“Who says?”
Kim looks back and forth between my mother and me, but makes no indication that she understands.
“I say.” My mother may be small, but she has a backbone of steel. “You know what I expect for you. You have duties to your family.”
“Don’t talk to me about duty. I know it all too well.” My laugh has an edge of hysteria. To distract myself, I turn to the stove and pour the coffee into cups and hand one to Kim, who sips it, watching us like we’re a tennis match.
“Gustavo. Don’t you care about your family?”
“Of course I do. Otherwise, why do you think I am here?”
I hand her a coffee. She takes it, her eyes fixed on me, and she sighs. “When Franco was in power, there was no choice. And in some ways it was simpler. We knew what we were doing. We didn’t question it. Life was taken care of.”
“But you weren’t free. I am free now, Madre. I am free to take care of myself.” Pouring myself a coffee, I hold the sugar bowl in front of me, then sit at the table, grateful to be hidden. I beckon Kim to sit by me, and my mother sits across from us.
My mother is still going strong. “You are not free. You have your duties to your family.”
“I know.”
Her face reddens, and sweat shows on her brow. Her voice wavers. “I forbid you to see that girl.”
That girl who is sitting right next to me. That girl who hopefully doesn’t understand a word of this conversation, even though it’s going on right in front of her. That girl whose hazel eyes are drinking in mine as she enjoys her coffee.
“How am I going to do that? I am supposed to carpool with her every day.”
My mother is now gesturing to both of us and to the ceiling. “You keep your hands off her.”
Now I glare at her. “I’m an adult, and I’ll do what I want.”
“If you do what you want, you will just hurt all of us. Go call Sonia. She will want you to call her.”
I resist rolling my eyes. I want to give my mother respect. But I do not believe she has any right to tell me who to marry. Especially not the fangirl next door. But before I can say anything more, my mother whispers, “I’m scared, Tavo. Living here is all I’ve ever known. If I lose this place, what will happen to me? To our family? To everyone?”
Reaching across the table, I take her hand and implore her with my eyes. “I’ll take care of you. I love you. I will take care of you and grandfather and grandmother and everyone else.”
“How? As a translator? That isn’t enough.” She lets go of my hands and pulls back.
“Let me figure that out.”
“I am still forbidding you to see her,” she grumbles.
“I hear you. And I am choosing to ignore you. I will not be held to what you say.”
“I don’t like this Tavo. I don’t like this.” She gets up from the table and gives me a hug. She gives Kim a tight smile and excuses herself in English. Then she picks up her coffee and goes to her room.
Kim’s eyes are huge. “I don’t know what that was all about, but I’m scared I had something to do with it.”
“My mother and I are working out some farm issues,” I say.
And as I look at Kim, it hurts. I should not let her think that she has a chance, even though she does. Because if I do what I want, my family loses. If I do what they want and marry Sonia, I’m the only one who loses.
But no matter what, I need to leave her alone to her own life.
Ten
Kim - Not bad
An evening breeze kisses my bare arms. I shiver next to Tavo, who, despite being in a conversation with his friend Sergio, is so attuned to me that he notices the tremor passing up my spine. With a skillful movement, he takes his brown suede jacket, which smells delicious like him, and drapes it over my shoulders, warming me up right away. While there’s disappointment in his dark eyes, he nevertheless gives me a half smile because he can’t help but be a gentleman. It’s the kind of smile that apologizes and encourages at the same time.
Dammit.
I need to stay away until I talk to Shane. And yet all day I’ve been pulling myself closer and closer to Tavo as we toured the city of Granada. We registered for classes, got me a Spanish SIM card, then he acted as tour guide showing me the Cathedral and the famous Alhambra, a fortress on the hill. Wandering through the beautiful old city, we didn’t touch, didn’t hold hands, but as we moved we remained close to each other almost as if we couldn’t help ourselves, like we needed to be as close as we could get without crossing any lines. I snapped a million pictures with my phone, finally having a subject that inspired me. Not just the spectacular and ornate buildings. Tavo ended up in a lot of my pictures “accidentally on purpose,” his chiseled face clicking into place in the old world surroundings.
