CHAPTER 9
The suds slid over the currents of the Segura River through the middle of Murcia city, the rank odor wel-coming me across the bridge toward the city center. A slight chill passed through the pedestrian streets, a wealth of beautiful women, young, very young and middle aged bid me good morning. What little hango-ver I had served to inspire me, yesterday seemed far off, stale and not worth the regret. A small, insignifi-cant hunger began, it would become more, but it at that moment it needed little more than an empanadilla.
The bakery was wide, dominated by pine, the smell of fresh loaves, the note of yeast in the moist air. Be-hind the counter a young, corpulent brunette with sinister dark eyes silently asked me what I wanted. “An empanadilla.” After a short stare she went into the back of the bakery returning with a tray of hot rolls.
“They’ll be out in a few minutes.” She placed the rolls under the counter then stood up, her breasts high, the first curve of her waist visible before disappearing below the counter. Below her breasts rose the steam from fresh, warm loaves of bread, many sizes and forms. She silently stood behind her goods, a blank ar-rogant stare that fed my desire and reinforced her arrogance. Behind her a large framed picture of the “Fuensanta” with a flower held between the frame and the wall, the virgin’s face radiant and beautiful inside a gold circle, her head crowned and the infant Jesus warm in her hands.
The erotic silence grew, her stare focusing more and more on my face, then on my eyes, my chest be-came tight, she finally moved again toward the back of the bakery to return with a tray of empanadillas. The white short sleeve pullover revealing a portion of her tan breasts, the white of the bra strap loosening as she bent over. The empanidilla placed in a white piece of paper, which she folded than swung around to close the ends. “Your empanadilla, my invitation, for “La Fuensanta”.”
I’ve always loved Murcia, but I probably have never loved it as much as I did that day, in that moment. I wandered through the streets, admiring the tascas, hung with hams, counters full of fresh tomatoes and avas. It was just before eight in the morning, flocks of people flowed down the downtown streets, free of cars, the tower of the baroque cathedral dominating the skyline. The crowds grew and the false baroque facade appeared above a mass of people, light and concave, the plaza vibrating with the masses. I asked someone what was happening. “It is the romeria of “La Fuensanta”, they are going to bring her from the cathedral to the sanctuary, she should be coming out any minute now.”
The hum of prayer spread like a chant through the square, the crowd swayed while their pitch rose. I bumped into people who didn’t acknowledge me, old men in grey sweaters with white socks and black shoes smelling of cheap cologne, their faces almost to serious to believe.
The masses rose to near hysteria, from inside the main door of the cathedral she rode above the shoulders of several men who held her up by horizontal poles, women began to shout. “Mirala, que guapa!” Old arms raised, faces hypnotized, from across the square came the chants and screams, her face smiled through the ceramic mask. She was radiant and gorgeous, more sensual than spiritual. The goddess of a land of beauty and abundance, fresh and bursting with tomatoes, the hams and the young girls. She drew me toward her, my eyes didn’t leave her. “La madre de Díos!” All heads followed, behind her people barefoot, paying their pen-ance by following her on the long trek to the sanctuary, desperate for her sensuality and her beauty.
Time became redundant within my focus. I saw her for thousands of years in a moment, all the beauties I had seen and known were ugly and awkward com-pared to her. My desires and passions had finally found a doctrine, a sublime essence to my driving force. The moment finally faded, the morning lingered lonely without her, but she stayed with me like a women who stays with you all morning even though you’ll never see her again. The thirst, a terrible thirst gripped me, tore at me, and a hunger. I wandered through the streets hung over from what I had seen, wanting to sit and eat and drink and think about her.
People bounced, their banter sharp with the morn-ing and the energy of a holiday. The aperitif began boldly and early for those looking forward to a special state that afternoon. The long wooden bar blossomed with ceramic bowls of tomatoes, artichokes, asparagus. Quail stacked without feathers, their small heads twist-ed and looking up, sausages, strings of garlic, scallions and chorizos hung from a pole above the bar. Three wooden beams crossed below the ceiling, from which swung more than forty hams, plastic cones clung below them to catch the fat as it dripped. A beer, a plate of boiled ham seasoned with oil, lemon and black pepper, avas and an artichoke cut small and grilled. The beers entered like the smoke from a long awaited cigarette, one after the other, my head finally rising, the music in the tasca filling me with rhythm. The alcohol, the hangover and the procession had me euphoric.
