "It's nice to see something that is still done by hand. I muse on the work of thy hands."

"What did you say?" I asked.

"I muse on the work of thy hands. It's from the Bible."

"That's pretty," I said.

"Yes," she gasped, and turned her head to look out the window. "The man I went to Morocco with was also an American, but you are so much different from him. He was a hippie. He was running away from the American draft. He said he didn't want to die in Vietnam."

"I don't blame him. Nobody in their right mind wants to die in Vietnam or any place else," I said.

"At first I liked him. He was so smart. He talked all the time. He was always telling me some little detail about Spain, but then I realized that he was very sick. Would you run away from the draft?

"Fortunately, I don't have to make that choice. I've done my military service," I said.

"What service were you in? she asked.

"I was in the Air Force," I replied.

"What did you do?"

"I was an aircraft mechanic." "What kind of planes did you work on?"

"Fighter planes. F-80s and F-86s."

"That's the reason you drive a car so well. I think you're a wonderful man, Pete. I could easily love you."

"I could easily love you, Birgitta." I turned to look at her, and reached for her hand. "In fact we can love each other even if it's just for today." I paused, looked back at the road then glanced at her again. "I love you," I said .

"I love you, too," she said and squeezed my hand.

We were coming into Ronda, and I pulled off the road to look at the reports. There were three parishes listed. "Okay, it's time to start spying," I said and laughed. I pulled the car back on the road, stopped several times to ask directions, and eventually found a line of people waiting beside a church for their food. I parked the car and we walked back to the church. Birgitta pulled her stole over her head, and tossed the left end of it over her right shoulder.

The first two distribution places were run by rather typical aging rural priests, and there was nothing imaginative or exciting. Just poor people, dressed in ragged clothes, standing in line to receive their rations.

The third one, though, was run by Father Anselmo, a young Spanish priest who had been in contact with Father Dino Garibaldi, and had set up the same small enterprise with sewing, and soldering shops. He had gone even farther than Dino, and along with toys and religious symbols he made several kitchen utensils from the oil and cheese cans. In addition to the shirts, his seamstresses made simple sleeveless wrap around dresses from the unbleached flour sacks that still bore the imprints of the American seal and the words "Donated by the People of the United States of America."

Birgitta admired the dresses, and wanted to buy one for herself, but Father Anselmo gave it to her. She protested, and wanted to pay for it, but Anselmo insisted that she take it as a gift. He wanted to give me a shirt, but I told him that I already had one.

When the tour was completed we accompanied Anselmo to his cafe for the obligatory cup of coffee and conversation. "I had heard through the grapevine that there was an American making an inspection tour, and I hoped that you would come to Ronda," Anselmo said as the waiter served our coffee. "Seeing you this morning was rather an answer to a prayer."

"I'm flattered that my visit could be considered an answer to a prayer," I said and laughed. "I think you and Father Dino are doing magnificent work," I complimented him.

"Thank you," he said . "We are trying to do the right thing. Do you like bullfighting?" Anslemo asked.

"I do," I said. "I don't know about my friend here." I turned to Birgitta. "Do you like the bullfight?"

She held her hand out, and rocked it back and forth. "I love the courage of the bullfighters, and the pageantry, but I'm a little squeamish about the blood," she said.

"Well, Ronda is famous in the world of bullfighting," Anselmo said. "It's the birthplace of Pedro Romero, and we have the world's largest plaza de toros. If I weren't busy this morning, I'd take you over to see it."

"Don't worry," I said. "We can find it."

"Ronda is also where the Rondeña style of bullfighting originated," Anslemo said.

"Yes, " I said. "It's the tragic style of Manolete, and Luis Miguel Dominguin."

Father Anselmo smiled and nodded his head. "You know a lot about us," he said. "There are many Spaniards who don't know that."

"The tragic Rondeña style is opposed to the happy, alegre, Sevillana school," I said and winked at Birgitta.

