Mad Dogs and an English Girl

by Caroline Waterman

  “Life in Navarre is much better than here in Castile. The people are livelier. Have you seen the jota danced? And the countryside is good – we have mountains and green grass. You must visit Navarre.The wine is wonderful.”

  I wondered why he had left it to live in Burgos and was about to ask him when I suddenly remembered what Doña Constanza had said and decided it would be wiser not to.

  We came upon the monastery, standing lonely and dignified in the parched landscape.This was a self-sufficient community of Trappist monks, vowed to silence, who apart from farming their land, also made a fine liqueur for which they had a good reputation in the district.

  “Let’s go to see these monks,” said Don Federico. “We buy a bottle of their liqueur.”

  So saying, he led the way across a cobbled courtyard to a great studded door on the far side. In response to his knock the door was opened by a tall young man in a brown habit and rope-soled sandals. It was amusing to watch the two of them negotiating, Federico jovial and chatty, the monk silent and serious, communicating only with gestures of the head and hands. At last we came away with the bottle of liqueur, this being the object of Federico’s visit, but not before making a brief tour of the church the interior of which was surprisingly magnificent.The statues and rich carvings were beautiful enough but these were as nothing compared with the lavish splendour of the reredos ablaze with gold and glittering with jewels. Could this, I wondered, have once been part of the fabled Inca treasure which was supposed to have found its way into so many Spanish churches? There was no time to ponder this intriguing possibility because Federico was saying: “Come! that is beautiful but I am thirsty.You also? Let’s go to see my friends in the bar Gaona!”

  I must have been sleeping for some time for I had gone to bed early that night. Certainly I had been dreaming and my head was still full of Atahualpa and his gold when I suddenly awoke. Something must have disturbed me for I was not a fitful sleeper, – but what?

  The night was fine so I had left the shutters and blinds open.A gentle breeze stirred the curtains and the room was bathed in silvery moonlight. I looked around but saw nothing unusual.Then there was a faint rattling coming from the door. I saw the handle turn to the side, remaining there for a few seconds before returning to its original position.Was I dreaming still? But no, the same thing happened again and this time, little by little, the door started to open. The figure of someone in a dressing gown framed in the doorway, stood peering in and from its short lumpy shape, I knew at once who it was.

  For a few seconds I lay there, paralysed, like a rabbit being stalked by a predator. Then I came to my senses and as my visitor crept stealthily across the room, I called out:“Don Tomás! What are you doing here?”

  “Hush!” he responded in a muffled voice. “I heard your shutters swinging. They should be closed.” He walked over to the window and started fumbling with the shutters.

  “Leave them!” I said, sitting up in bed, pulling the covers about me.“I like them open. Now please go!”

  It was quite obvious thatVázquez had no intention of leaving. He came over to the bed and sat on it, breathing heavily and muttering something inaudible. Help! I thought, desperately, he’s so confident of his right to my bed that he won’t even wait for an invitation!

  “You are so young, so guapa!” he breathed, his small eyes gleaming with excitement.

  “Get out at once or I shall scream and wake everyone.”

  “You don’t mean that.” He leaned over me with a twisted smile and I felt his podgy hand on my bare neck. I shrank away from him, sickened by his persistence.

  “You will see that I am not joking if you don’t leave this room instantly. You should be ashamed of yourself. What would Doña Constanza think?”

  At the mention of his wife he drew back a little but quickly rallied. “Oh you don’t need to worry about my wife, she’s asleep; sleeps like a log. She won’t know anything about it.”

  “You disgust me Don Tomás. Is this the way Spanish husbands behave? Tomorrow I shall tell your wife exactly what you get up to while she’s asleep.”

  At this Vázquez recoiled as effectively as if I had struck him a physical blow. “You must be mad,” he spluttered. In an instant his mood changed from lustful desire to blind rage. He grabbed me roughly by the shoulders.

