I was rested and had a feeling of well being and oneness with the world when
I got up and pushed open the shutters to let the sunlight fill the room. The
view was toward the center of town and silhouetted against a crystalline blue
sky was La Giralda, the magnificent Moorish tower that overlooks the city.
It was my first morning in a fine first class Spanish provincial hotel and
since it was Saturday, and my birthday, I decided to treat myself to the luxury
of breakfast in bed. After a large glass of fresh orange juice, warm rolls and
coffee with hot milk, I dressed and went downstairs to the barber shop. I had my
hair cut and got the first manicure of my life. I felt very good when I
sauntered out to explore the city.
Leaving the hotel I walked down the Avenida Generalissimo Francisco
Franco past the Archives of the Indies where it is said that they have
everything down to the last joke about Spanish colonial America filed. I
recalled that when I had been studying in Mexico I had frequently run across
references to documents, the originals of which were filed in the Archivo de
los Indios. Further on was the Cathedral, the second largest Gothic Church
in Europe, after the one in Milano, then the Alcazar and finally the Calle
Sierpes.
Here on this narrow cobbled street filled with shops, bars and coffee houses
was the folkloric Spain of my dreams. In these small sidewalk cafes the men sat
playing dominos; on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday they discussed the last
Sunday's bullfight, while on Thursday, Friday and Saturday they talked about the
one for the next Sunday. It was the Spain of Garcia Lorca, and I recalled
Lorca's poem about Sevilla. Sevilla es una torre llena de arqueros
finos....
I wandered aimlessly through the narrow streets winding like grapevines
through the Barrio de Santa Cruz where behind the floral wrought iron
grills the sound of water spilling into fountains drifted from the otherwise
silent patios. I returned to the Calle Sierpes intent on buying myself a
broad brimmed, flat crowned sombrero Cordoves. It would be my birthday
present to myself.
I entered a dark dusty hat store and found a young attractive English girl
struggling to explain to the wrinkled old proprietor that she, too, wanted to
buy a sombrero Cordoves. I offered interpretive assistance which she
gladly accepted.
"Oh, thank you so much," she said with a tone of relief in her voice. "I've
been trying for five minutes to explain to the man that I want to buy one of
those flat Spanish hats, but I can't seem to make him understand."
I told the proprietor what she wanted, and that I wanted one for myself. The
old man went into the back of the store and in a few minutwa returned with two
fine black hats. She took the one he offered to her and tried it on, then turned
to face me.
"What do you think, how does it suit me?"
"You look like a Guapa Sevillana, a real Sevillan beauty," I replied.
"Only it needs to be cocked a bit more to the left." I reached out and turned
the hat down slightly over her left eye. "Now it's perfect."
The old man indicated his approval. Muy bonita," he said nodding his
head.
I then tried on mine, but it was a bit small, and the proprietor took it
back to the room and brought out another that fit perfectly. "How's that?" I
asked her. "Do I look anywhere nearly as good as you do?"
"Better! It suits you perfectly," she said. "You really look very Spanish."
We laughed at ourselves, paid for the hats, then went out into the street
wearing our new purchases without the least bit of self-consciousness, shame or
inhibition.
"Can I buy you a coffee, or even better, a copa de Jerez?" I asked her as we
walked along the noisy street back toward the Cathedral.
"What's a copa de Jerez?" she asked.
"It's a small glass of sherry wine - very dry. It's a custom, so I've read,
here in Andalucia to take a copa about mid day. Besides, I'm celebrating my
birthday."
"Then by all means we have to have a copa!" she said.
We stopped in a sidewalk cafe‚ and in a few moments a white jacketed waiter
appeared. I ordered two glasses of San Patricio, a very dry, vino fino de
Jerez.
When the waiter returned he had the bottle, two saucers and two long stemmed
sherry glasses, along with a small dish of olives and bits of cheese balanced on
his tray. It was a pleasure to watch him serve. First he placed the glasses on
the saucers and set them on the table in front of us. Then he removed the cork
from the bottle and filled each glass to the brim with the fragrant amber wine.
"El sol de Andalucia embotallada," the waiter said, and with a final
flourish he placed the plate of olives and cheese on the table between us.
"What did he say?" she asked.
"Bottled Andalucian sun," I said raising my glass to her. "Salud, amor y
pesetas." I touched her glass with my own.
"And happy birthday," she replied.