"That's right," Anselmo said and smiled. "What was the name of the bull that killed Manolete?"

"Islero," I said. "In the town of Linares over by Granada."

"You do know a lot," Anslemo said.

"I'm just showing off," I said. "I'm an aficionado de la fiesta brava."

We finished our coffee, said goodbye, and Anselmo directed us toward the bullring. After a tour of the ring and a visit to a small museum devoted to taurine memorabilia, we shopped in the market place for bread, fruit, cheese and a bottle of wine for a picnic lunch. Carrying our packages we walked back to the car. I opened the door for Birgitta, and again she had unlocked my door by the time I was around to my side.

"Are you adventurous?" I asked and slipped behind the wheel.

"Yes," she said. "Why do you ask?"

"I thought maybe we could go back to Torremolinos by a different route," I said and reached to the rear seat for my map then opened it.

"Oh yes," she said. "Let's do. Maybe we'll find a nice secluded place for our picnic."

I studied the map. "There's a secondary road that goes over toward Coin," I said. "Are you game?"

"Yes," she inhaled.

We were no more than on the outskirts of Ronda when the pavement ended and the road became an unpaved trail, just barely wide enough for the car. On the right hand passenger's side the cliffs dropped straight down to a ragged canyon. There was no room to pass another car and every couple of hundred feet niches were carved in the cliff where one car could pull over to allow another to pass.

"I wish I had my MG," I said.

"You have an MG?" she asked.

"I used to have one," I said and laughed. Now I have two children and a Ford Station Wagon.

"I love those little cars, and I wish we had it, too," she said and closed her eyes. "I would feel safer in a car that wasn't so wide. Can you see this side okay? You're really close to the edge."

"Yes, I can see," I said. "You're nervous, aren't you? I'd turn around and go back, but I can't. There's no room to turn."

"No, I'm okay. Just be careful," she said and closed her eyes again.

We approached another blind curve in the road and I slowed. In the distance, from around the bend, I heard the sound of a honking horn. I honked the horn on the Peugeot, and it echoed in the canyon below. The horn from around the bend blasted again and I stopped. Directly in front of us an overloaded Spanish Pegaso truck crawled around the curve, honked then stopped. The load leaned dangerously to the left, toward the precipice, and looked as though it would topple and pull the truck with it.

"Oh God!" Birgitta sighed. "Now what do we do?"

"Somebody has to back up," I said and turned off the ignition. I shoved the car in reverse gear, and set the brake, then turned the wheels toward the bluff on my side, and opened the door to get out.

"Be careful," Birgitta said.

"I will. Do you want to get out of the car?" I asked.

"I can't there isn't room on this side." she said.

"You can climb over here to this side. Be careful not to hit the brake."

She looked out the window then back at me. "All right, let me try," she said.ΠShe swung her long legs over the brake to the left side, then raised herself on her hands to slip into the driver's seat. I took her hand and pulled her out of the car. She leaned against the cliff.

"Feel better, more secure?" I asked and smiled at her.

She was pale. "Yes," she inhaled and managed a slight smile.

I walked down the road to meet the truck driver half way between the truck and the car.

"Buenas tardes," I said.

"Buenas tardes, señor," the driver replied. His swamper stood behind him in front of the truck.

We consulted about where the nearest passing niches were, then together we walked back up the hill toward Ronda to one where I could back the car, and, maybe, allow the truck to pass on the outside. The driver stepped off the distance then shook his head. It was not wide enough, he said.

We walked back down the road to the car. Birgitta came with us this time to inch our way between the truck and the side of the cliff, then hiked with us down the hill to another passing niche. He could back the truck in there, the driver said, and I could pass on the outside.

"Let's try it," I said. I turned to Birgitta. "Do you want to wait here?"

"Yes," she gasped. The color had returned to her cheeks.

The driver and I hiked back up the road, I squeezed my way between the truck and the bluff, then climbed in the car.

