Mad Dogs and an English Girl

by Caroline Waterman

  A wrought-iron gate barred our entrance to the Palace for it was long past closing time. Reluctantly we turned back and retraced our steps, promising ourselves that the following morning would find us back here bright and early.

  Now that the sun had set, the temperature dropped dramatically and we shivered in the evening chill. We trotted to warm ourselves up and were soon back in the town walking through dark, narrow streets lit by small lanterns. They shed pools of light against the white walls where trailing plants from the balconies above cast their feathery shadows. Occasionally, we heard the twang of a guitar and snatches of wild, melancholy flamenco. The strange sounds rose and fell, mingling eerily with the approaching night. We walked back to our pensión in silence and even Desmond had stopped talking for once. We were all three captivated by the atmosphere of the place as though the city had cast a spell upon us.

  “How can the eye take in so much beauty all at once?” exclaimed Anita, radiant with delight.“It’s just too much!”

  “It’s not so much what the eye sees,” retorted Desmond in ponderous tones, “as how the brain interprets that which is seen. Something which might appear beautiful to an enlightened individual could pass totally unobserved by the less discerning.”

  “You mean – beauty is in the eye of the beholder?” I ventured in English.

  He ignored me. We were standing among the slender pillars and splashing fountains of the Alhambra, gazing up in wonder at the exquisite Islamic patterns adorning the horseshoe arches around the Court of Lions. I tried to switch off Desmond’s lectures and immerse myself in my own reflections.

  It seemed to me that the Moorish kings of Granada had, in building their fortress palace at the foot of these snowy mountains, tried to create a private paradise which could delight all the senses simultaneously. The inner palace was composed of a labyrinth of lofty halls and shady courtyards, their graceful arches reflected in pools of turquoise water. Here and there, we came across secluded, leafy gardens which must have provided a blissful refuge from the burning heat of an Andalusian summer. The windows of the Alhambra were like frames surrounding carefully composed pictures of extraordinary beauty.They showed us views of the city and the sierra with its wooded foothills glimpsed through sprays of flowering almond. Orange trees spread their branches up to touch the arched windows like a maiden’s gentle arms.The beauty of the Moorish carvings was of a fragile, almost ethereal nature. Nothing here was heavy or ostentatious, just a delicate tracery of design flowing over everything: arches, walls, pillars and ceilings. The air was filled with the fragrance of myrtles, cypresses and eucalyptus accompanied by the sound of tinkling water and rustling leaves. This was indeed a world apart: a sensual and exotic world haunted by the ghosts of Eastern princes and their hidden women, a world inadequately described in my guide book. Among the abstract patterns, an inscription in Arabic, beautiful in itself, reminded us that here, in stern and Catholic Spain ‘There is no God but Allah’.

  Suddenly I became aware that my steps had wandered with my thoughts and I had lost Desmond and Anita. The last time I had seen them, Anita had been sitting at the Mirador de Daraxa, the loveliest of all the Palace windows. She was looking out over the cypresses while Desmond was trying to take her photograph with an ancient box camera. I hurried to the spot, but they were nowhere to be seen so I walked back to the Court of Lions and stood for a while looking up at the cloudless sky, enjoying the sun on my face. Perhaps they wanted to be alone together I mused drowsily. Certainly they were very much wrapped up in each other and, as the old adage goes:‘two’s company, three’s a crowd’.

  I sighed and wandered back to the seductive little garden I had discovered earlier.Walking round it, I tried to imagine the perfumed women of the harem, flitting like butterflies among the orange trees or sitting by the pool gazing at their reflected beauty in the crystal waters. I peered up through the leaves, seeking out the round, bright oranges. How lovely they looked against the blue sky! It was still a novelty for me to see them growing and more than once I was tempted to reach out and pluck one from its branch.

  Just then, I heard the sound of voices and spied the lovebirds themselves standing together under a palm tree, two figures dappled with shade, arms entwined, rapturously gazing into each other’s eyes. I resolved that, from then on, I would be discreet and explore the rest of Granada on my own. Quietly, and unnoticed, I slipped away.

