Sanibel Scribbles

by Christine Lemmon

  She nodded and smiled. He had guessed that right. She looked and sounded American—whether speaking Spanish or French. She studied his eyes behind the eyeglasses—amused eyes—and felt curious about his story. Fine age lines only added to his appeal. Why did she understand his Spanish better than that of any other Spaniard she’d ever heard? His words came clearly and easily and, listening to him, she felt as comfortable as she might if standing in her favorite section of a bookstore. She understood his words as quickly as it took her to read the titles on the spine of a book. She didn’t have to read the fine print; the title said it all. Maybe he spoke more slowly than the other Spaniards, out of courtesy.

  She asked him if he spoke English, to double-check that their conversation couldn’t just take place in English.

  No. He spoke Spanish, Italian, and French, and explained that the people in his country tended to speak fast so she shouldn’t get discouraged. He told her that soon she’d be dreaming in Spanish.

  He put his car in park and opened the door. She suspected she had gone too far, and that she should never have smiled or stopped in the first place. Her tour guide had warned her, but she lived in Spain now and wanted to learn the culture. How could she do that without chatting with its people? The man getting out the car wore a black turtleneck with black, dressy, pleated pants. Did he iron them himself? He came up to her and stood too close, invading her comfort zone, making her feel like a small piece of tissue, a biopsy being examined for disease. She took a couple of steps backward, but he drew closer again, and she felt intoxicated by the smell of his cologne. She reminded herself to buy mints later, because Spaniards like standing face-to-face when they talked. They conversed with no fear of spitting or coffee breath. And, up close, they talked as loudly as Americans who stand several safe feet away from each other. She understood this about him, so he didn’t offend her.

  In Spanish, the stranger told her she spoke proper Spanish and started to laugh.

  She stared at his eyes, a kaleidoscope of brown and green, and, feeling offended, she asked him why he was laughing. What had she said?

  He confessed that her Spanish sounded quite antiquated, at least a few centuries old. He told her to imagine a Spaniard in the modern-day United States speaking Shakespeare.

  “Great. Thou art a complete weirdo,” she mumbled to herself. She had no idea that her choice of words included ancient verses only used in libros, though books were where she had learned most of her Spanish. She defended herself by telling him about the Ancient Spanish Literature class she had taken at school last semester. It’s why her words sounded a bit outdated. But that was why she came to study in Spain, to transform words learned from a book into living, breathing conversation.

  From her language style to her clothes, the observant, outspoken stranger sounded as if he were writing a commentary. She felt alienated and abducted, and wouldn’t have been surprised if he had drawn out a silver needle to probe her next.

  Instead, he asked about her red-and-black sweater. Where had she bought it?

  She told him it came from a boutique in Florida.

  Then he asked how she liked wearing the pointy shoes of Europa.

  She desperately needed to complain to someone about the narrow eighty-dollar pair of shoes she had bought and felt like a native as she yelled at the black torture devices on her feet. She told him she couldn’t wait until the end of the day so she could change into her comfortable American loafers. He bent down and touched her shoes, and that she found odd.

  All this time, his car engine was running, so he excused himself, un momento, and returned with the keys. “Perdoname, como se llames? ¿He sido hablando, pero no he preguntado su nombre?”

  She hesitated, understanding his question but debating whether she would actually give her name to a man in Spain, a stranger with a fascination for her clothes, her shoes and the ancient style of her language.

  “Vicki,” she replied.

  “¿Victoria?”

  “Vicki.”

  “Victoria, que hermosa!” He kissed her once on each cheek, then asked for her last name, too.

  She felt each kiss, so close to her lips, yet far, intimate and somewhat daring, yet completely innocent and only friendly. She knew the double kiss was simply custom in this country, a place full of romance. For a teasing split second, it brought this man close up and, like a wild, edible plant, he was good enough to bite, but of course she’d never do such a thing.

