Sanibel Scribbles

by Christine Lemmon

  Vicki waved to the woman who still mourned the damage Franco had done to her country and people during his autocratic rule and said hello to the man who celebrated the fashion and freedom that came to his country following Franco’s death.

  “No te preocupes. ¡Vive!” The woman’s voice rang out like cathedral bells as she told her not to worry, but live. Go live life!

  Rafael wore a black turtleneck and gray dress slacks. His shoes shone and his cologne always smelled good. Vicki didn’t recognize it, but knew it meant a night full of conversation, rich food, red wine and culture.

  They left the skyscrapers and city traffic behind and drove fifteen miles into country hills filled with ancient tall pines.

  “Rafael, no te gusta Franco, ¿no?” She was learning about Franco in a history class, but preferred learning directly from the people of Spain.

  “Some give credit to Franco,” Rafael answered in Spanish. “After all, he never opened Spain to Hitler and that is positive. But I give him very little credit. I made a mistake in life many years ago, a mistake very horrible. Because of Franco, I’ve had to live with that mistake, and my life has not been good.”

  Vicki unrolled her window so she could feel the cool air hit her in the face as they drove. “Digame? What sort of mistake?”

  As they pulled up to a ranch-style restaurant, Rafael put his fingers to his lips and shushed the topic, giving Vicki a subtle indication not to ask again. “This restaurant, where I am taking you, received five forks, cinco!”

  “Five forks? ¿Que significa?”

  “It means I only take Victoria to the best.” He answered in Spanish. “En España, we rate restaurants on a scale of one to five forks, based on the quality and price.”

  A hostess greeted Rafael by name and led them to a candlelit table on a glassed-in porch on the side of a cliff overlooking nearby chestnut trees and evergreen oaks in the distance.

  A wandering flamenco dancer dressed in orange, purple and yellow stopped in front of their table to perform, and Rafael leaned over to Vicki to whisper loudly his opinion of the dancer. “This dancer is emotionally uninhibited. She is more concerned with experiencing the very moment than with anything else in life,” said Rafael.

  Vicki didn’t understand. She only saw a dancer. “Do you know her?”

  “No. Watch the flamenco. Watch her moves. She is completely care-free and has an attitude toward la vida. La musica and dance are her ways to express it.” Rafael sat silent for a moment, but the song and dance felt never-ending to Vicki.

  “¿Que piensas? Digame, Victoria. Digame in inglés.” He asked her what she saw in the dancer, but asked her to describe it in English, not Spanish.

  “Describe what I see? in English?”

  “Si, si, en inglés, Victoria. Inglés.”

  “Okay, sure. I can do that but you won’t be able to understand what I’m saying,” she replied. “Oh, well, I’ll describe what I see. I see a dancer. A dancer in a colorful costume who’s getting a great aerobic work.”

  Rafael interrupted by gently pushing her chin toward the dancer. “Mira. Look at the dancer, not me,” he urged in Spanish.

  “Si, si, I see a dancer, one who has a story to tell. It’s a long story because she’s been dancing a long time now. She wants to share her story. She wants to express it. This woman is expressing a story about, uh, death. She has some things to say about life and death and things worth doing.”

  Vicki forgot about the man sitting beside her, and instead only noticed the lines on the gypsy’s forehead deepen as her voice turned rough, like sandpaper. “Oh dear, this song is tormenting. She is looking, her eyes shut now. It’s regret. it must be.”

  As her neck jolted and her eyes rolled around, the woman didn’t notice the couple at the table. “She’s looking back on her life, the hardships, the frustrations, and how she handled them, or how she let them handle her. What else can it be? She’s dancing through the dark moments of her life,” announced Vicki, who could feel her own face responding to the scene before her. “And she’s not afraid to show her torment, her stress, her emotions.”

  Then the gypsy’s teeth showed and her forehead crevices disappeared.

  “Peace,” declared Vicki. “She has found peace in the present. She is going to focus on things worth doing, things she can control, her attitude toward hardships.”