  “Señorita, may I join you?”

  I was sitting at a pavement café enjoying a refreshing glass of beer and being thoroughly lazy.The sun was quite hot and it was so pleasant just to sit and watch the world go by. It was also a relief not to have to listen to Desmond droning away and I was quite enjoying being on my own for a change. It occurred to me that I had not been left to my own company for many weeks and it was something of a luxury. But alas, it was very difficult in Spain to be alone for any length of time and I realised that this latest intrusion on my solitude was inevitable.

  I looked up and saw a smiling young man in a blue shirt. Without waiting for a reply he seated himself at my table and clapped his hands at a passing waiter.

  “Another beer for the señorita – and a glass of wine.” he ordered. He leaned back in his chair, tilting it slightly, and lit a cigarette, regarding me with a pair of eyes black as olives.

  “You must excuse me,” he smiled, “I can’t resist blondes. Anyway, what’s a girl like you doing sitting all by herself?”

  “Enjoying doing just that!” I replied crossly.“Enjoying my own company and, with your permission, I should like to continue to do so.”

  Unabashed, my unwanted companion gave a hoot of laughter. “What strange ideas you foreigners have! But here in Spain, girls shouldn’t sit alone in cafés so here I am to keep you company. By the way my name is Juan. What’s yours and where do you come from?You are foreign, aren’t you?”

  “English.”

  Juan shook his head firmly.“Don’t pull my leg!You’re French.”

  “English,” I repeated wearily, irritated by him already.

  “No, you can’t be English. I’ve seen loads of English girls here in Granada and they’re not like you. All as plain as mud and dowdily dressed.You’re different.Your clothes look – Spanish.”

  “They are,” I replied with a yawn, wishing he would go away. “I live here.”

  “Really?” Juan leaned forward and studied me with even greater interest.“Where abouts?”

  “Burgos”

  “Jolín!” he spluttered, rolling his eyes heavenwards in horror. “What a place to choose!” He shuddered at the very thought. “So dreary up there, so bleak and so cold!”

  “Yes,” I agreed reluctantly,“maybe it is, but I like it.The people are great and I enjoy living there.”

  Juan shook his head sadly at my folly.“This is the place to live,” he said, holding his glass of wine up to the sun and squinting at it sideways.“Best place in the world.”

  At this point I had to confess that I had fallen in love with his city and, before long, we were discussing the charms of the Alhambra.

  “How about the Albaicín?” he asked suddenly.“Have you been there?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You can’t leave Granada without seeing the Albaicín. It’s where the gypsies live and if you go there at night they’ll sing and dance for you in their caves. That’s called a zambra – the best flamenco in the whole of Spain. But you can’t possibly go there on your own.You’ll need an escort: someone who knows the place, preferably a native of Granada, – preferably me?”

  He was looking at me with his head on one side and with such a quizzical expression that I couldn’t help laughing. I studied him properly for the first time and found his dark, gypsy looks quite attractive. By now I was more or less resigned to Juan’s company so I said:“Alright.You’ve persuaded me.We’ll go together.”

  Juan laughed happily at his success. “Most un-English of all possible English girls,” he said in his lisping Andalusian ac
cent, “you’ll not regret it. Now, let’s see, how long are you here in Granada? I would take you this very night but alas! I have to work late today. How about tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow’s fine,” I said.“The day after we have to leave and I can’t think of a better way to spend my last night here.”

  “Bueno! bueno! That’s settled then. Nothing warms up there before midnight so I’ll pick you up at around nine thirty and we’ll have something to eat first.Where are you staying?”

  I explained that I was paying full board at my pensión so I wouldn’t need a meal. “We could meet at eleven thirty,” I suggested, “and don’t bother to call for me. I’ll meet you here at this café.”

  Juan shrugged his shoulders. “As you please. And now, we just have time for a short walk by the river before I go back to work.”

  We walked and talked for another half hour and then he left me.

