A Meeting in Seville

by Paul A. Mendelson

  He hears a sound and instinctively looks to his left, onto the balcony adjoining his own. As if that other Luisa might have stepped out for a moment, in her bare feet and funky pedicure, to check a hundred emails and breathe in some orange-scented air. And perhaps with it some resilience, before embarking on her pre-arranged meeting, a reunion that could bring some semblance of companionship at this latter, lonely stage of her life. Something William now believes is a universal human need. He finds himself so glad the balcony is dark.

  The sound, a clicking, has come from behind him.

  He turns to find Luisa at the doorway, aiming her smart little camera in his direction.

  Whilst this touches his heart, it also saddens him that it should feel so alien. Unsurprisingly, he recalls their first time in this city, when he was dressed in charity-shop clothing but had a mass of first-hand hair to be proud of. And Lu would forever hoist up that bulky machine she wore constantly, like a massive necklace, making him smile simply by smiling first.

  The camera flashes and he blinks. He knows that this time he can ask to inspect the result straight away, but it isn’t the first idea that springs to mind. “Maybe one together?” he suggests.

  Luisa stares at him, as if he has proposed a sexual activity seldom performed without a safety-net. But she nods and very deftly sets the timer. Placing the camera gently on the wooden rail of the balcony, she looks to William, who is finding himself unsure where to stand. She yanks him briskly into the target area, yet it’s still far from easy – finding a position of togetherness. It feels quite strained, but somehow they manage.

  Until he suddenly strikes a pose.

  “I danced flamenco!” he reveals, twisting his body and raising his arms.

  “Madre de Dios!”

  The camera flashes from its perch, capturing, for all time, William Sutherland in defiant flamenco pose and spouse Luisa with her mouth wide open. They stay still, even when the task is done, simply enjoying the early-hours daftness.

  A small puff of wind breezes in from nowhere. They hardly notice it, until the camera begins to wobble. William instantly de-flamencos and rushes over, arms outstretched. Too late – Luisa’s precious little camera disappears over the edge. They hear it make violent contact with the paving slabs below. He turns to Luisa, distraught over her loss and deeply apologetic, although he is pretty sure that it wasn’t his fault. But, to his surprise, she simply shakes her head. Let it go.

  Where did that come from?

  He burrows into his pocket and pulls out his trusty old Blackberry. “Plan B!”

  She looks at him in disbelief, as he fiddles clumsily with the camera function. She knows that he never takes photos. Mind you, until just now she would have told anyone that her husband never dances. Today, suddenly, he is Joaquin Cortés.

  As she might have predicted, the technology is beyond him. Or else he is still too nervous to work out the basics. So, instead, with an exultant cry of “oh, sod it!”, he chucks the offending object over the side to join her shattered camera.

  Luisa can only gasp, as if this is the most reckless thing she could ever see her husband – or indeed any fifty-three-year-old, workaholic marketing consultant – do. But William Sutherland is on a roll. And now, in this same mood of reckless abandon, he begins to remove his watch.

  “NO!” she screams.

  “Oh, all right.”

  61

  In a tiny upstairs room, at the pretty, “cheap ’n’ cheerful” Hostal Esmeralda, a young honeymooning couple lie naked in each other’s arms. Clothes are strewn all around the narrow and rigorously tested bed. The couple are not asleep. They have woken up from that surreal, post-coital dreaminess and are talking about the future. Their plans make no sense; minds are hardly at their sharpest, yet they love the sound of each other’s voices and the fire of hope in their eyes.

  As Will reveals to her the theme of his new story, a theme he has expounded several times before but never so nebulously, Lu grabs hold of his left arm, currently lying across her belly. He continues talking and to him at least the words make perfect sense, but she doesn’t listen. She raises his hand and around it she wraps an elegant man’s watch, an expertly crafted and designed piece of functional jewellery, such as he has never had before.

  He senses the coldness on his still-warm wrist and tries to examine it by what little moonlight sneaks through the shutters.