The swamper walked to the back of the truck to signal to the driver. The driver released the brake and let the truck roll down the hill. I followed until the truck passed the niche. I stopped the car. The truck pulled forward into the niche scraping the bluff with the load. The truck leaned as though it would topple.

The driver climbed out of the truck, walked to the front of the car and paced the width. He turned, walked back down the hill and paced between his parked truck and the edge of the road.

A pair of Guardia Civil troopers from Spain's national rural police appeared from around the bend, walking on foot patrol. They stood impassively beside Birgitta to watch. The sun glistened on their distinctive three cornered patent leather hats, and with their right hands they grasped the slings of the rifles hanging on their shoulders.

"No hay problema," the driver shouted and laughed.

Birgitta and the pareja of Guardia Civil were just beyond the truck, standing in the middle of t he road. She put both hands on the side of her head and grimaced. The pair of troopers laughed.

The driver motioned with his hand for me to come forward. I let the car roll. The truck was just inches from the car, the side view mirror scraped the edge of the load and snapped, but I kept moving forward. The right rear wheel dropped over the edge, and lost traction. I punched the accelerator. The left rear tire bit the road, and the car fishtailed toward the truck. The right wheel caught the road, and the left rear fender crunched against the truck's rear tire. I turned the steering wheel sharply, the car swerved then bolted past the truck.

The troopers and Birgitta jumped from the middle of the road toward the safe side away from the precipice. Birgitta, eyes wide, grimacing, still held her hands over her ears, but we were safe until we met another truck. The Guardia Civil troopers laughed again.

I turned off the ignition, set the brake and slipped out to let Birgitta climb in from the driver's side, then I walked back to the truck driver. "Muchas, gracias," I said. "Adios." I shook the driver's hand.

"No hay de que, señor," the driver said. "Vaya usted con Dios."

The Guardia Civil saluted, and we drove on. For another half hour we inched our way down the hill, honking the horn at every turn, and listening for the sound of another horn. Then, just as abruptly as the pavement had ended, we came on to another section of wider, paved road. Rounding a curve we came upon another truck crawling, in low gear, up the steep hill, but we passed without difficulty.

"That was a bit of good luck," I said. "We could have met that truck up above and gone through the whole thing again."

"That was an answer to a prayer," Birgitta said.

* * * * *

Another mile or so down the road we rounded another curve. We were on the crest of the coastal range. To the right the mountains dropped off toward the blue of the Mediterranean Sea, and to the left a meadow, brilliant with red poppies and wild flowers, stretched to a small high mountain lake. Tall pines reached toward a crystalline, Velasquez blue sky. "This looks like a good place for a picnic," I said and pulled off the road.

"Another prayer answered," Birgitta said.

I weaved the car down a rutted wagon trail to a secluded spot under an oak tree with a view of the meadow and the lake. "How's this?" I asked.

"Perfect," she replied and opened her door to climb out of the car. She stood looking toward the lake, then embracing herself she inhaled deeply. "What a perfect spot, what a perfect day," she said.

"Perfectly boring?" I asked and laughed then walked to her.

"Hardly." She smiled. "Perfectly perfect."

I slipped my arms around her and drew her close to me. I looked into her cool blue eyes. "It is perfectly perfect, and I think you're perfectly perfect," I said.

"That's just because you don't know me," she said and opened her mouth, inviting me to kiss her.

"But I want to know you," I said and kissed her. She pressed against me, and opened her mouth. I closed my eyes and let her tongue slip between my lips. Even with my eyes closed I could see the wild flowers blowing in the meadow. I opened my eyes and looked at her again.

She smiled. "I love you," she said.

"I love you," I whispered.

"Even if it's just for today?" she teased.