  “I thought flamenco was happy-go-lucky,” continued Vicki. “I thought flamenco was simply a reach, pick, twist, and toss. I was wrong. This woman is releasing every stress she’s ever had, I’m sure of it. This is an emotional outburst, and she’s not afraid to express herself. I want to learn from her. I want to express myself. If I’m having a bad day, I don’t want to smile. I want to feel. Then, I can genuinely move past it.”

  “Muy bien,” said Rafael as the flamenco dancer moved to another table.

  “Rafael?”

  She took his hands in hers and smiled, staring him in the eyes. “Gracias,” she said. “I’m glad you showed me that. I’m glad I chose to really see. Flamenco dance is wonderful.”

  “Algun dia, someday,” he told her. “I’d like you to do your tulip dance for me.”

  Vicki laughed. “Oh, my Dutch dance? Okay, someday. I need my wooden shoes to do it.”

  Three waiters catered to their table. One opened a bottle of red wine, another laid cloth napkins on their laps, and the third opened their menus. As Rafael raised his glass of dry sherry to his mouth, she caught a glimpse of his gold wristwatch that whispered five minutes until midnight.

  Suddenly, she wanted to know why Rafael had never told her his last name. Who was this man sitting next to her?

  They picked at the plate of cold serano ham, sausage and shellfish. Rafael ordered a bottle of sparkling cava, Spanish champagne. She demanded his last name.

  “Rafael. Yo soy Rafael de España,” he replied.

  “Okay, Rafael from Spain, disclose a bit more, please. Mas, mas.”

  “¿Quien eres, Victoria?”

  “Who am I? Yo soy Victoria de los Estados Unidos.” Two could play this game.

  He poked his long, tiny fork in his plate of octopus salad. “Would you consider staying in Spain mas de solamente un semester?”

  “No,” she said.

  “There is no place better than Madrid, except Heaven.” He held a fork of baby eels dripping garlic butter sauce up to her mouth, urging her to taste. She tasted, and he urged her to taste more.

  “Mas, mas,” he insisted.

  She tasted more. He sampled the grilled crayfish off her plate. “You could travel around all of Europe and the world.”

  “No. Yo no puedo, Rafael,” she stated boldly. “I can’t travel the world, as much as I would love to. I have my studies waiting for me in Michigan.”

  “Si, si, entiendo.” He said he understood. “But you would have a far superior education with me. The world has more to offer than a textbook, un libro. You see the world with me.”

  “Por favor, stop with all your offers. I’ve read all about Don Juan men like you, so stop trying to convince me.”

  “No te preocupes, mi preciosa. I can come to los Estados Unidos. You teach me English.”

  She laughed.

  “I build a home in America, but I still have to travel much to Europa on business. As long as I have your precious face, I can design clothing anywhere in the world.”

  “Wait, wait, wait! Un momento, Rafael!” She had no problem being firm with her words. She told him there would be no relocating to the United States for him and that they shared a friendship, and a special one, but nothing more! If he couldn’t accept that, this would be their last night together. She stood up and walked to the bathroom.

  As she passed a table where the flamenco dancer now performed, she noticed a young woman wiping her eyes while watching the dancer. A man held her tight in his arms. As the woman dropped the napkin from her eyes, Vicki stopped. It was Isabella. The women spotted each other at the same moment, and Isabella looked l
ike a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, but why?

  As Vicki walked over to her Spanish sister’s table, Isabella quickly stood up, kissing her two times. “Hola, Isabella.”

  “Hola, Vicki, hola.”

  The young man generously pulled up a chair, offering her a seat. “Hello,” he said.

  “You speak English,” said Vicki.

  “I’m a lawyer from New York. My name is Ron.” He laughed and then kissed Isabella on the cheek, wiping a falling tear.

  “Isabella, are you all right?” she asked in Spanish, taking a seat.

  “Estoy bien, you two speak your own language, go ahead,” she flagged them on to speak freely in English.

