Two Old Fools in Turmoil

by Victoria Twead

  People began to emerge from their houses to make their way towards the church. Some were strangers, and others, dressed in their finery were almost unrecognisable. The ladies’ high heels clacked and the gentlemen’s polished leather shoes gleamed. Everyone wore smiles and a buzz of anticipation filled the air.

  We waited a little while longer. We’d already decided not to try to find a seat in the church because we felt that others had more right than we did. Some guests were very elderly and needed to sit. Others were closely related, or old friends of the bridal party, and deserved priority. If Carmen’s prediction was right, not everyone would fit in the church.

  By the time we reached the entrance, a small crowd had already gathered outside. The church doors had been thrown open, and I peeped inside.

  I gasped. A thousand white candles flickered and every niche and sill boasted a vase of white flowers. White silken bows hung from the end of each wooden pew. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers, incense, candles and anticipation.

  The congregation waited, men perspiring in their suits, the ladies looking like birds of paradise. Some chatted quietly, others waved merrily to recognised friends.

  “Look out,” hissed Joe, elbowing me in the ribs, “they’re here!”

  I jumped away from the doorway. Approaching us was young Alejandro, the bridegroom, walking beside his mother. In Spain, the groom’s mother escorts her son to the altar.

  Alejandro looked splendid in his pale grey tailored suit, complete with white rosebud pinned to his lapel. His mother looked equally wonderful, and I was delighted to see she was wearing a traditional black mantilla, the lacy veil supported on a high comb. Arm in arm, completely in step, they walked into the church and up the aisle, heading for the front where the rest of the family was already seated.

  The congregation nudged each other and turned their heads to watch Alejandro’s entrance. I recognised many of the faces. Marcia sat at the end of a pew, next to her sons and their families. Valentina, our postlady, sat nearby though I couldn’t see Geronimo. All the Ufartes were already there, the boys looking bored and fiddling with hymn books. Little Pollito sat on one of the twins’ lap.

  In the front, Carmen, the bride’s mother, was dressed in purple and sat with her sons. Also in the front, but on the other side of the aisle, was Alejandro’s family. The dying sun’s rays shone through the stained glass windows, painting coloured splashes on the stone floor.

  It was getting harder to see into the interior of the church because latecomers were still arriving and squeezing into spaces reserved by friends and relatives. Now there were people standing at the back of the church, behind the pews. Outside, the crowd was also growing, and individuals jostled for position to view the coming ceremony.

  Everybody shuffled their feet, waiting for the bride to arrive.

  “Pah!” shouted a familiar voice. “Stand aside! Make way for the bride!”

  And suddenly, there they were. The bride and her father.

  A gasp arose from the crowd, and I’m sure I gasped along with everyone else. All brides are beautiful, but Sofía could have stepped out of the pages of a book of fairytales. Leaning on Paco’s arm, she swept along, her white satin gown swishing. All the tiny seed pearls her mother had sewn onto the bodice and hem gleamed as the sun caught them. I knew they’d look magical in the candlelight of the church, and remembered Carmen sewing each one onto her daughter’s dress with love. Sofía’s expression behind her lacy veil seemed serene, but I was sure I caught her eyes glittering with excitement. Understandable. She had waited a long time for the right man, and this was no ordinary village wedding.

  Paco looked splendid in his suit. Carmen told me that he had refused to go to the outfitter for a fitting.

  “Pah! What do I know about wedding suits?” he had said. “I have work to do! I do not have time to stand around being measured by a fancy man with limp wrists!”

  “But you are the father of the bride…”

  “Pah! And you are my wife! You can measure me, and you can pick the suit.”

  And Carmen had done exactly that, and had chosen well. The suit fitted perfectly. Paco’s polished shoes shone, as did the oil in his hair. It was rare to see Paco without his flat cap. It was all so perfect, and I felt tears pricking my eyes.

  The bride and her father passed into the church and the organist went into overdrive. The low hum from the congregation stopped abruptly as they feasted their eyes on Sofía. I can only imagine what her future husband, Alejandro, felt when he looked at her. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a more beautiful bride.