"What else do we have except today. No matter how hard we try, we can only live one day at a time." I kissed her again. Looking into her eyes, I recited a poem: "Look to this day. For it is life. The very life of life. In its brief course lie all the realities and verities of existence. The bliss of growth. The splendor of action, the glory of power - For yesterday is but a dream, and tomorrow is only a vision. But today well lived, makes every yesterday a dream of happiness © And every tomorrow a vision of hope. Look well, therefore to this day."

"That's beautiful," she said. "What is it?"

"It's Hindu," I said.

"They know a lot more about life and living than we do, don't they?"

"I don't know. We're not doing too badly," I said and pushed my finger in her ribs.

"I have a blanket in my canvas bag. Shall I get it?" she asked.

"How smart of you," I said. "Yes, I'll help you with the food."

We spread the blanket under the tree, and set out the bread, fruit, wine and cheese."

"I have a corkscrew for the wine," she said.

I slipped my hand into the pocket of my Levis. "I have this Swiss Army knife," I said. "I'm not a total loss." I opened the knife and screwed the spiral into the cork, then pulled. It popped.

"I have glasses, too," she said, and reached into her canvas bag. She held the glasses out for me to pour the wine into them.

"You anticipated a lot of our needs," I said and filled the glasses.

"Women's work," she said. "Women are good for something." She sat down on the blanket.

"Women are good for a lot of things." I sat down beside her and touched the edge of her glass with mine. "Here's looking at you, kid." I smiled at her.

"Humphrey Bogart to Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca?" she asked and smiled.

"Yes," I inhaled. "Another delicious Swedish woman who was light and air."

Birgitta sipped her wine and looked out to the lake then reached for the long loaf of bread. She broke a piece of the bread off the loaf, dipped it in her wine, then put it in her mouth.

"Are you taking communion?" I asked and smiled.

She looked at me and smiled. "Sort of," she said and broke another piece of bread off the loaf. She dipped it in her wine then held it to my lips. I opened my mouth and she put the wine soaked bread on my tongue. "Have you ever done anything that you regretted?" she asked.

"Sure," I said. "Everybody has."

"I mean really, really regretted?"

"Yes," I repeated. "So has everybody else. Nobody's perfect. We nailed the first and last perfect man to a cross a couple of thousand years ago out in Jerusalem." I pointed toward the East.

"Yes," she said in her own Swedish way. "I know."

"Why do you ask?" I said.

"You know I told you that I went to Morocco with that American boy?" she said.

"Yes," I said.

"Well, I did something very foolish down there in Marrakech," she said.

"What did you do that you're so ashamed of?" I asked. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Yes," she said and sipped her wine. "We were with a bunch of hippies, and everyone was smoking hashish. The man insisted that I smoke some and I did."

"That's no big deal," I said.

"I know that," she said. "I didn't like it, but I got high."

"Still no big deal. I've smoked grass, and I've been high. Everybody has."

"We made love when we were high, and I was careless. I usually take precautions, but I didn't that night. That was just a little over three weeks ago." She paused, and looked at me. She was silent for a long time.

"And?" I said.

"I want to make love with you so badly, and I don't know if I'm pregnant."

I reached out and drew her close to me.

"Does it make any difference?" I said and kissed her.

"Yes," she said. "I don't want to be pregnant with another man's child and make love with you."

I turned to embrace her. "You're not pregnant," I whispered and kissed her again.

I slipped my hand under her blouse to stroke her small firm breasts. They were hard and the nipples were erect.

She unzipped my Levis, then slipped her hand inside to release me. She leaned over, took me in her mouth, and with her lips she stroked up and down. She looked up at me and smiled. "Do you think there are any more Guardia Civil around here?"

"I don't think so. That pareja we saw when we passed the truck was walking toward Ronda, and this is probably their territory," I said. I slipped my hand under her skirt to rub the inside of her thighs. Slipping inside her I could feel that she was moist and open; she was wearing a diaphragm.

"Good," she said. She rolled on to her back, threw her legs in the air and pulled off her panties. Then slipping on top of me, she spread her skirt out to cover us, and with her hand guided me inside her. "Oh God," she moaned. She twisted, and raised and lowered her bottom to move up and down over me.

