A Marriage in Four Seasons

by Kathryn Abdul-baki

  There was something about this man, an easy, unconscious virility that reminded her of Francisco. Maybe it was the wine or those nostalgic college memories a little while ago, or maybe simply the thrill of being in Granada and walking alongside this attractive stranger, that made her wish that, instead of the cotton shirt and skirt she was wearing, she had put on something more alluring, like the clingy dress still in her suitcase. Just a moment before, she’d felt he could have been one of her students. Now, her readily accepting his offer to accompany her seemed tinged with something else—attraction? She pushed the thought away.

  There was no trace of Richard in the next bar, either.

  Hussein was glancing around with an air of concern. “Maybe he went to watch flamenco,” he suggested, tilting his head in the direction of the tablao she’d looked in earlier.

  “I’ve checked that one,” she said quickly, reminding herself that she’d lost her husband and needed to find him. Now. “I’d better go back to the first bar, but thanks for your help.”

  “There are others,” Hussein said encouragingly, as if there were dozens of flamenco halls where Richard might be hanging out at that very instant.

  “No. . . .” she began. Then she asked herself whether she actually needed to find Richard, just yet. Maybe he had wandered farther away than she’d thought. She began to feel as confused as Alice hunting for her white rabbit in a world where nothing made sense. Would Richard have actually gone to a gypsy show looking for her? Would he have assumed she’d gone off to watch flamenco by herself? His behavior had been so strange on this trip, she thought, that anything was possible.

  Perhaps because she’d watched Hussein at the Alhambra and sensed they’d shared a kindred vision, she felt a certain trust in his earnest interest in helping her. “I guess we could look,” she said, and followed him.

  The man who had been tuning his guitar in the doorway earlier was still there, strumming softly under the fluorescent light. He nodded as they passed, obviously remembering her. His eyes lingered on Hussein a few minutes, his palm muting the strumming before resuming.

  Joy wondered how this Spaniard from Granada felt toward descendants of Moors, people he would no doubt consider pretenders to the Alhambra, and how he would respond to the notion that his city would one day be taken back by Morocco, as Hussein had suggested.

  Farther on, a brightly lit blue door opened out onto a wide, whitewashed terrace. She hadn’t reached this far on her own before, but now Hussein boldly strode upward as if magnetically drawn to the loud thuds and clapping. She followed the guitar strums embracing her as she and Hussein approached, each strum tugging her toward the door.

  On the moonlit terrace, she stopped again to catch her breath before the open door that, she now realized, was the entrance to an actual cave in the hillside. She looked back at the Alhambra on the adjacent hill to hold onto some shred of reality, and then she turned back to Hussein, who was waiting.

  People inside were seated in a row of chairs against the whitewashed wall of a deep rectangular room. The rounded cave ceiling was decorated with shiny copper plates and cooking ladles that glowed a burnished orange and looked like they’d just been polished.

  Although the audience here included tourists photographing the show, many in the crowd did look Spanish, all watching a slender, stern-looking woman, furiously stomping her heels.

  The dancer was wearing a wide, ankle-length skirt, a part of which she had bunched in one hand above her knees to show off her stomping feet while her other hand was poised high behind her head, fingers curling gracefully to the rhythm belted out by the woman hand-clapper behind her. The dancer’s face glistened with perspiration, and she seemed to be in a trance, her eyes half-closed, her jaw working with exertion. Joy could barely hold in her excitement at being in a true gypsy cave. She wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that this dancer was actually the lady of the house, pausing in her cooking to dance for her guests.

  Joy and Hussein stood near the doorway. He glanced down at her, and again she thought of Francisco and how they used to walk through Manhattan, dipping in and out of the Soho bars. They’d been gutsy and foolhardy in those days, and the inherent dangers of the city’s streets late at night had yanked at the tight passion between them, leading them back to his apartment for fervent, sweaty sex.

  She felt giddy at the memory as both she and Hussein continued to gaze at the dancer, the surrounding music sealing the two of them into a private cocoon.

