Only in Spain

by Nellie Bennett

  As I walked up the stone steps to the entrance of La Soleá, I could hear the strum of the guitar and the voice of the singer. It was a rough and broken voice that carried out into the street. From the doorway I saw the waiter standing watching the singer with a tray of drinks in his hands. I’d never seen him so transfixed by a flamenco artist.

  Walking farther in, I saw him, an old gypsy man with wrinkled skin so dark he was almost black. I sat down next to Juan, who put the waiting glass of wine into my hands. “El Aborigine,” Juan whispered. Juan had told me about this singer before. He was a famous flamenco artist who used to come often to La Soleá, but he suffered from addictions that had taken their toll on his body and mind—though not, it seemed, on his voice.

  The singer sang with his eyes closed, then slowly lifted himself to his feet. He stood, swaying ever so slightly as he sang. His legs didn’t look strong enough to support him; perhaps it was the power of his voice that held him up. Then, with a stamp of his foot, he began to dance. He shuffled a bulerías around the room, and everyone jumped to their feet, shouting “Olé!” and clapping compás. Even the waiter put down the drinks tray and clapped his hands. Juan looked at me and raised one eyebrow, as if to say, “And you wanted an early night.”

  I knew then that the mistake I’d made was thinking that flamenco was something I needed to chase. I’d been trying to hunt it down, when in fact all I needed to do was allow myself to live it.

  Flamenco didn’t belong to the gypsies any more than it belonged to anyone else, though I knew the primos would argue that with me. But I was past caring what they thought. Here I was having an unforgettable flamenco experience with Juan, who was almost as white as I was. And all I could say was “Olé.”

  THE STRANGER

  Or

  Wouldn’t it be nice?

  There he was, walking up the street toward me. The sun had gone down an hour earlier, and the old lamps bathed the street in a golden light. I’d seen him before, in the café in the square, his brow furrowed handsomely over the morning papers, and I’d seen him sitting out in the evenings with a drink and a book. You don’t often see people in Madrid sitting alone with a book. I’d stared at him a moment too long, and his eyes had lifted just in time to catch mine.

  And here he was again, walking toward me. As our eyes met he said, “Hola.” My heart jumped to my throat and I mumbled something that ended in “la,” dropping my eyes as though the cobblestones I was stepping over were the most interesting things I’d seen that week.

  As he passed by and I walked on up the street, I let out a sigh. It was the middle of spring, but it was already hot like Sydney summer. I’d been warned that in Madrid it’s either cold or hot, and there’s nothing in between. Now only a couple of weeks after shivering in the ghetto, I was walking around in a tank top and flip-flops. And there’s nothing like warm weather to make you want to get out and share it with someone.

  It would be so nice to have someone to enjoy the sun with. It didn’t have to be Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome, though that would most definitely be nice. There was something about him that had attracted my attention the first time I saw him. A seriousness in his jaw, a kindness in his eyes. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who would make me dance with his frock-coat-wearing uncle. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who would have a frock-coat-wearing uncle.

  Tonight I was walking up to La Soleá, where I knew that Juan would be waiting for me with my usual glass of red wine. This was what my life had become. I was living from bulería to bulería and rioja to rioja. But wouldn’t it be nice…to have someone to be with, to talk to, to call, and someone who would call me, too? Someone to complain about my day with over coffee, or open a bottle of wine with, or just do nothing at all with.

  • • •

  Juan only ever sang one song, and he only ever sang it early in the night before the real flamenco artists arrived. He had learned to play flamenco guitar in his fifties and didn’t like to play in front of the professionals. I never asked him why he had decided to take up guitar. I suppose it never occurred to me to. I knew what it was to fall in love with flamenco.

  I never felt the need to ask him questions, though I really didn’t know anything about him. In turn he offered very little information, except for a reference he once made to an ex-wife who couldn’t understand his love for the guitar, and two grown-up children he would occasionally speak of proudly. I didn’t know what he did in the real world, but we weren’t friends in the real world. We were friends in the world of La Soleá. Two wannabe gypsies united by an absurd love of flamenco.