I pulled her blouse out of her skirt and slipped my hands over her breasts.

Her body quivered. "Yes, yes, yes," she gasped.

"Oh, God!" I cried out. "Oh Birgitta!"

I looked up at her. She was silhouetted against the Velasquez sky, and her eyes were the same blue as the sky.

Leaning down she kissed me and slipped her tongue in my mouth. She stayed on top, and I could feel myself swelling inside her. Slowly, up and down she slipped until we both came again. "How many more times can you come?" she asked, still on top of me.

"Maybe a hundred," I said.

"Really?" she said and smiled.

"You can try." I smiled and looked in her eyes.

"I will," she said and quivered with sudden gasps as she had another orgasm.

I could feel her vaginal contractions and I swelled in her again for one final burst inside her.

"Do you still want to play tennis?" she asked and slipped off. "Yes," I said.

"Then we better eat and go back to Torremolinos," she said and stood up.

She tucked her blouse inside her skirt, then pulled on her panties.

"I can stay over with you tonight if you want me," she said. "I have a girl who lives in, and she'll take care of my children. I'll call her from the Playa Monte Mar."

"If I want you," I said. "You know I want you. Te quiero, mucho, muchismimo." I stood up to zip my Levis. "There won't be any problem with Ingrid Svensen about you're staying over in her hotel?" I asked.

"I don't know. Did you make love to Ingrid, too?" she teased.

"You know what I mean," I said and poked her ribs.

"Yes, I know what you mean," she smiled. "There won't be any problem."

We ate our lunch and drove back to Torremolinos, then played tennis on the courts at the Hotel Pez Espada. She beat me the first set, 6-4, then I won 7-5, but she made me work. It was easier to make love to Birgitta than it was to beat her at tennis.

We showered together, then sat on the rooftop terrace to sip the last of our wine. Birgitta wore her new "Donated by the People of United States of America" dress, and on her long, suntanned willowy body it looked like a designer creation. We had dinner in the Playa Monte Mar; Pepe danced the twist with a woman who was not nearly as good as Marge, then Birgitta and I went up stairs to bed. It was sweet to hold her close to me during the night.

The next morning I awakened at six, we made love, showered together, then I left Birgitta alone in the bathroom while I dressed and packed my bag to return to Madrid.

When she walked out of the bathroom she was wearing her new dress and smiling.

"Good news," she said.

"What? I asked.

"I'm not pregnant."

"That is good news," I said and kissed her. "I'm happy for you."

We drove together to Torremolinos, stopped to buy churros, then ate them with cafe con leche in the Bar Central.

"I'll miss you, Pete," she said.

"I'll miss you, Birgitta, but I'll be back," I said.

"Promise?"

"I promise," I said.

* * * * *

I talked to Birgitta on the telephone regularly. She had been so impressed by our trip to Ronda that she had sought out the parish priest in Torremolinos, and was working as a volunteer. Birgitta even got some of the village women started in making shirts and dresses from the flour sacks.

In March I flew to Malaga for a weekend with her. Birgitta borrowed Marge's little Citroen, met me at the Malaga airport, and together we drove back to the Playa Monte Mar in Torremolinos. It rained the entire weekend, and we hardly got out of bed, but we did go to a party at Marge's house where I met Marge's fiance, Brigadier Ralph Chamberlain.

Ralph was a delightful officer and a gentleman with a wry, British sense of humor. He had spent much of his military career in Kenya in East Africa, so he had acquired a lot of the freebooting, hard drinking, genteel hell raising attitudes that are characteristic of East African "Happy Valley" British colonials. Ralph fit perfectly with the other expatriates in Torremolinos, and he was an understated compliment to Marge's flamboyance. Marge told me that after they were married she and Ralph were planning to move to Madrid. Birgitta was sad to think of Marge leaving Torremolinos, and on the day that she drove me to the airport for my return to Madrid she asked, just as I was to board my plane, if she could move in with me.

