A Meeting in Seville

by Paul A. Mendelson

  The uninhibited young stranger is back in seconds, beside herself with excitement, gesturing frantically towards the TV set.

  “Oh – ooh! I forgot,” she yelps. “Switch the telly on! Willo – quick!!”

  Willo?

  “What on earth for?”

  “You might just catch the end!”

  “It’s nigh, is it?” he says.

  He struggles up from the bed and switches on the TV, to reveal what looks like a Spanish game show in all its blaring garishness. He doesn’t understand the language but humiliation is somehow universal.

  “Well?” demands the young woman, her eyes on the screen.

  He steals a swift look at her, but he could be making her the sole subject of an intrusive, no-holds-barred documentary shot in IMAX and she most probably wouldn’t notice. She is utterly transfixed, staring at the wall-mounted television as if it is a friendly, visiting alien and might just have a message pivotal for humanity.

  “Well what?” dares William, although he has a dreadful feeling that he ought to know.

  “I saw it in the lobby when we came in,” she explains, sort of. “No offence, but I think you slipped up with the talent.”

  “Did I? The talent. Uh huh.”

  Suddenly it no longer seems quite so important that he should know who she is. What would be more infinitely more valuable, at this precise moment, would be to have the vaguest idea who he is. If she could just stop jabbering for a second.

  “Mind you, perhaps she’s perfecto for the Iberian market. ‘Culturally appropriate’. What are the ratings? I’m assuming it’s being recommissioned.”

  “Can I – get back to you on that?”

  He senses movement beside him and realises that the young woman is towelling vigorously as she watches, almost in time with the rhythm and mounting excitement of the show itself. If I don’t move around, he thinks, I might explode. No man should have to go through this. He wants desperately to cry but it’s not something he does and he feels it might not particularly enhance his situation. So pacing is the better option.

  He finds however that he is not certain how to walk. There is most definitely a confidence in his stride that wasn’t there before – perhaps it’s the tight clothing – but he also feels that his legs are shaking so much that they’re going to give way under such intense anxiety. The combination makes him seem like a drunk trying desperately to appear sober, as he reels around the room. Although, interestingly, the chronic back pain appears to have been sorted.

  “Are you sleep-deprived or something?” He looks at her. “You didn’t even recognise your own programme!” If he could stare at her even more cluelessly, he manages. “… Sooner You Than Me! – The one we’ve—” she makes finger-quotes “—‘come to check out in Madrid.’”

  William must have the appearance of someone whose brain has just ceased to function, because suddenly the young woman seems genuinely concerned.

  “Is it your medication? Not going to peg out on me, are you?”

  “I’m – hoping not to. Not with the National Television Awards coming up,” he laughs.

  How the hell did I know that, he wonders, having just managed to terrify himself. Or am I simply making it up as I go along? He can’t help staring at her and she’s staring back, but not in such a good way as she was.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Must be jet lag. Ha! LOL.” What? He’ll be doing that finger-quote thing next. “You know, you do look so like—”

  “I mean, how would I explain that to your wife!” she continues, then watches him add an open mouth to the picture he is currently presenting. “Willo? You look like you’ve never seen me before. Oh God, you haven’t got that Alz—?”

  “I’m 53! I think. No, that’s probably stayed the same. Only bloody thing that has.” He gazes around the room, like it might provide some welcome answers, and tries to ignore her less-welcome bafflement. She knows Luisa! Probably from those damned TV awards. Somehow this makes it all so much worse. “I have to find – an emergency tobacconist’s. For – more cigars. Won’t be a minute. Okay?”

  He looks back at the young woman. She’s totally locked on to the TV. He nods, gives a feeble little wave and leaves the room.

  44

  As if to reassure William that God is in Seville and all’s right with the world, Pablo is there, waiting inside the open lift. He smiles at William, who manages to produce a small yet quite relieved smile in return, from his rapidly diminishing stock.

  To the old man’s surprise, this expensively dressed, professionally tanned and scientifically coiffeured guest suddenly grabs him by the wrist, his grabbing arm weighed down with the most massive gold watch the shocked employee has ever seen.

  “Señora Sutherland?” yells William, into the man’s face.

  Pablo’s eyes light up and he gives William a grin that is one part envy, one part admiration and a good slug of friendly disapproval. “Ah! Señora Sutherland. Ooh. Bonito!”

  “Eh?” says William, confused. Until it registers. “No. No! Señora! … Señora Luisa! Older – maybe not quite as bon—” He tries to describe Luisa with his hands, in a vaguely geometrical way that Luisa, had she been here, might not find totally flattering. But then, of course, were Luisa still occupying room 381, he most probably wouldn’t be outside it, clamping onto a poor hotel porter in total desperation, correcting him on the exact dimensions of his wife.

  After the confused man has shaken his head a few too many times, William releases him. “No, of course you haven’t seen her. She’s probably still back in Richmond, or wherever we live these days.” He presses the lift-button himself. “This isn’t the story I meant to write, Pablo. Cheating on poor Luisa with some perky young – clone. OMG – how many times have I done this?! And when did I start saying OMG?!”

