“We can meet at a café,” she suggested.
“No,” he said again. “We meet inside Madrid’s Opera House. Friday night, nine o’clock, row ten, seat B.”
“What? ¿Que?” she asked, still uncertain if her translations were 100% accurate, or if her mind had turned reality into a surreal semblance of things she thought she had heard.
He said, “Yo tengo dos tickets to a visiting orchestra performance. I will have uno de those tickets waiting para ti at the ticket box when you arrive. You only need to give your nombre to the persona inside the box.”
“No!” She was adamant. “I prefer to meet you outside the performance.”
“No!” he shouted. “I will not stand outside, risking your tardiness.”
She paused for a moment because his intensity reminded her of someone. She was the one who was always early. She was the one who stressed others not to be late.
“Okay. I’ll meet you inside.”
“The Opera House is located opposite the Palacio del Oriente. Do you know where that is?”
“Si, si,” she answered. Of course she knew of the Royal Palace, the second most stunning tourist attraction in Spain. How could she not know where Philip the something—in seventeen something—had built a home suitable for a Bourbon monarch? It did catch her eye every so often as she walked by, and she had gone for a tour with an English-speaking guide. Alfonso the something was the last person to live in the palace, yet Franco’s body was still there today. Yes, she could certainly find Madrid’s Opera House, just across from the palace, and she could probably find row ten, seat B.
“Adios.”
“Adios.”
They hung up.
Dear Grandma,
There’s something I will never again take for granted back in the United States, and I can only daydream wishfully about plugging it in, turning it on, filling it with water, and feeling the steam rise forth. Yes, ironing. It took me an hour to persuade Rosario that I needed to iron, let alone wash my clothes. After a fun game of charades, she took out the ironing board, but explained that I’d have to pay her first, and that I could use the washing machine only once a month.
I know I shouldn’t complain. Life could be tougher than this, but it happened the same day that I was in the midst of shaving my legs in the shower when Isabella, my Spanish sister, shut the water off. She explained to me that shaving my legs was costing her family money and that I shouldn’t do it daily, rather, like washing my clothes, I should shave monthly. Once she chased me out of the bathroom, she ran in there and stayed for quite some time. I think she might be sick. Her face looked so pale.
Well, I suppose if I am to live the Spanish life, I need to adhere to this Spanish family’s rules. An attitude adjustment is needed. May the hair on my legs grow free and wild!
P.S. You all must laugh at the things that fluster us down here.
She thanked God that the hair on her legs hadn’t grown too long by Friday night as she walked the couple of miles to Madrid’s neoclassic Opera House. Why was this mystery man adamant about meeting inside? Was he that uptight about missing a single moment of the performance? It was only a visiting orchestra, and he was a Madrileno. They’re the ones late for everything.
She followed his orders, telling the man in the box office her name, and he handed her a ticket for row ten, seat B. She went inside and found her seat, the second from the aisle. There was no Nacho. A woman sat on her right, but the seat to her left was empty. Look who is early and look who is late, she thought.
The lights dimmed, and she could hardly see a thing. Now she wouldn’t be able to see what Ignacio looked like, at least not until the performance ended. That is, if he showed up.
He did. A man took the seat next to her nearly a quarter of the way through the first performance and made no apologies for his tardiness as he whispered into her ear. “Do not think I am interested in you romantically,” he said in his native language. “I am not.”
She didn’t know what to say. She had felt a rude disconnection with this man the moment they first spoke on the phone, and she felt it more now.
“And I am not interested in you,” she whispered back.
“You are offended?” he asked.
“Of course not. Let’s listen to la musica.”
“Si, si. That is what the love of my life told me. She told me I must listen more.”
“Are you married?”
“No. I am taking a rest from her. We have been together a long time, since I was a child. I need this time away, time to listen.”
“I think that’s a good idea. I think you should listen. You don’t have to say another word to me. Let’s both just listen then to la musica,” replied Vicki, aware that their whispering might upset the people sitting around them.
