I had moved ahead of the hooded men in black, the whites of their eyes shouting out silently, begging for forgiveness or desiring hatred, until I reached a group of twenty or so older men walking ahead of the drummers and behind the large wooden crucifix which was carried on one man’s shoulder. Old slip-on black leather shoes with white socks and key chains with a symbol of the virgin swinging outside the pockets. A leather weightlifter’s belt connected the cross bearer with his burden by way of a small chain. I became ab-sorbed in the rhythm of the drums, and the pacing, from a third story window came cries of pity for a lost son; the older lady shouted for the crucified Christ, the procession stopping to accept her lamentations before slowly moving down and through the streets of the fishing village.
Christ had become alive for me. I deeply felt the agony of his suffering and of all our suffering as I trudged along with the procession completely emerged in the beating of the drum and the onslaught of death. Two men moved beside me and walked in rhythm with me, their eyes facing straight ahead yet I felt their atten-tion on me. The drum took a quick beat and stopped. One of the men placed the belt around my waist and the other secured it.
“Is it all right this like this?” I could only look down at the belt below the leather jacket that I had found lying on top of a garbage can. I was trying to draw some drug induced conclusion regarding the jack-et, my mind was everywhere except there. The drum began again and I returned to the cross which would still be mine, comforted by the two men at my side, close and closer I came to the passion of Jesus, the pain and worst of all the fear. I imagined the nails and the blood as we left the pavement and began to walk on the beach. The drums sounded the quick trill before stop-ping the procession, a small decorative pillow slid under the crucifix before the cross was planted on it, the belt undone and the man moved off to the side. My two guides brought me to the cross and clipped my belt to it, then motioned for me to wait. I stared ahead, afraid of the eyes upon me, back in the world without the drums, time had bloomed on the windy and chilly beach, sprouting limbs and flowers through and around the moment only to be whisked away with the snap of a drum. Off we went, the cross a noticeable strain, but not unmanageable. I became everyone and no one and the physical burden became lighter and lighter. Christ’s pain turned to ecstasy, the momentary opening to the worlds, of everyman’s cross regardless of when. What was at first a difficult sand to traverse now be-came a joy to suffer in, a quick drum beat, the procession stopped and I was replaced.
I strolled behind the procession for another half an hour, savoring the moment, before heading off for the town. The long bar was full of fathers and sons dressed in their procession clothes while others sat beside their instruments, holding enormous sandwiches filled with Spanish omelets or black and white sausage. The first tall cold beer had a magical effect on me, the fresh new pack of Marlboro’s snapped open and I felt fantastic, ready to spend a morning drinking, terribly grateful to the fathers and sons for getting up and making the mu-sic and the processions. The smoke left my throat full of texture while drum music approached the street, gradually overtaking the moment until it completely captured it for an instant, only to leave us behind to look for new prey.
Beer after beer, new fathers and sons, the alcohol was breaking through the spell to return me to the world of fear and death that so frightened me. I stumbled home and poured a drink I couldn’t finish before fading off into a sleep that would bring little peace when I was to awake that evening.
CHAPTER 25
The annoying rhythm of Irene’s finger on the doorbell reminded me how comfortable I was lying on my back with a blanket up to my neck.
“May we, John, where are you?” She poked her head in the door. “Come on, get dressed, we’ll be in the kitchen.” The old smell of the apartment compli-mented the sparse furniture, makeshift book shelves and curtains. I walked down the hall and passed Irene and Joaquin on my way to the bathroom, warm under the thick sweatshirt, jeans and white socks that protected my feet from the stiff leather shoes. “Do you want a coffee?” I nodded, anxious for it along with my first cigarette.
I hadn’t delved deeply into the scientific details of my affliction, hoping to avoid unnecessary morbidity. I usually was annoyed by intrusions into my personal af-fairs, especially by someone as self righteous as Irene, but in this case it was necessary. The chat Dad had to give you when you where a kid after having done some-thing especially idiotic, you suffered beforehand but felt great relief once it was over. It may have been in that very house were I contracted the virus, more than once we had been together there. Drunken nights full of hash induced laughing attacks. George’s tapes and after dinner coffees that became long nights at the table. It was all coming back to me. It was the sud-denly sober glance over the wreckage and bodies of an accident, with the policeman asking you if you had been drinking.
