“Sorry we’re late – blame the bus! You should know by now what our transport system is like! Oh! It’s good to see you again.”
We gave each other a hug. “And it’s good to see you – even if you have kept us freezing out here for twenty minutes! And Desmond, too – so pleased you could come.”
This last remark was not strictly true as I always felt a bit uncomfortable in the presence of Desmond Brocklebank.There he stood, beside Rafael, and what a contrast they made! He was as tall and lean as the figures in El Greco’s paintings, with a gaunt, bearded face, thinning hair and large, melancholy eyes. As usual, he was shabbily dressed in an ancient duffel coat with one toggle missing.
“A considerable time has elapsed,” he said in his stiff, pedantic English, “since we last had the pleasure of your company here in Madrid.This is indeed a happy occasion.” He spoke with a strange, indefinable accent. It could not exactly be described as ‘foreign’ yet it was unlike native English. I introduced my friends to Anita who treated them to her dazzling smile, her lively eyes assessing each in turn.
“I see your friend is as beautiful as we had been led to believe,” said Rafael, well pleased. Desmond took her hand and raised it slowly to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face. “Anita,” he murmured.“What a vision is this I see before me?” His Spanish was as clipped and pedantic as his English. He turned briefly to me. “I must congratulate you on your impeccable taste in friends.This is a jewel, nay, a Madonna that my eyes behold.”
“Why don’t we all go somewhere cosy like the Caves of Luis Candelas?” I suggested. “Their raisin wine is something else! Guaranteed to banish the cold.”
We fought our way through the crowds of people in the Puerta del Sol and made towards the old centre of the city. Rafael linked his arm through mine and questioned me about my life in Burgos as we walked along. Why did I have to live there of all places? Such a wild, desolate part of the country with a terrible climate; and those old Castilian houses, so cold and draughty.Why didn’t I move down to Madrid and lead a more civilized life?
Ahead of us walked Anita and Desmond. She was chatting away to him, her hands fluttering expressively as she spoke. He, towering above her, still had his eyes fixed on her upturned face.
“Changing the subject,” I said to Rafael, “don’t you think those two are getting on rather well?”
We reached the wide, cloistered Plaza Mayor. This was an ancient and, to me, rather sinister place since I had read that in this square hundreds of people had been tried by the Inquisition and burnt to death on the spot. Something of their suffering must have lingered in the atmosphere for I could never walk there without feeling slightly uneasy.
Just off the Plaza Mayor were the Cuevas de Luis Candelas. These consisted of a network of caves once used by smugglers but now turned into a remarkable tavern.We dived down and threaded our way from cave to cave until we found a vacant table. Here it was warm and dimly lit, the walls covered with bullfighting posters and all manner of interesting objects and the waiters were exotically dressed as seventeenth century smugglers.
We ordered a large jug of their raisin wine which was made on the premises to a secret recipe. It was delicious and potent and went down very well with a dish of steaming prawns. Across the heavy, wooden table, Desmond and Anita were engrossed in each other’s company, oblivious of the world around them. Desmond was expounding some obscure, philosophical theory while Anita gazed at him entranced, listening with rapt attention.
“Personally, I favour Kierkegaard’s conception of Man as an isolated individual solely dependent on God rather than the more cynical attitude to humanity expressed by Heidegger.” Desmond poured himself another glass of wine.“To me, this is the essence of existentialism.”
“What on earth’s he talking about?” asked Rafael in a low voice.“He’ll bore the poor girl to death!”
Desmond, who had overheard this comment, raised his head and glanced scornfully at his friend. “The trouble is,” he said, “the sad fact of life is that the world is populated by the unintelligent. Most of those we see around us have puny minds incapable of any profound thought. There are but few,” here he turned to Anita, “who are fortunate enough to be endowed with adequate mental powers.”
Rafael gulped and peeled himself another prawn, glancing at me sideways with a cheeky grin.
“You really believe that?”Anita seemed fascinated.