  Every so often Juan would poke me in the ribs and tell me that it was my turn to sing. In La Soleá everyone took a turn at singing. People came in off the street and sat down next to the guitarist and told him what song they wanted to sing. I was always amazed by how good they were. They were people who had regular lives and families. They were bankers, grocers, secretaries, bus drivers, lawyers, nurses, but whatever it was they did during the day it was forgotten when they stepped into La Soleá.

  Each time Juan tried to convince me to sing, I shook my head. I wished I could sing. I loved the way the women sang with rough gypsy voices. I’d tried many times in my bedroom to sing along with my favorite flamenco artists and do that hoarse, broken thing they do with their voices, but I just sounded like Snow White with a bad cough. I guess I just wasn’t meant to sing like that.

  • • •

  There he was again! It was Friday night and I was walking to La Soleá, and once more he was walking dowsn the street toward me. Could he have been more handsome? In the glow of the street lamps he looked like the leading man in a Hollywood romance. This time I’ll meet his gaze, I told myself. This time I’ll be confident and smile and say, “Hola.” This time…

  But as he came closer and our paths were about to cross, I dropped my eyes again, and he passed by without saying hello. How is it, I asked myself, that I can run away and dance flamenco with gypsies, but I’m too much of a ’fraidy cat to say hello to a man in the street?

  When I walked into La Soleá, a woman in a gold-tasseled shawl was belting out a tangos. She balled up her fist and scrunched up her brow as she sang. As I sat down, Juan said in a low voice, “Tonight you’re singing, lamparilla.”

  The woman in the gold mantón started to dance, and the gypsies jumped to their feet and cheered her on. “Olé!”

  Once she’d sat down again, Juan called out to the guitarist that I wanted to sing. I could have killed him. “No, no, no, no, no!” I said, but it was too late. The guitarist had already got up and was coming to sit down next to me. I tried to tell him that I couldn’t sing flamenco and I didn’t know any Spanish songs, but Juan told him I was lying. The guitarist strummed the introductions to a few different songs he thought I might know, but each time I shook my head.

  Then he strummed a melody I recognized. It was Peggy Lee’s “Perhaps,” one of my favorite songs of all time. He saw the recognition in my face and started over, playing the introduction slowly. But I just couldn’t do it. Everyone in the bar was watching me, and the sound stuck in my throat.

  Juan helped me out by singing the first line in Spanish, then I took over in English. The guitarist picked up the rhythm and the woman in the gold mantón joined in, her gravelly voice a full octave below mine. Around the room the gypsies started to clap compás.

  The guitarist started the second verse in a rumba rhythm, and the gypsies in the bar called out, “Olé! Así es!” A girl got up to dance. She twirled her arms above her head and shimmied her hips, and a gypsy man jumped up and stamped his foot, crying, “Que toma, toma toma!”

  The song came to an end with the crowd shouting, “Olé!”

  Juan nodded and said, “Bien, lamparilla. Muy bien.”

  • • •

  It was nine o’clock on Saturday night and I was walking again to La Soleá. The street was already f
illing up with people who had gone from a late lunch to beers in a sunny outdoor café to wine and tapas. And as the old road curved around to La Soleá, I saw the handsome stranger again. But this time he looked different. He was standing in the doorway of a restaurant next to La Soleá in a white chef’s tunic.

  I’d walked past that restaurant dozens of times, but I’d never paid any attention to it. I can be very observant with some things. Sascha had taught me how to spot a fake Birkin bag at twenty paces, and it was a skill I still practiced on the streets of Madrid, where fakes outnumbered the real thing a thousand to one. I always examined people’s shoes on the metro; as my father says, you can always tell a person by their shoes. Generally, though, I only noticed things that interested me. I might totally miss the giant service station that took up most of a block, but I could orient myself by the poky wig shop on the corner, or the bar that played flamenco music, or the Italian hosiery boutique.