"That's something to think about," I said then kissed her goodbye.

There had been a fair over the past week in Malaga, and as I walked across the ramp toward my plane there was a parade of gigantes y cabezudos that was forming beside a fife and drum band playing Jotas Navarras. The huge papier-mache gigante y cabezudos, giants and big heads, images are archetypal symbols of life's problems, good and evil, love and death, old wise men and women; each morning during many ferias they parade through the streets to remind people of their own human frailties and imperfections. Life's problems loom like gigantes, and we are cabezudos, big heads, if we think we can solve them.

Once in the air, on my way back to Madrid, I allowed my mind to wander over the possibility of marrying, Birgitta. Birgitta embodied all of the characteristics that I admired in people, men or women. She was light and gay without being reckless. She was honest, open and willing to take risks with her heart and feelings, and not just her body. She let down her defenses and made herself vulnerable, and she was beautiful. I found it hard to imagine that her husband would want another woman. In order to marry her, I would first have to ask her if she wanted to marry me, agree to take on the raising of her two children, as well as the two of my own, then we would both have to get divorces. I supposed that she would have to get a divorce in Sweden, and I would have to go to the States. After all of those little "details" were worked out, I would have to submit my resignation from the Foreign Service. In those days an FSO could not marry a foreign national without the approval of the Department of State, and the department did not give the approval automatically. Sometimes they accepted the resignation. Also, In those days, or at least in my mind, Foreign Service officers did not take mistresses if they were married, or live-in companions if they were single. In my mind an FSO was supposed to be holier than Caesar's wife. We were, after all, representatives of the United States of America, diplomats who dealt with the big picture, classified information, strategic interests. Both Birgitta and I were married to other people, and in so far as the State Department was concerned Birgitta was a foreigner. With such ponderous gigante and cabezudo notions, is there any wonder that I was attracted to Birgitta's lightness an d gaiety? My mind could not grasp all of these gigante issues; they loomed larger than my coping skills. I had never heard that commitment moves the universe, or that if you "follow your bliss" some Higher Power solves gigante problems. I was a cabezudo. I thought I should be able to solve the problems all by myself. My head and my heart swirled like a whirlpool, but fear of economic insecurity prevented me from ever seriously considering that Birgitta and I might have a future together.

Once back in Madrid we resumed our frequent phone conversations, and about a week after my return Marge Winslow called me to see if I wanted to swap my apartment in Madrid for her place in Torremolinos for the Semana Santa holidays. I said it was a wonderful idea, and on Miercoles Santo, I again left Madrid to drive back to Birgitta for a five day "weekend."

Birgitta and I spent the time driving up into the mountains and travelling to Malaga and Granada to see the processions that are a part of Holy Week festivities. On Saturday, our last day together, coming back from Granda we stopped in a country inn for lunch in Antequera, and as we sipped coffee Birgitta stroked my hand.

"Do you know it's only been two months ago that I first saw you drinking coffee and eating churros in the Bar Central in Torremolinos," she said.

"Yes," I said. "It seems a long time ago doesn't it?"

"Yes," she inhaled. "The time we're together goes so fast and when you're gone it goes by so slowly. I'm going to miss you."

"I'll be back," I said.

"I know," she said. "I'll still miss you.

I didn't know what to say to her. I still had all of the Gigante problems rattling around in my cabezudo, and we were both starting to feel the let down from all the excitement of the past two days. We were both anticipating the pain of separation.

"I'll miss you, too, Birgitta," I said and stroked her hand. I could see tears in the corner of her cool blue Scandinavian eyes.

She smiled and brushed the tears away.

"Let's not get heavy," she said. "We've had so much fun together. Let's stay light, and gay and 'Look to this day. For it is life. The very life of life.'"

"You remember that little Hindu poem?" I said.

