It was like a shutter coming down.
‘Who gives a fuck?’ I said, staring as the machine spat out my phonecard. I shot a look full of hatred and contempt at a fat lady who was standing there, waiting to phone, and had obviously heard everything. She turned her head away in terror and I felt a wicked pleasure. ‘Who gives a fuck?’ I said again as I walked back to the car.
What happened next was all very confused. The last clear memory I have of the journey is that lemon pie and that cappuccino. We drove across Italy and the south of France almost without stopping, taking turns at the wheel. When we’d started out, we’d said we could do whatever we liked. Stop wherever we wanted, maybe somewhere by the sea, and stay there a day or two. Take it easy, in other words, because we were on holiday. But now we were on the road, it was obvious this was a stupid idea. Francesco had said he knew some people in Valencia.
Valencia became our goal. We were going to Valencia, and that was it. So now there followed a sequence of blinding sun, a sunset with the universe drowning in red light, darkness, half an hour’s sleep in a service station with the windows open. A lorry driver getting out of his lorry and peeing in a bush, then belching and getting back in to have a good sleep. Cigarettes, rolls, coffee, more cigarettes, cappuccinos, service station toilets, border posts, signs in different languages. Light, half-light, darkness, light again, and that feeling of urgency driving us on. Music. Springsteen, Dire Straits, Neil Young. Plus some tapes of Francesco’s: heavy metal, violent and hypnotic. The further we went, the less we talked, as if we were both intent on a mission that had to be accomplished. Except that I had no idea what the mission was.
We got to Valencia more or less a day after we’d set out. We found a room in an unlikely-looking hotel and fell asleep without even getting undressed.
Outside, the air was red hot.
22
I WOKE UP about seven in the evening, bathed in sweat. Francesco had already got up and I could hear the noise of the shower from the bathroom. The room we were in was quite simply ridiculous. The wallpaper had a pattern of horse’s heads on it, the two bedspreads were different colours, and the TV was a huge black and white set from the Seventies. I stared at it for several minutes, still dazed from tiredness and a sense of strangeness. There was a curious smell, unpleasant but familiar. It took me a while to realise it was me. I didn’t like noticing I stank, and as soon as Francesco came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, I went in to have a wash.
We went out about eight, both looking like our old selves again.
Francesco phoned his friend. I heard him talking in a mixture of Italian, Spanish and French. What I understood from the conversation was that someone called Nicola wasn’t in Valencia right now, but would be back in a few days. Francesco didn’t seem surprised, and said he’d call again. There was something strange about the way he said it.
Nicola was an old friend of his, Francesco told me after putting the phone down. He was from Bari but had lived in Spain for more than two years, moving around constantly and doing all sorts of different jobs. End of conversation. I wasn’t particularly interested in Nicola. I was wide awake, I felt good, I was hungry and we were in Spain.
After eating – Valencian paella, of course, and lots of beer – we set off for a walk around the city.
We wandered from bar to bar. All the bars were open and all of them were full. Eventually, we ended up in a garden full of little tables in the half-light, a large stand in the middle, and a lot of people, some at the tables, some standing, some sitting on the ground. A smell of dope permeated the air. We found a free table and sat down. Unlike the way it had been on the journey, we both talked, a lot. We were euphoric. We talked over each other, neither of us listening to what the other was saying. A flood of words about how free we were, how we were rebels, living outside the hypocritical rules of society. How we were looking for the meaning of things beneath the stale veneer of convention. Conventions we rejected in the name of a moral code that most people couldn’t aspire to.
A flood of bullshit.
The waitress who came to our table said, Hola, but then when she heard us talking she spoke to us in Italian.
She was from Florence, or to be more precise Pontassieve, and her name was Angelica. She wasn’t beautiful but she had a pleasant face. She kept looking at Francesco. She asked us where we were from. She said she’d passed through Bari on the way to Greece and had been warned to watch out for bag snatchers. She took our order, still looking at Francesco, and said she’d be right back.
‘What do you think?’ Francesco asked me.
‘Pretty. Well, nice anyway. She has something, even though she’s not beautiful. Anyway she was looking at you.’
He nodded, as if to say, of course, he’d noticed. ‘Let’s get friendly with her. We could wait until she finishes her shift and leave together. That way, until Nicola gets back, we have someone we know in Valencia.’
‘Maybe she can recommend a better hotel than the shithole we ended up in!’ I said, but he didn’t reply. Clearly he didn’t mind the hotel. Angelica came back with our two caipirinhas.
‘How come you’re working here in Spain?’ Francesco asked her.
She looked around her for a moment, to make sure she wasn’t needed. ‘I was trying for a year to pass my university exams. I’m studying languages, but I had a few problems. So I thought I’d come to Spain for a while, to improve my Spanish and try to figure out what I want to do. How about you two?’
‘I’m about to graduate in philosophy and my friend Giorgio in law. We finished our exams in July and decided to take a couple of weeks’ holiday in Spain. And here we are. How late does this place stay open?’
He had lied with his usual naturalness. I didn’t care. I was feeling fine and I didn’t care about anything.