  So even though I’d spent almost every night for two months in La Soleá, I’d never noticed the restaurant with its grand entrance and stylish exposed stonework, and the big windows that gave a tantalizing view into the elegant dining room. Of course, there were no gypsies dancing on the tabletops, so how would I have noticed it? But now that I knew it was the domain of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome, it suddenly became noteworthy.

  “Hola,” he said as he saw me.

  “Hola,” I said, smiling shyly and blushing till I was sure my face must be the color of my hair. Why was it that I could be confident in some situations and so hopeless in others? Luckily for me the Spanish are very social people, and the handsome chef was already leaning forward to give me a kiss on each cheek. I still hadn’t come to terms with the European custom of cheek-kissing. I’m a staunch defender of personal space, and I find the idea of kissing the cheeks of a stranger unnecessary at best. But this was one occasion in which I didn’t mind at all.

  He told me his name was Iñaki and we made standard small talk—Where are you from? How long have you been in Madrid?—but I didn’t think about the questions or the answers I gave, just allowed myself to get lost in his deep brown eyes as I thought, Wouldn’t it be nice?

  He invited me into the restaurant for a glass of wine, and of course I accepted. I followed him inside to where the staff was setting up for dinner. A waiter in a crisp white shirt and long black apron was moving from table to table, carefully laying silver cutlery on the white tablecloths. A waitress followed him, placing flower arrangements in the center of each table, and another waitress was carefully folding white napkins and setting them on top of the plates.

  Iñaki told me to take a seat at the bar while he opened a bottle of wine. I picked up a menu and was surprised to see that there was only one thing to choose from—meat. The appetizers included jamón, cured Spanish ham, and a sort of fried sausage popular in the Basque Country called chistorra, and for dessert there was fat from heaven—tocino del cielo, a dessert made from egg yolks and sugar syrup.

  It was tough being vegan in a country where the word doesn’t even exist. I was breaking my rules on an almost daily basis, with cafés con leche and toast with butter. But I was still trying not to eat meat.

  Iñaki came back from the kitchen with a plate of thinly sliced jamón. Seeing the food reminded me that I hadn’t had lunch. He poured two glasses of wine and we clinked glasses. “Salud,” he said.

  I was very conflicted about the idea of eating meat. I believed that it was wrong, and I knew that Gandhi would have starved to death before taking the life of another sentient being. But as much as I wished I had the strength of his convictions, I was aware of my own weakness, and now, even with this handsome chef in front of me, it was hard to take my eyes off the jamón.

  Didn’t the Buddha eat meat? I reasoned. He never questioned what was placed in his alms bowl; he just recognized that it was all an illusion. So this jamón must be an illusion too.

  Iñaki pushed the plate toward me, and I took a piece of bread and one of the thin slices of ham. It doesn’t really exist, I thought. But for an illusion it sure was good, and one slice just wasn’t enough.

  I had another sip of wine, and then after an appropriate pause I took a second slice of ham. I asked Iñaki about the restaurant and he told me that it was a traditional Basque asador, or grill. In his native Basque Country, it’s the men who do the cooking; in fact, women aren’t even allowed in the kitchen. Iñaki told me they have men-only societies where the men get together and cook. His father was a chef and owned a restaurant in their village where Iñaki’s younger brother worked, and his older brother had another asador in Madrid.

  I listened, fascinated, and helped myself to another slice of ham and some more bread. The more I ate the hungrier I felt. I asked him about the lack of nonmeat products on the menu—salads, vegetables, sides. “We have pimientos.” he said. Pimientos are little red peppers that are caramelized and eaten with meat. I must have missed them on the menu, I said, taking another piece of ham.

  “Would you like to try the steak?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I don’t eat meat.” Iñaki looked down at the big empty plate that moments before had held enough ham for a whole table. “Very often,” I added.

  At about nine thirty the first customers of the evening walked in, so Iñaki excused himself and asked if he could take me out to dinner on his night off. “I’ll choose a nice…vegetarian restaurant,” he said, with a hint of a smile on his lips.