  “You will tell her nothing! Do you hear me?” he hissed between clenched teeth, his face close to mine. “You will tell her nothing at all about this!”

  “I promise you, Don Tomás,” I said looking steadily back into his eyes and trying to keep my voice calm, “that if you don’t get out of this room right now your wife will be the first to know in the morning.”

  That did it. He rose to his feet and stalked away, muttering furiously under his breath. Happily, I was not yet familiar with all the stronger expletives of the Spanish language! The door closed and immediately I leapt up and turned the key in the lock; then I leaned against it, breathless, my heart still pounding, but relieved beyond measure to be rid of my unwelcome visitor.What a fool I had been not to realise that all his previous overtures had been leading up to this! I could have kicked myself for being so naïve. I glanced up at the sorrowful Madonna above my bed, just visible in the moonlight, hoping she was not too offended by the sordid little drama that had just taken place so incongruously in her presence.

  For some days after this incident Vázquez was not in a good mood. My attitude to him was the same, as I thought it best to act as though nothing had happened. I assumed that, having made it abundantly clear that I did not consider my duties as an English teacher should include nocturnal romps in the bedroom, the whole episode would blow over and be forgotten. Nevertheless I took the precaution of locking my bedroom door and this was as well because, a few nights later, I was again woken by the handle turning. This happened on several occasions and I could not help marvelling, as I listened to his retreating footsteps, at the obstinacy and vanity of the man. He apparently was convinced that it could only be a matter of time before I fell victim to his persistence and presumably, in common with many of his fellow countrymen, he was under the impression that all foreign girls were easy prey, willing if not eager to hop into bed with anyone at any time. His bitter disappointment showed itself in a sullen and resentful manner towards me that had not been there before. No wonder, I thought, no wonder that other English girl had gone so soon!

  Fortunately, about this time,Vázquez and his wife left for a holiday in Portugal and with their departure, life became pleasanter for a short while. For a start, I was able to resume my midday outings with Don Federico which I enjoyed for two reasons: firstly, because I found his company agreeable and amusing and secondly, because he knew a great many people and through him I had been able to make several new friends.

  One morning, after Tomasín’s Latin lesson, Don Federico announced that he was going to show me his academy. Now, I was very intrigued to see this place for he had often mentioned it, saying that he taught a variety of subjects there, such as English, Latin, and even touch-typing and that he had a large number of pupils. In my mind’s eye, I had formed a mental picture of this academy. I imagined it as a dignified place of learning, perhaps a large airy studio well equipped with books and desks, the rows of orderly students sitting in rapt attention while Professor Don Federico expounded the virtues and complexities of Shakespearian English.

  “So where is it, Federico?” I enquired as we walked down the stairs and out into the street.

  “Ah!” You will see, you will see,” he replied with an air of mystery.

  After walking for some time, I realised that we were not going anywhere new but were making for his usual haunt, a tumble-down district in the old part of the town. In fact, we were now entering that mean little street that was home to so many of his favourite bars. Purposefully, Federico trotted along but, near the end of the street, he stopped.

  “Please, this way,” he said and with a sweeping gesture, indicated a small, dark and rather
smelly doorway lurking alongside the entrance to the Bar Paloma.

  We climbed a rickety staircase which led to a series of decaying and, as was evident from the many holes in the stairs, rat-infested tenements. On the first landing, a small window revealed an inner courtyard – a scene of unrelieved squalor. Numerous children, ragged, dirty and barefoot were playing among the rubbish in the yard while a mountainous woman was attempting to calm a screaming infant and peg out washing at the same time.Two scrawny cats were having a disagreement in one corner of the yard. They crouched behind the rubbish piles, ears back, their malevolent wails accompanying those of the baby in a bizarre trio. The rancid smell of frying pork fat drifted upwards through a gaping crack in the window.

  On the second landing, Federico flung open a door to reveal a shabby little room, dusty and bare save for a few rickety chairs and a small table with an ancient typewriter. A grimy window overlooked the street. I glanced at him uncertainly.

