by Mary McHugh
“No, no,” Eduardo said, embarrassed, looking at us apologetically. “They’re dancers and we are really lucky to have them.”
“Tell them to stand up,” Shambless said. “Let me get a look at these babes.”
Eduardo asked each of us to stand. We reluctantly got to our feet as he introduced us individually. I was ready to slug Shambless, but I felt sorry for Eduardo, so I smiled into the camera when he said, “This is Gini Miller, award-winning filmmaker and dancer extraordinaire.”
Eduardo asked Tina to stand next. “And this is Tina Powell, magazine editor and leader of the dancers.”
Shambless snorted when Eduardo motioned to Janice to stand. “Janice Rogers, actress and director,” Eduardo said.
“You sure that’s hoofers with an f?” Shambless said. I was about to punch his lights out when the man with Sylvia shouted out, “Janice! Janice Rogers. I didn’t know you were on this trip.”
He pushed his way down the aisle to hug her.
“Janice Rogers,” he said. “I don’t believe you’re here. It’s so good to see you again. How are you? Are you still acting?”
Janice pulled away to look at him.
“Tom Carson,” she said. “It must be ten years since we were in ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf’ in New York. How are you? Are you still acting?”
“If you can call it that. I’m in a soap opera. I haven’t been in anything on the stage in years.”
“Listen, nothing wrong with soaps. It’s still acting. Which one are you in?”
“Love in the Afternoon,” he said. “Have you ever seen it?”
“I have seen it actually,” she said. “In fact, it’s really good. I got hooked on it one year when I didn’t have an acting job and was just sitting around waiting for the phone to ring.”
“Can we get on with this?” Shambless said impatiently. “You can sleep with her later.”
I would have killed him right then and there, but the man said, “We’ll catch up at dinner, Jan,” and went back to his seat.
Eduardo introduced Pat as a family therapist and Mary Louise as “the mother of three,” and the cameraman finished filming us.
As the bus started, the nicely stacked blonde sat down next to Shambless and turned on a tape recorder. He started to talk into it when a petite woman behind him leaned over his seat and said, “Oh, Mr. Shambless, I’m one of your biggest fans. I watch you every day and I thank God for all you do to protect our country. You’re a national treasure.”
He turned to her with a forced smile and said, “God bless you. I’d be nothing without loyal fans like you.” He patted her hand.
I felt like I was going to be sick, but I kept my mouth shut and muttered to Pat, sitting in front of me, “What is he doing here? He’ll ruin the whole trip.”
Pat turned around to say to me in a low voice, “We don’t have to talk to him. In fact, please keep me from saying anything to him. He’s a Neanderthal. He hates everything—intelligent women, gays, the president, social welfare programs—everything. I can never understand why so many people listen to him.”
“I don’t get that either,” I said. “The few times I’ve heard him when I surf through the channels, I just wanted to strangle him.”
“You’d make a lot of people happy if you did. Anyway, try to relax. Just ignore him and enjoy the ride.”
“You’re right, Pat, but it won’t be easy.”
On the way to the restaurant, our guide, a young Spanish woman named Rafaela, stood and picked up a microphone to give us a brief history of this part of Spain, or Green Spain, as it’s called.
“Our train follows the five-hundred-mile route that pilgrims take from San Sebastian in the east to the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela in the west, where the bones of St. James are buried—only, we’re going in the opposite direction. The legend is that his body was brought from Jerusalem to Santiago de Compostela and buried in a field. Then, nine hundred years later, someone found the bones and the cathedral was built around them. Pilgrims make the long journey to see them and are given a free room and meals when they arrive. If they make the pilgrimage when St. James Day falls on a Sunday, it’s a holy year and all their sins are forgiven forever. They go directly to heaven.”
“What a load of baloney,” Shambless said. “You’d have to be a real idiot to believe that stuff. How far is this restaurant, anyway? I’m starving.”
The whole coach fell into a silence so hostile you could touch it.