  “Victoria. Victoria de los Estados de Unidos,” she answered. He’d have to settle for that “Quien esta?” She asked his name to be polite.

  He played along with her game. “Yo soy Rafael. Rafael de Espana.” She asked Rafael from Spain where in Spain he lived.

  He explained that he came to Madrid frequently on business, but lived on a yacht in northern Spain. He worked as a fashion designer in Spain, Italy, and France.

  Sure, she thought, suspiciously, feeling ahead of the game. I’ve read Danielle Steele. He probably wishes he worked as one. What an innovative way to capture my attention! Imagine me, a young, naive Americana falling for a pretend European fashion designer. Please, Rafael, just be yourself. You’re a nice hombre. Besides, I’m not attracted to you because you drive a Mercedes, nor because you dress well. These things don’t make a person. Better yet, I’m not attracted to you at all. I just understand your Spanish better than anyone else’s in this country. Normally, I go for personality, but I can’t seem to translate personality yet. All Spaniards have the same personality to me at this elementary stage in my language interpretation.

  “Que?” She came out of her English-language daydream, realizing he had asked her something. Her mind took a moment to translate it. Oh yes, what time does my class start? She glanced at her watch, but, like a cruel joke, it looked as if it spoke another language as well. She was too nervous to figure out which dot meant what hour. That required more translating. She knew she shouldn’t have bought a watch with dots.

  Again, Rafael asked her what time her first clase started, and when she told him nine-thirty, he glanced at his black leather wristwatch and laughed, telling her it was now almost ten-thirty. They had been standing on the curb under the arch for an hour, speaking in Spanish.

  “Oh no, no! My first class in Spain, oh, and my second too! ¡Tengo que ir!”

  “Mañana,” he declared.

  “Mañana? Tomorrow? What do you mean?” she asked with disgust. “No te preocupes, hay mas clases mañana,” he said.

  “Of course there’s more classes tomorrow, but today was my first day of classes. This is not good!” She knew her words had switched to English, but that happened under pressure.

  “Mañana, mañana, mañana, Victoria.” He laughed, a laugh that normally would make her feel as if he were laughing at her, but those dimples pardoned him; then he pressed a button on his key chain and the trunk of his Mercedes popped open. Inside were piles of white blouses with opaque floral sleeves neatly placed over silky skirts. With his nod of approval, Vicki took a closer peek and touched the soft fabric of a pale pink blouse.

  “Te gustan las ropas, Victoria? Tu puedes tenerlos, si quieres!”

  Had he offered to give her the clothes? She felt sure he had said they would probably fit her, and that she could pick one or two for keeps. No, that would be an embarrassment if she didn’t hear him correctly, so instead she shook her head and walked back to the sidewalk.

  “¿Te gustan? ¿Te gustan?” he asked in the same tone Rosario used when she asked if Vicki liked dinner. He grabbed a blouse and held it up to her.

  “¿Si, me gusta mucho!” She loved the clothes.

  “¿Victoria, por favor, me gustaria tomarte a un restarante, si quieres?” He looked nothing like the European male stick man Rebecca had scribbled on the tablecloth that night. This figure had dimples, something stick men didn’t have. And this figure certainly wasn’t naked. No, he was gorgeously dressed. Yes, he was much better, so much more in-depth than the silly little sc
ribble, so she accepted his gift and agreed to meet for dinner. First, he’d be in France on business, and said he wouldn’t be back until early October. So they agreed to meet on October fourth at six-thirty in the evening.

  He asked where he should pick her up, and she remembered that her Spanish family never had anyone up to the apartment. She didn’t want to expose her Spanish family’s apartment to some stranger. She was the one to stop, turn, smile, and talk in the first place, so she’d pay the consequences if this man turned out to be a foreign creep. She told him she’d meet him on the main corner of El Corte Inglés, the seven-story department store that stood a block from the family’s apartment.