  “Shit, is that the time!” he exclaims.

  She seems disappointed and ready to cry, until she sees the smile on his face and the look of pure wonder, as he admires the only precious thing he has ever been given, presented to him by the truly priceless, bright-eyed gift he may also never believe he truly deserves. The classy timepiece, lying fresh and heavy on his skin, feels to him like the embrace of a visitor from another planet, one which he fully intends to visit and colonise some day.

  “Muchas gracias, Señora Sutherland,” he says. “Now I’ll always have time for you.”

  He places it next to his ear and immediately falls asleep.

  ***

  Seville hasn’t slept for a week but she is sleeping now.

  The Nazarenos sleep, proud thousands of pious men who have been tramping and sweating in vivid anonymity, draped in the historic garb of their brotherhoods, alongside their cross-carrying brothers. The ancient pasos too, weary but still gleaming, sink back into their dusty chapels and churches, candles snuffed and flowers wilted.

  The sturdy men-of-similar-stature snore as one, turbans unrolled and soaking, themselves stretched out and equally thoroughly scrubbed, thanking God in their dreams that they don’t have to bear that heavenly load until another fifty-two far less holy semanas have passed. The righteous men, who have quit their balconies, slumber soundly, saetas of spontaneous devotion still ringing in their hearts and in the scented air. The pilgrims and the tourists, shopkeepers with their fans and castanets, the tapas makers, legions of azulejos sellers, footsore flamenco dancers, the surly and the over-friendly waiters. At least two surprised and satisfied Barbadillos, with bulging bellies and solid legs.

  And the churros vendors.

  All asleep, in the arms of their spouses, their lovers, Jesus Christ their Lord or someone they met beside a procession, who is going back home tomorrow but there’s always Skype.

  In his toy-strewn room a small boy sleeps, blond hair damp and clinging to his contented face. Beside him, next to the dimmed Spider-Man bedside light, is a lumpy ball of wax that isn’t quite as small as it was last year but nowhere near as huge as it will be the next.

  No one knowing, as no one ever knows, what tomorrow morning may bring.

  62

  The Hotel Herrera buzzes with the sounds of Monday morning goodbyes.

  A discerning ear might pick up the nobly restrained sighs of relief from the staff, particularly those behind the reception desk, weary from a week of impossible demands (“Can the processions come nearer to the hotel?”) and an unholy ignorance about the host country. (“Where can I buy a sombrero?”) Tired too of the casual waves and cries of “hasta la vista, baby!” that so many visitors think is incredibly witty, its originality curiously building on repetition. As suitcases crammed with half of Seville rumble precariously away on unprepared wheels.

  The casual observer might suspect that Marilyn and Shelby would be included in the Herrera staff’s yearn-to-hit list, but the truth is that everyone adores them and is sad to see them go. Perhaps a generosity of spirit transcends boundaries or maybe people whose lives are far from easy recognise kindred spirits beneath the bling and the bounce. So, whilst cries of “Next year – Yom Kippur in the Vatican!” and ‘Purim in Mecca!’ aren’t instantly accessible, the staff are happy to share in the joke, as the contented lovers from another faith and continent make their farewells.

  Three floors higher, the man referred to by his more perceptive guests as “the ubiquito
us Pablo” is proving he’s not as ubiquitous as all that, by being in just the one place. He’s strolling down the corridor, whistling a tune from his childhood and nodding to his various charges as they trundle contentedly away.

  He drums out a brusque roll on the door of number 381.

  William hears it like a klaxon through the more calming sounds of his sleep and wakes up in a panic. He is immediately aware of smoothly soft legs, as they become even more tightly entangled around him.

  The sleepy Sutherlands struggle to separate their conjoined bodies, like two people disengaging after a heady yet still exploratory one-night stand. They turn to face each other, breath catching breath, and somehow, quite suddenly, they feel at home,

  Only, of course, they’re not. They’re well over a thousand miles away and their plane leaves in just a few short hours.