  The crowd at the doors prevented me from seeing inside but I didn’t mind. I was content to wait outside.

  “They’re packed in like sardines,” I whispered to Joe as we heard Father Rodrigo begin the service. “You’d need a shoehorn to get any more in.”

  But I was wrong.

  Something pushed past me, heading for the open church doors. Before anybody could react and try to stop them, Bianca and Yukky had squeezed through the forest of legs and barged into the church. Bianca may have been a very old dog with only three legs, but nothing was going to stop her following Yukky inside.

  Outside, those who had noticed the canine gatecrashers were either chuckling or standing with open mouths, unsure what to do.

  “Bianca and Yukky know the whole family is inside,” I said to Joe, trying not to laugh. “They don’t want to be left out!”

  A wave of laughter burst from inside the church as the congregation saw the latest arrivals. I imagined the dogs were heading up the aisle to the altar. Father Rodrigo’s voice faltered and stopped. Voices buzzed.

  “Pah!” shouted a familiar voice. “Let them stay! They are God’s creatures and part of the family, too. Father Rodrigo, please continue!”

  Father Rodrigo must have agreed with Paco because, after the briefest of pauses, he took up his chant again and the congregation fell silent.

  The remainder of the service was uneventful. At one point, we heard the chink of coins.

  “Las arras matrimoniales,” murmured people around us.

  I knew about this custom. Alejandro would be pouring thirteen gold coins into Sofía’s open hands to represent the groom’s promise to provide for his wife. Some say that the thirteen coins symbolise Jesus and the Twelve Apostles. Others maintain that each coin represents a month of the year, with one extra for the poor. Either way, I thought the custom was charming.

  The shadows lengthened and the men around us, Joe included, began to steal glances at their watches. I sensed that the wedding service was drawing to a close. Joe nudged me and pointed up. I shaded my eyes and caught sight of Geronimo in the church tower high above us, clambering up the rickety ladder to the bell.

  The sky was turning orange when the organ music inside the church swung into a thumping, joyous, triumphant melody. Now we heard the murmur of voices, and then the congregation spilled out to join us, chattering like children let out into the playground after lessons. Paco and Carmen grinned like Cheshire cats. Alejandro’s father clapped Paco on the back.

  “Now, Paco, we really are brothers!” he announced.

  “Pah!” bellowed Paco. “We have always been brothers!”

  Everyone in the village knew the pair had been friends since childhood. They embraced and everybody smiled.

  We all stood waiting for the happy couple to emerge. The church tower and Geronimo were silhouetted by the setting sun. Soon the street lamps would flicker on. I looked around and found we were standing next to Marcia.

  “Here,” she said, thrusting a paper cone filled with rice into my hand. “To throw over Sofía and Alejandro.”

  We didn’t have to wait long. The smiling newlyweds appeared, hand in hand, pausing in the church doorway. Right behind them, to the crowd’s amusement, came Bianca and Yukky. Everyone applauded, and in the tower above us, Geronimo began striking the church bell with a hammer, sending the bell rocking and peals that echoed around the va
lley. Terrified pigeons burst out of the tower, no doubt disturbed from their roost. It was a noisy affair, made even more raucous by the fire-crackers the older Ufarte boys were letting off.

  The crowd parted, and the laughing couple stepped forward to begin their walk through the cheering, rice-throwing well-wishers. The Ufarte twins, and some of the older girls, threw white flower petals that were soon crushed underfoot. The couple passed through and made their way towards the square where the celebrations would continue.

  It took a while to reach the square as nobody was in any hurry, and many people were taking photos. As we arrived, waiters offered us drinks and exquisite little tapas and we joined the milling throng, chatting with Marcia and her family.

  “How are your packing arrangements going?” asked one of Marcia’s sons.

  “Good, thank you,” I replied. “Although I can’t believe how fast the time is going.”

  “Are you excited?”