  “Is this it?”

  “Yes,” he beamed, glowing with pride. “It is very good. You like it?”

  “Oh yes, of course, it’s great!”

  I tried to stifle my disappointment. Little did I know as I stood there surveying the bleakness of Federico’s ‘academy’, that before long, it was to become the setting for some of the most exciting moments of my life.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  PUCK’S SPELL

  I had always wanted to learn typing. I guessed it could be very useful to me when I returned to London. Don Federico told me he had gained a diploma in speed typing in the United States and I knew I would not find a better teacher, so we came to an arrangement. He would teach me typing and in return, I would help him to give English classes to his advanced students in the evenings.

  As Vázquez was still away, I was able to go to Federico’s academy for my lessons during my free hour before lunch. I was shown the fingering for the different keys and was made to practise various exercises while Federico nipped down below for a quick chato in the Bar Paloma. He would soon return, however, and stand behind me as I typed, viewing my efforts with a critical eye and rolling a cigarette in the pocket of his jacket.This little trick of his never ceased to amaze me. He always kept black tobacco and cigarette papers in his pocket and when he felt like a smoke, he would just put in his hand, twirl it around a bit and – hey presto! There was a perfect cigarette. One quick lick and it was ready for use.

  “That is really very clever Federico,” I said to him one morning.“How do you do it so quickly?”

  “Maybe I will teach you, but first you must learn to type.”

  “Dr. Vázquez is coming home next week and I don’t know whether he will let me come any more,” I sighed.“Sometimes I get so fed up with those people.The children are totally out of control. You know they even tried to set fire to the house the other day?” Don Federico raised his eyebrows.“No!”

  “Yes, and what’s more, their mother said nothing at all to them about it. It’s so dangerous! I’m afraid I would have tried to teach them a lesson if they had been my children.”

  “Ah – we must not punish these little innocents,” smiled Federico, tongue in cheek. “You know – the quality of mercy is not strained, It droppeth as the gentle rains from heaven. Portia, Merchant of Venice.You know that? So beautiful!”

  Don Federico was an enthusiastic student of The Bard. He knew many long passages from Shakespeare’s works and would frequently quote them.

  “Oh, you are too soft-hearted, Freddie! Anyway, it’s not only the children, it’s the whole atmosphere of the place that bothers me. The servants don’t seem very happy either. Doña Constanza shouts at them all the time.”

  “Thou seest we are not alone unhappy. This wide and universal theatre presents more woeful pageants than the scene wherein we play. As you Like it,Act II. Such a wonderful poet, your Shakespeare!”

  Don Federico studied the page I had been typing, puffing at his cigarette.

  “Yes, that is quite good but try to keep it all more even.You see how some letters they are weaker than others? That is not good. Now practise this exercise – fill the whole page! I am just going out for a few minutes, I will not be long. Just a quick chato.”

  He left me and I set to work on my exercise. A few minutes later I heard the sound of double footsteps on the stairs. Who would be coming to Don Federico’s academy at this hour? Could it be Vázquez and his wife, home early, and coming to drag me away? No, I told myself.That was ridiculous.

  Then there was the sound of male voices on the landing outside, the door opened and in walked two good-looking young men.The first was tall and very dark with jet-black hair and thick eyebrows that nearly met in the middle. His skin was tanned a deep mahogany in striking contrast to his white open-neck shirt and flashing smile.Wow! I thought, admiring his Moorish good looks, this is an improvement on what I had imagined!