Across the bar stood two girls, one of whom had large lips with shoulder length brown hair, a seventies-look silk orange shirt and the same style nylon pants. I imagined her to be a final gift from the Fuensanta, the rich lips leading her dark eyes toward me, the grin leapt out to embrace her. A spontaneous smile.
“Your lips are magnificent.” The giggles of young, healthy, pretty girls. The waiter slammed down a basket of bread, grilled asparagus and three beers, the foam flowing over the top from the impact with the ta-ble. My hunger must have been contagious, the girls quickly stabbing at the vegetables with their small forks; My Lady of the Lips, Mercedes, left long, slow, controlled glances on me; she had me back in the spell of the morning and months away from Irene and my crimes against humanity.
“I’ve got to meet my boyfriend, it was nice meet-ing you,” said the friend with a smirk. Two more beers, I was drunk and so was she. I could see the joy rise in her soft skin through her cheeks to her brown eyes, young and plentiful, she was the tasca and the day.
“Let’s go to the Plaza de las Flores,” she said ex-citedly. The two squares are connected on one side, several bars, patio tables, and people standing inside and out. “Dos Marineras, y dos cañas!” A long wait in the peak hour of a strong aperitif. The “marinera” is an oval bread stick, with a type of potato salad spread on top, capped off by an anchovy, the best anchovies I’ve ever had, made by the people in the bar, small glasses of beer, the hunger and thirst continued to rise. “Dos Matrimonios y dos cañas!” A “matrimonio” is a boqueron in lemon and on top of an anchovy, pinched together with a toothpick. Mercedes let her hips and shoulders bump into me, my thumb explored the palm of her hand; I felt the thrill of the first contact, it ran up the back of my neck, over my head and into my eye-brows.
“I’d love to travel, to see America, the world.” Her eyes big and hopeful with drink and lust. We sat at a table, the plate of octopus steamed below, boiled, than into the oven and sprinkled with the local paprika that I was supposed to be buying. More beers, and another plate of octopus.
“Come with me to the train station.” The midday sun shined oppressively on us while we tramped across the city, my hand exploring her back, between the shoulder blades, up and down the spinal column. Eve-rything about her was young, plentiful and ripe. On a corner she turned, bringing her hands up my chest than putting an enormous, raspy tongue in my mouth, the fragrance of blossoming youth, the breasts rubbing my chest, the tongue continuing to explore and mingle with mine. The big lips wide open.
From the port hole window of the Talgo I watched her wave and turn, the body moving gracefully than turning again and smiling, a last glimpse of the lips. A second rate Hollywood movie was strangely comforting as I sat back in the comfortable chair and waited for sleep to come, and it came quickly and well, my mind clear and calm.
CHAPTER 10
A clean crisp light reflected off the dry river, its water replaced with football fields and a bizarre space ship that was the music hall. The lethargy of finally having slept a night. I was still tired after ten hours in bed and two coffees with an aggressive sal
esman. Across the river and through the arc, she should just be getting up, my first woman in Spain. Vice and more vice, but she became my friend and I wanted to see her; one of the few people I knew would always give me a big smile.
Amparo collected me one night soon after I had starting teaching English in Valencia like a nun rescuing an abandoned child. From that moment I always had a wild night out, a loan, a joint to smoke, and for a while, a roll in the sheets. The wool suit was baking me. I longed for the night, a ride on her Vespino, cutting through traffic to the apartment of some weird friend’s house, then on to Valencia’s temples, the discos that opened at five in the morning and functioned till noon. Much to tell to someone who could laugh at anything, who was never shocked.
