Two Sketches of Disjointed Happiness

by Simon Kinch

  The street walls and lampposts of Sevilla form a sort of concrete newspaper for the city’s classified ads. Every bus stop, abandoned shop or square of brickwork is plastered in adverts: rooms for rent, decorators and plumbers, courses and classes. In Madison, these are confined to the small windows of local shops, or the classified pages of the actual newspapers. But here, phone numbers wallpaper the city, rows of telephone numbers on tabs ready to be torn off and pocketed.

  A stretch of unused wall spanned the gap between a small bar with square wooden tables and a gourmet jamonería, with red-trimmed windows lined with cured legs of ham. Adverts had been stuck over adverts – the paper must have run three layers deep. Jorge, a painter and decorator, had had all his telephone numbers ripped off and taken, whoever he was. Among the typed, formatted and printed sheets, one advert caught my eye. A small handwritten card, maybe half the size of a postcard, blue fountain pen on cream paper. I took it down from the wall and sat down at one of the bar’s square tables. The waitress came out, with her notepad ready. I asked for a beer. She snapped the notepad shut and disappeared inside. She returned with the beer balanced on a round tray and placed it on my table.

  The card was a correspondence slip of sorts. Printed at the base read ‘Señora Rosales’, then a phone number and an address on Avenida de la Buhaira. In the space above she’d written:

  Wanted:

  Native English Speaker. Few hours a week.

  Holiday Apartments Business.

  I took a large swig of the beer, wondering how many more of these adverts she’d put up. It couldn’t have been many. Not as many as Jorge, the painter, I imagined.

  I finished the beer, paid and decided to walk to Avenida de la Buhaira. I hadn’t felt it before, but with the advert in my hand, I’d acquired a slight craving to work. Such a job would be one I could do, and give me a bit of cash for the time being.

  Avenida de la Buhaira was deep in suburban Sevilla. Mothers walked with pushchairs and toddlers beside them. An occasional man in a suit would appear from one plush foyer, cross the road and disappear into another. I’d only wandered over here to gauge if the business was legitimate, by seeing if the area was respectable enough: it was beyond even that.

  In a phone box, I dialled the number at the bottom of Señora Rosales’ correspondence card. The phone rang and a woman answered in Spanish. I should have expected that, but it threw me a little.

  ‘Oh, hello . . . You . . . I have your advert for an English speaker . . .’

  There was a pause, then ‘Sí, sí . . . yes . . .’

  I didn’t know if I was to speak. ‘Well, my name’s Granville, I’m from the US. I’ve . . .’

  ‘Ah, okay, okay . . .’ I felt like her attention wasn’t with the phone call. I could hear papers rustling, then the stamp of someone trying to slip on a tight shoe with one hand. I took her hesitation as a cue to speak.

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Listen, Granville . . .’ she said. There was a pause. I could hear another stamp. ‘At the moment, I am a little . . . occupied . . . I mean . . . busy. Very busy. Listen – you know Café Charlotte? It is on Avenida de la Buhaira . . .’

  I didn’t say anything. For a moment, I worried that maybe she knew I was here, on her street. I nervously glanced out of the phone box. But I could hear her continue going about whatever she was doing on the other end of the line. In the distance, I thought I saw the cafe she meant.

  ‘Umm, yes . . .’ I replied.

  ‘See you there, tomorrow, at 10am. We can talk. I’ll buy you coffee.’ And with that, she put the phone down. I heard my change fall through the machine and checked the drawer at the bottom for any coins. There was nothing.

  NINE

  Maybe, if the sun hadn’t shone on the fine hairs of my neck, so strongly for a May afternoon, that would have been it and I would have left, giving up on a life in Sevilla. Who knows. If that feeling – that homesick despair of this being the last place in the world I wanted to be – had grown at all, I’d most probably have booked a flight home and started packing that evening.

  There was a chance I could find something in the airline’s terms and conditions to reschedule my missed flight, although probably not. I could bring up the theft of my belongings. But in reality, even that wouldn’t work. I would follow my original plan, heading to London via Paris, and see a bit of both whilst still in Europe. I’d have had to pay through the nose for any new ticket anyway, so might as well make it from London.