Maybe I want to remember this moment when I return to the United States.
Maybe I wish I would’ve resolved everything with Shane.
Maybe I can’t believe Tavo’s real. Like my dream, he doesn’t really exist in my life. I take a picture to remind myself when I’m old and gray that I had this moment, just for a while, where life was beautiful. I’m compelled to keep him for myself, a secret memory that I’ll tell no one for the rest of my life. I’ll just lock him inside my heart, sealed off.
It’s hard to think of shutting him off, though, when I’m wedged so close to him I can’t get out without touching him, nor do I want to move from this position. Ever.
We’ve met up with friends of his at a bar who all attend or teach at the Universidad de Granada, where I’m about to start. We’re outside in a sparkling night. This large table’s crowded with little glasses of beer, elegant stems of red wine, shiny plates of olives, cured Serrano ham on blue and green pottery plates with slices of white Manchego cheese, and sliced baguette-style bread in the middle on a basket. Every once in a while the exhaust of a scooter punctuates the night full of the sounds of people laughing and talking and distant music. Something garlicky is cooking next door. I’ve slipped way too many pieces of Manchego past my lips, enjoying the almost crunchy texture. And watching.
The city comes alive in the evening. Granada is much larger and more cosmopolitan than I thought it would be. At this table, a din of English and Spanish assaults my ears with everyone changing easily between them since they all study languages. I’m smiling and trying to follow the conversation of someone, anyone, and failing miserably. So instead, I tuck myself more into Tavo’s jacket and sip my wine.
Other than the fact that I’m tempting myself by sitting too close to Tavo, I don’t want to be anywhere else on Earth.
Especially not after three glasses of wine.
I don’t know anyone else at the table. There’s a group of Spaniards at the end who appear to be students, including a black haired, pretty girl named Sonia who’s shooting come-hither eyes at Tavo and daggers at me. It’d bother me if I weren’t snug next to him and if he seemed interested, but he’s taking no notice of her. Still, it’s disconcerting, since everyone else is friendly.
Sitting across from us is Trent, Tavo’s friend, and his teacher girlfriend?—partner?—wife?—Dani, although Trent never takes her classes. They have matching tattoos on the same finger. Trent’s drop-dead gorgeous, with longish sandy hair and nice tattoos. Dani curls up next to him, and she’s a total pixie—and immediately my friend. A teacher named Louise, who Dani calls Lulu, sits next to her, regal and serene. It’s clear that Dani adores her. Wyatt, another professor, nurses a beer next to Lulu, sitting close. And there are at least three or four more professors, plus some others.
“Want to know the difference between Spanish and English?” The speaker, a Spanish professor named Diego, asks me this question out of nowhere. He’s in his early thirties, and he perked up and kept bringing me into the conversation once he learned I’m in his class. He lights a cigarette and takes a drag. I’m not used to people smoking, but out here in the open air it doesn’t bother me.
“What’s the diffe
rence?” I respond, as I take a drink.
“This should be amusing,” mutters Trent, his big blue eyes shining in the street lights and low glow of the candles on the table.
Tavo puts his arm around the back of my chair. I shouldn’t like his arm so close, but I do. And I’m not moving it. Here I am again letting him get closer when I should push him away.
But I don’t want to.
Sonia has manufactured venom in her eyes. It’s good that she’s too far away to hear, given all the chatter, but she’s whispering into the ear of a companion. I continue to attempt to forget her.
Diego, the professor, answers his own question. “A Spaniard will watch a movie and at the end say that it was ‘estupendo, magnífico, maravilloso, fantástico.’”
“Stupendous, magnificent, marvelous, fantastic?” I offer. Finally, I understand an entire sentence in Spanish.
“Muy bien.” I receive an approving nod from the professor. “Someone who speaks English will walk out of the movie and say, ‘Not bad.’”