"Thank you," I replied then looked closely at her. She was pretty, with
close cropped chestnut hair, green eyes, and that delicate alabaster complexion
that is typical of English women. I guessed that she was close to thirty years
old.
"Say, here I am drinking a toast to your birthday, and I don't even know
your name. Mine's Angela."
"I'm sorry," I said, "I'm Pete, Pete Stuart."
"Well, I'm awfully pleased to meet you Mister Pete Stuart, and I thank you
for your assistance. I might have been there all day if you hadn't come along.
Sometimes I think they don't even try to understand."
"It's a very good way to keep a pretty girl in your shop," I said and smiled
at her.
"I never thought of that," she said. "Do you suppose that they really do it
just to have someone to talk to? Sort of a game?"
"Who knows," I said.
"Your Spanish is very good. You must have been in Spain for a long time."
"No, I've been here just over a month, but I lived in Mexico for a number of
years. That's where I learned my Spanish."
She sipped her wine. "Um, this sherry is good. I like the copa
custom."
"The Spanish have some wonderful customs I'm beginning to find out. The
siesta, the copa at mid day, two hour lunch times. It's quite a change
from the fast pace of New York," I said.
"Are you from New York?" she asked.
"No, I'm a Californian, but I was working in New York before coming to
Spain."
"So was I. I'm on my way home to London from New York now," she said.
"I'm escorting a group of little old ladies through Europe, and when we
reach London I bid them farewell and I'm home. We're going on early tomorrow
morning, but they're off on a tour today, so I have a day to myself, and I'm
really enjoying it. Are you just visiting Spain?"
"I'm in the Foreign Service," I said. "I work in the American Embassy. This
is my first post and it's like a dream come true for me. You look awfully
familiar to me. Where did you live in New York?"
"On Sixty-eighth Street, just off Third Avenue," she said.
"I have a friend who lives there, Georgia Parks," I said.
"In fact, I was just at a party at Georgia's before I left for Spain."
She smiled. "Georgia the temptress. I know her, and I was probably at the
party. On the Fourth of July?"
"Exactly!" I exclaimed. "My God, the world really is a pañuelo!"
"What does that mean? Don't forget I don't speak Spanish."
"I'm sorry," I said. "It's the Spanish equivalent to it's a small world.
Literally it says that the world is a handkerchief."
"I don't remember seeing you at that party though, and I'm surprised that I
missed you. I don't generally miss an attractive man," she said.
"Nor I an attractive woman. Could it be that we were there at different
times? That doesn't make sense. I just said you looked familiar to me, and if we
didn't meet at the party, where was it?"
"I lived in the same building," she said. "Maybe we passed in the elevator.
Were you at Georgia's place often?"
"Fairly often," I replied.
"As I said, Georgia the temptress."
"I won't comment on that," I replied. "I will say that she was the girl
friend of a friend I worked with."
She gave me a sheepish grin. "The world is a handkerchief."
We had another sherry, then returned to the Avenida Generalissimo
where we hired a horse drawn carriage and took a tour of the city.
We went to the Parque de Maria Luisa, then crossed the Guadalquivir
River into Triana, the gypsy quarter, and ended up in a small taska
drinking red wine and eating gambas al ajillo, shrimp fried in olive oil
and garlic. It was a simple working man's bar, and the barman kept our tab by
writing on the bar with chalk. Like the Calle Sierpes and the Barrio
de Santa Cruz it was more of the Spain of Garcia Lorca. In the corner a
guitarist sat and plucked out falsetas to soleares, and periodically
there was some spontaneous cante jondo by one of the patrons. A pair of
barefoot gypsy girls came in and danced Sevillanas and I gave them a few
pesetas.
"This has been a perfect day. I'm so glad that I met you in that hat store
this morning," she said. "Otherwise I would never have seen all of this. May I
tell you that I think you're wonderful."
We were both feeling very warm and convivial from the wine and the
companionship; with a bit of companionship, romance and the promise of sex, I
perceive the world differently. The colors are brighter, the wine sweeter and
the music more romantic.
"You know what, Angela? You're the kind of girl I would like to spend a lot
of time with. Go down on the south coast and live with you. That's my fantasy.
To live on the south coast of Spain and write books, and I would love to do it
with you. You're just the type for that sort of thing."
"It sounds wonderful, and it fits perfectly with my own fantasy. I've always
wanted to be a painter, so while you write, I could paint."
"It's a good thing that we're both moving on tomorrow, or we might just do
it," I said.
