“Oh yes, a few novels,” he tells her, “after you left. The critics were very kind.”
She smiles and points to the gold Rolex, sitting brightly on his wrist like a landing pad for a tiny helicopter. “I can see you have done well.”
“Wanted their new platinum model but—” Stop it, William! “But what about you, Luisa? Tell me about yourself.”
“Well, of course, you would not remember this—”
“Don’t you start!” he chides, before recalling that it isn’t this Luisa who has always accused him of never recalling anything. This is so tricky.
“O-kay. When I come to be au pair in Glasgow – when we first meet, si – you tell me you will write the books for the children.”
“And you’d do the pictures. Of course I remember.”
“Well, you remember also that you change this plan, yes? To the writing for the publicitad, the advertising? For more of the money. We come to London – and I do not ever see you.”
He recalls that they moved down to London not so long after their marriage, of course he does, because he had to boost his income. Their income. For obvious reasons. Which I did, he notes proudly, and with some success. I supported us all and gave us stability. But how curious that this same migration occurred in both of his “lives”, even though circumstances and – more specifically – dependants were clearly so very different. He finds this strangely unsettling.
“But now I am the ‘one-man-band’,” she continues, oblivious to his turmoil. Or perhaps simply unstirred. “Words and pictures. I am quite famous here, William. If you are five years old.”
She is not looking at him as she tells him this, but she picks up his sudden, helpless intake of breath. Her head turns swiftly back, so that she might understand why her harmless words should have shocked him so audibly. But, of course, she doesn’t understand and he clearly wishes to move on.
“And you live here in Spain?” he asks, pointing in no particular direction.
“Madrid. Si. I am coming back home. After we divorce. Why not?”
“Maestranza!” shouts their driver suddenly, believing that his passengers are far too interested in each other and wanting to secure his tip.
William stares at the imposing bullring, now illuminated so expertly in a golden light, although he feels blood-red might be more appropriate. He shudders as he recalls what happened here only yesterday. Well, one yesterday. Another yesterday. When of course this William, the one with all the hair, was still apparently in an as-yet-unspecified London suburb, making final preparations for his naughty Spanish weekend.
“Bet your parents threw a fiesta when you came back home,” he mutters. “Barbecued the dog – hopefully.” She has the grace to laugh at this, which cheers him. “So, Luisa, we both achieved our dreams. Bloody well done us!”
She checks her watch again. William now recognises it as an exquisite Cartier. For a moment they sink back quietly into their own thoughts.
“Do you remember Sandy?” asks William, as if this is a sore he cannot stop picking, regardless of whose life he is living or whose ex-wife he is challenging.
“Of course,” says Luisa. “I meet him when we are students here. You know this. He introduce me to you.”
“Stay in touch, do you?”
She looks at him in some confusion.
“William, I married him.”
48
As they stroll past the tiny bars and cafés strung out along the riverbank, William watches the reflection of their lights ripple prettily in the water and thinks about throwing himself in. At the very least it might clear his head.
Of course Sandy went and married Luisa. Why wouldn’t he, once William was out of the picture? Even if he had to move to Madrid to find her. William doesn’t care to examine this too closely, but he just bets her excited parents bought a dispensation from the Pope especially for that rich, blond, Presbyterian bastard. Second time fortunato, Luisa! Yet patently that didn’t last either. Which might suggest that Scotch and fino don’t mix quite as well as any of them had hoped.
“There is a café,” she recalls, as they walk. “I pass it today in the hotel microbus. I am not certain, but I am thinking we have been there once, a long time ag—”
“Actually,” interrupts William, warily, “I was thinking of a cosy little bodega I know.”
***
The Yellow Café is as busy as ever.
The old, white-haired woman with the gold tooth and the stubby pencil behind her ear, who seems to manage it and never sleeps, is there alongside her young and surly under-manager. William recognises them from previous visits, but even if they might have recognised him by this time, when in his last incarnation – big if, considering the flow of drinks and drinkers – he is obviously a first-timer to them now.
William tries not to make it too obvious to Luisa, but he finds himself looking determinedly around for people whom he prays to high heaven won’t be here.
Then he begins to wonder, inasmuch as his frenzied brain can, whether they too would find him a stranger.
In this new reality, he and Luisa never did come back to Seville, did they? Or at least not to celebrate their pearl wedding anniversary. But whatever is going to set future events for the young honeymooners on this new and different trajectory, one that he has clearly influenced and whose unforeseen consequences he is now enduring, hasn’t as yet happened to them. So he and Luisa – the old Luisa – must have returned here and met them. And he must have, in his dubious wisdom, jiggled things around.
Or there would be no new bloody reality right now to be dealing with.
Like sitting here with a totally re-invented Luisa.
He supposes it all depends on when new stuff kicks in and old memories die. Or, of course, what sort of a laugh the gods feel like having today. Because surely someone up there is playing with him, on this most extraordinary of weeks, in this magical, mystical, muddling city. And logic, the rules we mortals play by – the rules that govern time itself – have most certainly been defenestrated.