  “Isabella refuses to learn English, but one of these days, I’ll teach her,” said on. “Oddly, beyond my understanding, she feels it might be disloyal to her mama.”

  “Why is she crying?” asked Vicki.

  “She gets absorbed in watching the flamenco dancers. Did you know those songs and dances are made up of Arabic, Sephardic Jewish, and African music?”

  “No, I had no idea, but I found the dance quite moving myself. She was at our table earlier.”

  “Everyone proudly says the flamenco reflects the region’s multicultural heritage. I know that’s what Isabella loves most about it, anyway, the multicultural heritage.”

  “Isabella, estas bien?” asked Vicki, careful not to leave her Spanish sister out of the English conversation.

  “Si, si.” She smiled and waved her hands for the two to go on talking without her.

  “Isabella and I are very much in love. But, from one American to another, can I ask you to keep our secret?”

  “Of course, but what secret?”

  “Well, you can’t tell her mother about us. Don’t tell anyone. Someday, very soon, we’ll tell everyone. But she’s not ready now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He took a sip of his wine and continued. “I’m fluent in Spanish and French. I love languages. Two years ago I came to Spain on business and met Isabella. I found her adorable from the start. We met while in line to buy a tuna sandwich at a café. Man, was she ever fascinated with the United States! You know, like it was another planet. I found her curiosity so cute that we talked all night—in fact, until morning. We talked like this night after night. You’ve probably found how the Spaniards love their nights, too. They don’t stop talking. Five nights felt like five years with Isabella.”

  They laughed, and Isabella joined in.

  “So why the secret?”

  “You know Rosario. She’s … how do I put it? She’s from the older school. It’s like she almost misses Franco’s control. She adores her children, her country and, might I say, the old Spain? That’s the problem. I’m not from Spain. This mattered to her. She has no idea we’re still seeing each other. She has no idea we’re so in love and that those feelings are not going to die.”

  “Do you think she’s worried Isabella will marry you and move to the States?” asked Vicki.

  “Yes, but we haven’t made that decision yet.” He finished his wine and nodded to the waiter to pour another. “Maybe we can live in both places. I’m pretty close to my family back there, and you know how close their family is here. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Oh, Isabella.” Vicki squeezed her Spanish sister’s hand tightly, and Isabella reached over to kiss her on the cheek. “Where are you staying?” she asked Ron.

  “I’ve got an apartment here in Madrid. I’ve also got one in New York, but I’m here every chance I get.”

  “And no one knows of your relationship?”

  “Her friends do. They take her out with them all the time; then she catches a taxi to meet me. They all feel guilty for it, yet they all respect her parents so much. Telling them might only hurt their relationship.”

  Just then, Rafael came walking around the corner, and it was the first time Vicki ever saw him look at his wristwatch.

  “Rafael, aqui, estoy aqui,” Vicki called him over to their table. “Ahh, Victoria, Victoria.”

  “¿Quien eres?” Isabella asked the well-dressed Spaniard now standing at their table.

  “Es Rafael,” answered Vicki, wanting to give a last name but not wanting to admit she didn’t know his last name.

  Rafael introduced himself to both Isabella and Ron, kissing them each, once on each cheek. He and Ron spoke in Spanish for several minutes as Vicki whispered into her Spanish sister’s ear something about Rafael helping her with homework and showing her Madrid’s hot spots and being her friend and picking her up on the corner and treating her wonderfully. Isabella laughed and told her to have him come to the apartment instead of the corner.

  A few moments later, the waiter walked over, indicating to Rafael that more food was waiting, hot, at their table.

  “Ron, my Spanish is pretty good now, but please, just in case, let Isabella know I’ve kept Rafael my secret until now. He hasn’t yet told me his last name, or where exactly he lives, or a phone number, yet I like him more each time he picks me up on that stupid corner. I make him meet me there in case he is some crazy man,” she added.

  “Vicki, he appears to be quite normal. I wouldn’t worry so much.”

  “That’s what my heart tells me.”

  She stood up and put her arms around Rafael.

