With Love from Spain, Melanie Martin

by Carol Weston

  For a second, I remembered (embarrassing but true) the rowboat scene in The Little Mermaid when the birds and sea creatures start singing, “You gotta kiss the girl,” but Eric and Ariel don't kiss.

  Of course, Miguel and I didn't either!

  Miguel rowed us around the lake and he asked me about school. He asked what we were studying in history (historia or E Store E Ah). I told him I did a big project on the plague and how it was carried by fleas on rats, and how a long time ago, millions of people, around one-third of the people in Europe, dropped dead from it, and they died so quickly that an Italian writer said they had lunch on earth with their friends but dinner in heaven with their ancestors. There weren't even enough coffins to go around. As soon as I started talking about the plague, I got nervous and couldn't stop, although I was sorry I had brought it up because obviously a deadly disease is not a romantic subject.

  Miguel said he wished he'd shown me a Breughel (Broy Gull) painting in the Prado called The Triumph of Death. He said it's of an army of skeletons grabbing people and one skeleton is showing an hourglass to a king as if to say, “Time's up!”

  “Sounds creepy,” I said, and told him about the monk skeletons we saw in Rome. Then I thought: Melanie, talk about something besides dead people! So I asked, “What is your favorite subject?”

  Miguel said he likes history and art, but his favorite subjects are English and Spanish. He asked if I'd ever heard of the poet Garcia Lorca (Gar See Ah Lore Ca). I felt bad that I had to say no.

  “How about Cervantes?” (Sair Von Tays.)

  I shook my head and felt S 2 Pee Da. Two white ducks paddled by, and I pointed at one and said, “Pato” (Pa Toe), as though my saying “duck” in Spanish would prove that I had hidden brains. I probably sounded like a two-year-old!

  Miguel kept rowing. “Cervantes wrote Don Quijote (Don Key Hhhoe Tay). Some say it is the first novel in the Western World, and some say it is the best.”

  “I've heard of Don Quixote,” I said. “I just didn't know who wrote it.”

  “Cervantes. It's a long, funny book about a man who was a dreamer. He saw the world his own way.”

  Miguel reached into his pocket and showed me a Spanish euro. “See? That's Miguel de Cervantes. I'm partly named after him.”

  “Sometimes I'm a bit of a dreamer,” I said, though I didn't tell him what I've been dreaming about.

  “You're also a writer.”

  “Who said?”

  “Your mom told my dad. I've started several diaries, but I am too lazy to finish them. I think it's great that you keep a diary.”

  “You do?” I could feel myself blushing. I tried to stop, but it really isn't something you can control.

  “Si, senorita.” He smiled and I smiled and for a little while we didn't say anything. But it seemed like a grown-up conversation and a grown-up silence.

  same day

  Dear Diary,

  Antonio and Miguel had lunch at the grandmother's apartment, and we had lunch with Dad at La Casa del Abuelo (La Ca Sa Del Ah Bway Lo), which means the Grandfather's House.

  Dad was already there waiting, and he called out cheerfully, “So how's your old boyfriend?”

  “Not as cute as my old husband.” Mom flashed him a big smile.

  “Who are you calling old?” Dad said, teasing.

  “Whom,” Mom corrected him, and they kissed. Not an air kiss. A lips kiss.

  They seemed happy to see each other, which was good since I wasn't sure if they were gearing up for another fight. Maybe a louder one now that they have their own separate hotel room.

  Dad said he talked to his client and everything got worked out.

  “Oh, Marc, that's great! I'm so glad,” Mom said.

  “It is great,” he repeated. I bet Dad felt like he'd done well on a big hard test that had been hanging over his head. He had probably been as frustrated about work as he was about Antonio, but I guess it's easier to be grumpy with your family than to be grumpy with your bosses and clients (or teachers and classmates). I'm not saying that's ideal or anything—just human.

  Mom asked if Dad had gotten to go to the Prado, and he said, “I even got to go to the gift shop.” Then he shocked us all by handing Matt and me each a key chain with a mini Meninas painting on it and Mom a poster of Las Meninas rolled up in a cardboard tube.

  Awww! Matt and I said gracias and Mom said, “This is perfect for my classroom,” and ran her fingers through Dad's hair.

  I was happy that Dad's work troubles were fixed and also sort of proud of him. If he'd stayed mad, what good would that have done ?