“John, you remember Joaquin, don’t you?”
“Sure, thanks for coming, I appreciate it.” I cere-moniously removed the plastic wrap from the solid new pack of Marlboro’s, then offered.
“You shouldn’t be doing that, you know.” I re-frained from the obvious response out of gratitude. Thick rain drops began to peck at the interior patio, thankful for their comfort. “I checked your social secu-rity card number and everything is in order, you’ll have no problems, but you’ve got to begin to take care of yourself, the smoking, the drinking, your diet, exercise.” Just what I needed, a healthy life.
“What about these new drug combinations I’ve heard about, it sounded like they were effective.”
“On most patients they are, not all, and the long term is still not clear, but we may be able to turn this thing into a chronic illness instead of a killer. What we’re going to do with you now is check you into the hospital for a full round of tests to see just were you are.” My face broke out into a nauseous grimace. “It’s only for two days, come on. You’d better get used to doctors and hospitals, because you’ll be seeing quite of few of them, and the best thing you can do is bring a positive attitude toward it.” And a bowl of sprouts.
“How about letting me invite you two to lunch, a paella down by the beach, will that be all right, you’ll let me drink a little today, won’t you?”
He raised his eyebrows exaggeratedly then shook his head. “But just today.”
*
I couldn’t help thinking about what the nurses must have thought of me, and with it came the first stabs of homesickness. A quick thought of how my dad would have reacted to seeing me in the hospital with Aids, or even any of my friends, quickly let me return to my usual state of gratefulness for where I was. Being alone in the room allowed me to enjoy the calculated silence and order of a hospital along with a Dashiel Hammet novel. I tried to remember how long it had been since I had eaten on a timely basis, snacks included, and I decided it hadn’t been since my mother died. I hadn’t thought of her and I was content to know she didn’t have to see me in this state, though strangely enough I wasn’t ashamed of myself. I felt like I had been the recipient of a terrible dose of bad luck.
Just to imagine the looks and thoughts of Skip and Kerry, the convulsive repugnance they would certainly feel for me. The tapping of the wooden clogs an-nounced her imminent arrival. The ankles were strong without being fat, a sure indicator of a robust, sensuous body.
She rubbed the moist cotton ball rapidly back and forth on my arm, my eyes staring into her cleavage. My soul yearned for solitary silence, yet the deteriorating body still longed for battle. The long strong neck rose majestically out of her chest between the distinguished presence of the collar bones. The long fingers of her elegant hand took firm hold of my arm, no cheap rings, only the engagement ring and wedding band, with dis-creet watch marking the seconds of my heartbeat. I looked away as the needle entered my vein, slowly moving my eyes back towards her. I admired the well structured face, imagining the sexual positions she pr
e-ferred, what she did and didn’t do, her most shameful moment. Her eye lids rose high to allow the dark, al-most black eyes to pierce mine. She worked silently, only saying that it was over when she took out the nee-dle.
I had a memory, a memory of a path filled with wood chips on a fall day, the late summer light of an afternoon, the crunching sound of the wood below my shoes. I walked alone into a sensation of happiness, real happiness at being someplace that filled me with hope and adventure, a sudden feeling of excitement. The crisp stillness of that day, the touch of a chill hanging in the still warm air. If I then really knew what I was looking for maybe it wasn’t too late, because what I desired was nothing but a timeless sense that dangled on moments, much more profound than beauty. The day passed from dusk to night and I no longer feared what lay ahead, my body became so light I felt as if would float away in the divine cloud of peace that had blessedly overcome me.