The large wooden door I had rarely seen in the midday sun, no magic, only wear. The bell squealed but no voice returned, more squealing but no response. I had wanted to see her too much, it always seemed to work that way. Back to the street, the Vespinos raced through the traffic, cars chasing traffic lights on the wide avenue that wrapped around the city. I remem-bered the constant moan of traffic from her bed. Alone on the hot sidewalk I thought about returning to the hotel to make some calls but then decided against it.
I might have been their first customer, the late night pub that opened for coffee. I’m sure they remem-bered me but it wasn’t their style to be friendly, only a change of pitch in their ‘hola’ to let me know they rec-ognized me.
“What can I get you?”
“A coffee.”
“Haven’t seen you in a long time.” The strong dark face was attractive in an angry way, the brilliantly black hair short atop the small, athletic body.
“I went back to the States, over on business.” A curt smile. I was surprised that she hadn’t mentioned Amparo. Her husband was organizing the chairs around the tables. She moved to the end of the bar with the newspaper, the sun pouring in, not letting me remember what I wanted to remember: the laughs, the coffees that turned into whiskeys and lustful nights. A city I didn’t like without the one person who made it bearable, the phone had been disconnected. Uncom-fortably I slid down the bar towards the waitress. She must have seen me but she didn’t look up. I stopped halfway, my body leaning; my forearms a few feet far-ther down the bar than my feet. “Ah, have you seen Amparo lately? There’s nobody in the apartment and the phone is disconnected.”
“Amparo?” The hands remained gripped to the paper, the head not sure whether to continue my way or duck down below the pages. The husband looked up from wiping the table.
“Haven’t seen her in a while? When was the last time you talked to her?”
“It’s been a while.” They had something to tell me but I wanted to say more before giving them time. “We were really close, but neither one of us was much of a letter writer. I called her a few times.” They moved together, she behind the bar, he beside me.
“Give me a beer.”
“Do you want something else?”
“Sure, give me a beer too.” I didn’t like it. I was afraid she had died, hopefully she had just got married. The pause continued while the beer poured out of the spout.
“What was your name?”
“Johnny.”
“Amparo’s not well. She’s in the hospital.”
“What’s wrong with her?” I could feel all the con-fidence leave me. I was at the mercy of people I wasn’t fond of. The sun became more invasive; there was no-where to hide.
“She’s very ill, she has been there for awhile.” He glanced at his wife, she didn’t look back, her dark eyes uncompassionate.
“But what is it. I’m a friend of hers, tell me.”
“We don’t know, all we know is that she isn’t well, she’s really bad off. Did you sleep with her?” I knew then what was wrong with her and my face began to implode. I tried to swallow. I knew those were my last moments of hope. I tried not speak because I didn’t want them to answer.
“She’s got AIDS, doesn’t she?” I was desperate for a denial but it didn’t come.
“I think so,” said the wife. I was numb, waiting for the blow. I couldn’t blink. I just looked between the harbingers of death, the beer went without effect. “Do you want something else?”
“Bourbon, on the rocks, are you sure?” Stares, hard lonely stares. “When did she find out?”
“I don’t know.” responded the husband. Marilyn Monroe smiled at me from across the bar, how could she, there was nowhere to go. “An old boyfriend of hers died last year. I think that’s when she found out, he had been a junkie.” That horrible green shirt she gave me, it was his. I had worn it many a time. “Did you use protection?”
I said yes to not have to say no.
“Don’t worry, it’s much harder for a man to get it from a women then the other way around.”
“Get tested, you’re all right. I’m sure you’re all right, get tested and you’ll feel much better.” From the depths of despair a ray of hope.
“Really, I mean are you sure?” She nodded. Va-lencia, its port, its floods, a sick city, a pot of boiling viruses. I didn’t realize I had drunk the bourbon. They filled the glass. “How bad is she?”
“Bad, are you going to see her? She’s alone, very alone, she didn’t know anything about it when she knew you. She’s in the University Clinic. I’m sure she’d want to see you.” The thought of seeing how I would end up terrified me.
