by Les Cowan
“What did you think of Seville?”
“Fantastic. It’s a beautiful city. We were only there for a couple of days though. Not long enough. You know it?”
“Sure. Not as well as Madrid but I know it. I worked for an importer for a time, so I had to travel to retailers throughout the south.” Juan returned, pad in hand.
“¿Estáis listos?” Gillian nodded and ordered mixed tapas, paella de casa, and a single glass of chilled Albariño.
“Perfecto Señora. Señor David?”
“Can you make that tapas for two? Then Rabo de Toro. And…” He looked across the table. “Shall we make that a bottle? Ok. A bottle of Albariño. The Paco y Lola if you have any left? Gracias, Juan. And one other thing before I forget. The main reason we’re here. Would Alicia be willing to help one of my students who is struggling a bit and needs some extra conversation – from a clear speaker.”
“And I’m not? I’m offended. Of course she’ll help. Call her during the day tomorrow. I’m sure she’d be delighted.”
Omara Portuena was singing “Flor de Amor” in the background as they sat thinking about a surprising turn of events for both of them. Gillian spoke first.
“Sermons. She said they liked your sermons…” David inclined his head and grimaced.
“Alicia is a kindly woman. I could talk about pig farming in West Lothian and she would still be complimentary.”
“But sermons? I thought you were from the Spanish Department at the university.”
“No, not at all. I just teach a bit to pay the bills. The ‘job’, if that’s the right word, is part-time pastor at a small church near here. Southside Fellowship. I knew Juan and Alicia in Madrid. They had a hand in me coming back to Edinburgh.”
“Coming back – from Madrid?”
“Yes. I’m afraid it’s a bit complicated. My dad’s Spanish and my mum’s from Edinburgh. They left Spain during the Franco years before I was at school. So I did all my education in Edinburgh – Gillespie’s, then Edinburgh University. When Franco died I went back to Madrid and picked up a load of old family contacts. We ended up in Torrejón de Ardoz, just outside Madrid. I was founding pastor of a church there. Juan and Alicia were our staunchest supporters and friends.”
“What brought you back?”
“Change of circumstances almost two years ago.” He took off his glasses and gave them a wipe.
“Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No pasa nada. What happened happened. Juan and Alicia had come to Edinburgh a bit before to start something new. I think it was because I used to talk about my childhood here they thought it might be a good place for authentic Spanish food. I tried to keep going afterwards but it didn’t really work so I came back home too. They’d found the church and liked it. They told me there was a space for a part-time pastor till they could afford someone permanent. They thought I might fit the bill. So we’re back together.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds then suddenly David got up. “I’m sorry. Can you excuse me for a second?” He disappeared abruptly outside. Gillian could see him standing on the pavement, stamping in the falling snow. Juan looked up as he passed, then came over and sat down.
“He was speaking of his wife?”
“I’m not sure. He just said a change of circumstances. I just asked why he came back to Edinburgh.”
“Ah yes. Well it was certainly a change of circumstances. How could you know? It’s still very fresh in his mind. You must forgive him. How do you say it? It’s still an uphill struggle. David is a remarkable man. He will recover. But he loved Rocío very much.”
“Rocío. What a lovely name.”
“Si. It is lovely. It means ‘the dew’. She was a remarkable woman. And beautiful – like her name. She had a strong spirit. But it was too much in the end.”
“What happened?”
“Well, maybe I should leave that till David feels ready to tell you himself.”
Gillian nodded and gave a nervous cough. “Oh, of course. I’m sorry – none of my business.”
“Enough to say he was trying to help those that couldn’t help themselves. Or better to say his job was connecting people to the power they needed to change. What David did brought us some, how can I say it, negative attention as well as the positive. There were those that wanted him to stop but he wouldn’t. He paid the price. So did she.”
“That’s horrible! What a thing to happen. You loved her too, didn’t you?”
“I did, Señorita. She was my sister.”
David reappeared before long, brushing snowflakes off his collar. Juan jumped up and disappeared to clear some tables and make up a bill. He pulled out his chair and tried for a smile.
“Forgive me dragging you into my problems. It’s been a difficult time. I’m sure you can understand.”
“Of course. I’m sorry,” Gillian agreed, feeling she didn’t understand at all. He’d been married; now he was on his own. Something terrible had happened that forced him to leave his home and job and friends. That seemed to be enough to know.
“Juan and Alicia were my first-aid team. I wouldn’t have managed without them.”
Gillian was silent so David refilled both glasses and changed the subject.
“So why Spanish – really?”
“Just what I said in the class. I wanted a new interest. I’ve had some holidays in Spain with an uncle and aunt in San Sebastian. I thought speaking a bit might come in handy.” She paused as if weighing things up and coming to a decision. “And I’ve just divorced. Anything to take my mind off things would be welcome.”
“Now we’re both sorry. I won’t say I know how you’re feeling but I think I know about the need for a bit of distraction.”
“No hay problema.”
They both waited till they felt the air clear. David tried again.
“You teach at the university?”
“Scots language.”
“Burns?”