  Yes, I thought as I stepped back out onto the street. It would be so nice…

  THE FIRST DATE

  Or

  Ay, mamí!

  “Ay, mamí!” Mariela shrieked when I told her about my date with the handsome stranger. He had called that afternoon to invite me out for dinner. “He’s not another gypsy, is he?” she asked, her hands on her hips. The family had forbidden me from going out with any more gypsies, and I had no desire to break their rule.

  “No!” I told her he was tall and handsome and looked like Hugh Jackman.

  “Quién?” Mariela asked.

  “Hugh Jackman,” I repeated. “Wolverine.”

  “Ay!” she shrieked, then shouted for the others to come quick, Nellie had a date with Wolverine.

  Everyone came running. Andy and Mandy left their homework on the bed and rushed into the living room. Andrea came out of her room in a pink robe, and Consuela left the pot of beans bubbling on the stove.

  “Quién?” Consuela asked. Mariela explained to her mother that I was going out to dinner “con Jack Hughman!”

  “No,” I said. “Hugh Jackman.”

  “Hugh Hackman?” Close enough. Everyone was asking me questions at once, and I tried to give the right answer to the right asker.

  “Where is he from?”

  “What does he do?”

  “How old is he?”

  “How did you meet?”

  “Is he good-looking?”

  “Does he have a cute brother?”

  “Where is he taking you?”

  “What are you going to wear?”

  I told them all that I knew, that he was from the north of Spain, a chef, thirty-one years old, and that I didn’t really know anything else…except that I liked him.

  “Awww…” they all said in unison.

  Mariela told the girls to grab a hairdressing mag each and find a look for me for the night. I wasn’t used to doing my hair. I had three looks: hair out, in a ponytail, and up in a clip. But Mariela was not going to let me out of the house without a do. She stopped at a picture of Posh Spice with a sharp, asymmetrical bob.

  “No!” I said. She shrugged and kept flipping.

  Consuela held up a picture of a girl with glossy curls piled on top of her head, and everyone oohed and aahed. Meanwhile, little ten-year-old Mandy was running around the house gathering up every bottle of nail polish she could find. She
presented them all to me to pick a color for my pedicure. I chose a deep red, and she insisted, with a pout and puppy-dog eyes, that I cover it with a coat of sparkles. How could I say no?

  Mariela looked at her watch. “Ay, mamí!” she said again. There were only three hours left before my date. She slapped my arm with one of the magazines and told me off for not getting started earlier, then instructed Andy to get a pot of water on the boil for my facial and pushed me into the bathroom to wash my hair.

  The women shook their heads and clucked their tongues. I should have been waxing and steaming and tweezing and plumping the night before, not at five p.m. on the big day. But there was nothing they could do. They were going to have to give me the express treatment and hope for the best. And although my regular hair-care routine consisted of rinse and repeat, I knew that I was going to have to give in and allow myself to be made over. I just hoped that I would recognize myself at the end of it.

  • • •

  “There he is!” Mandy shrieked, running into the living room. The women all raced to the window to see him, and I followed.

  “Don’t be so obvious!” I begged, afraid that he would look up and see all my roommates staring at him.

  There he was, standing in the lamplight, looking as handsome as ever. He was wearing a brown corduroy sports jacket over a black shirt and a pair of jeans. He was effortlessly elegant, and I was sure he was completely unaware of the fact. Mariela shook up the can of Nelly and gave me one last blast of hairspray to keep my carefully sculpted ringlets in place. Then they all wished me luck and told me to get out there and not keep such a good-looking man waiting or some other girl would walk past and snatch him up.

  As soon as I was in the stairwell, I pulled the pins out of my hair and tried to break up those lacquered curls into a more natural wave. I wiped off some of the lip gloss they’d gooped onto my mouth and used the back of my hands to rub off any extra blush. Feeling more like myself again, I walked down the last flight and pushed open the door to where the handsome stranger was waiting for me.