Well, William Sutherland is sorry, but he doesn’t quite get the joke. This alternative humour in his alternate reality. Or why he alone should be the butt of the fun-fest, the helpless patsy sitting in the front row of life. Not when he’s fighting for his sanity, yet trying to remain Mr Rich ’n’ Cool of Eurotrash.
“Who do you look around for?” she asks.
“No one! No one at all. Just – looking. Nice place. Very – yellow. Amarillo.” How did he know that? He’s floundering. Stay on message, William. “So – not surprised Sandy moved here to Spain. He always loved the place.”
“Si. He expand his father’s business,” Luisa explains, taking out a phone that he notices, with a faint sense of pique, is even smarter than his own. “I learn a lot from him, before we part. But you are also the successful man now, yes? I know you want this very much.”
He shrugs modestly, without elaborating on the source of his riches, as Luisa beckons the waiter with an imperious wave. “Scotch, por favor. I think you like the Scotch, si? Y fino.”
Once she has ordered, and even before the surly waiter has quit the table, she is checking her emails. He notices that her screen is a sea of the black and unread and recalls how disinterested her predecessor was in all things electronic. Except texts, apparently.
Now she digs into her capacious bag, which he surprises himself by recognising as a genuine Hermes Birkin and of the softest leather. From it she pulls out a small pad and a silver pencil and diligently begins to scribble indecipherable notes. She proceeds to light a cigarette and make a phone call, talking in the fastest Spanish, ignoring William completely. Eventually she shrugs him a cursory apology, which he waves off. Of course he understands. People of the world.
William looks warily across at the uncleared table next to him, knowing exactly who he doesn’t want t
o turn up out of nowhere and claim it. He notices a well-scooped ice cream dish and, beside it, resting against a tumbler, a small ball of candle wax. Very carefully he picks it up and looks around for its owner, who has clearly left, most probably with his folks, to catch the next procession. Where he or she will discover that they must start all over again.
The lumpy ball feels warm in his hand, as he rolls it around, the knobbles of wax gently massaging his palm. William is sad for the little boy, if indeed it is a little boy, who has been too full of his evening helados and excitement to “say goodbye” to his chair, as he and Luisa used to say, to make certain the kids left nothing of value behind.
Sensing a gap in the phone chat, he points to her mobile. “They’re working late.”
“I am working late. They are in Buenos Aires.”
She continues to talk into her phone, her voice a tad louder and sterner than before. He finds that he can’t stop staring at her. Even though she appears drawn and her dark brown eyes look tired, the “set” of her face rather different to that of her predecessor, he is taken once again by how beautiful she is. A profound beauty, he thinks, now that he has the time to examine it, of which this face is simply the outward expression.
He hears familiar laughter behind him, moving closer.
Will and Lu are on the side street beside the café, scouring the terrace for a vacant table. Shit! Before he can turn away, William catches the young woman gazing at him, but her gaze is blank. She looks away yet something suddenly causes her to turn back.
“Let’s walk!” he tells Luisa, leaping up.
“We only just sit down!”
“We can sit down when we’re seventy,” he retorts, which right now doesn’t actually feel that far off. He grabs Luisa’s arm and lifts her right out of her chair. She’s lighter than the last one, he estimates, and wonders if she’s eating okay.
“I begin to remember you now,” she says, but there is little affection in her tone.
It is only when they are well away from the Café Amarillo and its distractions that William notices he has absent-mindedly slipped the small ball of wax into his blouson pocket.
49
By the time they have crossed the good old Puente de Isabel II into Triana, Luisa has her impractically heeled sling-backs in her hand and an expression of total disbelief on her face.
“Usually when I do the marathon I wear the proper shoes,” she moans.
“I never think of you doing marathons.”
“I never think of you at all.”
William realises that he is taking a massive risk in bringing this new Luisa here. But he is pretty certain that the young couple are by now happily settled into their own special café, lingering for hours over the single drink they can afford, until desires that are even less costly nudge them lyrically onwards.
He knows instinctively that this is the one place – the only place – he should be with this Luisa right now.
The ornate gates are closed but not locked. Through them he can see, with some relief, that the small courtyard is deserted. The only sounds are those of the ever-trickling fountain and the festivities far away. Smiling at the bemused and weary woman, he pushes open the familiar portals of Hostal Esmeralda yet again and beckons her to join him.
“What is this place?” she asks, following him through the gate without much enthusiasm. “Why do you bring me all the way across the bridge to here, William?”
He looks around the courtyard, although by now he reckons he knows every plant and tile, then turns back to confront an expression of utter bewilderment. “Oh. Well. It’s just – pretty,” he hazards. “Don’t you think it’s pretty, Luisa?”
She is not indifferent to beauty but she clearly doesn’t feel she has to tramp across entire cities at unearthly hours to find it. He slumps down on the narrow rim of the fountain, sensing the tiny splashes of water on his hands and the chill zephyr of her disdainful shrug.
Luisa Montero of Madrid is clearly not going to work with him on this.
“I think I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life,” he confesses.
“The hair?”