  I imagine boarding the morning train to Barcelona. 9am. I picture myself being sat in the same carriage as my journey to Sevilla, only this time facing backwards. The same girl in the buffet car, cravat tightly round her neck, like an air hostess. The stations run in reverse: Córdoba, Ciudad Real, Zaragoza.

  At Barcelona Sants, I’d see the same plump ticket officer, the same man I’d delayed getting home that night a couple of weeks before. He wouldn’t recognise me, but to me, the déjà vu is present in his every mannerism: the click of the mouse, the push of his glasses up his nose, the sliding of my tickets towards me without a word.

  The wait for the train is the same. Whilst waiting, I would go to the same barista and order the same short coffee and then possibly sit in the same chair of the waiting room where my bag had been stolen.

  I take the earliest train possible to Portbou, in order to spend some time in the harbour before my night train to Paris. The train rattles through every station on the Catalan coast. Only myself and a few passengers remain when the train arrives at Portbou. It’s getting dark, but there would still be time to pull out a chair on the terrace where the old men had sat drinking that coffee that resembled treacle.

  I’d take a wander round the harbour, now dark on this late spring evening. I can imagine the thick grey straps of my backpack over my shoulders, yet I find it impossible to really imagine the crushing weight of them. You can only feel tiredness, weight and fatigue in the moment. You can only feel them physically – you cannot recall or project those burdens. Small footlights light the path round to the bench I’d sat at before. Here I find a pebble about the size of my palm and hold it for a moment, before throwing it into the same area of water where I’d thrown my cellphone. The ripples spread no differently to the ripples of that sinking cell. And that rage wells up again inside me – that she could end it all so curtly. I grip the seat of the bench, so tightly it feels the iron might warp in my hand. Everything appears watery for a moment, then recedes. I’ll finally speak to her in Madison, I think. Maybe things don’t have to be this way.

  I’d check my watch and see I should head back to wait for my train. The harbour’s restaurants are decorated with fairy lights and, as I pass them, I can just about make out the waiter who scowled at me once before.

  At the station, I slot a euro into the vending machine and collect a can of Coke, swilling the first sip around my mouth in place of stopping to brush my teeth.

  Once the train pulls up, I take my backpack and board, taking a seat by the window. I take the handle beside my chosen seat and check if it reclines smoothly. Looking out of the window, I fix my gaze on the platform, until the train starts moving. The crevasses between the station tiles, the railings around the stairwells, the bin I’ve thrown my Coke can into. The final details of Spain. Cerbère station, across the French border, is just through a tunnel, a matter of minutes. The next morning, I would wake up in Paris.

  TEN

  I washed my face at the small sink in the corner of my guesthouse room. Looking deep into my reflection, I tried to spot that freshness I’d seen the day before. I could feel something like it, I was certain, but couldn’t see it behind my eyes in the same way as I had before.

  My hair needed a cut. I hadn’t had to meet with anyone for a fortnight. I hadn’t prepared my appearance – rubbed a ball of hair wax in my palm, straightened a shirt collar, stretched the skin under my eyes with my fin
gertips – for anyone. There’d been no rendezvous to prepare for: everyone I’d spoken to recently had been by circumstance. The waitress with the notepad, the book vendor I’d bought my dictionary from. I hadn’t even prepared my appearance for myself, for my own satisfaction or self-esteem. I took a palmful of wax, pushed it into my hair, then collected my dictionary and notebook and headed downstairs.

  There were two handymen in the guesthouse lobby. One was on a ladder, fitting or refitting a light. The other was engrossed in his cellphone. The guesthouse owner stood below, pursing her thin lips, her attention with the man on the ladder. Occasionally she’d call out something in concern, probably worried about him damaging the decor. I quickly made my way through.