  “Flamenco is the dance of pain,” Hussein whispered to her, nudging her to move in front of him so she could get a better view. “It comes from the Inquisition, the slaughtering of the Moors, the gypsies, and the Jews.”

  She nodded solemnly, although she hadn’t thought of it in those terms. Flamenco always seemed to her a dance of the fiercely independent gypsy way of life, of rootless hardship, as well as being singularly Spanish, whatever that now was. She’d never connected it to the plight of the persecuted Moors and Jews, and yet now she saw that it must have been. The lamentation and wailing in the singer’s voice was sparked by something far more wrenching than a precarious nomadic life. It was a primal cry of agony.

  Joy heard herself echo those very wails—in yearning for her lost child and for the longed-for happiness with Richard that seemed more untenable than ever.

  She grew conscious of the warm press of Hussein’s chest against her back. She inched forward, away from him, a hot flush rising from her toes to her face. She dared not look back at him or acknowledge his, probably accidental, touch.

  A moment later she pretended not to notice when his hand, perhaps unintentionally again, brushed against her arm and landed gently on her wrist.

  She flinched, remembering how she’d enviously watched him that afternoon in the Alhambra as he surrendered himself to the brilliance of the Sala de los Abencerrajes. It now made perfect sense that, as an architect, he would let that marvel of design carry him on its magic as she had tried to do. As Richard could never seem to do, regardless of how magnificent he found the surroundings.

  Hussein now appeared to be inviting her to embrace the dancer and hypnotic music his way, as if nothing else mattered but submitting to this marvelous spectacle before them.

  She sank deeper into the fervor of the room and the beats of the dancer’s pounding feet, felt each pulsing stomp reverberate through her own body. Closing her eyes, she let the room envelope her and coax her into its mystical landscape and throbbing pulse.

  The image of Richard flashed through her mind. She brusquely turned around to face Hussein. “I must find my husband.”

  Hussein’s eyes bore into her, his face going blank, but he obediently stepped back, making space for her to pass. They slipped behind the guitarist and hand-clapper and out the door of the cave into the crisp night air. The chill braced her, clearing her head.

  The light from the street lamps illuminated the tops of the whitewashed alley walls below them, as though they’d been dusted with sugar. From here, the Alhambra across the valley and the lights of its gardens and summer pavilion sparkled. The air around her, as if filtered through some exquisite sieve, flowed into her lungs like pure oxygen.

  Irving had described nostalgic nights in his dank palace chamber, listening to the gypsy singing from the Sacromonte caves. She felt him watching her now from his room in the Alhambra, sharing in and wholeheartedly approving of her enchantment. A ripple of pride rustled through her that she had actually dared to create her own exploration of Sacromonte.

  Quietly, Hussein moved closer to her on the stoop above the steps. For an instant their faces almost touched.

  He reached out and touched her hair, running his hand down to her shoulder. “Beautiful hair, beautiful blue eyes,” she thought he said.

  Joy steadied herself on the stoop. Hussein bent his head down to hers, his lips grazing her cheek as she instinctively turned her head away. Then, she found her way back to him, her mouth settling briefly against his, against h
is raw youth and her revived memories of Francisco.

  Without a word, he gently pulled her toward him. She didn’t resist when he lifted her slightly and pressed her against the wall, tentatively kissing her lips.

  Her heart started to pound stronger, so fast and hard she thought she’d choke. She was certain he could sense the out-of-control drumming in her chest as her back rubbed against the wall in response to his pressure. Oh, God, she thought. This is how it was with Francisco, his lips . . .

  Shaking off the vision, she placed her hands on Hussein’s chest and pushed him away. What was wrong with her? What was she doing here with this man nearly half her age, a man she didn’t even know?

  Hussein straightened up, looking puzzled. He dropped his hands to his side.