"How could I forget it," she said. "I remember every second since that morning I first saw you in the Bar Central till now. I'll always remember them for the rest of my life. They've been perfectly perfect."

"They have been perfectly perfect, and I still think you're perfectly perfect. I love you." I smiled at her. She smiled back.

I love you," she said.

It was just after eight o'clock Saturday night when I dropped Birgitta in front of her apartment so she could check on her children. "I'll go to Marge's place and pack my things then come back here," I said.

"I can walk down to Marge's place," she said. "Do you want to eat something tonight?"

"I guess we have to eat," I said. "Would you like to go to Playa Monte Mar?"

"Do you want to go there?" she asked.

"What ever you'd like."

"I'd rather be alone with you tonight," she said. "I can fix us something at Marge's."

"That sounds good to me," I said.

"Perfectly perfect?" she asked and laughed. She opened the door to get out of the car.

"Perfectly perfect," I said.

"I'll see you in about an hour," she said. I leaned over and kissed her.

Birgitta prepared a light supper of scrambled eggs, smoked Navarra trout, grilled tomatoes and a crisp green salad. I opened a bottle of champagne, and we sat on the floor in the living room to eat.

We had finished eating, and were sipping the last of the wine. "Would you write that little Hindu Proverb you recited for me the day we went to Ronda?" she asked.

"Yes, do you have a piece of paper and a pen or pencil?" I said.

She reached under the table and pulled a note pad and pen from her purse. She had had it ready.

I opened the pad, and recited it aloud while writing: "Look to this day. For it is life. The very life of life. In its brief course lie all the realities and verities of existence. The bliss of growth. The splendor of action, the glory of power © For yesterday is but a dream, and tomorrow is only a vision. But today well lived, makes every yesterday a dream of happiness - And every tomorrow a vision of hope. Look well, therefore to this day."

"It's so beautiful," she said and brushed tears from her eyes. "Shall we go to bed?

"Yes," I said and stood up. I offered her my hand and pulled her up. "I love you, Birgitta."

We made love twice during the night with a passion that was beyond anything in the past. "Religious processions make you passionate," I said.

"I can't get enough of you," she said. "I wish I could store the feelings I get when we make love."

We slept.

At seven o'clock on Easter Sunday morning I showered and shaved, then dressed in a clean pair of faded Levis, a cotton blue and white stripped fisherman's sweatshirt and a pair of blue canvas alpargatas for the drive back to Madrid.

"You look so handsome," she said.

"Thank you," I said. "You're beautiful." She was wearing her "Donated by the People" dress. I picked up my bag to walk to my car.

"Pete?" She stood in front of me, and placed her hands on my arms. "Yes?" "I love you."

"I love you, Birgitta."

"I probably won't be here when you come back," she said.

"Where will you be?" I asked.

"I think I'm going back to Stockholm." "When did you decide?" I asked.

"Last night. I had a message to call my husband when we got home."

"And you called?"

"Yes. He wants me back. The other woman moved out."

"And you're going?"

"I don't know. What do you think I should do?"

"I think you should go," I said.

She looked at me for a long time without speaking. I could see the tears forming in her eyes.

"I think you would be doing the right thing, Birgitta."

"Who knows?" she said. "I have to think of the children."

"Yes, I know. We both have children that we have to think of." I put my bag in the car and turned to her. "Goodbye," I said and kissed her.

"Goodbye."

I missed Birgitta as a friend and lover, and Torremolinos was never the same as were those few sweet days we spent together out of season in the rain with just the handful of exotic and interesting expatriates to share the Bar Central, Quitapenas, Manolo's on La Calle San Miguel and the Playa Monte Mar. I never heard from Birgitta again.

Gene McCoy © July 1998

GO TO CHAPTER 11 OF MEMOIR

CLICK TO OPEN CHAPTER 11

BACK TO TABLE OF CONENTS

BACK TO INDEX

© 1997 g inofso@gte.net