  I made my way back to the pensión and there were Anita and Desmond. Anita rushed over to me, her face registering agitation and relief. “Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you everywhere. I was so worried.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said,“I was just exploring the town – having a look at the shops.”

  “My dear Anita,” said Desmond in condescending tones,“I see you do not understand the British.The female of the species is of a tough and independent nature, accustomed to being left to her own devices, unlike the Spanish woman who, like a delicate and fragile bloom, must needs be tended, nurtured and cherished: guarded and protected against hostile forces; treated with the utmost care and vigilance. By contrast, the English woman is like a hardy weed, well able to withstand the rigours of the outside world without suffering any ill effect.”

  “Thank you, dear Desmond,” I said between gritted teeth.“So now we are hardy weeds! That’s the second disparaging remark I’ve heard about us poor English girls today and I’m getting a bit fed up with it.”

  “Don’t take any notice of him!” laughed Anita. “Now listen! Tomorrow we are going to do something very exciting. Desmond and I met some medical students and they’ve invited us to the hospital to watch an operation – removal of gall stones, won’t that be interesting? They said you could come too.”

  “Er, no thank you,” I replied quickly. “I’m sure with your medical background you’ll be fascinated but it’s not really my scene.Anyway, I’ve made my own plans for tomorrow. I’m going to visit the Generalife.”

  “You see what I mean about English women?” commented Desmond with satisfaction.

  The following morning found me exploring, on my own, the delightful gardens of the Generalife, summer residence of those incredibly aesthetic Moorish kings. The sun was shining brightly again and the sky was its usual cloudless blue. On either side of a long channel of water leading up to the Summer Palace, rows of fountains threw their sparkling arcs into the air, criss-crossing to form silvery patterns of spray. Paths of pebbled mosaic wandered between cypress hedges and beds of rose bushes already in bloom. Everywhere there was the sound of lightly splashing water lulling one into feelings of well-being and tranquillity.

  I stopped by a little wall crowned with colourful flowers in pots feasting my eyes once more on the fruiting orange trees and listening to the twittering of birds. Beneath me lay the city of Granada and beside it rose the Albaicín. It was good to be alone again for a little while and I rejoiced at the thought that I was here rather than in an operating theatre having to witness the unpleasant spectacle of a surgeon groping around inside someone’s exposed digestive organs.

  There were few visitors in the gardens that morning and I was able to sun myself in peace and collect my thoughts.What did the future hold for me? Would I stay in Spain or go back to England? My family was pressing me to go home – yet I was having a good time here. On the other hand, I knew I could not stay indefinitely with Anita’s family, that wouldn’t be fair on them, but neither would I be moving to Madrid now that I had broken with Luis. Again I dragged Luis out of that dark, painful corner of my mind where I had shut him away for the last few weeks. But now I was surprised to find that I could think about him objectively, even calmly. I told myself that it was a good thing that I was free of him for surely a fire that burns so fiercely must die out as quickly leaving behind only ashes. No, better a slow, steady flame.And how about Julio? Dear Julio who, in his conceit, never doubted for a moment my affection for him. I had treated him badly but luckily he didn’t know it so, perhaps, when I was back in Burgos, I might make it up to him by spending a weekend in Logroño.After all, if it hadn’t been for Julio I wouldn’t have ended up in Burgos in the first place.

  At that moment, my thoughts were interrupted by the crunch of approaching footsteps on the pebble path and the unexpected tones of my native tongue. I looked round and saw a plump, elderly man. He was quite short and wore a wide-brimmed hat, pale grey suit, colourful tie and rimless spectacles. I sensed at once that he was not English. He was smoking a cigar and looking about him appreciatively, pausing occasionally to consult a small booklet. Round his neck hung an expensive-looking camera and, by his side, trotted an unshaven little man in a shabby uniform who was trying to explain in broken English that here, on this very spot, had stood the American writer, Washington Irving, gathering material for his famous ‘Tales of the Alhambra’.

  When they reached my wall, the plump man gave me a friendly smile and raised his hat politely. “Buenos deeas!” he beamed.

  “Hello,” I replied whereupon he removed the cigar from his mouth and walked over to me.

