Come on, William! One last time – for pity’s sake, remember!
He pushes through the crowds, choosing a direction at random – or perhaps just going where the obstacles to progress appear smaller and less likely to offer sharp-elbowed resistance.
Easter Sunday, 1988!
He finds himself slowly raising his hands to his temples, like a medium attempting to make contact with the other world. Where did the two of you go that last bloody night! The two of us – where did we go? Maybe I have got Alzheimer’s, he thinks, although he’d challenge anyone to recall in every detail a holiday they took thirty years earlier, even if it was their honeymoon. Especially if it was their—
“William?”
William spins round to find a large man in his early fifties, in a lightweight and very creased linen suit, wearing an old blue baseball cap. He seems, in the semi-darkness, vaguely dissolute and quite raddled, as if the night’s events are both beneath him and beyond him.
William thinks that the stranger, who appears to know his name, looks like someone out of a Graham Greene novel (aside from the cap), which causes him to pat himself on the back for still having some feel for literature, despite the mind-numbing ordure he now apparently churns out. (Not that advertising copy and marketing strategies, he ruefully admits, have ever put him up there with the giants.)
He moves closer. The guy’s dishevelled hair is clearly his own and is completely grey, whilst his lined and almost equally grey face appears slightly off-centre, perhaps the result of an earlier injury.
And then, of course, it becomes only too clear.
“My God – Sandy! What have I done to you?”
The man seems bemused. “You? Nothing – yet! Well, aside from the old nose. Remember?”
William nods contritely, recalling – as a long-standing but none-too-proud memory – the headbutt that just a matter of hours ago he had actually watched taking place. Or at least the old William had. Yet the off-centre nose in front of his face assures him that this incident has endured the procession of Williams.
“I kept meaning to get in touch, William,” says his old college friend and erstwhile partner, “but you had your own trajectory. ‘William Sutherland Productions’, eh? Oor Wullie done guid.” William shrugs modestly but he knows that it’s true. “Luisa’s here, you know.”
William feigns surprise, as the alternative would eat into his time, which currently is not so much running out as hightailing it. “Yeah? Er, I hate to be antisocial, Sandy—”
“Always in a hurry,” smiles his old friend, without rancour. “No wonder I couldn’t keep up with you – mister telly.”
William has no idea how to respond. Seeing this new, unimproved Sandy has unsettled him. Forget Greene; it feels almost Dickensian, in a way that he hasn’t the time to delve into. Yet he is in such a state of tension that a pigeon farting in the Macarena district could probably throw him off course.
“We must have a wee bebida – the three of us. You, me and our ex!” continues Sandy happily. And, thinks William, just a tad needily. “Like old times. Aye. Except we’ll try not to hit each other.”
William wonders if he has heard correctly, with the music and jubilant shouting all around. “You never hit me, Sandy.”
Sandy stares at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!”
Something is approaching through the mist, like a fishing boat returning home with the night’s new catch. Still wriggling but as yet uncounted. Sandy points upwards, to the illuminated tower of La Giralda dominating the skyline. William gasps, as finally he “remembers”. Without even thinking, he puts his trembling hand to that brand-new yet ancient scar on his forehead. A kindly but regretful look briefly clouds his old friend’s face.
William swiftly clasps Sandy’s hands, then aims himself back through the unwitting crowd towards the tallest landmark of them all. “I’ll make it better for you, Sandy!” he calls back. “I’ll make it better for both of you.”
Whilst patently baffled by this vow from an old pal in a badly fitting panama (with something seriously odd going on underneath), Sandy manages to compose what he thinks is a not inappropriate and perhaps even droll response.
“Sooner you than me, oor Wullie!”
54
William looks up at the massive, ninety-one-metre, golden tower, with its famed weathervane on top, and thinks of The Lord.
More specifically, he thinks that The Lord only knows how he is going to climb up a monument this tall, in the already breathless, frantic state in which he finds himself.
If the Moors were as smart as all that, where’s the bloody lift?
In this same roller-coasting loop of demented thought, he mulls over why, of all the places where he might possibly locate their younger selves, does that holy wee prankster, in whom of course he doesn’t believe for a moment, set them down at by far the highest spot on the old city map?
It is only when he barges his way inside the surprisingly spacious entrance that he remembers once more that La Giralda is actually composed mostly of ramps, not steps. He can’t summon up how many ramps there are – the only figure that springs instantly to mind is too many, even for a fit lad in his twenties – but he does recall that they were constructed inside the tower to accommodate horses. Although why a horse would gallop up to the top of a minaret is a mystery to him, unless it was for some sort of equine suicide pact, which he can sort of understand.
William begins to climb. The psychological puffing starts in earnest way before any strain on the heart and lungs is plausible.
He is hardly onto the second ramp when he hears a noise up ahead, building rapidly in volume. William hopes this isn’t a stampede of angry horses on its way down but it turns out to be a stampede of chattering Korean tourists, who prove almost as dangerous.