Angelica looked around again and saw that someone at a table on the other side of the garden was trying to attract her attention. ‘It depends,’ she said, in a rush. ‘Two or three. It depends on how busy it is. We usually stay open as long as there are customers.’ She paused for a moment, as if thinking about what to say next. ‘Listen, I have to run now. If you aren’t in a hurry you could wait for me. I’ll be an hour at the most. You can walk me home, it’s only fifteen minutes from here, and we can talk properly. I can even give you some tips on what to do in Valencia and the area round about.’
We weren’t in any hurry, Francesco said, and we’d be happy to wait for her. So she went back to her work and we sat and drank. I was feeling good. The air was warm and I felt pleasantly, invincibly idle. Time didn’t matter, I had no responsibilities, it was as if my ego was dissolving. Part of it was the alcohol – first beer, now stronger drinks – and part of it was this exotic atmosphere, somewhere on the edge of a strange city.
We left with Angelica an hour and a half and three caipirinhas later. I’ve always been good at holding my drink and so I was slightly confused, euphoric, but alert. I noticed that Angelica had not only changed, but had let her long, copper-coloured hair down. She’d also put on make-up.
We drank a couple of shots of rum in a bar that was just about to close. The owner was a friend of Angelica’s. He drank with us and wouldn’t accept payment.
We continued on our way. Francesco and Angelica were talking to each other now, and I was excluded. Of course. So I decided to walk a few steps behind.
I looked around, with what I think must have been an absent smile on my face. It was after three, but the streets were still full of people. Not just groups of young people, drunks, junkies, but elderly men in white shirts with short sleeves and bizarre collars, and families with children, grandfathers and dogs. We even passed two nuns. They were in full habit, walking slowly along, having a lively conversation. I stopped to watch them as they walked away. To imprint them on my mind, so that – I remember thinking clearly – the next morning, or ten years later, I wouldn’t think I’d only dreamed them.
Everything was improbable, unreal, intox
icating, and quite nostalgic.
We got to Angelica’s building and she asked us if we wanted to come up for a drink. What she meant was: if Francesco wanted to come up. I was too tired and drunk, I said, lying. Not too drunk, I thought, to understand the facts of life. So Angelica gave me a goodnight kiss on the cheek and she and Francesco disappeared together behind that filthy wooden door.
It took me more than an hour to get back to the hotel. On the way I stopped in a couple of bars and drank a couple of rums. When I lay down, after a pee that seemed to last forever, the bed started spinning, which made me think of Galileo. The founder of the modern scientific method. Or was that Newton? It was a nuisance, but I just had to remember. Damn it, I was good at holding my drink, everyone said so. Who was everyone? And anyway, why did I have to remember?
Then, all at once, everything went black.
23
I WAS WOKEN by a loud crash from outside. I got out of bed and dragged myself to the window. My mouth felt as if it was coated with cement. I tried saying a few words – swear words – just to check that everything was in working order. Then I opened the blinds and put my head out.
Two lorries had collided. Two men stood near the point of impact, waving their hands and shifting their weight from one leg to the other. A small group of onlookers had gathered on the pavement. The two men were both tall and bulky, with identical dark cotton t-shirts stretched over bulging shoulders and stomachs. They were moving and waving their hands almost in time to one another and seemed to be following some kind of choreography. The whole scene had a crazy sense of synchronicity, a strange symmetry I couldn’t figure out.
Then I realised that the two lorries were the same. The same models, the same colours – white and mauve – and the same writing on the sides. They belonged to the same haulage company, and the two men were both wearing the company’s t-shirt. At that point I lost interest. I shrugged my shoulders and came back inside.
Francesco wasn’t back yet, so I decided to take my time. Wash, dress, go down to breakfast, have a cigarette. It was after nine now, and if I did all those things I could kill time at least until ten. If Francesco still wasn’t back by then, I’d think about what to do.
But he didn’t show, and I started to feel worried. Last night’s euphoria had vanished and now, in the breakfast room of that shabby hotel, I felt a mounting anxiety that was close to panic. For a few minutes I thought of packing my bag and getting out of there, alone.
Then, having regained a modicum of self-control, I asked the hotel porter for a map of Valencia, left a note for Francesco and went out.
It was very hot. The city on that scorching morning was quite different from the surreal, slightly enchanted place I’d wandered through the night before. The shops were all closed, there weren’t many people in the streets, and those who were looked worn out by the heat. There was a feeling of sadness, of finality.
As I left the hotel, Valencia seemed to me like a beautiful older woman you’ve made love to all night and now you see in the morning. Last night, she was well dressed, made up, scented. But now, she’s only just got up, her eyes are bleary with sleep, her hair looks too long, and she’s wearing an old t-shirt. You’d like to be somewhere else. And she’d probably like you to be somewhere else, too.
I walked around the streets with a curious feeling of determination. The longer the day went on, and the hotter it got, the faster I walked. Aimlessly, because I had no particular goal, I didn’t know the city, I hadn’t even looked at the map, and I had no idea where I was going.
I passed some decrepit-looking buildings and came to a large park. An elderly lady told me, without my having asked her, that we were in the dried-up bed of a river called the Turia. The river had been diverted from its course years before, and where it had been they’d built a park.