Rafaela looked at him, her dark eyes reflecting the anger most people in the bus were feeling. With admirable restraint, she said, “It’s only a short distance. In fact, you can see it up the road there on the right.”
I stood up to peer out the front window of the coach and saw a startlingly white stucco hacienda, surrounded by brilliant red oleander flowers, which were even more beautiful against the stark restaurant walls. I could see a sign reading EL GUSTO DEL MAR, which I think means “The Taste of the Sea.” My Spanish isn’t all that great.
When the bus pulled up to the gleaming white restaurant, Eduardo got off to shake hands with the owner, who was waiting to greet us. He was tall and handsome in the way that only Spanish men are—with that look in their eyes that says, “You cannot resist me.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Eduardo said, “I am pleased to introduce you to Señor Delgardo, the owner of El Gusto del Mar, this excellent restaurant.”
Señor Delgardo smiled and held out his hand to Shambless, who was the first one of us to clamber out of the bus. The cameraman took pictures of the restaurant and the other buildings nearby. The blonde ignored the rest of us and put her arm through the talk show host’s arm.
“Bienvenido, señor,” Señor Delgardo said to him as he got off the bus. Shambless just grunted and pushed past him into the restaurant.
The rest of us tried to make up for his rudeness by shaking hands with the owner and telling him how much we were looking forward to dining in his restaurant. He worked at being gracious, but it was obvious that he felt insulted by Shambless’s boorishness. Somehow, we were all crass Americans because of the thoughtlessness of the talk show host.
As we got off the bus, I noticed that Sylvia put her hand on her companion’s arm to restrain him. I heard him say, “Don’t be silly, Sylvia. It was a long time ago. Come on. You don’t have to talk to him.”
She reluctantly followed him into the restaurant.
Rafaela ushered us into a gleaming, dark wood bar. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, we could admire the magnificent view of the beach and the water. The white damask–covered tables were set with gleaming silver, crystal wine glasses, red and pink roses, and white candles. Most of the tables were reserved for our group of fifty passengers.
Shambless, still loud and obnoxious, sat down at a table for four and waved away other people who tried to sit with him, except for the blonde and the cameraman. “This is my vacation. I talk to people all year long. I don’t want to bother with anybody while I’m eating,” he said to Señor Delgardo when he tried to bring some of the passengers to his table.
The blonde whispered something in his ear and he smiled into the camera.
“Edit that out,” he said to the camera operator, and his voice changed into a mellow, pleasing baritone. “What a pleasure it is to be here in sunny Spain . . . what?”
The blonde said something to him and he continued, even more mellifluously than before. “Or, I should say rainy Spain,” he said, a slight chuckle in his voice, “because it’s the rain here in northern Spain which makes this Green Spain, a lush and beautiful place to see. I want to take you with me on this trip, through picturesque fishing villages, to ninth-century monuments, to the Guggenheim Museum. We’ll climb mountains, watch the ocean splash on the shore, visit historic caves.” He paused, and smiled into the camera. “I’m so glad you’re here with me on this fascinating journey.”
He motioned to the cameraman to stop. “That’s it for now, Steve,” he said in his
regular, ordinary bossy voice. “Get some shots of the restaurant and the town around here.”
He turned to the blonde. “How was I, honey?”
She took his hand.
“Superb, as always,” she said.
He pulled his hand away and tore off a piece of bread from the basket on the table.
Our group was at the table next to his, and we did our best to ignore him.
He looked up as the woman who was trying to avoid him and her companion passed his table.
“Well,” he said loudly, “it’s been a long time, Sylvia. How’s your life going? Still with that soap opera? Lust in the Afternoon, isn’t it?”
Sylvia stiffened, stopped, and looked at him with such hatred we could feel its heat, then walked past him to a table as far from his as she could find. The man with her glared at the talk show host and followed her to the back of the room.
“I wonder what that’s all about,” Tina said.