“I don’t like the silence,” he said when the music stopped and no one clapped.
“¿Por que?” She asked him why.
“Porque,” he whispered loudly. “I don’t know what to do in the silence. I don’t know how to feel.”
She herself was glad when the music started up again, so the others wouldn’t hear him whispering during the silent moments. But then she felt his shoulders jerking about and his hands flailing in the air, as if he were a conductor himself, or perhaps a crazy man controlled by the music, like a puppet on strings. He bounced about and it all made her quite nervous. She couldn’t breathe. She felt anxious, like she wanted to escape, but she couldn’t. She was also like a puppet controlled by invisible strings and there was nothing she wanted more than to cut her strings and those of the hyperactive character beside her. Then the two of them might run down the aisle and out the door. He could go his way and she hers. What a nice escape it would be.
“Wait,” she said to Ignacio, who was standing up in the middle of the performance. “Where are you going?”
“Quiet,” he said. “You must listen. Listen with your eyes shut, and you will hear things you don’t hear with your eyes open. I go to the bathroom, and I will be back.”
She closed her eyes and listened. It was true. She heard the music differently, and felt it surrounding her body like a powerful electromagnetic field. She felt stronger and healthier as if the music added strength to her immune system.
A good twenty minutes passed. Row ten, seat A remained vacant. She walked home alone.
A few days went by, and she began feeling uneasy about Nacho. Perhaps he got sick and had to take off. Perhaps he got mugged on the way to the bathroom, or he lost his ticket and they wouldn’t let him back in. Maybe he was some whimsical figment of her imagination, her alter ego, the “her” she needed to get to know, the “her” who dumped men into a fierce Sea of Forgetfulness, and now she had been tossed overboard herself by someone who gave her no chance to be known, by someone who forced her to close her eyes and truly listen, not to others, but to music, and in doing so discovered new beauty. She didn’t get mad. She became curious, and it drove her crazy not knowing how he could tell her to listen when he himself could hardly sit still. And it was rude to leave a woman alone and not escort her home. She called him up.
“Hola. You yourself hardly listened for five minutes. I haven’t known you long – correction, I don’t know you at all, but I agree with your girlfriend. You do need to listen more,” she said slowly in Spanish.
“Girlfriend is too simple of a word. She is the love of my life,” he answered in his native tongue.
“Then you should have taken her to the performance, not me,” replied Vicki.
“I did. I was with her in my mind that night.”
It had gone far enough, and she told him it was all too strange. “Let’s forget we ever met,” she told him. “This was all a big mistake. Adios.”
“¡No! I will pick you up at eight o’clock on the curb below your family’s apartmento.”
She regretted ever giving him the address the first time they spoke on the phone. What had she been thinking?
“No,” she said. “
You won’t.”
“Si, si, I will,” he said in Spanish.
“I won’t be there,” she stated.
“I will be there.”
“Adios.”
“Adios. I see you then.” He hung up.
“No you won’t see me,” she said to herself as she slammed the phone down. “Loco. This guy is crazy.”
Dear Grandma,
The other night I was attempting to make my way through the dark hallway to the bathroom when I heard an awful noise. It grew louder and more ferocious with each step I took. Suddenly, the noise was right below me and, horrified, I discovered it was Señor Lorenzo. I had mistakenly routed myself into their bedroom and was standing over their bed. I’ve never heard such a snore in my entire life. It had a Spanish accent to it. I started to shake with laughter as I stood there, frozen and blinded, with my hands gagging my mouth.
P. S. Is thunder really some kind of noise from Heaven? I know it’s not the angels bowling, but is it anything other than plain old weather acting out? I’m dying to know. Well, not “dying.”