  Rafael flipped throughout the pages of a black leather day planner and scribbled the date, time, and place, then drew a big heart and wrote “Victoria.” He wrote the same on another page, ripped it out, and handed it to Vicki as a reminder.

  Wow, that’s quite a way to confirm a date! She had to admire his finesse.

  As he drove away, he waved his hand out the window until he could no longer see as the American woman with books in hand turned in the opposite direction from the university, heading for the Prado Museum at the other end of Madrid.

  Visiting the museum clicked. It immediately became her place—a comfort zone in a big city in a big country in a mammoth world. The world is large and easily overwhelming, and that is why it must be broken down. That is why people of all ages need to find their hangouts, their escapes, and little hiding places in life, she wrote to her grandmother later.

  While staring at the works of sixteenth- to eighteenth-century Spanish artists on the main floor of the museum, Vicki felt guilty for skipping her first two classes in Madrid. She blamed Rafael partially for her first skipped class, but she had had plenty of time to make the rest of her classes. Instead, she had chosen one of the world’s most famous art museums and convinced herself that she must live with such decisions. A museum could teach more than a classroom. Eventually, instead of feeling guilty, she felt risky, dangerous, and terribly adventurous. She told herself not to make eye contact next time, to keep walking, even if someone needed directions. Besides, who would dare ask a blonde with not a single dark root for directions in Madrid? What a yahoo, she decided. She couldn’t wait to write Grandma all about this character, who seemed to have popped straight out of a romance novel. Yes, Grandma would love the details about Rafael.

  She heard the tour guide say in Spanish that the broad spectrum of paintings reflected the personal tastes, religious beliefs, and political power of the Spanish Crown dating back to the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. She listened, she learned, she thought. The Prado Museum became her place to stare and think. Who had time for staring and thinking? No one, but she made time.

  She decided not to tell anyone of her encounter with Rafael. She had plenty of time to decide if she would dare meet up with this hombre on October fourth. He himself probably wouldn’t remember her in two weeks, let alone their scheduled date. Would she actually stand on a corner waiting for such a man three weeks from now? Probably not, she decided later, while looking at Goya’s works downstairs.

  For the rest of the school week and the following week, she arrived early to reserve a front-row seat, and left each class with a severe headache. Listening and trying to recognize the Spanish words of her professors proved a strain. In one class, she was taught something about Spain consisting of two great kingdoms for two whole centuries of its history—Moors and Jews, if she heard right. Both had diverse dialects. The Spanish civilization during Moorish supremacy thrived. There were schools built, and many were free so that poor people could attend. She caught fragments of facts, nothing more.

  As the days passed, her mind worked overtime listening, interpreting, and taking notes that flipped back and forth from Spanish to English. She felt confused, not knowing in which language she should make her notes. Her brain heard Spanish and tried to convert the Spanish into English. Should she take notes in Spanish or English? She worried that straining might create an indented fault line on her forehead. Late at night, she looked up the meanings of unknown words in her Spanish-English dictionary, and then studied her notes from class thoroughly.

  After closing her dictionary, she would sit in bed late at night and noticed an old familiar problem returning. A terrible knifelike pain darted through her heart, accompanied by shortness of breath. Drained as she felt from interpreting her classes, she fought off sleep and stubbornly stayed awake for hours. She didn’t mind not sleeping—she only wished she knew of something productive to make of the night, like tarpon fishing or chatting by the lighthouse. Soon, she promised herself, she would get to know Madrid at night.

  Dear Grandma,

  When I can’t fall asleep at night, I look forward to the next day’s siesta. This entire country naps a couple of hours a day. I always viewed napping as a sport for babies. Maybe some Spaniards throw tantrums, but probably not. Owners close up shop, business people keep sofas in the back of their offices for resting, and insomniacs refresh themselves. I love the concept and wonder if I might be influential enough to take the siesta back to America with me. But where would everyone go to nap? At least in Madrid they can walk home to their apartments, or lie on a bench in one of the many parks. I guess Americans in the corporate world could bring mats and nap in the hallways or conference rooms. The lights could go off, and there’d be blankets handed out and a stardust lady to tap naughty nap takers on the shoulder.