“Okay.”
“But they mean the same thing. What is fantástico to a Spaniard is not bad to an American.”
Dani giggles and adjusts herself against Trent’s side. “Diego’s right. We understate things in English. In Spanish, they are effusive.”
“That’s interesting,” I say. And I mean it.
Am I falling under the seduction of Tavo because I’m misinterpreting things? Is he being effusive, and because I’m used to understatement I think I’m something special?
Is this just a difference in cultures?
Maybe I need to focus on my studies instead of the handsome man I met.
“Sometimes you just have to figure out what someone really means under the words,” says Lulu.
“Wise woman speaks the truth,” I say. I don’t usually volunteer so early when meeting new people, but I’m really comfortable with this crowd.
Or maybe it’s just that I’ve been drinking.
“Do you like the tapas?” asks Tavo.
“What does tapas mean, anyway?”
“The little plates of food. It originated from a piece of salami,” says Tavo. “It would tapar, cover, the glass to keep out flies. But during the time of Franco, it became against the law to serve alcohol without food.”
“So in the southern part of Spain, it’s tradition for tapas to be served with drinks for free,” says Dani. “Other places you have to buy them, but here, you go out and have a few small drinks and a few plates of food, and you’re good for dinner.”
“Best tradition ever,” Lulu chimes in.
Trent raises his glass and pops an olive in his mouth. “I agree.”
“You don’t have that?” asks Tavo.
“No.”
His arm is still around my chair.
A warm smile crosses Tavo’s face. “Then enjoy. We shall do this more often.” The waiter drops off another round of drinks. My fourth glass of wine. They’re small, but still.
Tavo picks his up and raises it to eye level. “To your education.”
“To yours,” I say.
“Salud.”
At this point, I am buzzed. Comfortable. More comfortable than I’ve ever been. I’m trying not to cuddle up to Tavo, but he’s right here.
I post a picture of the Alhambra on Instagram, then start taking pictures of the gorgeous food on the table. I pick an artsy shot of the terracotta bowl of sardines, shiny and silvery, to put on my account.
While I’m distracted with my phone, Sonia materializes next to us. Her talons claw up his shoulder, and he recoils toward me. She’s saying something low, and in Spanish. I catch the word “cama.” Bed. “Esta noche.” Tonight.
Is she propositioning him?
My teeth grind. I have no claim to him. No right at all. And yet I want to mark my territory. Keep her away. If I were an animal, my fur would be rising on the back of my neck and spine. My hackles are up and out. But before I say anything—and I’m sober enough to know saying anything is a bad idea, Tavo is waving her away, muttering, “No, Sonia. Cómo te digo, no.”
I stare at his face. He’s so cold, glaring at her. There’s no emotion. No smile. And he shrinks from her touch. She leaves with two friends. Tavo’s breath is at my ear. “Sorry about that, guapa.”
I don’t know what he’s sorry about, but okay. “You can be … sorry. It’s okay,” I hiccup.
Night’s now fully in swing with the people of Granada all out, walking and talking.
I catch Dani talking to Lulu. “Well, you know we have two parts of our mind.”
“Oh, Lawd, not the hippie talk,” Lulu grumbles.
Trent holds Dani closer and kisses the top of her head. “She can’t help but be hippie-dippy.”
Lulu points a finger at him. “This is true.” She turns to Dani. “Continue.”
“So as I was saying, there’s two parts of all of us. There’s the conscious mind, which is what we think about, all the stuff in our brains. And the subconscious mind, which governs us, but we have no idea what it’s doing. It controls breathing and all the automatic mechanics of our body, but it also controls our behavior and motivations. If your subconscious mind isn’t on board, anything you try to do won’t work right.”
I understand Dani, but it could be all the wine.
She continues, “Here’s what I think is so interesting. The subconscious mind is more powerful. Way more powerful than our conscious. If we think we want something, but our subconscious says no way, we’ll never get it. That’s why people stay in ruts. They don’t change on the underlying level. And the reverse is true. If we’re subconsciously attracted to someone, even if our conscious mind can think of all these reasons not to be, the subconscious will win every time. And the subconscious is what animates your body.”