Joaquin sat on the bed with his clipboard to explain to me the results, and I was grateful for his soft ways and gentle words. I felt the heat rise into my face and my heart beat rapidly, his tone disclosed the presence of not altogether wonderful news. “We’ve done the tests we’ve needed to do and you can go home now.” I thanked him for all he had done hoping in some way to put off the inevitable. “You are in relatively good shape, you have no illnesses and there is no obvious signs of the virus’s progression. Your cell counts are slightly below average, which could mean that there is a possibility that you could see some effects in a relative-ly short period of time if we didn’t begin treating you with a series of pharmaceuticals. I’ve written out which pills you will take and when, you can see that there are quite a few, but once you get into habit of it’s really not that big a deal. But you must be absolutely strict about it, if not your wasting all of our time. We can fight this thing and give you a very high quality of life, but you’ve got to cooperate. You might want to go to some support groups that can help you adapt to the new life-style.”
I was afraid to ask what the first symptoms might be, and how healthy I was going to have to become. I found solace in Blanca, when things got bad I could always use that escape. Surprisingly, the beginning of the countdown was less traumatic then I thought it would be and I felt that same sense of urgency that filled my last days in America. There was one more escape to execute, and I decided I would enjoy it.
CHAPTER 26
Frito’s round belly bounced back and forth as we silently walked up the dirt driveway to the shepherds house. “Antonio!” Frito threw his head back as he spoke, chewing on a toothpick and breathing deeply. The old wooden door finally creaked open, Antonio looked up with caution before waving us in. The car-cass turned slightly on the rope from which it was hanging, the front legs spread wide, reminding me of the Jesus in Rio. The shepherd worked quietly untying a complicated series of knots to bring down the lamb after it had hung for a day. Frito picked it up, one hand between the thighs and the other on the neck.
The shepherd spoke almost angrily “Don’t drop it.” Frito made some noises that I couldn’t decipher as we walked out of the house. After having returned to the farm from the town, the shepherd called us over to his house, and offered us a beer and some olives as he and Frito talked about the dinner that was going to be pre-pared the next day with the lamb and their differing theories on what should be added. Their hands were terribly large and rough. Frito the tractor driver and Antonio the shepherd; people who worked so much they seemed uncomfortable with themselves when they weren’t.
“Let’s go get some calamari.” Burst out Frito. “You can bring John home afterwards.” The shepherd rocked his head while Frito stared at him ready to ad-vance his cause. “Come on, your always alone here.” His large jaw emerged triumphant with his grin while the shepherd moved slowly for his jacket.
“Frito, the only thing you do is think about food.”
“I spend my life planning to eat.”
The owner of the taberna moved slowly from around the bar, sliding his clogs across the dirty floor. “What should I put out?” He had spoken to me the day before, finally looking in my direction and only slightly moving his face to acknowledge my presence before sliding back to the bar.
Calamari, fresh anchovies, snails and the cognac colored local wine. “Eat more calamari, they make your cock grow.” Frito’s enormous face broke out into a childish grin and then a contortioned smile. Shouting to the barkeeper to bring another pitcher of wine, the bar man looking on with quite desperation at having to serve another nightly feast to Frito. “Antonio, hey, you too, you’ve got to go up to the Malvinas to see your girlfriend.” Finally a faint grin from the barman. The Malvinas being the local area whorehouses, receiving its name due to the Latin American origin of many of the employees. I ate hungrily and thirstily before starting to drink bourbon, the shepherd looked at me for what seemed like to long before asking his question.
“How long are you going to stay?” I felt all six ears and eyes upon me.
“One or two months.” Their heads nodded and they continued to eat. What I didn’t know but would soon learn was the patience and stubbornness of country people.
“An American in ‘La Paca’.” And Frito laughed again. “Let’s see if he marries Irene and becomes the new ‘Señorito’. The uncomfortable isolation of not un-derstanding the unspoken fell slowly, not noticeable at first, but gradually more sticky and uncomfortable. The alcohol had given me an unfriendly and lonely buzz. I wanted to avoid all contact with these people and return to the lonely room in the palatial farm, far from the lies I was to about to tell. What had seemed like a healthy acquaintanceship became annoying. I imagined their reactions if they had known the truth and I was further distanced. They had been discussing the fate of a piece of land when Frito suddenly shouted. “Americano, your not drunk, are you”? I swayed my head to the right with an indifferent look, hoping to find I way to get back home, which didn’t come till after two more drinks.