It is only when they and their lethal selfie-sticks have surged past him, forcing him to cower against a wall, that he wonders: what if the young couple really don’t know who he is this time round? Even with all the guidebooks you can buy and every website you can google, no one has yet managed an advice line to the surreal, the occult and the downright perverse. There is no 999 or 111 to fate.
William is disappointed, but hardly surprised, when he completes his climb into the bell chamber. A final clamber up the seventeen steps that begin where the spiral ramp ends and which make the ramp in retrospect seem like fun. Tough on the horses but equally tough on him, especially as he sees some incredible bells but no familiar faces. He can only pray that these massive instruments don’t ring before he is well out of range. He has no idea of the time, because he gave an old Andalusian lady his inordinately expensive watch, for reasons that are becoming increasingly unclear to him.
He decides to work his way round the small bell tower, although he reckons that, even in all this bustle, he would have spotted the young couple by now. Especially as Will is a head taller than most other nationalities currently enjoying the sensational views. And the bastard has that hair.
With immense sadness William realises that it is finally time to throw in the towel. He gave it his best shot, but he knows about needles and haystacks. And of that day when a guy who dares to manipulate his own destiny finally meets it head-on.
It is only when a few intrepid climbers move to one side, perhaps to catch a final procession way down in the old city, that he realises he should have set his own eyeline slightly lower. (So much for appreciating higher things.) There, on the ground, is a young, red-headed man. Kneeling beside him is a woman of similar age, dabbing at her fallen partner’s swollen eye with a pretty, lace handkerchief.
William keeps his distance, making sure not to interrupt and quite possibly disquiet them. Until the massive bell right beside him strikes the late hour with inhuman glee and he hears himself screaming in shock.
The young couple, alongside everyone else from his own era, turn t
o stare at him, clearly impressed that a sound emanating from one slightly above-average sized man can match that of the famous bells in their clamour.
William’s alarm, however, is swiftly overtaken by an intense despair at Will’s and Lu’s palpable lack of recognition. It takes a few agonising seconds before they squint their eyes, tilt their heads in unison and take a closer look.
“Gordon?” hazards Will.
Another spasm shoots through the older man. William suddenly realises that it might not be the easiest task to explain to this smart, young fellow why his very own name is emblazoned on the rear of a vivid blouson that someone else is flaunting. For uneasy, read impossible.
Without turning, William casually removes the offending garment and sends it sailing over the parapet, as if this type of cavalier divestment is the most normal activity in the world.
“Oh, Will – hi!” he says, hardly missing a beat. Although he is already realising, in the cooler altitude, that he seriously misses his blouson. “And Lu! Well, fancy—”
“—seeing us here. Jeez, pal, you’ve caught the old sun today.”
“Oh, this,” laughs William, self-deprecatingly. “It’s just… Yes, it’s sun. Sun. Yes.”
He can’t fail to notice the couple exchange glances, but realises there is precious little he can do other than tread cautiously.
“Where is Fanta?” asks Lu.
“She’s – not herself today, Lu.” Moving on. “I see Sandy got his own back.”
If William doesn’t realise immediately that he shouldn’t have said this, their stares fill in the blanks pretty swiftly. Shit!
“Psychic flash,” he tries, his newly tanned face a proud mask of confidence.
“Aye,” says Will. “See, the poor guy thought I was going to headbutt him again. I was only stretching!” By way of explanation he performs the trademark neck-click and back ’n’ head stretch that William has been doing all his life. (Or perhaps he had been doing it, until this version found himself a better chiropractor.) “Caught me with his posh pinky-ring, didn’t he?” William lightly strokes his own brand-new/thirty-year-old scar. “Poetic justice, eh? He’s gone now – you probably passed him on the way down.” William gives an involuntary sigh. “Hey, anyone’d think you were following us!”
William offers the most insincere laugh that probably ever came out his mouth, although of course he can’t yet fully recall all of his television years. “As if!” he says then wonders if anyone even said ‘as if’ thirty years ago. Perhaps he has just started the trend. “So where are you going straight after this? Just – out of interest.”
Lu disarms him with the most impish of smiles, her chestnut-brown eyes opening even wider with the pure excitement of it all. “Will has made the promise to me, Gordon. For this, our last night. We have the very expensive cocktail – with big cherry and little umbrella!” This time her smile is just for William. It pierces him to the gut. “You British – you like the umbrellas – yes?”
Will has no idea what she is talking about and honestly doesn’t care. “Lu, I didn’t actually promise—”
Of course!
William finally recalls the missing pieces of that final night so long ago and just as instantly sees his way in. Even if he can’t as yet envisage a way out. “Hey guys, my treat! No arguments.” No arguments are forthcoming. “Actually, there’s something I need to tell you both.”
He can hear himself muttering under his breath, as he looks for hope in the relentlessly starry night, “Though Christ alone knows how.”
55
William really hopes that the famous old hotel, the special one his young couple appear so set on for their final treat, hasn’t been torn down for a motorway. Or had its historic roof terrace, overlooking the old city, converted into an infinity pool.