"Why do you say it's a good thing we're moving on? she asked. "Why don't we
do it?" "Because I've got a wife and two kids back in Madrid," I replied.
"Oh shucks! I was already beginning to think about coming back to Madrid to
hunt you down. I should have known as much though. All of the good ones are
always taken it seems."
She took my arm and pulled me close to her, kissed me on the cheek, and
rubbed her finger over my lips. "That doesn't stop me from loving you now
though. I can still love you for just today. Nobody, not your wife, nor your
children can take this day away from us," she whispered.
We left the bar and walked slowly back toward the center of town. It was
late and the streets were deserted except for the serenos who guard the
buildings at night. We went to my hotel where I learned how puritanical the
Spanish can be.
The concierge was polite, but very insistent that I would not be allowed to
take the lady up to my room. Laughing, we left and took a taxi to her hotel
where we received the same polite but firm admonition.
"Listen," I said to the clerk. "What difference does it make to you if we
go upstairs together. Just turn your back and let us go. Who's going to know?"
The clerk was insistent.
"I'm sorry, sir, but it just isn't permissable." We left the desk and walked
to the elevators where we stood looking at one another. "I guess it's goodbye,"
she said.
My mind was working like a computer. Such a wonderful day couldn't end like
this. There has to be a place where we can go and be alone together, I thought.
"Angela, I don't know how this will strike you, but in every town in Spain there
are hotels that don't ask questions. They're the places where the working girls
take their tricks. All we have to do is ask a taxi driver to take us to one of
them. What do you say?"
She smiled and pushed her sombrero down over her eye. "Let's try it," she
said.
I took her by the arm, and we walked out of the hotel where I hailed a taxi
and explained to the driver what we wanted. The driver told us to get in, and in
a few minutes we were stopped in front of a dingy dilapidated building. Behind
the dirty glass I could see an old hag seated under a naked bulb behind a desk.
The driver said that we would have no questions asked here.
I left Angela in the taxi and entered. The old woman was dressed in a ragged
bathrobe and reading a magazine. Yes, there was a room available. Yes, she would
call us at five o'clock in the morning. Would I please pay two hundred pesetas
in advance. I paid her and returned to the taxi for Angela.
"We're in luck. Come on," I said.
"I've done a lot of crazy things in my life, but this is the first time I've
ever gone to a whorehouse. It's exciting." She laughed.
The old woman looked up from her magazine as we entered together.
"Quantos años tiene la niña?" she asked.
"What did she say?" Angela asked.
"She wants to know how old you are," I said.
"Tell her I'm twenty-eight."
"Tiene viente ocho," I said.
"Muy bien," the old woman said and handed me a key saying that the
room was the first door to the left on the second floor.
We climbed the stairs and found a small but adequate cubicle furnished with
a double bed, a wash basin and a bidet; all of the essentials. It even had clean
sheets, even if they were a bit yellowed.
I removed my sombrero and sailed it across the room where it fell on
the floor. Angela stood beside the bed looking timid, and I walked to her and
kissed her.
"When did you decide that we were going to make love?" I asked.
"In the bar in Triana. I told you that I loved you, even if it's only for
today, and when you love someone you want to express it in every way possible. I
was so disappointed when they wouldn't let us in the other hotels, but thanks to
your inventiveness, here we are. Kiss me again. Your mouth is so pretty, and it
tastes like red wine."
She ran her tongue over my lips and pressed against me m. I felt desire
swelling in me. I unbuttoned her blouse and slipped the hooks of her brassier
loose then leaned down to kiss her swollen nipples. She ran her fingers through
my hair, and stroked my face.
"I like that," she said and opened my Levis to slip her hand inside.
"And I like that."
Then we were in bed making slow but passionate love. Sometime in the night
we were awakened by another couple arriving, and we made love again. We slept
and it was five o'clock when the old hag tapped on the door. We dressed and went
downstairs where several taxis waited, then rode together to her hotel. The taxi
stopped. I paid the driver, and we climbed out to stand facing one another on
the street.
"Goodbye," I said. "It was fun." I smiled at her.
"Goodbye," she replied and smiled at me. "Yes, it was fun. Happy birthday."
She turned and entered the hotel, and I walked on alone. I passed the
Alcazar, the Cathedral and the Archives of the Indies and arrived back at my own
hotel as dawn was breaking and church bells were sounding the beginning of
another day. I felt very sorry that I would never see Angela again. She really
would have suited my fantasy.