  “Yes, very. But terribly sad about leaving El Hoyo.”

  I looked at Joe and he nodded.

  Being surrounded by the villagers, it was brought home to me just how much we would miss this life. I was determined to enjoy the evening as much as possible, to commit it to memory, a treasure to take out later and enjoy.

  Sipping my drink and nibbling at paper-thin slices of jamón, I had time to look around.

  On the stage, a lady in a flowing gown plucked at a harp providing background music. The tables set out in the square were too numerous to count. They varied in size, but each was adorned with a centre-piece of white roses. The silverware gleamed, the glasses sparkled and white rose petals were scattered across the tablecloths.

  “Will there be a seating plan?” I had asked Carmen before.

  “No. Apart from the top table, everybody can sit wherever they like,” Carmen answered.

  The top table was situated directly below the stage, laid for six, and the chairs were a little more ornate and grand than those at the other tables. I knew that this table was reserved for the bride and groom, and their respective parents. In Spain, traditionally, there are no bridesmaids, no best man and no speeches.

  “Come and sit with us,” called Marcia. “We’ve taken this table, and there is plenty of space. Come, sit beside Valentina.”

  It was nice to see Valentina in her party wear instead of the familiar fluorescent orange jacket she wore on her post round. Her off-the-shoulder sky-blue dress suited her perfectly and set off her dark, wavy hair which tumbled down her back. She looked stunning. I cast my eyes around and spotted Geronimo, right on the other side of the square. He was sharing a table with the mayor and his family, Father Rodrigo and young Father Samuel. A waiter was pouring Geronimo a drink from a jug. It was water. Geronimo looked up, but not at me. It was Valentina he focused on. If she was aware of Geronimo’s eyes boring into her, she didn’t show it.

  Gradually, the guests seated themselves, and the waiters brought platters of seafood.

  “I don’t think I can eat much,” I said to Joe. “I probably had too many tapas.”

  On the table adjacent to us, the Ufartes were enjoying their seafood. I was happy to see that Lola was one of their party, and her little daughter was seated in a high-chair, alongside Pollito and her other cousins. I really hoped that Lola would behave herself tonight, which would perhaps allow Valentina and Geronimo to find each other again.

  Joe was watching me. Unfortunately, he can read me like a book.

  “Mind your own business,” he mouthed.

  Nuns’ Sighs

  Suspiros de novicia

  If you’d like to tone down the sweetness of these, sprinkle them with a little cinnamon or grated dark chocolate instead of sugar or icing sugar.

  Ingredients

  ½ pint of milk

  1 tablespoon of sugar

  Pinch of cinnamon

  Day old bread

  2 eggs, whisked in a separate bowl

  Hot olive oil to fry

  Honey (or syrup) to serve

  Method

  Cut off any really firm crusts from the bread.

  Pour the milk into a bowl, and add the sugar and cinnamon.

  Now add the bread, pressing down to submerge / soak.

  After a minute, take the bread out and wring the milk out.

  Form into balls or egg shapes and dip in the beaten egg.

  Fry gently.

  Once brown, drain and drizzle with honey or sugar.

  27

  TRADITIONS

  “Not another course!” I protested as a waiter hovered at my elbow.

  But while one waiter topped up all our glasses, another was clearing the seafood platters, and a third was bringing dishes laden with meat.

  “Leave some space for the dessert, too,” advised Marcia’s son.

  “Viva la novia,” somebody shouted. Long live the bride.

  We all raised our glasses.

  The wine had been flowing without check, and some of the younger guests were getting quite rowdy. Calls of Viva la novia were occurring regularly, and now these chants were being interspersed by another.

  Sofía blushed and waved the comment away, the brand-new wedding ring sparkling on her finger. Alejandro, too, shook his head. But now the chant was taken up by all the young men guests.

  “¡Que se besen! ¡Que se besen!”

  Marcia’s son leaned over to me.

  “Don’t worry, it’s traditional,” he said. “This always happens at weddings.”

  “¡Que se besen! ¡Que se besen!” clamoured the guests. Kiss each other!