It would be just his luck.
Fortune, for once, is smiling. As they arrive in the plush lobby, an elegant blend of the timeless and the contemporary (with a lot of, in William’s opinion, unnecessary clocks), he can see that its older incarnation is already impressing the hell out of Will and Lu. Even as it intimidates them.
“Can I meet you guys up there?” he pleads. “I just need to…”
Before they can acknowledge an old man’s sudden incontinence, William has scurried off to somewhere behind the huge reception desk. He has no intention of stepping into a lift that hasn’t yet arrived and freaking them out before the evening has even begun.
He also needs to work on what the hell he is going to say.
Perhaps, he muses, rather than any further notions of manipulation or deceit, I should just come clean. Reveal to them the whole extraordinary scenario, from start to finish. From careering phantom buses to brand-new versions of wife.
Or perhaps not.
***
The celebrated rooftop bar is, thankfully, not too crowded when William walks in.
At least not on the evening of Easter Sunday 2018.
To his relief it doesn’t look like it has been excessively modernised in recent years. Almost as if history and a studied neglect is part of the charm. He is even more relieved to see that Will and Lu are already settled into their huge, shared cocktail. And that they aren’t sitting on anyone else. He knows he is still totally unprepared, and terrified beyond reason, but at least his bladder is now empty, an unarguably sensible precaution.
The views are indeed spectacular.
Gazing into the panoramic night, William is treated to a magnificently evocative tableau of his own descent into madness and despair. Like the stations of the cross, he can pinpoint the exact locations of his torment, from the cathedral and La Giralda to Plaza de Espana and the old Triana Bridge. He thinks he can even spot the durable, yellow awning.
A sudden sadness envelops him, as he contemplates the excruciatingly fine mess he has gotten himself into and how impenetrable the psychic foliage through which he must now hack in order to emerge into sanity.
He doubts that he ever will.
William stares at the young Spanish woman. She is deeply immersed in her drink and totally unaware of him. Her long hair gently brushes her husband’s face as they suck the bright liquid through stripy straws, trying not to impale their noses on the little wooden umbrella they should have first removed.
William realises how much he misses Luisa.
This fragrant one, plus the lonely version he just left, but most of all the person he has wished totally out of existence in an attempt to improve all their lots. The Luisa Sutherland of whom in this life there is no longer a trace, save for the younger model slurping before him, whose anticipated journey will very soon be remapped.
Thanks to him.
What in hell’s name was I doing, he asks himself, as he forces the smile back onto his face. Playing God in this city of all cities. And what the hell am I playing at now?
“Hi, guys – oh, you started without me!” he berates them, with some relief. He would have had a great time paying for a thirty-year-old drink in a currency the country hadn’t actually adopted until fourteen years after the event.
“Aye, sorry, Gordon. I promised Señora Sutherland I’d do the honours on our last evening,” Will announces, proudly, “and a Scotsman never reneges on his promise.” Not quite William’s experience, but he is indeed indebted to his old yearning for respect. And quite impressed with himself, truth be told. “You can do the next round. Meantime, what are you having?”
“Er, nothing for now,” says William swiftly. “Thank you, Will. It’s the – diabetes, you know. Need to be a bit careful.” The young couple nod sympathetically. “I’ll just enjoy watching you.”
Which he does, as he can’t think what else to do. At least he hasn’t sat down on somebody already there, he thinks, or on a chair no longer available. We have to be grateful for the smallest mercies.
Eventually, as the couple
grow self-conscious about having an audience and the sound of mutual slurping begins to resonate, Lu feels a need to move the conversation on.
“Gordon? There is something that you wish to say?”
Ah.
“Well…” he says, because he feels he has to say something, yet absolutely nothing springs to mind that could lead to an appropriate conclusion. Or indeed any sort of conclusion. I’m normally so hot on strategy, he thinks, ask anyone in marketing consultancy, ask my clients (no, don’t; they’re not my clients any more). But right at this minute, nada. He looks around the splendid old terrace for some sort of inspiration.
What he sees makes the situation at least ten times worse.
Make that a thousand.
Across the large room, at a well-placed oaken table, are the Barbadillos, with what William has to assume is their loving family.
Señor and Señora are waving at him excitedly, beyond thrilled to see him again after their earlier brush with fame. The Señora has a stunning and incredibly large red rose in her hair, which looks as if it has been lovingly tended and watered and is now attempting to win prizes. Señor Barbadillo, for reasons as yet unknown, still winks pointedly at William, like a man with an annoyingly persistent nervous tick.
William feels that he should at least be polite, so he waves back at the couple, whose clearly impressed children and their partners are also nodding their hellos.
He finally turns back to Will and Lu, to find their eyes peeping over their huge glass and staring at him. He has absolutely no idea what or who they think he has been greeting so effusively. By the looks on their faces, he has probably just been observed sending regards to a floral arrangement or an adventurous pigeon.
A Meeting in Seville Page 24