*
The long table swayed with hunger, the metal trays waited steaming for someone to get up and begin serv-ing. I had invited my friend Josep and his girlfriend down from Catalonia for the express purpose of having someone to speak with, but Josep was deep into ad-vancing Irene’s brother’s opinion of him and his American girlfriend She sat listening and not under-standing, looking my way for comfort but finding only disdain. She was a mirror to my past, America meant my escape, and she was the warden coming around for a look. The innocent and twangy Midwest accent float-ed in the air with an aftertaste of water drunk from a rusty tin can.
I delighted in the lamb roasted in the baker’s oven atop half peeled potatoes, the meat sensuous and strong with the animal’s flavor. We ate in a house Irene’s brother Fabio had restored below the main house for the hunters. The old beams crossed above the room with the authority of their new stain, the new red clay floor had already begun to stain and the poor light enhanced the timelessness of the eighteenth century building. It had originally been the home of the patrons before an old farm house above it had been turned into the pala-tial home of the new owners with all the taste of Franco’s 1950’s. Those with no taste always have the option to restore someone else’s, which in this case was a clear victory over the preposterous attempt at a palace that was the house above, which sat lonely and ridicu-lous upon the dry hill while we were below, surrounded by water which was collected there to be later used to irrigate the fields below. Cypresses and laurels gave shade and life to the terrace which looked out on the olive garden and wheat fields.
Josep nodded his tilted head across towards Fabio. “Who takes out the loan, the company you set up or your mother?” Irene looked in for an answer but Fa-bio’s high voice went a pitch above normal.
“Well, the society’s name is on the loan.”
“But mom co-signed.” Irene’s anger was apparent and Fabio looked at her, this wasn’t to be discussed here. Josep no
dded with his lips pinched to let us all know he was aware of the subtle implications. The de-serts were followed by the drinks. Irene enjoying the absolute control she had over me, now there was no sex, which was my only power over her. Now that are relationship had become Mother Theresa helping the sinner I was completely at her disposal, no more telling her off, or leaving without saying goodbye; I was in-debted and therefore not worthy of her attention. Josep considered himself now an intimate of the family, no need to proceed through his friend, his invitation was directly from the top. Fabio’s eyes darted occasionally at Charley, in an attempt to bring her into the conversa-tion, his interest in Josep pure courtesy.
“Charley, what are you doing in Barcelona?” He had asked, the alcohol beginning to take it’s affect. The monster within from the generations of decadence gradually emerged, the wicked vice of moneylenders who had become borrowers, exploding in the last sparks of opulence. Josep”s middleclass mind had no idea what was in front of him, for he only saw the happy smile of the country gentleman. Charley’s silly smile was much nearer Fabio’s then Josep would ever want to know.
I eyed Fabio’s wife with all my own insatiable de-sire, only frustrated by her knowledge of my case. Paqui’s body spoke wonderfully of the perversion that possessed her loins. Dark and sensuous, I had no doubt she could have been had if it weren’t for my precarious position. I took advantage of the pity she had for me to accept the nurse like smiles sent, that ‘in other days and other fields…’, while I listened to Josep.
“She’s here to learn Spanish and maybe stay, right bunny?” The right bunny part in English.
“Barcelona is an incredible city, you have access to the entire 20th century, take advantage of the time there.” Irene’s charm was unfortunately always so del-icate, but in this case it was a direct hit on the always aching for praise ego of Josep, who in turn, sent a lob back to Irene.
“You don’t know how good you have here, the si-lence, the space. Barcelona has become non-stop. Charley even says its worse than Chicago.” A lob with backspin. “I”m thinking of moving out, buying a place on the coast.”