  Next thing you know, Mom and Dad were eating grilled garlic shrimp, which came unpeeled with their heads and tails still on them—ugh! They dug the shrimps out (pretty messy) and dropped the shells right on the sawdust on the floor (very messy). Other people were doing that too—Mom said you can tell how popular a bar is by how messy the floor gets. Matt and I mostly ate bread and drank juice. Mom and Dad drank sweet wine. Dad said the Spanish make excellent wines, particularly red wine—vino tinto (B No Teen Toe). He went on and on about it.

  I like when Mom and Dad are in a good mood better than when they're in a bad mood, so I did not want to interrupt to say that his speech about grapes, vineyards, oak barrels, and cork forests was sort of inappropriate family chitchat. Besides, who cares about the taste of Rioja (Rrree Oh Hhha) versus Priorat (Pree Or Rot)?

  For dessert, we went to a fancy pastry shop, Casa Mira (Ca Sa Meer Ah), that even the king orders from. Its window was full of chocolate Easter eggs. Easter and Holy Week are a really big deal in Spain. Mom said we could have whatever we wanted, so Matt and I picked chocolate bunnies. (I like eating rabbits when they're chocolate?

  I whispered to Mom, “Have you guys made up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Totally?”

  She smiled. “Arguments are part of relationships, lambie. It wasn't our first and it won't be our last.”

  Matt asked, “Dad, did you get to see that big painting?”

  I was tempted to say, “No, dummy, Dad walked right by it.” But I didn't want to be mean to Matt since he'd been nice to me.

  “Of course I saw it,” Dad said. Even he was probably tempted to add, “Duh.”

  “What made you ask, Matt?” Mom said.

  “You know how sometimes in a museum,” Matt explained, “a painting is missing? And a note says, ‘Sorry, but we lent it out’?”

  Mom smiled. She was probably relieved that Matt isn't as S 2 Pee Dough as he looks. “I'm sure the Prado never lends out Las Meninas. Or, for that matter, Garden of Earthly Delights.”

  Matt seemed confused so I said, “The one with the guy pooping coins.”

  “I liked that one!” Matt said.

  “They couldn't wrap up a giant masterpiece that fast anyway,” I pointed out.

  “Couldn't and wouldn't,” Mom said. “Some paintings rarely—or never—travel. They are really just too old, fragile, valuable, or popular to lend out.”

  “Like Picasso's Guernica” (Gair Nee Ca), Dad said.

  “Exactly,” Mom said. “It's in the Reina Sofia (Ray Na So Fee Ah), the museum named after the queen who married King Juan Carlos” (Won Car Lohs). The pastry shop had a photo of the king on the wall, so Mom pointed him out. He looked nice. He wasn't wearing a crown or anything.

  “Juan sounds like wonton, like wonton soup,” Matt said.

  “Wonton backward is not now,” I added, even though that was off the subject.

  “Anyway,” Mom continued, “we're going to pop into that museum and—”

  “Another museoV.” I said.

  “You can't make us!” Matt said.

  Dad came up behind Mom and put his arms around her. “Kids, I'm pretty museumed out myself, but Mom and I—”

  “You have no idea how many wonderful museums we're skipping!” Mom said, sounding genuinely pained. “I'm afraid this is non-negotiable. We'll see just that one painting, and then,” she sighed, “no more art museum
s for the rest of the trip.”

  “Just that one painting,” I said.

  “Swear?” Matt asked.

  “Pinky swear,” Mom said, and twisted pinkies with him.

  “The reason I mentioned Guernica,” Dad said, “is because it was in New York, on loan at the Museum of Modern Art for decades! Picasso said Spain couldn't have it until after Franco was dead. And Franco took forever to die.”

  “Who's Franco?” I asked. One of the hard things about getting older is there are so many people you're supposed to automatically know about.

  “Franco? Well, there was a civil war—” Dad began.

  “A silver war?” Matt asked. Mom and Dad both smiled. Usually I don't like when they beam together over Little Angel Boy, but now I'm just glad they're getting along.

  “A civil war,” Mom said. “Spaniards were fighting other Spaniards. It was very uncivil, as war always is.”

  Dad continued, “At the end, Franco took over and ruled Spain for around forty years. He was a dictator, and people were not allowed to vote or even complain about him. You know how in the United States, if you're mad at the president, you can say, ‘What an idiot’?”