  He catches himself in the mirror that takes up the entire rear of the lift and has to smile. “Mind you, I am bloody successful. Check out the TV in the lobby, pal. When you get the chance.”

  ***

  William knows that he can’t stay away from that steamy hotel bedroom for too long. It feels like the only place in town where he might be able to figure out what on earth is going on, although he already has a rough idea and it scares the hell out of him.

  And there is still a sense, albeit sadly receding, that, if he flops onto that comfy bed and falls into the sleep he so desperately needs, he may just wake up to find that this has all been a product of his not-yet-quite-moribund imagination. Or simply another psychic instalment in the insanity that is this particular week.

  Yet something tells him that if he does actually make the tempting glide between those newly pressed, snowy-white sheets back in habitacion 381, he is not going to get much sleep.

  As he walks past the old cathedral, stern and inscrutable as ever, he looks up once more at the towering La Giralda. William has no idea why his eyes are constantly drawing him towards this particular monument, with its seamless blend of the Moorish and the Christian. He simply supposes that this is what landmarks are designed to do or else they wouldn’t take up valuable postcard space. He recalls that Luisa would often take him to an excellent but not inexpensive restaurant called La Giralda, in the leafy London suburb of Pinner, when she had an atavistic yearning for Spanish food but no desire to brave the West End to sate it. It seems like such a lifetime ago.

  He burrows into his hip pocket for his Blackberry, as he usually does every five minutes, albeit in less tight-fitting trousers, yet this time it is for different and markedly uncommercial reasons. He is surprised to discover, although by now he really shouldn’t be, that the mobile phone in his newly burnished hand is the fruit of a rather different tree. He finds himself rather liking the look and the heft of this unfamiliar machine, undoubtedly at the very summit of its range (he’s Willo Sutherland, for God’s sake!), at the same time as he is horrified by it.

&
nbsp; He checks his list of contacts, which is pretty extensive, although none of the names mean a thing at first glance. Which is not to say he hasn’t actually heard of any of them but the fact they may also have heard of him smacks of new, yet not unflattering, information. He wonders if this is what schizophrenia or dissociative personality feels like, although he suspects those poor folk don’t dress quite so snappily.

  Without thinking, he dials a number he has known for years, which has previously been accessible at the simple touch of a button. A woman answers but he doesn’t recognise the voice.

  “Hello?” he says, anxiously. “Who’s that? … Can I speak to Suzy, please? … My PA! … Oh – I must have the wrong… Sorry.”

  As he is clearly in a totally different line of work these days, there is no reason in the world why Suzy should still be his loyal PA. Still, he will miss her. He wonders what she is doing now. But he doesn’t wonder for long, as he is already checking through the bank of stored photos in his new toy.

  He employs his curious, yet increasingly confident game show producer walk to weave through the distinctly less confused visitors to old Seville. Most of these are also using their phones for photographic purposes but they probably have at least some knowledge as to what photos they have already taken.

  There aren’t actually many pictures on his phone, so he obviously hasn’t become any more interested in photography than he was before. Luisa is the photographer in the family, he thinks, not without some genuine warmth and pride. Especially considering he is cheating on her in a major way and the evidence of his deceit is currently riveted to a noisy TV programme, in a language she doesn’t understand, not so many metres from here. (He feels thankful that his own daughter isn’t involved with a dirty old man like him and wonders why on earth this bright, young person in room 381 would be. Although, let’s be honest, he tells himself – you do have a certain mature appeal, Willo.)

  What does surprise William – along with all the other major shocks to his system – is that he doesn’t feel quite as guilty towards Luisa as he reckons he should. As the William Sutherland he still believes he knows should. Perhaps contrition is simply sidelined by the more potent driver of revenge, considering her own recent dalliance. Yet even this doesn’t appear to be inflaming him with the same red-hot fury as so very recently. Maybe, he surmises, not unpleasurably, it didn’t even happen this time round. Or it could be, deep down, he’s just shallow.

  His attention is suddenly captured by a photo that knocks him sideways. Hey, look at this – me with the late, great Michael Jackson! Both of us giving a beaming thumbs-up into the camera.

  “Now we are talking!” says William Sutherland, out loud.

  When people begin to stare, he feels a curious urge to show them the photo. Who wouldn’t? Yet he wisely resists and simply slips the classy new phone back into his pocket.

  Intrigued, yet still some way from undisturbed, he seeks out what other treasures may be in there, as if it’s a sort of amnesiac’s lucky dip. Ooh, car keys – to an Aston Martin! Some white pills in an unlabelled container – no idea what they are, but he should probably keep taking them, and finally, in another pocket of his shiny blouson (who wears blousons? I do!) a Cuban cigar in its slim, tin tube. So that’s his errand completed.

  He feels it’s time to check out his new image once more before he heads back, just in case another change is in progress. A shop window provides him with much to reflect on.

  William Sutherland Mark Two still takes him by surprise and scares him a little, even as it begins to impress. Something deep inside, a thought screaming to be heard within the demented soundscape of his mind, tells him that he really has to fight off getting used to this new and startling biography. And that, unlike the city where it is happening, this particular mystical blending of the ancient and modern is leading to madness rather than harmony.