She stood outside on the balcony, looking down at the city street below, hoping and praying Ignacio wouldn’t show up. Then, at around eight forty-five, he pulled up to the curb in an old-fashioned bright yellow car. As he got out, she saw his features better than she had at the darkened Opera House. He was a semi-good-looking, short, stocky Spaniard with dark features inherited from Moorish invaders of long ago. He glanced up at her and tossed two kisses, waving his hand first to the left, then to the right.
She stared with disgust and disappeared into the apartment. Just then, Rosario flagged her into the kitchen with a look of excitement.
“Mira, mira,” she said, pointing to a pot on the stove. “We eat this tonight,” she said.
With a quick glance into the pot full of living, slimy creatures, Vicki knew she had no other options. “Lo sien to,” she replied, shaking her head.
“Me voy. I go out tonight, I go now. I am late.”
“No,” declared Lorenzo as he entered the kitchen. “Spaniards are always late. It is good to be late. You have enough time to eat a little.”
“I’m already late so I would be way too late, very late, if I stayed to eat a little,” she explained.
“They are ready to eat now.” Rosario scooped snails onto a spoon. “I give you some now to enjoy before you go.”
“Si, si. You stay,” added Lorenzo. “It is good to be late in Spain. Early is bad.”
“I am not early. I am late. I am very, very late, muy, muy tarde. Me voy,” said Vicki as she rushed out of the kitchen.
Within seconds, she was down the flights of stairs and outside on the sidewalk with the mysteriously rude Spaniard. He served one purpose, and that was rescuing her from downing another bowl of living creatures.
They strolled to a nearby café in the heart of Madrid and drank a small glass of chato, a red wine, and ate tapas, or appetizers of fried fish, slices of sausage and prawns in butter. The café was crammed full of shouting Spaniards, and Nacho’s voice blended in perfectly. His opinionated personality made him a sort of genius, except when it came to remembering whether or not his family knew a Howard from the United States. Vicki described Howard’s physical appearance, his personality, and the island, but still nothing came to mind. Nacho declared the entire thing suspicious but said he didn’t mind. He enjoyed meeting her anyway.
“Try this,” he demanded in Spanish.
“Okay,” she said as he fed her something off his fork.
“Mas, mas,” he said before she finished chewing the first bite.
“Delicioso,” she declared. “I like it.”
“You like it?”
“I love it,” she answered. “I’d like more.”
“I give you more.”
“Gracias,” she said as she waited for him to feed her once more.
“What is it?”
“Bull’s testicles,” he answered in Spanish.
“No mas,” she declared out loud. “No mas, no mas. I’ll be right back,” she choked, wishing she had stayed home to eat the snails. At least they slid right down on their own. “Un momento, por favor.” She exited quickly for the restroom and remained there a good ten minutes, rinsing her mouth obsessively. She swore she would never tell anyone what she had eaten. She would never admit to having a bull’s testicle in her mouth, and, for the record, she had never declared anything about it to be delicious!
He lectured passionately about the Constitutional Monarchy, shouting out his own views, then wanted to know her views on political figures, domestic and international issues, literary authors, and more. His words flew out fast, like a human sneeze shooting stuff out at 100 miles per hour. He picked her brain and, frighteningly at times, he had a better understanding of her own country than she did. As he spoke and as he listened, his thick, bushy black eyebrows nervously twitched and arched in sync with the words.
Tranquilo, tranquilo, Vicki thought. She was glad he wasn’t acting rude toward her, nor was he the least bit interested in her on a romantic basis. There was nothing fizzing and foaming and ready to burst inside any chemistry tubes. That was for sure!
He asked Vicki if she had seen the morning paper.
“No, no he leido a nada. ¿Porque?” Vicki had not seen it.
He handed Vicki the El Pais newspaper and pointed to a small article on the second page.
The article reported that Spaniards, and especially Madrilenos, sleep less than any of their European neighbors.
