“Can you give her a prestigious title, a salary higher than your own, and the respect that comes from operating a priceless corporation?” asked Jesus. “And a chef and a maid to go with it all?”
“She doesn’t want you giving her anything,” declared Nacho. “She wants to go out there and get it for herself.”
“Es la verdad,” said Vicki. “There are things a woman wants in life. Things she wants from life and from herself, and they are things she must go after herself.”
“Then where does a man fit into it all?” asked Michaelangelo. “And what about babies?”
“A woman is a remarkable organizer,” said Vicki. “She’s just got a lot to organize right now, and all at once.”
“So what are you going to do now?” asked Nacho.
“I’m going to ask her to marry me tomorrow,” answered Michaelangelo. “Mañana. But it’s time. We must warm up.”
Outside, the stage stood decorated in festive, brightly colored paper ornaments. Sausage and tortilla bocadillas were being prepared on an open grill and three hundred-year-old-looking women were dancing hand in hand next to a group of young, rowdy teens. Two little boys were throwing a dried chicken foot at a screaming girl, who picked it up and whipped it back. The men in the navy embroidered suits took their places on the stage, and soon everyone was singing, dancing, and clapping to their music.
They pulled several people from the audience up on stage, and an old woman caught in the crowd grabbed onto Vicki’s sleeve, pulling her along. They tried publicly teaching her how to flamenco dance to their modern Spanish rock, but she had never moved her body in these contortions before and felt her face turning red hot.
“The apple concept,” she heard from a male voice. “It’s the apple concept.”
She glanced down and a redhead standing on the ground, directly below where she was on the stage, caught her attention immediately. He stood out like a carrot in a pitcher of sangria. “Are you American?” he asked as she managed to bend down long enough.
“Yes, from Florida. Well, Michigan,” she shouted.
“Me, Connecticut. Listen, flamenco is as simple as reaching up to pick an apple, then twisting and bringing it down toward your mouth, taking a bite, then another twist, and tossing it to the ground. I’ve been pulled up on stage many times, and it took me much embarrassment to learn.”
“Wait, pick apple, bite apple, toss apple to ground?” she repeated.
The century-old grandmother yanked her upward, and the crowd cheered as Vicki made sense of the apple concept. Pick, twist, bite, twist, and toss. It was that simple. Together, everyone picked, twisted, bit, twisted and tossed over and over again until there couldn’t possibly be any apples left. And if there were, she surely couldn’t bite another. By the time she made her way off the stage, she looked around for the American. She felt a patriotic unity with him and wanted to thank him for helping her, but she couldn’t find him.
As if the hours of pigging out and dancing weren’t enough, after the concert at around one o’clock in the morning, they caught a taxi to Palacio de Gaviria, an aristocratic, nineteenth-century palace converted into a discoteca, where they met up with more friends. As they stood in a long line for one club, Vicki noticed her Spanish sister Isabella and a man getting into a taxi.
“Wait, Isabella, Isabella,” she called out.
Vicki was positive she saw Isabella turn and look at her, and for a moment, the women stared eye to eye, then Isabella hopped in the taxi and drove away.
“Do you and your friends ever tire?” she shouted to Nacho in the middle of the dance floor at three o’clock in the morning. He pulled her aside and asked if she felt tired.
“¿Estas cansadas, Victoria?”
“No, estoy bien. Me gusta la noche.”
They wandered through a sequence of extravagant Baroque salons, part of the dance club. “La madrugada,” he shouted.
“La what?” she asked.
“La madrugada. It’s what Spaniards call the hours from midnight to morning.”
“Oh.”
“Do you like it?” he asked in Spanish.
Of course she did. Once a woman lying in bed staring up at a ceiling, and now a woman picking apples on stage and dancing all night.
What was there not to like?
“Often, when la madrugada passes unnoticed into la mañana,” he added, “there’s no point going to bed.”