“Indeed I do. Moreover,” Desmond leaned across the table, picked up a prawn and pointed it at us. “Moreover, the world is likewise governed by the unintelligent. It is for this reason that our lives lie in ruins. This is the undoing of the human race.” He peeled the prawn and placed it carefully into his mouth as he leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing the ceiling.“Now, if the rulers of the world were hand-picked for their exceptional intelligence, what a different state of affairs would exist! All would be harmony and order, the lower orders surrendering themselves to government by their mental superiors. I have a plan.” He leaned forward, his eyes glinting as he warmed to his subject. “I have a plan that could change the world.”
Anita put her hand on his sleeve. “Tell us!” she urged. “Tell us about it. It sounds fascinating.”
Rafael and I sighed and looked at our watches.We had heard about The Plan before.
“You know, I have formed a society here in Madrid of mentally gifted people – such as myself – rather on the lines of the British MENSA but superior in many ways, our aim being to influence those bodies responsible for the administration of government and, eventually, to supersede them in their duties. We hope to form similar elite groups in all other countries, our ultimate goal being world government. Of course…”
“I think you’ll have a job taking over from Franco,” I interrupted, laughingly, in English.
He fixed me with a steely stare.“Nothing is impossible for the mentally gifted,” he retorted. “Problems are a challenge to be solved by careful logic.”
“Oh! What original thinking!” exclaimed Anita, her face glowing with admiration.“How clever you are Desmond!”
He turned his bearded face towards her, regarding her with something close to devotion.
“Sweet goddess, not only am I overwhelmed by your unparalleled beauty, but even more am I astounded by your keen, discerning mind.To find both beauty and wisdom in an individual is rare indeed.You are perfection in womanhood.”
As the evening wore on I could see from Anita’s glazed expression, that Desmond had cast a strange spell over her so I decided the time had come to leave.
“We must go,” I said firmly, standing up, “Auri will be expecting us back for supper.Tomorrow we have a busy day and in the evening we are leaving for Granada.”
Desmond raised his head quickly and his face fell.“Leaving so soon? But you have only just arrived.”
“Yes, I know, but we want to visit lots of places and our time is limited.We…”
“Granada,” mused Desmond, interrupting me, “one-time seat of Islamic culture, swathed in Eastern mystery. A bewitching city, a place fit even for a goddess.”
Anita blushed and patted her curls, smiling happily. Desmond bent his head close to hers and whispered something in her ear to which she responded with a tinkling laugh. The sooner we get to Granada, I thought, the better.
“It is a pity you have to go so soon,” said Rafael. “But on the way back you must stop a couple more days in Madrid and we’ll get together again.”
Desmond and Anita didn’t hear him. They were still gazing into each other’s eyes, engrossed in muffled, secret conversation.
Back in the flat, the twins were running around, late though it was, while Auri was putting the finishing touches to a delicious looking paella.“Five minutes!” she called from the kitchen.“Help yourselves to a glass of sherry.”
“We can’t,” said Anita. “Our heads are spinning as it is. They took us to the Cuevas de Luis Candelas.”
“Well, no wonder!” said the vo
ice from the kitchen. “Their wine has quite a reputation.”
I sank into a chair and at once the twins trotted up and clambered onto my lap, snuggling into my arms like two sleepy kittens.They lay sucking their thumbs and thoughtfully fingering my necklace.
Anita seemed restless and distracted. She wandered around the room sighing and smiling to herself.
“What an amazing person Desmond is!” she murmured. “Are all Englishmen as clever as that?”
“He’s only half English,” I reminded her defensively.
“But he’s so intelligent and so romantic! Did you hear what he called me? Madonna! Goddess! Perfection in Womanhood!”
“That proves he’s more Spanish than English. Englishmen never say stupid things like that.They’re much too down to earth.”
Anita wasn’t listening to me. She was in a world of her own. “He’s very knowledgeable: an expert on Greek mythology and his philosophical ideas are fascinating.”