Espresso-intoxicated Spaniards still swarmed the café at one o’clock in the morning. A nearby table of students sat flipping through textbooks and highlighted notes. A woman across the room stood in a corner wiping her mascara-drenched face with a napkin as her friend shouted words of comfort at her. Young kids crowded a small table, trading CDs. For Vicki, keeping cafés open in Madrid long after midnight was an insomniac’s Utopia. They were therapeutic refuges from the world, philosophical havens and retreats for modern-day mourning. She thrived in this city of night owls and looked forward to the next day’s siesta to refresh.
All at once, as if the thought of insomnia triggered her problem, she felt short of breath, as if there wasn’t enough oxygen for everyone in the cramped café to share. I’m so sick of this, she thought, and ordered tequila at the bar.
“Tequila should calm me down a bit,” she announced in English, before downing the shot.
“¿Que?” asked Nacho.
“Oh, never mind. Tell me, what’s the name of this café? Oh, wait, did I say that in English? I think I did.” The shot of tequila was doing her no good.
“¿El nombre de este cafe?” she asked again, this time in Spanish.
“Yo no lo se.”
Vicki asked the woman sitting on a stool next to her the same question.
“Yo no lo se,” replied the woman.
“You don’t know the name of this café either?” Vicki felt frustrated. She liked this place, despite its close air, but she wanted to know its name. She then asked the bartender.
“Yo no lo se,” he replied confidently.
“¿Que? ¿Que? How can you not know the name of the place where you’re working? That’s absolutely nuts! Mas tequila, por favor.”
As she waited frantically for her next drink, Nacho told her there were more bars in Madrid than in any other city in the world. He said there were something like eight thousand bars.
“Oh, as if that’s any excuse for not knowing the name of the bar you’re in right now. Well, I don’t know if this is a bar or a café. It serves both liquor and coffee.”
She downed another shot of tequila, disgusted that everyone she asked, including the bartender, did not know the name of the bar, café, whatever it was that they were in. She waited for a thank you from her lungs, and within minutes they were so busy breathing normally that they didn’t have time to thank her, and she was pleased. She wanted another, but also knew she didn’t want to mask one problem with ano
ther. “Let’s go, vamanos.”
On their way toward the door of the crowded café, she stopped to ask one more intelligent-looking man the name of the place.
“Yo no lo se,” he said.
“You do not know it either? Estupido,” the Spanish-speaking tequila slurred from within her. She ran outside and looked at the sign on the door. It read, Yo no lo se. That’s right. The name of the place was, “I don’t know.”
The next morning Vicki stared at the cookies and milk with the face of a woman who had just downed five shots of tequila and five worms. Rosario asked her guest what Americans eat for breakfast. Vicki liked the morning snack but could still taste the tequila from last night, so she answered honestly, “Huevos.” In case the woman didn’t understand, Vicki pantomined breaking an egg against the counter and pouring it into a pan.
“¡Si, si, si! ¡Tortilla Española!” responded Rosario, and she went to the refrigerator and took out three brown eggs. “The most widely eaten dish in my country,” Rosario said in her native language. “Watch carefully. Take this recipe home with you. I teach you how to make the tortilla, or Spanish omelet.”
As she chopped two medium-sized potatoes into fine matchsticks, Señora Rosario bragged that the French stole the idea of the tortilla from Spanish chefs at the court of Louis the something after he married the daughter of Philip the something in sixteen-something. Vicki understood most of what she said. Was the señora now speaking more slowly or was she herself understanding more than before? Then again, maybe Rosario didn’t speak at all. Maybe her gestures spoke for her.
Rosario chopped a small onion in a manner that declared, “A mother knows things,” and the way in which she tossed the onion’s skin in the bucket said, “You need more than galletas for breakfast today.”
Vicki hardly answered. It didn’t matter. Often, the women in the kitchen watched each other more than they listened. Rosario rinsed her hands in the sink, then waved them in the direction of a picture of her daughter, Isabella, then held her hands up toward God in a way that said, “Aye, Dios Mio. Help her, dear God.”
Sanibel Scribbles Page 27