When they walked out the door of the discoteca, the city street was alive with music and laughter, and there was hardly an empty taxi to be caught anywhere. At four o’clock in the morning there were traffic jams, so they walked to the Chocolateria de San Gines and ate strips of fried dough called churros dipped in melted chocolate. When they left the chocolateria, the city street was quiet again, and each caught their own taxi on their first attempts and rode away: one toward the east and the rising sun, one toward the west where it had set the night before, one toward the north, and one toward the south.
Isabella pulled up to the apartment in a taxi at the same moment as Vicki. Her eyes were red, and Vicki asked if she was okay, but Isabella signaled for silence. The women said nothing as they quietly tiptoed up the wooden stairs to Isabella’s parents’ apartment. The exciting night had ended, and they were tired.
Siesta time came every day at the same time, as predictable as Florida’s daily summer rain. No one dared to control it, or alter the details of this national tradition, but instead respected it and closed down shop and halted business until it ended each day. Vicki respected the siesta in Spain and always dozed off as peacefully and simply as a person put to sleep by falling rain.
She needed this hour of sleep. It became the momentum necessary to stay awake through the nights in Madrid, a city that possessed two personalities, and she didn’t know which she liked better: Madrid by day or Madrid by night, the siestas or the fiestas. A night out with the Spaniards felt like getting sucked up in a tornado and blown through the city streets in a sensational pattern. Madrid’s younger generation, which had enjoyed a new period of personal and artistic liberty after the death of Franco, termed it la movida—the late-night scene. They took their nights of eating, drinking, talking until sunrise, dancing, and riding the streets in taxis seriously, probably more so than their next day at work. But they never got drunk or did anything illegal or stupid. They lived the nights like storm chasers, lustfully and passionately, making the most of such fast-passing moments.
As sure as a tornado warning, she knew la movida would suck her up again, and it did. Nacho picked her up at seven o’clock, and they spent time sipping espresso and talking at a small table outside in La Puerta del Sol, an oval plaza surrounded on all sides by cream-colored eighteenth-century buildings and the most popular meeting spot, basically, of the café society of Madrid. It was noisy and crowded, but she liked it. Ben would like it too. Maybe someday they might find themselves standing under the same clouds and in the same rain again. She missed him.
Later, they walked the tapa circuit, all the way from La Puerta del Sol to the Prado Museum, and down the streets Carrera de San Jeronimo and Atocha, stopping along the way and chomping on bloodred chorizos, mushrooms in oil, potatoes with garlic mayonnaise and manchego cheese.
Afterward, they drove to Old Madrid and walked along the narrowed cobble streets lined with wrought-iron balconies until they came to a cave-like neon-lit bar. Inside the bar, the whites of everyone’s eyes, as well as the drinks, glowed a shamrock green.
Nacho started a game of pool with a stranger, and Vicki leaned against the brick wall, studying his face and his constantly twitching black eyebrows.
As she watched him hit three solid balls into some holes, she wasn’t ill or tipsy, but felt dizzy and confused to the point of frustration thinking about how Howard must have known Nacho’s family. Had Nacho lied to her? There was no reason for him not to remember an American friend of the family. As much as she tried telling herself it didn’t matter anymore, it drove her crazy, an
d her frustration clashed with the black-and-white checkered floor beneath her pointy, black, buckled Spanish shoes. The beat of the music made her mind jump back and forth, rehashing every word Howard had said to her, trying to pin down some sort of clue.
Nacho studied the table seriously, but glanced at Vicki each time before shooting, raising an eyebrow without a smile. She started fidgeting with a gaudy silver ring she had bought in Toledo when suddenly it hit her, the way the blue ball had just hit the red ball. The piano! Howard had said she must ask Nacho to play the piano for him! It was around three o’clock in the morning when she yelled out, “El piano,” and Nacho hit the red ball so hard it flew across the room and cracked down onto the floor.
No one picked it up. Instead, he signaled her to follow, and they headed for the door. Outside she asked Nacho if he was any good at the piano. His demeanor signaled the mysterious rush of a category three hurricane making a dangerous turn at the last moment. “Yes, I am good,” he answered brusquely. “Why does it matter you?”