  The newlyweds, fully aware that they wouldn’t be left in peace until they obeyed, finally obliged, to much applause. Unfortunately for them, the chant was repeated many times.

  The sun had long ago excused itself from the party, but the moon hung in the sky. The four lamp posts, the lanterns, the fairy lights and countless candles lit the scene.

  While the desserts were being served, another Spanish wedding tradition surfaced. One of Alejandro’s friends marched over to the top table with a pair of scissors in his hand. To our astonishment, he seized Alejandro’s beautiful silver silk tie and sliced it off.

  Joe and I were horrified and looked at Marcia’s son for enlightenment.

  “He will cut it into pieces, then auction the pieces,” he explained. “This is a common practice, especially here in Almería. The pieces of tie will bring luck to the purchasers.”

  There is nothing hurried about a Spanish wedding, and the meal hadn’t yet finished. After the dessert came liqueurs. The bride stood, and carrying a basket, began to circulate round the square, stopping to chat at every table. She seemed to be handing things out, and accepting envelopes.

  “Marcia, what is Sofía doing?”

  “Ah, another tradition. She is giving out small detalles, wedding favours. And the envelopes are gifts of money from the guests to the bridal pair.”

  While Sofía handed out beautiful, delicate fans to the ladies and fat cigars to the gentlemen, something else was happening on the stage. The harpist had taken herself off and Geronimo was clearing the stage, leaving three high stools. I stole a glance at Valentina, and caught her watching him from under her eyelashes as she sipped from her glass.

  Aha, I thought, so those embers are still smouldering.

  “Where did the Ufartes go?” asked Joe.

  I looked round. I hadn’t seen them leave. Only the old grandmother remained at the table, with the youngest children. Lola’s little girl was on her lap.

  The mystery was soon solved. Papa Ufarte and two other men, who I recognised to be Ufarte cousins, climbed onto the stage, carrying guitars. The wedding guests burst into a spontaneous round of applause; we knew what was coming. The men claimed the stools and sat.

  Then Mama Ufarte, the twins, Lola and several female cousins appeared. They climbed the steps and took their positions on the stage. I was mesmerised. Each lady was dressed in exquisite flamenco costume. All the dresses were identical in
style, with the traditional polka dot design, but sported different colours. Tight-fitting, scooped low both front and back, and with the feminine frills and flounces, the dresses were unashamedly seductive.

  Each dancer stood poised, proud and tall, with arched back and raised arms, staring haughtily into the distance. Each flirtatious hand held an open fan, the same colour as the dancer’s dress. I think if a hairpin had slipped out of Marcia’s hair at that point, we would have heard it. Nobody spoke and the air was electric with anticipation.

  Papa Ufarte glanced at his two cousins, giving them a silent signal. Simultaneously, their fingers began to move over the guitar strings, slowly at first, but gathering speed.

  The dancers remained motionless, arms curved above their arrogant, tilted heads. Their faces were impassive, detached, showing no expression. Then, as though absorbing the guitars’ notes, their feet began to tap. The music speeded up and the passion could be contained no longer. The dancers sprang into life, whirling and stamping, undulating their hips and tossing their hair. The hypnotic gypsy music had taken hold.

  I watched the performance, spellbound. What a privilege to be sitting here on a sultry summer night, surrounded by Spanish friends. How lucky we were to witness the passionate, provocative, whirling of polka dots that is unique to flamenco, in this authentic setting. What an honour to hear the Spanish guitar, hand claps, and rhythmic stamping of the performers’ feet on a stage under the stars.

  The Ufartes were magnificent and I knew I would never forget that night.

  At the end of the performance, the Ufarte ladies left the stage, flushed and breathless from the exertion.The audience clapped until their hands were sore.

  The twins headed back to their table, passing us.

  “Tía Veeky! Did you see us dance?”

  “I did! You were fabulous!”

  “Thank you! Abuela, did you see us dance?”

  “Yes, I was very proud of you,” said their grandmother.