  It was a half-hour walk to Cafe Charlotte. I arrived early, then spoke to the bartender, who brought over a tostada with jamón serrano. The cafe was busy, but not full. I had no idea what she would look like. Every time the door opened, I glanced up. Old men came in with other old men, to drink short, black coffees. Two younger men in suits came in and stood at the counter, both with their hair slicked right back, combed and straight until it reached the back of their heads, where it broke out into greasy curls.

  The door opened again. This was Señora Rosales, I knew it. There was a way she held herself, a manner that spoke with the same tone and authority as her correspondence card. She stood taller than every woman in the bar and most of the men. Her olive skin creased around dark eyes; dark hair tied back, with looser strands falling either side of her face; a burgundy jumper, as tight to her figure as her pencil skirt; and a large leather handbag over one shoulder. Her identity was confirmed by her shoes: elegant high heels, shaped perfectly around her heel – so snug they could only be put on with a stamp every time she was to leave the house. She looked over, knowing it was me who had called her the day before: the only person in the cafe sat alone, my Wisconsin-fair skin unmistakable amongst a room of southern Spaniards.

  She smiled at me and the skin around her eyes creased further. Shaping her hand to signal ‘one moment’ to me, she went to speak to the bartender. As she walked back across the cafe towards me, I caught myself: I suddenly had no idea what I was doing here, masquerading as an interviewee. This woman was wealthy, busy, and would no doubt be demanding. I was sat in a cafe as the only American, unable to speak the language of those around me, in a neighbourhood I didn’t know. I had no idea what to say.

  ‘Granville?’ she confirmed. I nodded. ‘Vicenta.’ She offered her hand and I shook it. Vicenta Rosales. The bartender came over with her coffee. She gave him a smile, which he briefly returned. She then turned her smile back to me. I shaped my mouth a couple of times to say something, but nothing came out. There was a moment’s silence between us, in which she stirred a sugar into her coffee.

  Yet there was no need for me to say a thing. Maybe she saw me struggling, or maybe she was just the type of person who took control of her conversations, who owned them completely. She put her spoon down on the saucer and, as if that signalled her cue to begin, started speaking.

  ‘Can you speak Spanish, Granville?’ I shook my head. ‘Well, we will continue in English then. Maybe that is better. So . . . you saw my advert – you know I would like an English speaker. My English is okay, I think. For conversation. For reading. For writing. But it’s not quick and I don’t have the time to respond to all the inquiries that I receive. I need someone for corrections, to send replies to the British and American tourists . . .’

  I nodded. Her English seemed completely there, only a little hesitant. I couldn’t understand why she needed someone else. I felt uncomfortable and this made me twist my knees to one side of my chair.

  She continued. ‘I need someone to work in the mornings – a few hours a week, only two or three days – would you be able to?’

  I nodded. ‘Sure, in the mornings.’

  ‘Good.’

  There was a pause. Señora Rosales took a sip of her coffee.

  I adjusted myself on my chair. The silence got to me. ‘How big is the business?’ I ventured.

  ‘I have ten apartments. All over the city. For tourists and some for business visitors. My husband died and he left me a lot. It makes me enough money.’ She said this strongly, almost proudly.

  ‘I’m sorry about your husband,’ I said.

  ‘He died at seventy-five. A few years ago. He was a lot older,’ she said. Her gaze was no longer directed at me but, instead, at the saucer in front of her.

  She looked back up. ‘Tell me . . . tell me about you, Granville.’

  There couldn’t have been an easier question. But I had no idea what to say. I’d left behind any idea of who I was, how to describe myself. I stated the facts.

  ‘Well, I’m twenty-three. I come from Madison, in Wisconsin, but I’ve been in Europe for three months.’

  ‘Then why are you in Sevilla?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a beautiful city.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ She smiled again. I had no more to add. I was from Wisconsin, and Sevilla is a beautiful city. The only two things I felt were concrete: where I was from and why I was here.

  She finished her coffee.

  ‘Can you do 10am Monday?’ she asked. I nodded.

  ‘Perfect. Monday, 10am. There’s a cafe next to the office,’ she added, taking out her notebook, ripping out a page and scribbling down an address. ‘See you there.’