She makes perfect sense. My conscious developed a relationship with Shane. My subconscious wants Tavo. And I can’t have him. Not morally. Not ethically. Not anything.
I’m getting drunk.
No. Scratch that. I am drunk.
And drowsy. So drowsy.
Alcohol and comfort in the arms of a man I can’t have. Shouldn’t have.
When I rub my eyes one too many times, Tavo signals to the waiter, pays our bill with this funny-colored money—I’m still not used to Euros—and puts his arm around me as we walk back toward the car.
As we leave, I hear Dani say, “What a great couple. I’m so glad Tavo found someone.”
I don’t have it in me to correct her.
As we head back to the car, we walk through a vacant, wide plaza. I ask Tavo, who’s a little blurry, “How come no one else is drunk?”
“Spaniards just get happy. Feliz. We sing. We don’t get drunk.” He pulls me toward the end of the plaza. “This way.”
I stumble down the street, holding onto him to keep from swaying. My heels make a clip-clop noise on the cobblestones. He smiles and kisses the top of my head, helping me along.
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to embarrass you,” I slur.
“You’re not embarrassing. You’re cute.”
Cute. I think I like it that Tavo thinks I’m cute.
Once we make it down the end of the block, we enter another plaza. This one’s typically European—or at least what I always pictured as typically European—with a central fountain, lit-up restaurants on all sides, and a band playing in the middle.
So many people are out. And tonight, they’re dancing. The crowd claps along with the music, whistling and singing and moving their feet. A few women in longer skirts hold the ends up at their waists, their other hand held proudly over their head as they dance. The men stand, moving their feet and clapping. Horns sound. Guitar. And singing.
It’s so crowded, we can’t make it through the plaza without pushing our way. So, Tavo being Spanish, joins in. He pulls his shoulders back, swivels his head to the side, and brings his hands up to clap by his ear.
I burst out laughing, and put my hands to my mouth, not wan
ting to make him feel bad. I’m not laughing at him, I’m laughing with joy. I’m laughing because this is what I wanted to feel—the spontaneous nature of Spain. A different culture full of love and rhythm and joy and laughter. Something organic and natural and steeped in history. Not plastic and artificial. Something sensuous and deep.
Tavo leans over to my ear, his mouth brushing against it. “I teach you.” He lifts his chin. His warm body is right there. Right here. Pressed next to me in this plaza full of people. I can see the veins on his forearms and the back of his hands. Holding my hands, he shows me how to clap, with a little hollow in the middle so it’s louder.
Then he demonstrates. It’s so loud.
“Now, you.”
“Now, me—what?”
“Clap.”
I do, and my hands become a musical instrument. I become part of the night. I walk around him clapping, as he stands still, watching me move. When the song ends, all too quickly, I’m delighted, and I wrap my arms around his neck. He pulls me into him, placing his arms on my lower back. And now his narrow hips sway with a slower song. A lament.
How does he feel in my arms? Holding me? Unbelievable. Perfection. Like he’s made for me. He guides me around the crowd, and I realize that we’re actually headed in the right direction for the car. We’re just doing it dancing.
His dark eyes pierce me in the night. His heat radiates off him. My hands relish the softness of the back of his neck, the fact that I can put my arms around his strong shoulders in public. His scruff brushes against my cheek.
My breath speeds up. His hands tighten on me, but then his grip changes to subtly push me back. I scrunch my eyes so tight, because this is real.
But we shouldn’t.
And we don’t.
Somehow we break apart and walk to the car. We drive home in silence.
When I get to my room, I throw myself on the bed, then remember I need to wash my face. I step in the hallway and notice a man at the doorway of Tavo’s mom’s room.
I don’t know who that is, but he seems to know his way around. Especially since he’s kissing her.
Sombra Page 11