“Not so much. He’s mainly in literature. I teach about the sound systems of Scots, and my research interest is how the language changes, particularly in urban settings.”
“I thought they said Scots was dying out?”
“That’s what everybody says but it’s just changing. Scots is just what people in Scotland speak. A few years ago everybody started saying ‘magic’ and ‘cheers’ instead of ‘braw’ and ‘cheerio’. Nobody now uses the words Burns used – except at Burns suppers of course – but then he didn’t speak the language they spoke three hundred years before him. It’s just constantly changing. That’s what language is.”
Juan appeared with the tapas selection, announcing each as he set them down. David cleared space as they arrived and they took in the fantastic mix of colours, smells, and textures.
“Estupendo Juan. Muchas gracias.”
Gillian took a deep breath over the busy tabletop.
“And it smells wonderful too. Thanks.”
That evening seemed to pass like a dream. The food was good and the music evocative but they barely remembered it. Both found themselves spontaneously sharing things they didn’t tell friends and family: past lives, present troubles, future hopes. David spoke about his father running into trouble in the Franco years and escaping with his wife and two small boys to his wife’s home town of Edinburgh. They had always meant to go back when Franco died, but the old man had held on so long by that time they had put down too many roots. However, David did make the return journey as soon as he’d finished university. He met Rocío through mutual friends on a night out in Madrid.
She spoke about growing up in the Borders, with an alcoholic mother and a father who did his best to hold things together and protect the kids in between bouts of utter despair. Things were a great deal easier when Mum disappeared for weeks on end and life became slightly more normal. Then s
he’d dry out and come back and the cycle would start again. He always took her back, hoping things could be different. Eventually she wore herself out and died of renal failure. Dad was still pegging away in a nursing home at Silverknowes. For recreation she went sailing and he listened to jazz. When the neighbours didn’t complain he tried to keep up his sax playing.
They both read voraciously – science, politics, and culture for him; crime and history for her. They spoke more about his journey and hers all the way through patatas bravas, calamares, little mouthfuls of crispy deep fried fish, mini chorizos, and tortilla, then the mains, followed by arroz con leche for him and torrijas for her. And more Albariño.
Finally she drained her glass and scooped up the last morsel of crispy sugared toast. They were both feeling relaxed and speaking more freely than a couple of hours’ acquaintance would normally permit.
“One thing you haven’t told me,” said Gillian. “Your degree was in marketing, your job was in business. How on earth did you become a minister?”
“Good question,” David laughed. “I didn’t plan it. Honest. It’s what some people call a God thing.” She waited for an explanation. “You’ve got to understand,” he explained, “Spanish people are still very suspicious of things outside the Catholic church. Numbers are dropping fast but it’s still the devil they know – so to speak. Anything else isn’t really Christian and more likely full of drug addicts and gypsies. So I wasn’t interested. Then when Rocío seemed to connect I went along with it. And it seemed to have a big effect on her. We had been going through some problems. When she came to faith it seemed to make everything different. She wasn’t upset or frustrated any more. It felt like she’d found something fulfilling, so I started to take it a bit more seriously. They weren’t nuts or brainwashers. I began to find out about what they believed. That made me go back to think about what I believed. Turned out it wasn’t very much.”
Finally the coffee appeared and they knew things were coming to an end.
“You don’t seem much like a minister,” she said, “if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Ah well, that all depends on what you think a minister’s like.” He sprinkled a little more cinnamon on the last of his arroz con leche.
“Like my Uncle Sandy, for instance,” she added. “He’s a minister too. Full of goodwill but not much grasp of how ordinary people think – not churchgoers, I mean. Well intentioned but a bit out of touch.”
“I think that might be a fair comment sometimes. I’ve always wanted faith to be relevant to real life, especially for people who know nothing about faith outside the ‘rites of passage’ kind of religion. Remember, I was exactly like that.”
“Well, maybe I’m still like that. I’m certainly more used to St Andrew’s Parish Church in the High Street than anything like you’ve described at your place.”
“I’m sure it’s not just one or the other. There are lots of flavours and people with real faith in all varieties. And people with not much. Or not much left.” He felt the need to be honest but hoped she didn’t guess who he was referring to.
“Well. You’re full of surprises anyway. And the church here in Edinburgh – is it much like what you had in Spain?” David made a sound halfway between a laugh and a grunt.
“Not at all! Most of our folks wouldn’t have me in the door if they knew what we got up to in Spain. But they don’t have to know, so that’s ok.”
David paused for a second, wondering whether to continue and how honest to be.
“Actually, when I left Spain, church and me weren’t on very good terms. Likewise faith. I’d been doing what I’d been doing for about twenty years. Then the price just got too high. The tank was empty, as they say. Then the only way back here seemed to involve taking it on all over again. I wasn’t wanting it at all. It’s just how things worked out.”
“Maybe you’re good at it.”
“Don’t know about that. It’s just that every time I put pen to paper or stand up to speak I end up asking myself what on earth I’m still doing this for. After, well, everything that’s happened.”
“That can’t be easy. It would be like me nursing alcoholics. Too much baggage.”