“Worse.”
The woman has no idea what he is talking about. Nor has she, William suspects, the least interest in finding out. Yet she does at least walk gracefully towards the fountain, on those small, bare feet he still finds so attractive, even with their vivid blue toenails glistening under the twinkly, courtyard lights. She settles herself comfortably on the cool marble rim, albeit some distance away from him.
For a while they say nothing: Luisa because she is most probably waiting for him to elaborate, William because he finds he has nothing much else to say and sees even less point in saying it.
Suddenly – and it is as if he watches himself doing this, from some distant spiritual or perhaps not so spiritual plane – he moves closer to her. Very gently he lays his arm around her shoulders, his trembling fingers lightly brushing the skin where her soft red shawl has slipped down. The feel of her is so familiar, yet he can’t actually remember when he last did this, when he last touched her with such affectionate familiarity. And indeed love.
How curious. This old sensation, with this new person.
Unfortunately the shock of an unbidden advance from a virtual stranger, however affectionate, almost sends Luisa into the fountain. Yet even as she hurriedly rebalances herself, William believes – perhaps just for one brief, glorious moment – that he can sense her hesitation. But, of course, he may be wrong, as she swiftly follows it up by drawing herself firmly away and pushing him off with such force that he has to prevent himself from toppling over the edge.
“What do you think you are doing? William! How do you believe that you have this right? After twenty-eight years!”
“Seems like yesterday,” he says weakly.
“Oh, por favor!”
William Sutherland reckons that he has never felt more hopeless and utterly lost than he does right now. Sitting beside this shocked, angry and totally perplexed person whom he knows so well, he realises with a sudden start that he clearly doesn’t know her at all.
Is this what I’ve become, he wonders. And is this how I’m destined to remain – embracer of strangers, seducer of young women? A person abundant in hair and chattels but utterly lacking in respect?
He looks at her. She is rubbing her weary feet and gazing anywhere but at him. If, for just one moment, Luisa, he tortures himself, you could remember what we once had, while I can still recall how much I have lost.
And then it strikes him.
The last and most probably futile gesture of a dying man. And a sudden memory he thought he had quite forgotten.
He leaps up from his perch by the fountain and rushes over to the nearest orange tree. Reaching up as high as he can, he selects the largest, juiciest orange he is able to liberate, noticing again that he no longer appears to have a back problem. Without a moment’s hesitation, he aims his open mouth towards the glistening fruit and takes a giant bite. But this time he relishes it, bravely allowing its jolting sharpness to play tricks on his unsuspecting taste buds as the guileful juice slithers between his teeth and out of his mouth.
“Mmmmm! Tart,” he says, relishing it. “Not you. I mean—”
She looks at him as if he is totally insane.
For which he can’t honestly blame her, as he suspects she may well be right. With a sadness that tastes more bitter than any dubious orange, he gulps down the remainder of his mouthful, concluding the fruitless gesture.
He is still gazing hopelessly at her uncomprehending face as it slowly changes.
Her glance rests first on him as he deals manfully with his impromptu snack. Gradually it ascends to the small, first-floor bedroom, now shuttered and unlit. After a few interminable seconds she turns to him, with a softness he knows he will never forget. A recognition that almost
breaks his heart.
And he gives a nod.
For a moment neither speaks, lost in their own thoughts and memories. But he is not totally bereft of reason.
He knows that it cannot last.
“I suppose we should be getting back to the hotel,” he says.
She nods, still looking at him. “Yes. It is very late, isn’t it?”
They stroll back through the open gates and towards the ancient bridge. Uncomplicated sounds of people enjoying the tail ends of their evening echo from the banks. William and Luisa walk a few feet apart. But very gradually – almost despite themselves – they find that they are both moving just that bit closer. As the timeless and uncomprehending river flows beneath their feet.
***
The night receptionist is watching the TV, sealed into the wall behind his head, next to an array of clocks showing the current time in a random selection of countries. Another Sooner You Than Me beams out, compensating for its lack of volume with an unsubtle barrage of colours. William can’t help but be quietly impressed.
“That programme!” says Luisa. “They are showing it all of the time.” He smiles but remains sensibly quiet. “You and I should be on it.”
“I’m sorry?”
Luisa walks towards the lift but doesn’t say anything more until they are travelling up to their floor. “They find the couples who are doing the splitting up – yes?” He nods as new memories that don’t totally thrill him come rolling in through the fog. “And they must each help with the choosing of the next partner, si. For the other one!” He watches her, as she rolls her eyes. “What sort of a horrible mind—?”
He shakes his head in utter disgust as the lift releases them and they walk slowly to their adjoining doors. When she stops at number 383, he remains beside her, looking both desperate and quietly hopeful. The empty ice bucket is still there.
“Luisa—”
Before he can complete a thought that hasn’t quite formulated in his fuzzy head, the door to number 381 opens. The extremely pale and seriously angry countenance of Tazmin Whatserface glares out, like a gargoyle from the cathedral. William immediately picks up the ice bucket.
A Meeting in Seville Page 21