My memories of that day of fierce sunlight in Valencia are strange and soundless. Like images in a vividly-coloured but silent film.
I walked for many hours, stopped to eat tapas and drink beer in a bar which had tables outside, with old discoloured umbrellas, then walked for quite a while longer, looking for the hotel. When I found it, I felt willing to bear its shabbiness for the sake of the air conditioning. It was noisy but it worked, whereas outside it was more than forty degrees.
When I asked the porter for the key, he told me the other caballero had come back and was in our room. I felt relieved.
I knocked at the door of the room, then knocked again. It was only at the third knock that I heard Francesco’s voice saying something incomprehensible. A moment later, he opened the door, wearing only his pants and a black t-shirt.
He went back to the bed without a word, and sat there for a couple of minutes with his eyes half closed as if looking at something on the floor. He was gradually coming to his senses. He looked like someone who’s been travelling for two days in a goods wagon. At last, he shook his head and looked up at me.
‘How was it?’ I asked.
‘She’s a real sleaze, our little Angelica. Mounts you like a horse. Maybe she’ll give you a demonstration one of these days.’
I had a vaguely unpleasant feeling when he said that, but Francesco didn’t give me time to identify it. Tonight, he said, we’d pick up Angelica after she finished work and drive south, to the sea. We’d get there at dawn, which was the most beautiful moment of the day. We’d bathe while the beaches were still empty, then go and look up some friends of Angelica’s who owned a guesthouse with a restaurant, and then we would decide if we’d stay and sleep over, because tomorrow was Angelica’s night off.
I liked the idea. In any case, Francesco wasn’t asking for my opinion. He was letting me in on what he’d already decided. As usual.
‘Remember to bring the cards tonight.’
It was the last thing he said before lying down on the bed and turning his back to me, ready to go to sleep again.
I didn’t ask why.
24
WE LEFT VALENCIA about four in the morning. There were still people in the streets. We’d picked up Angelica from the bar, driven to her place, where she’d grabbed a small bag, and then set off.
I drove, Angelica sat next to me, and Francesco sat in the back, in the middle.
Travelling at that hour of the morning, we were heading for an encounter with the universe in all its unfamiliar splendour. We left the city as the night was coming to an end and those who had peopled it were on their way home. It was cool, so we kept the windows open and the air conditioning off. Day hadn’t broken yet, but we were waiting for it, talking in hushed voices.
I felt good. I’d slept until evening, and it was already dark outside when I’d woken up. And with the darkness my bad mood had dissolved. I felt full of energy and ready for everything. Francesco, too, felt good. Immediately before we left our room, he’d done something strange.
‘Are you my friend?’ he had said, when we were almost at the door.
I’d hesitated to reply, not knowing if he was joking.
‘Are you my friend?’ he had repeated, and there was something unusual in the way he said it, something serious and almost desperate.
‘What kind of question is that? Of course I’m your friend.’
He had nodded in agreement and had looked at me for another few seconds. Then he had embraced me. He had hugged me tightly and I had stood there, almost frozen, not knowing what to do.
‘OK, friend, it’s time to go. Have you got the cards?’
I had them, and we had gone out like two crazy, innocent rogues into the night, and the day, and whatever was waiting for us. Nothing else mattered.
The sun hadn’t yet risen when we got to Altea. The air had the stillness and transparency of a dream. There was no one on the beach except a very old lady in shorts and a t-shirt, with a strange-looking mongrel, huge and furry, running circles around her. Lazy little waves gently lapped the foreshore.
We all undressed without a word. I’ve rarely in my life felt so totally at ease as
I did that dawn on a strange beach in Spain. We walked slowly into the water, all around us a sense almost of the sacred, of what was about to happen. Of infinite possibilities.
We were swimming slowly out to sea, separated from each other by a few metres, with our heads out of the water, when suddenly the universe filled with pink splendour.
The sun came out of the sea and I could feel tears mixing with the drops of water that slid down my face.
After breakfast, we spread our towels on the beach, very close to the sea, and lay down. People were starting to arrive.
‘Why not get out the cards?’ Francesco said to me. And to Angelica, as I took the cards out of my rucksack, ‘Giorgio’s a brilliant magician.’ The expression on his face was perfectly serious, but he was playing. He was pulling our legs, both of us in different ways. But even though I was perfectly well aware of that, I felt full of pride because of what he had said.
‘Come on, show her some tricks.’
I didn’t object. I didn’t tell her he was my teacher. I showed her a few tricks and, damn it, I was good. Angelica was watching me, frowning slightly, looking ever more surprised.
Francesco asked me to show her the three card trick. Without a word, I took out the queen of hearts and the two black tens.
I showed her the queen. ‘The winning card.’ I showed her first one ten, then the other. ‘The losing card.’ I could feel my heart beating faster, which hadn’t happened to me when I’d shown her the other tricks. I gently put down the cards face down on the towel.
‘Which one’s the queen?’
Angelica turned over a card. It was the ten of clubs.
‘Do it again,’ she said, looking me up and down. There was a tone of feigned severity in her voice, but her eyes were laughing, like a child’s.
The Past is a Foreign Country Page 14