“This is funny, you know. It’s a long time since I’ve spoken to anyone like this. And we’ve just met. You didn’t expect this when you signed up for Spanish conversation.”
“Well, it is conversation. And you’re nearly Spanish. Can’t complain.”
The bill came and Gillian insisted on paying half. They thanked Juan, got their coats and were heading for the door when Alicia appeared from the kitchen looking slightly concerned.
“Señor David. A phone call. It’s Mrs MacInnes from church. She’s sounding quite upset.” David glanced at his watch – 10:35.
“I wonder how she found out I was here?” He excused himself. Gillian said it was no trouble and she’d wait. When David came back, he had a worried look.
“It’s our treasurer from church… about her granddaughter, Jen. She’s gone missing. They think she’s been abducted.”
Chapter 6
Plaza del Ángel
David sat at his desk in a first-floor office next to Tirso de Molina metro and fiddled with his monthly sales returns. He couldn’t concentrate. Paco had come at him out of the blue – almost literally. And now Rocío was a follower. What had she said? “I’ve decided I want to follow the founder.” It sounded much like one of Paco’s phrases. He had turned the chain of events over in his mind a thousand times. That life was better, calmer, more tranquil, there wasn’t any doubt. But this new direction… somehow it seemed to change the agenda between them in a way that had never happened before. Like they were travelling roads that increasingly diverged. Trying to talk her out of it was out of the question and not just on ethical grounds. Rocío would do as she wanted and believe what she wanted. You might just as well try to influence an avalanche. Ignore it? But why? They had shared and talked about everything up to the time of the loss of the babies, when it became harder to address the painful realities. But this wasn’t painful. She was undoubtedly more at peace and more contented than ever. That wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe it was even worth being deluded for. The church didn’t seem at all interested in their money and made absolutely no other demands on them. But talking about it might mean having to conclude she had stumbled on something he needed to be open to for himself. And that might force another painful decision.
On an impulse, right in the middle of his monthly returns, David grabbed the phone and called the University of Alcalá.
“Department of Modern Languages. Professor Francisco Morales please.” A pause. The line ringing out. As it rang and rang he didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
“I’m very sorry,” the telephonist started, “there doesn’t seem to be… oh, just a minute. Transferring you now.” Then a brisk, businesslike voice.
“Morales. Yes?”
“Paco?”
“Who’s this?”
“David Hidalgo.”
“David. How are you? Just a minute. I’ll call you back. Departmental minutes to be read and signed. For my sins. I’m right in the middle of it.”
“Of course. Whenever you can.” David put the phone down with a feeling of anticlimax despite himself. He was used to customers “calling him right back”. It was almost official code for “Don’t bother me; I’ve more important things to do.” So he was quite surprised when half an hour later the phone rang again.
“David. What can I do for you, my friend?”
“That’s just it, Paco. I’m not entirely sure. I’m confused.”
“So you called me to tell me you’re confused?”
“In a manner of speaking. There’s a few things I’m finding quite hard to make sense of.”
“Excellent.”
“Why do you say that?”
&nbs
p; “Well, I’m also very often confused. It’s the men of fixed opinions we have to fear, don’t we?”
“You may be right. I hadn’t thought about it that way. Can we meet?”
“To talk about your confusion?”
“Indeed. Do you have an evening free?”
“Let me see. Oh – better than that. Johnny Griffin is playing at Café Central tonight. How does that sound?”
“Great. You have a spare ticket?”
“You don’t know Café Central? It’s a very civilized system. You turn up for drinks anytime in the evening then an hour before the show begins they come round selling tickets. You want to stay, you pay; if not you can go. I hate queueing for tickets. This is so much easier.”
“Why not? Sounds good.”
“So Café Central, Plaza del Ángel, let’s say, half past six? Then we can get some drinking in before the music starts.”
David was smiling as he put the phone down. To say the old man was full of surprises didn’t really seem to cover it. He was like a jack-in-the-box. Every time he popped out wearing something different, doing something different, challenging your expectations in a different way. So Café Central and Johnny Griffin then. And a night out drinking which he hadn’t done for years, with a man twice his age. He left a message on Rocío’s voicemail and got on with the paperwork.
Café Central was in Plaza del Ángel, not Basin Street, but at least it was a smoky bar. Couples of all ages, a mixed group looking very studentish, a sharply dressed older man on his own, two women, maybe mother and daughter, all sitting round the rather cramped space, much of it taken up by a low platform and a baby grand piano. David liked the way jazz seemed to be accessible to all, regardless of age. It wasn’t obsessed only with the young and the new like rock and pop. You could discover a Brubeck disc from thirty years ago and for you it was new. In Scotland he’d grown up with Matt Munro on TV and Petula Clarke on Top of the Pops. Nobody was going to discover some new bit of crooning from Mr Munro circa 1958 and consider it cool in the 1980s. But with jazz you could. The Modern Jazz Quartet were anything but modern but sounded as up-to-date now as the moment Heath, Kay, Jackson, and Lewis first played at the Savoy in 1956.