  “Idiom,” I said.

  “Under Franco, if you said something bad about the government, you could get thrown in jail—or killed.”

  “Killed?” I asked.

  “Killed,” Dad repeated.

  Matt gobbled up the last of his bunny and asked, “What else are we doing today?”

  Dad seemed happy to change the subject. “Well, I tried to get tickets for a Spanish operetta, a zarzueh (Sar Sway La), but it's not the season. My client invited us to drop by his apartment before dinner, at eight.”

  “Great,” Mom said. “And Antonio invited us for a light supper at his mother's at nine—”

  “He did??” I interrupted.

  “But,” Mom continued, “it's completely up to you, Marc. I said I'd call.”

  Dad looked at me and could probably tell that de- spite everything I was hoping he'd say si si si.

  “Let's do both,” Dad said, and handed Mom a cell phone.

  “Wait a sec,” Matt said. “How many old people am I going to have to be nice to?”

  Dad said we were lucky to be invited places—it meant we weren't just doing tourist things. Mom smiled then called the client and Antonionio. At the end, instead of saying bye to them and hanging up, she said, “Adios adios adios,” as though the calls were fading away instead of ending. She said they do that on the phone in Spain. It makes saying goodbye seem less abrupt, less final.

  At the museum, Mom said we would like the paintings by Salvador Dali (Sal Va Door Doll E). He had a curled-up mustache, and he painted melting clocks and eggs with flowers inside, and he tried to paint dreams. I was tempted to take a peek, but Matt said, “Mom, you pinky swore.” So she marched us straight to Guernica, which is a huge mural painted on a canvas.

  It is sad sad sad.

  Guernica was a regular little Basque town, and one April afternoon in 1937, Franco told Nazi planes to surprise-bomb it. They did—for three hours! The whole village burned—for three days! Sixteen hundred people got hurt or killed. Picasso's masterpiece is black and white and amazing, and it shows a mom holding her dead kid and a person crying out at the sky and a horse in agony. Mom said it helped people wake up to the terrible things going on. Today in New York, a tapestry of Guernica hangs in the United Nations, maybe to remind countries to get along.

  Matt sat down on the floor—but a security guard made him get up.

  “These kids are tired,” Dad said.

  “We'd better go,” Mom said.

  “I wouldn't mind taking a nap myself.” Dad smiled.

  We are now back at our hotel. It is siesta time and Mom and Dad said not to disturb them for an hour. Right when they were shutting the door that attaches our rooms, Matt said, “Mel, let's raid the minibar.” But Dad overheard him and poked his head in. “If you do, it will come out of your allowances. Those snacks add up.”

  Well, Matt is now sitting on his bed with Flappy Happy and Iggy One. He is digging out the dirt between his toes. It's gross except that I used to do it too.

  I tucked Hedgie and Iggy Two in for a nap. Their little heads are on my pillow, peeking out of the sheets and blanket.

  Me, I am about to take a nice long bubble bath. The hotel gave us free soap, shampoo, lotion, and bath oils. All I need is a rubber ducky—pato.

  almost almost 9:00 P.M.

  Dear Diary,

  We're on our way to see Miguel!

  Mom keeps pointing out how dramatic the lit-up fountains and archways and fancy buildings look at night.

  I'm wearing the nicest clothes I brought: a pink shirt, black skirt, and sandals (with no heels because Mom won't let me buy heels, which is unfair, especially since I don't even have pierced ears yet).

  Dad's client's name is Senor Garcia (Gar See Ah). He speaks English or ingles (Ing Lace) with an accent.

  He called Matt Mateo (Ma Tay Oh) and said he looked just like Mom. Mom cooed, “I'll take that as a compliment,” but Matt grumbled, “I won't.” (Dad elbowed him.)

  Senor Garcia's apartment has dark furniture and drapey curtains and oriental rugs. He knows Dad likes opera, so he put on a tape of Placido Domingo (Pla See Dough Doe Mingo) la-la-la-ing away.

  There was also a Siamese cat named Bonita (Boh Neat Ah). Bonita means pretty, and the cat was pretty. I crouched down to pet her and she was purring purring purring—until Matt started chasing her and she ran away.

  I said, “Act your age, not your shoe size.”

  Matt said, “I am acting my age.”