Janice leaned forward and in a low voice said, “I know that guy. His name is Tom Carson. We were in a play together in New York a few years ago.” She paused, a dreamy look on her face. “We had a little thing going for a while,” she said. “Anyway, I heard that he married the producer of Shambless’s talk show, a woman named Sylvia something or other. I don’t know what happened exactly, but she left or was fired or something. I heard rumors that Shambless had her fired because she wouldn’t sleep with him, and then kept her from being hired as a producer on other talk shows. That’s how she ended up producing a soap opera. She hired Tom and I guess that’s when they fell in love and got married. I had no idea he was on this trip.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Shambless makes friends wherever he goes.”
We laughed, and looked at Rafaela, who was about to tell us about our dinner choices.
“Since this part of Spain is famous for its incredibly fresh seafood,” she said, “the owner of this restaurant has selected the most delicate and delicious dishes.” She translated the menu for us.
“Everything is superb here,” she said. “You can have cigalas cocidas, which is boiled crayfish with lemon wedges. The crayfish is so fresh it almost sings in your mouth.”
“Oh great,” Shambless growled. “That’s all I need—singing fish. I just want a steak, medium rare, with French fries. And a bottle of red wine, if they have any good wine in Spain. Think you can manage that?”
Señor Delgardo, who was standing nearby, looked at Rafaela. They didn’t say anything, but their feelings about this man were unmistakable.
Obviously exerting a great effort to keep his voice pleasant, the owner said, “Señor Shambless, we are noted for our seafood. Try our vieiras al horno, which is—”
“Some kind of horny fish,” Shambless said, snickering and looking at his fan at the next table, who giggled.
“As I said before,” he said, “all I want is a steak. It’s simple. A steak. Medium rare. With French fries. And ketchup.”
The guy with the camera leaned over Shambless and whispered something in his ear.
“Oh . . . yeah . . . good point. Wait a sec, Delgardo. Bring me one of your fish dishes with all the trimmings so Steve can film it for the documentary. And then bring me the steak.”
Señor Delgardo turned abruptly and went into the kitchen.
Rafaela tried to pretend she hadn’t heard all this and continued talking to the rest of us.
“As Señor Delgardo was saying, vieiras al horno is baked scallops. Again, very simple: scallops made with onions, garlic, paprika, sprinkled with bread crumbs, fried, and then put in the oven briefly to brown the crumbs. They are fresh, fresh, fresh.”
“Oh blah, blah, blah,” said Shambless. “Can you be more boring? I don’t care what’s on the friggin’ menu. Bring the fish. Let Steve get a picture of it. And then bring me my steak, if you can manage such a complicated order.”
I’d had enough. “Well, we care, Shambless,” I said. “So stuff a sock in it until your steak comes.”
He turned slowly and looked me up and down and then around the table at the rest of us.
“Ah, the dancing lesbians, I presume,” he said loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to hear.
Tina put her hand on my arm, but I’d had enough. I jumped up and confronted him.
“Ah, the impotent talk show host, I presume,” I said. I know it wasn’t devastating or brilliant, but it was all I could think of at the moment.
“Gini, let it go,” Pat said, pulling me back into my seat.
I sat back down, shaking, and looked at Rafaela, who rolled her eyes and told us the rest of our choices.
There was salpicon, a seafood salad, calamari a la plancha, a very spicy squid dish made with lots of hot red-pepper flakes, and bogavante a la gallega, which I ordered after finding out it was lobster and potatoes.
Each of us chose a different main course so we could taste everything on the menu.
When our food came, we were enjoying every mouthful and trying not to hear Shambless, only a few feet away, complaining to the chef, who had come out of the kitchen to find out what was wrong. Shambless complained that his steak was thin and overcooked and inedible.
“It tastes like horsemeat,” he said.
This was too much for the chef, a red-faced, portly man, who looked like he would explode. He was about to say something, but the owner quickly led him back to the kitchen and then returned to say to Shambless, “Seafood is the specialty in this part of Spain, señor. Just try these scallops. I think you’ll like them.”