  Ron took a moment to translate the conversation for Isabella, who then replied in Spanish, “Never ignore the heart. Nourish it, Victoria.”

  “Nourish the heart?”

  “Si, si. Red wine, olive oil, romance, and listen very closely to it. The heart likes to be listened to.”

  Vicki laughed. “I will, Isabella. I’ll wine and dine my heart, and, most importantly, I’ll listen to it.”

  “Please don’t tell our secret,” added Isabella.

  “What secret? What are you talking about?”

  “Thank you,” said Ron. “I love her so much.”

  As much as Vicki loved food, especially authentic Spanish cuisine, she neither tasted nor smelled anything the rest of the evening, as if all her senses drifted directly into her conversation with Rafael. They touched on the subjects that convert strangers to friends and then topics that turn friends into couples. He talked about growing up an only child since his mother couldn’t have any other children. He told her he had reached a crossroads in life, for he had come to understand the difference between spirituality and religion. She told him she knew she loved God and that the Bible was His word. But that was about all she knew at this point in her life.

  He whispered that he loved his work, yet loved life more. She admitted she tended to turn life into one big productivity checklist, but over the last several months her perspective had been changing. He told her he wanted to treat a wife like a queen, and that he had it in him to offer a wonderful life to someone willing to accept it. She told him she had so many things to do in life, and finding Mr. Right wouldn’t happen for years yet. They discussed all of this and more, without mentioning their last names.

  He dropped her off on the corner, telling her to consider his proposals. It was mid-November, and he had to leave for Italy on business. He wouldn’t be returning to España until mid-December.

  “You will love me then,” he said.

  “I’m not saying I don’t love spending time with you,” she said.

  “You will fall in love with me then,” he stated.

  “By then, it’ll be time for me to leave your country,” she added.

  “You will not want to leave.”

  She could hear the American national anthem calling her back. Yes, she would want to leave, to return to her own country, her own home.

  Thanksgiving, truly an American holiday, arrived and went without turkey, sweet potatoes and family, but with calamari and olives.

  Thank you Lord, for answering my prayers. Thank you Lord for knowing every aspect of me down to the very number of hairs on my head. I hope you don’t keep up with the number of hai
rs on my legs. Thank you for loving me unconditionally. Thank you for the plans you have for my life. It feels nice to know I do not have to plan my life completely on my own. You’ve got plans for me as well, and I can surrender my own agenda and relax a bit. Thank you for bringing me through difficult times and restless nights. Thank you!

  She spent her next few weekends on bus trips to nearby Toledo and Salamanca, and a ten-hour train ride to Barcelona. There she found a cathedral with baroque ornamentation and gilt. Despite its elegant, untouchable exterior, its doors were unlocked, so she walked in and knelt in the very last pew. She recognized the music that was being sung, “Ave Maria,” Grandma’s favorite. It had been played at her funeral. Vicki tried to pray, but her mind quickly jogged up the aisle to the front row, just as Grandma always used to lead the entire red-faced, furious family directly to the first pew when they arrived late. Dressed in satin oriental slippers, the petite woman used to say that running into church was her only form of exercise, so she might as well make the distance all the way up to the front.

  Vicki, still sitting in the back of the church, watched up front as Grandma dug through her purse for butterscotch candy. Vicki listened and waited for the loud whisper.

  “I do not have a temper, so don’t think that I do but I can’t get this damn candy wrapper off.” Grandma always said that, and sometimes she said it so loudly that Vicki feared the priest overheard the word “damn.”

  “Then I’ll go to confession after mass and take care of it,” Grandma would say. “Damn” and “hell” were the only swear words Grandma used, so she confessed.

  The smell of sandalwood drifted throughout the church and, like the waves hitting the beach, each time Vicki breathed deeply, another whiff of sandalwood assailed her.

  She smiled, knowing that the woman she loved dearly had returned to her Maker, like the seashells she found while walking the beach, the ones too gorgeous and loved to be kept, the ones tossed back into the water where they came from. She lit a candle for Grandma and left the church.