  The shop window is a riot of hand-painted fans, some clearly very old. They are displayed wide open, in an array of colours, to reveal the finely detailed craftsmanship. Something in his reflection catches William’s attention and he pushes his face almost into the glass to check it out. “Where did you come from?” he asks, as he lightly touches a small and clearly permanent scar just above his left eye.

  Whilst he tries to recall any incident in his newly rewritten past that might have led to such a scarring, an attractive woman of around Luisa’s age skips out of the shop with her husband. She is clasping a newly purchased fan in evident delight. With a jubilant flourish she raises it above her head and makes a jokey, cod-sultry flamenco movement, which causes her husband to laugh and William to feel painfully wistful, although he can’t quite compute why.

  He has to get back to that room. But there is one burning question he must ask on the way.

  ***

  The young receptionist smiles at him as he approaches her desk.

  “Room 381,” says William. “The lady I am with—”

  “There is a problem, Señor?”

  “No, no. Not at all. Do you happen to know her name?”

  ***

  Sooner You Than Me, a sentiment William endorses to the hilt, has finished by the time he returns to the room. The excitable young woman now looks fresh and lovely in a bright and very short summery dress, long slim legs tapering down to what look to William like the sort of sandals Luisa might own, only a bit glitzier, attached to heels of a height he knows she would never sport. Not if she wanted to do a decent walk in a city without aching for days afterwards.

  “You took your time,” she says.

  “Sorry – Tazmin,” he replies, emphatically. “Had to go to Cuba! Ha!”

  “So – what are we going to do today?”

  “Er… what would you like to do, Tazmin?”

  “Everything!” she declares. “William.”

  45

  Everything! is exactly what William Sutherland and Tazmin Whatsername do on their first afternoon and evening here in Seville.

  They walk the extraordinary city he feels he has been walking his entire life, yet apparently he just arrived here a few hours ago. He can’t help noticing that his companion is more entranced by the designer shops than the historic buildings, but he manages to temper his disapproval by recalling that he didn’t want to be here for any of it, until he tripped over a pew and met his wife’s younger self in a cathedral and his whole world began to unravel.

  He finds himself staring unblinkingly at the young woman, which she simply takes as her due. She has no idea that she reminds him so much, at least superficially, of someone he used to know. He wonders if he has had other affairs like this and if the young women have all shared a similarity, of sorts, to the one on whom he is cheating.

  Fortunately, Tazmin is completely unaware of the puzzlement that clouds her lover’s face, as they explore the tiny streets and even tinier boutiques. He is quite amazed at how much she can talk, without pausing for breath, and how little interest she has in anything he might have to say. Not that, to be honest, he is actually saying anything of overwhelming interest right now, if indeed he is even capable of doing so. He is almost relieved that his companion is stuck in transmit-only mode, as it gives him time to think.

  He just wishes his thoughts could amount to something more practical than “get me the hell out of this” and “kill me now”. If he could only find his way back home to Luisa (wherever home is; he’d need to check that out subtly with reception) then maybe things might sort themselves out.

  Perhaps hope has not died after all.

  This suddenly sparks off a fragment of another thought, something darker, unformed yet dreadful, that unleashes a chilling, almost visceral terror deep inside him, causing his heart to thud like a Sevillian drum and the sweat to pour once again. He can’t quite get there. Not yet. Especially not with all the excited chatter just a few delicately scented inches away. But he will. He knows and
fears that he will.

  Several shopping sprees and sangrias later, night begins to fall. They find themselves snacking on the tapas for which Seville is justly famous and through which Tazmin is making staggering inroads. He silently prays that these aren’t mere appetisers for whatever else she may have in mind.

  Then they hear the trumpets.

  William swiftly grabs Tazmin and practically drags her out of the bar, pickled octopus in hand, for no better reason than this is something he feels the young woman must see and it may even stop her talking for a few blessed moments, although he has his doubts.

  It soon becomes clear that, whilst Tazmin is sufficiently awestruck by the ‘gobsmacking’ candlelit procession to put its highlights on her Facebook page, alongside pictures of every single tapas she has just tried, this is not the defining moment for her that it was for him when he first encountered it so many lifetimes ago. But then, he reasons, this young person hasn’t been graced with the sort of spirited and spiritual guide he had first time round.

  The insistent rhythm of the drums, solemn as it is, puts her in the mood for dancing. It isn’t long before she drags William off in the direction of a new club she has tracked down on TripAdvisor (“best disco in town – be prepared to stand”).

  It is when she is leading him away that he feels a pair of eyes on him. Turning back to the procession, William sees that one of the Nazarenos, this time clad all in red, is not looking straight ahead like his myriad fellows, lost in his own spiritual world, but is staring directly at him. There is something about those penetrating yet soulful eyes that is curiously familiar.

  He shakes his head vigorously, as if this might just ward off impending doom, but it is at this point that Tazmin happens to turn back and notice him. With a smile full of misguided understanding, she nods and runs a delicate hand across the upper part of his thigh. Yes indeed, perhaps they should just go back to their room. Clubbing can wait until tomorrow. There are other ways to break into a sweat.