  She looked at him, embarrassed to have been so totally swept up in this ridiculous way, but before she could say anything, he pointed toward the dark ravine sloping down the mountainside.

  “Look, Señora,” he said. “That is where King Boabdil departed Granada, hidden from his people.”

  She looked to where his outstretched arm was pointing, her mouth smarting from the imprint of his. Had this really happened? Had she just cheated on Richard?

  Hussein’s voice, however, seemed tinged with a reverent sadness at this historic defeat of his people rather than regret for his actions just now. For him, perhaps, nothing untoward had passed between them. Or else the quick swing on his part was to spare them any awkwardness. Perhaps, to him, what just occurred had been simply a free moment of pleasure between two people that should remain private and thus without remark.

  “And there,” he added, pointing in another direction, “La Cuesta de las Lagrimas—the Hill of Tears.”

  The Hill of Tears, the alleged spot from which King Boabdil had taken his last look at Granada. The victorious Ferdinand and Isabella, in an act of surprising charity, were said to have granted the vanquished Moor permission to leave the Alhambra in secret to avoid having to pass before throngs of his conquered subjects.

  “El ultimo suspiro del Moro,” he said.

  She nodded, her pulse still racing. The last sigh of the Moor.

  She turned to look at him again, but he was looking straight ahead, his face impassive. He was, she realized, unbearably good-looking. She was confused. Was it the thrill of kissing a stranger, of betraying her husband in this way, that had pushed her to go along with him? Was it that he had just showed her the other possibilities that existed for her? Other than Richard?

  He offered his hand. She tried to ignore the warm feel of his palm against hers as she let him lead her down the rest of the dark steps. Although thankful for his discretion, she couldn’t help wishing that he’d pushed on with his kisses and touches, brought her more deeply into his world, rather than allowed her to stop him.

  She stepped quietly beside him, awkwardly keeping her hand in his, wanting to comfort him for the loss of his king and of Granada, wanting to comfort herself for the loss of her own innocence and to protect herself from the unnerving realization that she could so easily disengage from her life and move into the unknown.

  6

  She heard her name.

  As she and Hussein emerged from the alley, Joy quickly tugged her hand free.

  Richard was hurrying toward them in the dark. She instinctively turned to Hussein, still stinging from their one kiss and yet wanting to reclaim some of their brief, shared intimacy. He seemed about to say something, but stopped. It was too late, anyway.

  She felt her shoulders droop. “It’s my husband,” she said.

  Richard reached her out of breath. “Joy! Where the hell . . . ? I’ve been looking all over for you!”

  She stumbled back from the sharp gale of his agitation.

  “Christ, honey, I went into every bar. Where the heck did you wander off to?”

  “I—I came out of the bathroom and you were gone,” she said. “I waited around and checked back in the restaurant. Then I went looking for you.”

  “You were up there in the bathroom almost half an hour. I went up to look for you myself. I even asked the waiters, but nobody’d seen you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “we must have crossed signals. I thought you might have gone looking for me in one of those other cafes.”

  Richard was now staring past her. Remembering Hussein, Joy turned around. Hussein appeared even younger and more striking than before.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated, suddenly feeling weak but knowing she must introduce them to each other. “Rich, this is Hussein. He was in the Alhambra this afternoon at the same time we were. He was helping me look for you.”

  Richard continued to stare at Hussein, studying him closely. Hussein now appeared uncomfortable.

  “This is my husband, Richard,” she said to Hussein, almost ashamed to admit to her choice of a cranky spouse. Hussein stepped forward and offered his hand. Richard hesitated, and then perfunctorily shook it.

  “Hussein is from Morocco, but his ancestors lived here, in the Alhambra,” she said, a tremor of pride in her voice at having come upon an actual offspring of the Moors who built this place.

  Hussein grinned. Richard was silent and looked unmoved.

  From down the street came a spout of bright headlights and a choking rumble. A motorcycle was making its way toward them.

  “Finally,” Richard said. “I had the restaurant call the cops.”