“I’ll think about it, what do I owe you?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
CHAPTER 11
The sun pulverized the sidewalk and my wool suit. A city bus drove its passengers happily past me, their faces staring blankly out the windows. Whatever they were thinking about, I envied them. The lurid smell of the street radiated life, sour, putrid, but very alive. An-other bus, people stepping off onto the sidewalk, home to their everyday lives.
I walked in what I thought was the general direc-tion of my hotel, the streets gradually becoming less familiar, more gritty, a small park appearing out of an alley of run down tenements. The sun glared down on the parks lone inhabitant like a spotlight, the thin dark body hunched on a bench, his concentration immense on the syringe. He probably knew. He would under-stand, but he didn’t care, he got around it by worrying about something else. Totally disoriented, I chose a street for no reason, desperate for violence, hoping someone would try and mug me. A cheap whore leaned against a door, offering a lazy lift of an eye. I walked angrily, two more, old, bedraggled hags. “Come on, baby.” One reached out grabbing my wrist, I pulled but she didn’t let go.
“Get your fucking hands off me.” I said it in Eng-lish. My back and shoulders swam in sweat under the unbearable heat and stench, finally a familiar street and a bar that didn’t look like a junkie’s den or a whore-house. “A beer, and some sepia.”
The bathroom gave me a dry heave. I urinated while trying to breath only through my mouth. On the bar sat a white plate with pieces of white sepia sprin-kled with spices, a glass of beer by its side. The old man behind the bar looked me in the eyes. I stared back, intently as I could, praying he would say some-thing, he held the stare. I put the beer down without moving my eyes, he turned back toward the kitchen, and his obese wife lifted her enormous chest in an at-tempt to breath. A cockroach ran across the bar, she looked away. If I could only get of there, what they had told me less than an hour ago seemed like a dream. If I could escape the neighborhood I felt like I could forget the whole thing.
I walked toward the hotel. Amparo was alone in one of those enormous hospitals, probably alone. The morning seemed ten years ago. I had wanted to see her, a Vespino raced by, a merciful cloud put a temporary filter on the sun. I hailed a taxi.
I tried to prepare myself for what she would look like, trying not to imagine myself in the same state. The taxi had a metal virgin and a Barcelona Football Club shield held to the dashboard with magnets. He was th
e typical white socks, black shoes, leather jacket, end of the key chain hanging out of the pocket Spaniard. He changed gears at the lowest rpm’s possible, for once I was grateful for how slow they drove. The con-servative, reactionary taxi driver trying to milk every cent out of his expensive gasoline. A city prison ap-peared beside a roundabout, men hanging clothes on the roof. Finally the hospital, seven enormous brick build-ings. He left me at the main entrance. Swarms of men and women in white and the sound of clogs. I walked slowly toward a sign that said information.
Finally she silently looked up. “A friend of mine is here, how do I find out where she is?”
“Your friend is here, maternity, trauma, the cafete-ria?”
“Listen bitch, don’t fuck with me, or I swear to god in heaven I’ll jump over this desk and rip your head off, Amparo Paterna, were do I go?”
“One moment. You said Paterna.”
Public health posters lined the dirty walls of the en-trance, men with socks, clogs and stained white uniforms, the women the same except for the socks. I walked without thinking, down the halls, up the eleva-tors. My head a blank, only realizing what I was doing when I saw the door. I stopped, my heart pounding, unable to turn back or continue. With an enormous ef-fort I took the first step toward the door, the second, stopping with my hand on the door, unaware if anyone was watching. The moments passed. I knocked with my left hand as the right one turned the knob. The light from the sun reflected off the white walls, the metal frame of the bed came into view, a foot, warm up pants deflated on the thin frame. The gaunt face was at least recognizable staring out the window, head phones shielding her from sound.
The bed approached but the head remained steadily away, my body caused a shift in the light, terror as her head turned. The large sunken eyes opened wide on my blank stare. “John!” I approached for an uncomfortable kiss on the cheek. “Joder tío!” The head shook. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just shook my head hoping that she could see what I felt. She held my wrist. “I can’t believe this, it’s over. I’m just waiting for it to happen. I didn’t know. I had no way of letting you know, I would have, have you been tested?”