“Wait a minute, Nacho! Did you just say that in English? No? Yes, I think you did!”
“Si, si. I speak very little inglés.”
“Little? No. I don’t think so. You speak fluent English, don’t you? I mean, that sounded pretty good to me.”
“No, please, don’t compliment.”
“Nacho! How could you not tell me something so important? You said you don’t speak any English. Why would you lie to me about that?”
“In my country, we speak my language. If you don’t learn the language, you don’t learn the people,” he shouted behind him to Vicki, who was almost running down the cobblestone street to catch up.
“I’ve hardly said a word in English to anyone since I’ve been in Spain,” she said in English. “I’m learning your language, and I’m learning about nights in Madrid. I’m getting to know the people, Nacho. But I don’t know you. You are a stranger to me.” There was silence, and they kept walking. “Did you understand what I just said?” she asked.
“No.” He stopped and turned around. “Si, si, I understand you very good,” he said with a smile.
“Nacho,” she called out to him, nearly out of breath. “Just think of all the good conversations we could have had by now if you had only told me sooner you speak English.”
He stopped again in the middle of the narrow street, raising his arms toward the black sky above. “What, what do you want to talk about?” He looked at his watch. “We talk now.”
She stepped up to him, eye to eye. “The piano. Play the piano for me. Let’s find a piano.”
“No se. It has been a long time.”
“So it’s true. You do play the piano?”
“Si. I once play every day, every minuto, but these days, no. Today I don’t play anymore.”
“Nacho, por favor. I am leaving your country soon. I beg you to play for me.”
He rolled his eyes as he opened the car door for her. “Vamos. We go to the apartment of my mama. She is not home tonight, and I respect her. If she were home, we would not go there now. But because she is not there, I take you. I will take you. I am taking you,” he spoke English with a sense of pride, having nearly mastered it, yet wanting to practice it and now was his chance. “Yeah, that’s right. I take you. No, I will take you. We go now to my piano. My piano is at the apartment that is my mama. No, that belongs to my mama. Yeah, that’s right. Vamos.”
As he sped down the cramped and curvy roads in his bright yellow car, Vicki sat in silence, shocked at the discovery that her mysterious friend spoke English and proud of herself for remembering the key that might unlock his secret. She felt as impressed as the time on the island when Howard of all people switched from jabberwocky to perfectly fluent Spanish and an intelligent conversation.
Asking people why they had come to Tarpon Key had once proved fascinating. She now tried a new question with Nacho, hoping to achieve similar results. “Nacho, why do you play the piano?”
“Stupid question,” he replied with his lips and with hand gestures that always danced in tune with his emotions and that meant they hardly stayed put on the steering wheel.
“No. Don’t say that. It’s not stupid,” said Vicki. “I don’t come from a musical background. Music isn’t my domain. Do you understand me? I am envious of people with a talent for music. I just wonder why you hit the ball across the room when I said the word ‘piano.’”
“Tranquilo, tranquilo. You wait.” His eyes frantically traveled from her eyes to the rearview mirror to the radio, but never to the road ahead, it seemed. She decided not to talk any further until they had arrived safely, and she could step out of this carnival ride.
If there were a ticket booth outside his mother’s apartment, people would purchase tickets to get in. Art sculptors, statues on white rugs stood upright and still, making Vicki self-conscious of her own posture upon entering. As in a painting, the dark object caught her attention immediately, the only dark item in the elegant living room.
“My piano. I introduce you to my piano,” said Nacho as he walked over to the black object and softly touched it with his fingertips, as if caressing a woman’s body. Then he pulled his black sweater over his head and set it on a chair. He walked over to a mini-bar and poured himself a glass of dry sherry, took a few sips, then closed the window blinds, shutting off any outside view, dimmed the lights, lit a candle, and cracked his knuckles before taking a seat on the piano bench.