  Embarrassed that Richard was making such a fuss in public, Joy broke into an uneasy laugh. “Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you such a scare. I should have just stayed put.”

  A loud voice abruptly called from up the street.

  She turned to see who it was. She could make out a man standing in the dark alley, a man with a guitar. She thought he must be the same one who’d been strumming earlier outside the flamenco tablao. She wondered if there was some commotion inside.

  When she turned back around, Hussein was gone.

  “Hussein?” She stared into the empty space behind her. The man up the street with the guitar went inside the tablao. From somewhere in the alley beyond, she heard light, rapid steps.

  “Hussein?” She turned back to Richard. “Where’d he go?”

  The helmeted policeman on the motorcycle reached them and slowed down, idling his sputtering motor.

  “It’s okay,” Richard said to the policeman, putting his arm around Joy. “I’ve found her.”

  The policeman looked at her, then at Richard from under the visor of his helmet. “Bueno?”

  Richard nodded. “Yes, thank you. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  “Be careful,” the policeman said sternly. “Many thieves here.”

  Richard nodded in agreement. “Yes, sir. Gracias.”

  The policeman appraised them a second more, then turned his bike around, revved up his engine, and headed back down the street.

  Richard turned to her. “Who was that guy?”

  “Who?”

  “That guy with you.”

  “Hussein?”

  “Joy, how could you just wander off with a perfect stranger? Here of all places?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t know what else to do. I thought you’d gone to some other bar up the street. He saw me looking for you and offered to help. He’s visiting, too, from Morocco.”

  Richard scoffed. “Morocco?” He shook his head. “I saw someone just like him hanging around with some other guys while I was waiting for you to come out of the bathroom. They were smoking joints and gabbing in Spanish.”

  “Hussein?”

  “The guy with the backpack. The ponytail. I know the smell of dope.”

  “Oh, Rich, don’t start now!” she snapped, resenting the accusation. She had just been in Hussein’s arms and had certainly not smelled anything like dope.

  “I’m not starting anything. I saw him smoking it.”

  “Hussein was sitting alone,” she said adamantly. “I was looking for you and he said you might be in one of th
e other bars. We went to the Sacromonte to see if you—”

  He stared at her in disbelief. “You what?”

  “There was a show—” She started to explain, but the absurdity of what she’d done was already dawning on her.

  “How could you have just gone off like that, and with someone you don’t even know? You see the hustlers around here, honey. Didn’t you hear the cop? The place is crawling with thieves! Men with nothing better to do than—you just let the wind blow you here and there—”

  “Rich! I just wanted to see for myself . . . and Hussein is no thief. He was perfectly—” She caught herself before she could say irresistible. “He was helping me look for you. I was safer with him than I would have been on my own.”

  “Jesus Christ! That was crazy.”

  “I couldn’t find you.”

  Looking flabbergasted, he shook his head. “I can’t understand how I missed you.” His voice faltered. The fear he must have felt was now apparent because he was trembling and seemed out of breath again, although he had been standing still for some time.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly softened by his concern. “Honey, I’m sorry you were so worried.”

  He shook his head again; then, he sighed and glanced at his watch. “Come on. It’s nearly twelve, and we have to drive to Cordoba tomorrow afternoon. We need to find a cab from the main road.”

  She started to follow him, then stopped, not wanting to lose all that had happened this past hour, her reckless abandon, her resurrected feelings. Although she was already feeling guilty for some of her thoughts about Hussein and for having wished he’d continued with his kisses, a part of her still wanted to hang on to that moment.

  “Wait,” she said, tugging at Richard’s shirt sleeve. “Just wait a minute, Rich. Look.”

  He stopped, then glanced up to where she was pointing.

  “Look at how beautiful it is, Rich.”

  The ebony sky looked all the more inscrutable above the twinkling lights of the luminous palace across the valley. She’d read that those who’d once lived in the Alhambra had listened to the distant singing and clapping from the hill they were now standing on.