  But no, only babies and cats nap, and for good reason. There’d be too many sexual harassment claims centered on naptime in America. People would have to lock their doors and sleep safely in their offices.

  Could the United States handle closing down business for an hour every day? Naptime would have to be mutually declared and perhaps made into a law. The siesta could only work if everyone went down for a nap at the same time. Winston Churchill napped daily and claimed that when the war started, it was the only way he could cope with his responsibilities. If I were president, I would declare a war on stress and mandate every U.S. citizen to take a one-hour nap every day. I wish my country would wake up to the benefits of the siesta, especially because everyone might then have more energy for fiestas and for appreciating the night.

  P.S. Do you ever sleep up there? Probably not. You are no longer limited by fatigue, aches and pains, disease, or mental worries, so why would you need sleep?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  AFTER THE NEXT DAY’S siesta, Howard’s mysterious contact Ignacio called.

  He had received her letter and wanted to meet but had questions. At first he spoke rapidamente like everyone else in Spain, but then he picked up on Vicki’s low level of Spanish comprehension and slowed down, reassuring her that she spoke Spanish quite nicely. Talking on el telefono was always more dificil than talking in person.

  She agreed. The phone made the language barrier more difficult, as if she were standing in the United States and he in Spain, and they were divided by an international border of barbed-wire fences, guards, and mean dogs.

  He said that neither he nor his mother had any recollection of a man, let alone a friend, named Howard and living in Florida. In fact, they didn’t have any American friends at all. After much hesitation, he decided to meet her anyway, in case the name Howard might eventually ring a bell.

  “Lo siento,” she apologized. “I feel foolish. Let’s forget the entire thing.

  If you do not know an American man named Howard, there must be a mistake.”

  “I do not want to forget,” he said in Spanish.

  “You must. There must be another Ignacio living in Madrid, and I probably messed up part of the telephone number. Please, accept my apology.”

  “I am not ready to accept it,” he declared. “Call me Nacho for short.”

  “Si, si. That is exactly what Howard had told me to call you as well,” she replied. “You must remember him.”

  “Friday night is best. You meet me then.”


  “Si, si. I will bring my friends,” she said. Then again, she hadn’t made any friends yet, but talking of them might lend the impression she was protected—the higher the number, the greater the protection.

  “No!” He insisted she go alone.

  What-ifs crowded her mind, as they had on that first boat ride to Tarpon Key. She imagined a strange plot, a kidnapping, a mugging, a mysterious plan set forth by both Howard and his strange European contact. “Nice talking to you, but por favor, forget the entire thing. It’s no big deal.”

  “Wait!” he said, as if screaming across an ocean.

  “What?” she asked. And then he tempted her with the one thing she had been craving for weeks.

  “Have you seen Madrid at night?” he wanted to know.

  “No,” she told him. She’d been staying in the apartment with her señora, studying at night.

  “So you know nothing of Madrid,” he declared in Spanish.

  “No es la verdad,” she said. “I do know some things. I’m taking several very intense classes, all taught in Spanish and by Spanish professors.”

  “Si, but you are missing out on the one most precious aspect of Spanish life.”

  “The night?”

  “Si, si. If you don’t know the night, you don’t know the people de España,” he stated. “Madrid has dos personalidades. I heard another Americana say Madrid was schizophrenic, completely different night from day,” he explained in his native tongue. “I want to introduce you to the side you do not know.”

  This sounded like Denver’s introduction to good Old. Mr. Two-Face. Then she thought of tarpon fishing and late-night conversations and yoga at midnight, and knew that what he said was true.

  “Okay. Night does have its value. Let’s meet Friday night at six o’clock,” she said.

  “No,” he told her, “night doesn’t begin that early. Nine o’clock.”