  “Well, I mighta guessed you were American too!” he exclaimed.“What d’ya think of this Generaleef? Real pretty, huh?”

  “Yes, it’s lovely – and this view is fabulous.”

  “Say! You’re English!” he grinned. “I guess you must be with that quaint accent.”

  I smiled and nodded and he held out his hand to me.“Well, I sure am pleased to meet you,” he said, shaking my hand warmly.“Schwartz is the name. Jerry Schwartz. Now, why don’t you take a look round this place with me? Meet my guide, José. He’s a smart guy and I’ve been hearing some interesting things about this Generaleef.” He patted José benevolently on the shoulder and the little man grinned happily looking like a dog being praised by its master.

  So I joined them sensing that Mr. Schwartz was someone used to having his wishes obeyed.Together we strolled through the tree-lined avenues listening to José’s painful English. Mr. Schwartz paid great attention to this incomprehensible commentary, nodding his head encouragingly. From time to time the guide would find it necessary to consult a well-worn Spanish/English dictionary and, during these intervals, Mr. Schwartz asked me about myself.What was I was doing in Granada, where was I staying and how long was I planning to be here? He told me about his home in Ohio, his canning factory, his grand tour of Europe and the chauffeur-driven car that was taking him around Spain. Here, obviously, was a man of some means.

  In this way the morning passed pleasantly enough and by lunch time, Mr. Schwartz and I had learnt quite a lot about each other. I had the impression that he was a lonely man, eager for company for, when the time came to say goodbye he seemed reluctant for us to part. Suddenly he said: “Would you join me for lunch? I’m going back to my hotel and I sure would be glad of your company.Y’see I’ve really enjoyed talking to you.”

  It was impossible to refuse such an invitation so I said,“You’re very kind, Mr. Schwarz and I would love to join you for lunch; but afterwards I must go or my friends will be anxious.”

  He replied with a big smile.“That’s fine.That’s just fine.”

  Outside the gates of the Generalife stood an enormous American car, gleaming white in the sun.Against its bonnet leaned a uniformed chauffeur. He was smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper but, on catching sight of Mr. Schwartz, hurriedly stuffed it behind his back and stubbed out the cigarette. Leaping to attention, he opened the rear door and we climbed in, sinking deep into the luxurious upholste
ry.The chauffeur threw me an odd look as we settled down and I felt slightly uncomfortable, but I quickly forgot him and just revelled in the fact that this was turning out to be a thoroughly enjoyable day.

  “Which is your hotel?” I asked as we purred along the tree-lined road.

  “Oh, it’s a cute li’l place here on the Alhambra hill. I guess you’ll like it.”

  The cute little place turned out to be one of the most luxurious hotels in Granada. As we sat on the sunny terrace surrounded by flowers and attentive waiters, admiring the view and enjoying a magnificent lunch of lobster in mayonnaise and champagne, I had to congratulate myself on having decided to do my own thing that morning.

  “Where did ya say you’re headin’ for next?” enquired my rich companion lighting up a cigar as the coffee and liqueurs arrived at the table. I explained that I was with two friends but one of them was returning to Madrid that evening and my girlfriend and I were moving on to Málaga the following morning.

  “What d’ya know?” chuckled Mr. Schwartz.“That’s just where I’m off to. How you travellin’?”

  “By train.We have a kilometric ticket and we can go anywhere we like with it.”

  “I’ve heard the trains aren’t too good in this part of the world.”

  “Well, that’s true,” I admitted, “they’re very slow. Our journey from Madrid took seventeen hours.”

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter revealing a row of gold teeth. “Hey! That sure was some journey. Now, listen here!” He leaned across the table, suddenly serious. “I gotta proposition to make to you – nothin’ dodgy you understand.You seen my automobile – it’s a big one, holds six, and I get kinda lonesome sittin’ there by myself with no one to talk to so why don’t you kids come along with me?”

  I hesitated, wondering what Anita would think about the idea. “That’s a very kind offer,” I began,“but…”