I didn’t dare confess to her that I considered him a bore with all the makings of a megalomaniac. Instead I just said: “He’s eccentric and he has a very high opinion of himself. Anyway,” I added, kissing the two curly heads nestling against my shoulders, “tomorrow we’re off to Granada so you had better put him out of your mind.”
“Oh! but I don’t have to!” she exclaimed joyfully. “I forgot to tell you. He’s coming with us.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE ENCHANTED CITY
The following morning I was still reeling from the shock of learning that Desmond Brocklebank was to accompany us to Granada, and even more disturbing, I was now painfully aware that Anita was once again in love. The Spaniards had an expression to describe those who fall hopelessly in love: they were said to be ‘like a goat’ or ‘as mad as goats’ and, sadly this was now true of Anita. She went around in a sort of dream, not hearing what I was saying, a foolish smile playing about her lips.
The prospect of having to endure Desmond’s company for seventeen hours on the slow train to Granada was daunting enough in itself without having to cope also with a friend who was as mad as a goat.What could be done? Throughout the day I nurtured the faint hope that perhaps the whole thing was wishful thinking on her part and, with a bit of luck, he might not turn up after all. Surely his job must keep him in Madrid?
Alas, all such hopes were dashed as soon as we arrived at the Atocha station that evening for there he stood waiting for us on the platform, long face, beard, duffel coat and all. He was munching an apple and over his shoulders he carried a grubby rucksack.
“Look!” cried Anita excitedly, “There he is! I told you so. I knew he would keep his promise. Oh! How lovely of him to take time off from work just to be with us in Granada!”
Desmond caught sight of us and hurried over but with eyes only for Anita.
“Beauteous Aphrodite,” he sighed, “to your other countless virtues must be added that of punctuality.” He looked at his watch. “We have in hand precisely fifteen minutes and thirty seconds before the train is due to depart, ample time in which to seek commodious places for ourselves.”
I pointed out that there was no such thing as a commodious place on third class Spanish trains. “We have a particularly long journey ahead,” I reminded him.“In fact, I believe we don’t arrive until tomorrow afternoon.Are you sure you really want to come?”
Desmond turned to me with a look of mixed pity and disdain. “I am always sure of everything I do,” he replied loftily.“Moreover, there is not the slightest doubt in my mind that Fate has had a hand in this matter. Man is not master of his own destiny though he may think otherwise. It is pre-ordained that our paths should meet,” he turned to Anita,“and must, from henceforth, be inextricably interwoven.”
As anticipated, the journey to Granada was long, tedious and uncomfortable.To begin with we had the carriage to ourselves and were able to stretch our legs but, as the mail train stopped at every small station, it gradually filled up and we became more and more cramped, making sleep impossible. Beside me, Desmond and Anita were once again deep in philosophical discussion. Opposite sat a priest, his robes dusty and grey with travel. He pored over a small, black book, his lips moving silently and continuously, occasionally bursting out loud into Latin prayer, making everyone jump. Eventually, he too became tired, the light was turned out and we settled down to face the long, cold hours that lay between us and our destination.
Anita shivered and Desmond removed his duffle coat and draped it over her. The night wore on and the passengers shifted around uneasily on their hard seats, coughing, sighing and muttering under their breath. One or two fortunate souls did manage to lose consciousness but their noisy snores made sure that the rest of us were unable to do likewise.
The night seemed interminable but at last the new day arrived, bringing life back to some of those around me. Someone lit a cigarette and the priest yawned and pulled up one of the blinds to admit a stream of dawn sunshine. It felt surprisingly warm. I looked at Anita and Desmond and saw that they were both asleep now, she still curled up under his coat, her head propped against his shoulder.
I looked out of the window and saw, gliding past, a seemingly endless landscape of olive groves planted in neat rows, their silvery foliage contrasting pleasantly with the ochre soil. Beyond, the jagged peaks of distant violet mountains described a curious pattern on the horizon. As the sun strengthened, so did the colour of the sky, deepening to a brilliant sapphire as we passed small villages with pink-tiled roofs and dazzling white walls. Women were beginning to gather with their jugs by the fountains, laughing and gossiping in the sunshine. Others were kneeling by the river with their washboards, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing away at the day’s laundry. A very far scene, I thought, from the icy wastes of Castile!