  “Oh my God!” cries William, as if he has just discovered a corpse in his bed and has no memory of the night before. “We’ve slept in! I never ever—”

  “Was it not worth it?” His sleeping partner smiles, in no hurry to leave.

  He considers this. “Beats dancing.” He kisses her lips softly, then taps her warm shoulder with businesslike efficiency. “Come on, old girl!”

  She sighs at some volume and he realises how appealing he still finds this. Why did he ever consider it irritating? He knows that there will be times in the future when he will find it intensely so, as indeed she might find his own trivial idiosyncrasies, but he’s not going to mull on it right now. This moment is all that matters. For the moment.

  He starts to get up, avoiding his naked reflection in the full-length mirror, one of those mirrors Luisa always demands or at least hopes for in a hotel room and which he would prefer omitted from the inventory. But then he sneaks a look and is not altogether repelled. Not after last night. And not after the memories of that long-ago honeymoon, which are floating back in with increasing definition, like one of Luisa’s old cameras pulling focus, and in which he could consider himself a contender. After all, he satisfied a beautiful woman, didn’t he? And looking through his glasses at the smiling face a few feet away from his own, now even more sharply defined, he reckons he might just have played a blinder once again.

  The room phone rings. William stares at Luisa, as anxiety shoots back through his stomach and into his throat like bile. He stretches over to lift the receiver, although he is pretty sure that he doesn’t want to.

  They both know who it will be.

  “He ask me last night if you are going to hit him again,” says Luisa.

  “Didn’t work the first time,” he responds, not wanting to contemplate this nor whatever else he has “rearranged” on this brief but epic visit. No doubt there will be more than broken noses awaiting him on his return home and not all of the alterations external.

  He picks up the phone and shouts into it: “And the Willy ye know’s come back again!”

  Setting the phone down again, he smiles contentedly at Luisa. Who sighs.

  ***

  When old Pablo grabs his heavy cases from him, just beyond the revolving doors, and hurls them into the boot of the hotel minivan, William Sutherland feels just as bad as he had done a few days earlier. Yet he can’t say he is totally unrelieved, as his back is no better than it was on his arrival. If only that bit of his alternate reality could have remained with him, he thinks, wishing that he could have asked his other self for the name of his chiropractor.

  Another employee is moving into the driver’s seat. Clearly Pablo isn’t accompanying them this time. William is fine with this, as he would quite like to talk to his wife on the journey home, rather than sharing her with a chatty compatriot. The two of them have a lot to catch up on.

  Yet, even once the cases are loaded, Pablo lingers. Like an ageing dog, thinks William, waiting for a treat. He grabs a clutch of euros from his wallet and is about to stuff the lot into the old man’s hand when reason intervenes and he restores half to his empty pocket. No point in being stupid about it; he’s not a TV producer any more. He swiftly persuades himself that an excess of generosity might almost be insulting.

  “Gracias, Pablo,” he says, before realising that he genuinely means it.

  “No problem, Señor,” beams Pablo, deftly pocketing the cash. “Have the safe journey home. Give my regards to the United. ‘We are the champ—’”

  “Aye – okay. Enough now.”

  Luisa kisses Pablo with warmth and a real affection. As he watches her, an emotion William has begun to rediscover this fateful trip surges up from nowhere once again and catches him unaware. A genuine pride in his wife.

  Well, that’s it, he thinks, moving on. See you again, Pablo, in thirty years.

  He helps Luisa into the rear of the minivan, then turns for a final moment to watch the old guy amble away, happily counting his tip.

  William won’t ever quite believe this and it is most probably a trick of his reeling mind, which is naturally still in some turmoil after recent events. Yet he is almost convinced that, just for a moment, on this surprisingly ordinary Monday morning in the crown jewel of Andalusia, he sees the slightly bent, elderly man from the hotel suddenly stand straighter and taller, look up towards the cloudless sky and transform into someone different.