  ELEVEN

  The sun would rise as the train made its final approach to Paris. It would filter through the carriage curtains, gradually bringing me to consciousness. I struggle to work out where I am initially – why my head is on my rolled-up coat, why my feet are raised, propped up by my backpack stuffed underneath. My first thought is the waiting room in Barcelona Sants, but the position I find myself in is even more uncomfortable than I had been there.

  None of the passengers speak to each other as we file out of this overnight train. I truly wake up after a short coffee at a cafe just inside the station entrance. People flood off incoming trains, almost all syphoning straight down to the metro. My attention is caught by the clothes people wear. Nobody dresses quite like this in Madison. It seems bitterly cold for May. Businessmen bustle to work wearing expensive overcoats, carrying leather briefcases with black umbrellas under their arms. I think of the rush hour in Madison, people shuffling to work in faded chinos and Cotton Trader fleeces.

  The day in Paris is disconnected. Things are on my mind. There are galleries and parks to visit and I dot round them, unconcerned in which order. The only thing I want to do is eat as well as I can, the most Parisian meal I can find. I think of trying Steak tartare, of sitting down at a small table in a quiet restaurant with a small, round glass of red wine in front of me. I walk past restaurant after restaurant, but baulk at the prices on every menu on every board. I spend hours ambling through Paris, maybe passing through other galleries and museums, maybe looking for that reasonably priced Parisian meal. Dusk would approach and I realise it is time to head to London, to make my way to the Gare du Nord. Maybe by this time, I would have seen the Eiffel Tower, maybe not, it depends on the routes I have taken that day. In the end, I don’t care. The image in my mind would always be of that from a postcard and seeing it for myself would only replicate that. I look at more menus on boards outside restaurants.

  I have to eat. I know I have to eat. Not because I can imagine the hunger itself, but because it is impossible to imagine such a day in Paris without eating, and all I think about all day is that Steak tartare. I eat only when I get to the Gare du Nord, only when I have looked at every menu I have passed. At the station, the only place open is a takeaway sandwich bar with a few chairs and tables inside. I eat a baguette, accompanied by a can of lager. It costs far more than I would like, far more than you could feasibly charge for a baguette – except only in a Parisian train station. I think back to a place I saw on Rue de Rivoli and their Steak tartare
being only ten euros more than this.

  As I chew my baguette, I would consider the date. It is May 10th. This is my mother’s birthday, I realise. My parents expected me back on the 5th and I have neither called nor emailed. Now, I am probably missing a meal out at a restaurant with them and my sister, if that hasn’t been completely overshadowed by my not turning up yet. I haven’t even sent a card, but for this I can be forgiven: I imagined I would be home by now and would have been able to stop off at the greetings card shop the day before. Maybe my parents have tried calling me, constantly getting my answerphone. I wonder if they are worried. Maybe they’ve contacted Alyson, to see if she has news, and she has just coldly told them she has nothing to do with me any more.

  I have no idea how I get to London and then on a plane to the US. Maybe I flash my expired visa quickly at the Eurostar checkpoint and the officer doesn’t check the date. Maybe I can explain I am on my way home and the rules are bent in this type of situation. Maybe I am caught and deported, put in a cell and then escorted back to the US. It wouldn’t be that, I tell myself – I haven’t overrun my visa by more than a week even.

  What happens in London is hazy. I have no desire to stay there too long, nor any reason. I buy a packet of cigarettes and smoke a few whilst walking around outside St. Pancras Station.

  The sky is clear, but there would be a wintry cold that reddens my cheeks. Coffee here is served in corrugated paper take-away cups. Nobody sits down to drink their coffee – it is sipped through the cups’ plastic lids as people march about their business.

  I dip into the underground. The ticket barriers briefly catch a trailing backpack strap. Each station is the same. Only the station signs and relative positions on tube maps change. Each collection of waiting passengers seems no different from the last. A blur of white and red screeches to a halt at the platform. The red doors open, people pour out and you enter, squeezing in just inside the closing doors. The train moves, you alight at a station identical to the last.