  Then I noticed his companion standing just behind him in the shadow of the doorway and I was instantly transfixed. Never before had I come across anyone to whom I felt so immediately attracted. He was tall and slim with gently waving dark hair and sideburns and what seemed to me an incredibly handsome face. Under arching eyebrows, his eyes were an amazing emerald green with thick black lashes. He looked rather pale, in spite of a sun tan, and had about him a certain air of reticence. One look at him was quite enough to make me feel weak at the knees! In fact the effect he had on me from that first moment can only be described as electrifying. I caught my breath as, quite suddenly, I was overcome by a feeling of intense excitement. This is absurd, I told myself, trying to control the adrenalin which my heart was feverishly pumping around, I don’t even know him! He’s a complete stranger. But alas, it was no use. Federico’s obsession with Shakespeare must have evoked the spirit of Puck and the mischievous sprite had dropped some of his charmed potion into my eyes at the precise moment this individual had walked through the door – and I was lost! There could be no other explanation.

  “Buenos días, señorita,” said the dark one regarding me with a mixture of amusement and surprise. “We are looking for Don Federico Suárez.”

  “Oh... oh yes,” I stuttered, still in a bemused state. “Don Federico isn’t here at the moment, he went out. You might find him in the Bar Paloma.”

  He laughed. “That’s very likely. He’s sure to be in one of the bars.We’d better go and look for him.”

  “But he said he’d he back directly,” I said, desperate to keep them there a bit longer.

  “In that case perhaps we’ll wait for him – that’s if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh no, I don’t mind at all,” I assured him.

  The dark one looked me up and down with some curiosity. “You’re foreign, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, English. Don Federico is teaching me typing.”

  I saw that the green-eyed one was also looking at me with interest and I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks – much to my acute embarrassment as I was not in the habit of blushing.

  The dark one was holding something that looked like a child’s toy.Anxious to make conversation, I pointed to it and said:“What’s that?”

  “A frog,” was the reply.“A clockwork frog. Look!”

  He wound the thing up and set it down carefully.We watched it hop erratically across the dusty floor till it collided with the wall opposite and lay whirring on its back.

  “It’s a nice toy but don’t you think you’re a little old for things like that?” I joked, glancing at the green-eyed one who smiled at me, looking even more handsome. My knees grew ever weaker. The dark one was laughing.

  “It’s for my nephew,” he was saying,“he’s two tomorrow. But I can see you like it, so here – it’s yours!”

  He tossed it to me, then turned to his friend.“Come on, Luis, we’d better go and look for Federico downstairs in the Paloma. He might be hours.”

  So, I thought, now I know his name: Luis. That’s something, anyway. They said goodbye and were gone and I was left holding
the frog and wondering what had happened to me.

  I listened to them walking down the stairs then rushed to the window and looked out into the street below. I watched them emerge from the entrance then, almost at once, disappear again into the Bar Paloma. I waited and watched, longing to see him again and soon my patience was rewarded for all three of them reappeared and stood talking for some time on the pavement. As the window was jammed shut I could not hear what was being said which was frustrating. I gazed at Luis and wished I could see more than the top of his head. His friend seemed to dominate the conversation and Luis hardly spoke at all. At last Federico slapped them both heartily on the back and vanished. I watched them walking away down the street and at the same time, heard Federico’s footsteps climbing the stairs. He bustled into the room.

  “Ah, I am sorry I have been so long. Come, let us go down and have a chato together. Have you finished the exercise? No you have not.That is bad.You have done nothing. But never mind, we go to have a chato.”

  We went down to the Bar Paloma, pushing our way through the groups of drinking men, the gamblers and the table-football players, to the bar. Around us the men’s berets bobbed in time to their animated conversation, and the blind lottery ticket sellers could be heard singing out their numbers. “Para hoy! Para hoy! Today’s draw. Buy and you will win the fat one!”

  The room was thick with the haze of tobacco and the floor was littered with rubbish: seafood shells, scraps of food, screwed-up paper, cigarette ends and spittle. Everything was thrown on the floor and cleared up periodically by a boy with a huge broom. At first I had been reluctant to throw things around like this, inhibited as I was by early training in tidiness but after a few weeks in Spain, I had learnt to conform. Don Federico ordered white wine and prawns which we ate with our fingers, casting the shells on the floor to join the piles lying at our feet.