  The handyman from Hostal Esmeralda.

  Just for a second.

  Almost as if that stocky, taciturn, burnished man of mischief has somehow been looking out for them all these years, just waiting for them to return. But no, of course, this is fanciful. How can one man be two? Stay the same age yet – wizen. It would take a miracle.

  And the next time William blinks, it is just Pablo there. Still counting.

  63

  They sit closer together on the plane.

  William is sticking to Diet Coke. Although, considering what has happened to him this week, whilst remaining relatively sober, he can’t imagine that alcohol could make him feel much weirder. Yet he needs his mind to be clear, as he takes out from his laptop bag the brand-new notepad he just bought in the airport. He smiles as he briefly wonders what else he might discover in there; books he has never read? Photographs that have magically altered? A small, waxen ball? The Holy Grail?

  Luisa watches him as he begins to scribble. It doesn’t appear to be work, or at least not the work he usually does, which is almost always on his laptop.

  “Ladies of the Argentinean night?”

  He has the grace to laugh. “Possibly!” A young child leans round the seat in front of William. He smiles back.

  Some time later, while the muse has a break, William looks across at his wife of thirty years. Her eyes are closing, the large handbag lies open on her lap. Trying not to disturb her, he leans across and very gently pulls out the small photo album.

  Luisa notices but simply smiles to herself. And softly, instinctively, she touches the shiny, new cross at her throat.

  ***

  They can see the dark clouds cluster, like a welcoming committee, as they begin to land. The anticipated rain won’t be far behind.

  By the time they emerge together onto the tarmac, the passengers in front have their phones out and their brollies open to protect them.

  It takes forever to trudge through passport control and pick up their bags but Luisa notices how sanguine – well, comparatively sanguine – William is.

  Finally they shuffle off, hand in hand, William dragging the heavier case and suddenly yearning for a Pablo. He sees the line of waiting minicab drivers. “We should have booked,” he grumbles. “I just forgot. Still, there’ll be plenty of cabs. No mad rush.”

  “Mum! Dad! Over here!”

  They spin round to see Claire and Marcus, waiting nervously. Each holds up a white card, one reading MAMA and the other PAPA.

  “Did you know they were coming?” says a delighted William.

  Luisa shakes her head
. “They want to see which one of us has killed the other one.”

  “Aye, fair enough. Going to have to be a wee bit kinder to Marcus, aren’t I? Maybe buy one of his godawful pictures. .. Or, at least, be kinder.”

  William stops and turns away, to shift the suitcase to his other hand. So he doesn’t see what Luisa is staring at when he hears her say “Deo. William!”

  He spins around. And stops, open-mouthed. Claire and Marcus have adapted their cards, using white, retractable cardboard flaps that they’ve clearly stuck on. The cards now read ‘GRAND-MA’ and ‘GRAND-PA’. And they’re beaming like loons.

  William and Luisa Sutherland find themselves both tearing up.

  “Oh, William,” murmurs Luisa.

  “Away ye go!” says William, with moist-eyed predictability.

  He takes his wife’s hand and they scoot, heavy cases and all, to embrace their children.

  As they reach them, they glimpse – some yards away, walking hand in hand out of the airport concourse – two possibly familiar, young figures. Just beginning their journey.

  William dumps his umbrella in a nearby bin and walks off with his family.

  Epilogue

  The ball of wax is hardly a ball at all. He has only just begun it.

  The grown-ups around him sense his nervousness. And his excitement. The big man in the strange, pointed mask, with narrow slits for eyes, seems very kind. He is bending down as low as he can, ensuring that the wax from the huge candle drips only where it cannot hurt or burn a small boy. There is a skill to this and the man appears very skilled.

  The child looks up at his parents and grandparents. He seems to want them all to know how excited he is and what a time he’s having, staying up so late, seeing so much. He feels a yawn coming on and tries hard to stifle it. In the process he almost blows out the flame of the candle.