Shambless glowered at him, shoved the steak aside, and picked up one of the scallops on his fork. He didn’t say anything, but finished every one of them down to the last bite, and we were grateful his mouth was full.
As he was pouring his third glass of wine, his devoted fan came over and stood at his elbow. She was a small woman with short graying hair and a lumpy body. She shifted from leg to leg, smoothed her hair, pushed her glasses back on her nose, cleared her throat, and finally tapped him on the shoulder.
He looked up, annoyed at first, but when he saw that it was his adoring fan, he dredged up a pleasant expression, if not quite a smile.
“Yes, my dear, what can I do for you?”
“I don’t mean to bother you, Mr. Shambless,” she said, speaking rapidly, “but I just had to tell you how much I enjoy your show. You’ve taught me so much in the last ten years. I can’t wait to tell my friends I met you on this trip. They all think you’re wonderful too. We talk about you all the time. So I was wondering, could I trouble you for your autograph? I want them all to know I really met you. ”
Shambless paused in midbite and said, his mouth full, “Of course, dear lady. I’m always glad to oblige one of my viewers. Let me sign your menu. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Dora. Dora Lindquist. Thank you. This means so much to me. I live alone. Your show is my best friend.”
The blonde got up and left the table. “I’m going to the—what do they call it?—the señori-tas’ room? I’ll be back when no one is bothering you.”
Dora looked up and watched her walk to the restroom. For a minute, her face was serious, but she quickly regained her eager expression when she looked back at Shambless.
He bent over the menu Dora offered him, wrote a message, and then signed it. He took her hand. “It’s always a pleasure to meet one of my viewers,” he said.
She giggled nervously and held the menu close against her chest.
“What a beautiful ring,” he said, still holding her hand. “It’s like a locket. How unusual.”
“Yes, it has a picture of my little girl in it. She was very beautiful.”
“Was beautiful?
Dora looked away from him for a minute. I could see that she was trying not to cry. She started to speak and then her voice broke.
“She . . . she . . . died. Last year. She was very sick.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Shambless said, dropping her hand and slathering a piece o
f bread with butter. “Could I see her picture?”
Dora backed away and started to return to her table.
“Oh, no. I’m interrupting your dinner. I don’t want to bother you.”
“It’s no bother. I’d like very much to see her picture.” He took another swallow of wine.
“No, no, that’s all right,” Dora said, moving away from him. “I’ll show it to you another time. Please, finish your dinner. And thank you.”
“It is I who should thank you,” he said, pouring himself another glass of wine.
Shambless motioned to the photographer.
“Did you get that, Steve?” he said. “I want a lot of footage of my adoring fans.”
“Yeah, I got it,” Steve said. “The whole thing.”
After Dora went back to her table, Shambless looked over at us and said, “Hey dancers, you could take a few lessons in femininity from that sweet woman who asked for my autograph. That’s how a lady acts. But look who I’m talking to.”
I could not stay silent this time either. I was afraid I’d burst a blood vessel if I did. I jumped up from my chair.
“Any one of us is more woman than you can handle, Shambless,” I said. “Whatever happened to your three wives, by the way? Didn’t they act like ladies?”
Tina tugged at my sleeve and said out the corner of her mouth, “Let him alone, Gini. He’s not worth it.”
“How can you just sit there and let that idiot say those things, Tina?” I said angrily. “What’s the matter with you?”
Pat, sitting next to me, looked up and said quietly, “How many desserts do you think he can eat?”
This made me laugh. I sat down and let my anger go. God bless Pat. I can always count on her to keep me from making a fool of myself. The others all took a deep breath and relaxed.
“Sorry, guys,” I muttered. “I’ll be good. But that man drives me crazy.”
Shambless attacked the rest of his dinner and wine greedily, looking up briefly as the blonde sat down next to him again. She picked at her food and then leaned closer to him and said something that obviously annoyed him.
“I told you, we’ll talk about that later,” he said loud enough for us to hear. “Stop asking me about it. I’ll take care of it when the time is right.”