  The cat ducked—wait, can cats duck? Ducks can't cat! Okay, the cat snuck under a tall shelf of breakable figurines but left the tip of her furry white tail sticking out, as if to say, “Psssst, I'm just pretending I don't want to play.”

  Matt bent down, but Dad shouted, “Watch out for the Lkird!”(YaDro.)

  Matt stopped in his tracks and said, “Huh??” so Senor Garcia showed us his really fragile, really expensive collection of porcelain, including a sculpture of Don Quixote that is over a foot tall and has a breakable mustache pointing out on both sides.

  Then Senor Garcia said, “Seet down, seet down,” and poured us some Coke. Mom would never usually let us have Coke after five, but she couldn't say anything since this man's legal troubles are why we got to come to Spain.

  He poured Mom and Dad sherry or jerez (Hair Ez) and put out bowls of olives and almonds, which Mom and Dad chowed down while we kids went hungry. He must have noticed we weren't eating because he put out a bowl of potato chips, which we scarfed in two seconds flat. I was hoping for a refill but no such luck or suerte (Swear Tay).

  There was a bowl of red, yellow, and purple candies on top of a lace doily. Matt and I liked only the red and yellow ones—so pretty soon it was a bowl of just purple candies. (Hee, hee.)

  Senor Garcia said, “I have been to Ah Mare Eek Ca. Is this your first trip abroad, children?”

  I said, “We've been to Italy and Holland.”

  Ma Tay Oh said, “I have a joke.”

  Dad looked worried. Mom too. I think they were afraid Matt was going to tell a pee, poop, or fart joke, and since Senor Garcia speaks English, they couldn't just say, “No pee, poop, or fart jokes!”

  After a pause, Dad said, “Keep it clean, Matt!”

  Matt said, “Where do hamsters go on vacation?”

  “Where?” Senor Garcia asked.

  “Hamsterdam!” Matt said. Mom beamed, Dad sighed, Senor Garcia laughed, and I just rolled my eyes.

  “How old are you, Ma Tay Oh? ¿Cuantos anos tienes?” (Quon Tose On Nyose Tyen S.)

  Matt answered, “Sieteanos” (Syeh Tay On Nose). But Matt hasn't started Spanish in school, and he accidentally said a terrible thing. Ano (On Nyo) with the squiggle over the n is year. Ano (On No) without the squiggle is, I hate to write this but… anus! Matt said he has seven! Well, Mom quickly gave him an em
ergency Spanish lesson and made him say it the right way.

  To tell you the truth, Senor Garcia laughed way harder at Matt's mistake than he had at Matt's joke! So Matt, instead of being mortified like a normal person, got proud of himself for being a comedian without even trying.

  After a while, we all shook hands (no kisses), went down the elevator, and got in a taxi.

  Inside, Mom tilted her head back and said, “I can't believe I'm going to see Antonio's mother again after all these years.”

  I'd almost forgotten that she didn't know just Antonio— she knew his whole family.

  Gotta stop because the taxi stopped!

  Dear Diary,

  Antonio's mom has an awful name. It's Dolores (Doe Lore Ays), which sounds okay in English but means pains and sorrows in Spanish.

  Except for her name, I liked her. She is short with fluffy white hair and soft skin. She asked us how old we were and I answered right and Matt managed to say siete anos. (Phew!)

  But then he behaved as though he were only five or cinco (Sink Oh).

  For instance, when Dolores told us that Antonio and Miguel were on their way, Matt whispered to me, “Remember in the Snow White video when Snow White sings, ‘I'm waiting for the one I love'? Remember how you used to think it was ‘I'm waiting for my one-eyed love'? Wouldn't it be funny if Miguel walked in with an eye patch?” And he kept giggling.

  If looks could kill, Matt would have expired then and there.

  Dolores led us to the dining room, where the table was covered with plates of asparagus, white beans, roasted peppers wrapped around tuna, manchego (Mon Chay Go) cheese, quince paste, and Spanish sausage called chorizo (Chore E So). I was afraid I would starve to death until I saw the potato omelette and bread.

  Antonio and Miguel walked in, and Dolores asked Antonio to go to the kitchen and slice off some ham from a big dried leg of pig. Dad said that pigs that eat acorns all day become extra tasty, and legs like that cost hundreds of dollars and last for months. We watched as Antonio carved a piece of the leg into almost see-through slices.