He sat there a moment, closing his eyes, and took a deep breath. “This is my piano,” he said as he opened his eyes. “I told you we were taking time apart. That time has now ended. Vicki, I would like you to meet the love of my life.”
As she stood in the center of the white room, she felt a chill, similar to that which entered the dorm room before Rebecca had died. “It’s my pleasure,” she said and nodded.
He didn’t answer. As if he had forgotten he had a one-person, informal audience standing before him, his fingers hit the keys, and his nervous facial glitches and eyebrow twitches danced in tune with the notes. As if the piano contained mysterious electricity, it jolted him. The lines on his forehead deepened, and his eyes closed.
As she stood alone in the large room, Vicki felt fear. The death of her friend frightened her. She too would die some day. Her other loved ones might also die. She had no control over its timing. It would arrive when it liked, a thief in the night.
His music switched keys, and now she felt guilty. She should have stayed in Michigan long enough to attend the funeral, to comfort the family, to wear black. She should have met Rebecca twice a week for coffee instead of once a week. Sure, they studied together nightly, but she should have insisted they have more fun together. She should have told Rebecca how much she loved her as a friend. She should have this and that. She should have, she should have.
The music exploded into storms of octaves echoing each other as Nacho’s hands pounded the keys, almost violently now. She felt anger bursting from the keys or going into them—she didn’t know which. Rebecca had left her at a very bad time, just before their semester in Spain. She had never said good-bye. How rude! Vicki felt angry at life ending without warning, mad that God had made it all part of some plan. Nacho also looked angry as he too looked afraid, then guilty. They both seemed to be taking similar journeys.
His music slowed, and she felt sad. She wanted to block out the music, but it demanded sensitive listening.
Sweat dripped from Nacho’s face, and she felt exhausted watching him, tired from going through the stages of grief. When his fingers stopped, the room filled with a lonely quiet. The silence ached, so she had to say something, but she self-consciously knew that her voice sounded ugly after such gorgeous notes. She stood still, alone, in the center of the room, her arms hanging awkwardly beside her.
“Nacho, who did you lose?”
“My father,” he said, and then slammed his hands down on the keys.
She jumped. “Why don’t you play the piano anymor
e?”
“I told you. We were too emotionally one, connected.”
“That was the most incredible thing I have ever heard, Nacho. Your music is beautiful.”
“Gracias. There is something you do not know about me,” he said. “There is,” she replied.
“I was child prodigy,” he continued. “Mi padre, he became ill and died not long ago. That is when I stopped playing. He was my, how you say it, mi maestro, mentor de la musica.”
“He taught you how to play the piano?”
“Si, si, when I was three years old. My piano, we have been together since I was a child.”
“Thank you for playing for me.”
“No! I no play for you!” he pounded the keys again. “I play for mi papa, for his spirit.”
“Lo siento.”
“No! I am sorry. I am sorry I did not know my father as a man. I knew him as a father and as a teacher, but not as a man. I did not accept him as a friend, and now it is too late.” Nacho closed his eyes and struck the keys some more.
“Who’s Howard?” she asked quietly.
Nacho stopped playing. “My father’s lover,” he answered. “I did not know where Howard was leaving to, only that he was grief-stricken when he left. I did not know him well. That was my decision then, not to know him. In making that decision, I missed out on knowing my father as well.”
“Nacho, you speak English well.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SHE COULD HEAR OPERA music blaring from Rafael’s Mercedes as he pulled up to the well-lit commercialized corner of El Corte Inglés. European shoppers with bags full of expensive clothes, perfumes and cosmetics scurried about the corner, and at times it seemed that the mutter of their voices rang louder than the blaring traffic noises.
Vicki looked at her wristwatch. It was nine forty-five. This time Rafael was only ten minutes late, but she no longer minded his typical tardiness, or the entire country’s lateness for that matter. A culture that runs behind schedule allowed her to do things she might not normally make time to do. But, since Rafael had shown up only ten minutes late, it left her no time to chat with her homeless friend, who again sat on the same sidewalk square between the same two sidewalk cracks.
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