We stopped frequently to unload the morning’s mail and exchange passengers. In climbed the country folk with their inevitable chickens but I noticed that these Andalusians were less sociable and talkative than their Castilian counterparts. They sat silent and pensive, staring out of the window with black, inscrutable eyes.
Thoughts of Luis started to creep into my head as we chugged along.What was he doing now back there in Burgos? Was he with his girl? I banished them angrily from my mind. What did I care? Think about something else! I was on holiday and I wasn’t going to torment myself any more. I closed my eyes and drifted into a brief, shallow sleep.
When I woke up I found Anita and Desmond awake and chatting. We all three moved out into the corridor to stretch our legs. Desmond opened a window saying that he must flood the lungs with God’s fresh, health-giving air, but we were immediately enveloped in a cloud of gritty steam. He closed it again hastily and we looked at each other and laughed.
Here in the south, by mid-afternoon it seemed that even this early in the year, the sun’s rays beating through the windows had considerable strength. We were soon sweating uncomfortably in our thick, winter woollies.
Suddenly, one of the passengers – a sullen, unshaven individual who had sat motionless in the corner for the last three hours, attracted our attention. He pointed towards the window with his cigarette. “Sierra Neva’a,” he muttered in a thick Andalusian accent. We looked and were rewarded with a truly fabulous sight. Before us stretched a range of shimmering, white mountains, their snowy peaks glittering against the dark blue sky: fairy tale, sugar-icing mountains, too beautiful, I thought, to be real. This feeling of unreality was to remain with me for the next few days for without doubt, Granada would be the most beautiful place I had ever seen.
When we arrived, the city was basking in the warmth and light of a golden, spring-like afternoon.We wandered, as in a dream, through the streets of white-washed houses, their balconies ablaze with geraniums. Behind ornate wrought-iron gates we glimpsed cool patios, mysterious and alluring with their blue and yellow tiles, little fountains splashing among shrubs and flowering plants in terracotta pots. Seeing the palms waving gently against the clear sky, the sun sparkling on the blue
-green waters of the river and hearing the birds singing among blossoming almond trees, it was hard to believe that only a few days ago we had left Burgos in a snow storm! The memory of that bitter cold now seemed nothing more than a bad dream.
We found a modest pensión down a cobbled back street and were thankful to wash and change our clothes. The proprietress produced a meal of garlic soup, tortillas, fruit and red wine and having thus refreshed ourselves, we set out to explore our surroundings.
Above the city, the Moorish Palace of the Alhambra glowed golden-red in the evening sun; crowning a wooded hill, it stood proud and magnificent against the white sierra. Drawn towards this magical place, we started to climb the steep path that led us upwards through aromatic trees and shrubs, pausing from time to time to look back at the white city below. Anita and Desmond walked a little ahead of me still discussing philosophy. How can they keep it up? I wondered. Fragments of their conversation drifted back to me, as I wandered along, enjoying the sweet sounds and scents of the still evening.
“According to Kierkegaard,” droned his voice, “the fundamental search for meaningful existence may not lie with science or reason…”
It was dusk when we reached the Alhambra. We walked through the Moorish gateway on either side of which clustered orange trees, their golden fruit glowing warmly among the shiny dark leaves, and found ourselves in a small garden full of whispering palms and cypresses. From a low stone wall we were able to survey the whole of Granada spread out beneath us, bathed in the rich pink of the setting sun and twinkling with myriad tiny lights. We could also see the other famous hill, the Albaicín, home to gypsies and cave-dwellers, sprinkled with countless pinpoints of light like a galaxy of stars that had fallen to earth. From somewhere, far away, the faint strains of someone singing could just be heard drifting upwards over the still air. Anita sighed with pleasure. “This is the loveliest view I have ever seen. I am so happy!” she said.
Mad Dogs and an English Girl Page 17