And This Is Your Opinion Of Me? Chapter 5
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
‘Doncs deia que és ric perquè no treballa, i tot el dia estrena corbates. I deia que és bon mosso i rumbós per... perquè ho és, i perquè totes se n’enamoren; i si enganya a les xicotes, que diu aquesta, és perquè elles se deixen enganyar.’
‘And so I said he’s rich ‘cause he doesn’t work, and he’s always wearing new ties. And I said he’s handsome and openhanded becase… because he is, and so all the girls fall for him; and if he tricks them, as she says, it’s only ‘cause they let him.’
Àngel Guimerà, La filla del mar
*
Se Mercé fosse amica a' miei disiri,
el movimento suo fosse dal core
di questa bella donna, e 'l su' valore
mostrasse la vertute a' mie' martiri
If Mercy were kind to my desire
and arose from the heart
of this fair lady, and its worth
showed virtue and hope to my agony…
Guido Cavalcanti
***
Sant Jordi Day is not a national holiday, which is a shame.
But in the afternoon, bookstores are as full as a pub at midnight, and rose stalls- oh OK. You see, Sant Jordi is Saint George. He was a saintly knight who slayed a dragon, saving a pretty princess from being its breakfast. A single red rose sprouted from all that dragon’s blood, or so the legend says, and that’s why boys get their girls a rose. In Catalonia, that is. Saint George is the patron saint of a dozen other countries, including England. I mean, knights, dragons, a pretty princess in distress… they loved him in the Middle Ages. He was the coolest saint by far.
It’s also the International Day of the Book, because both Shakespeare and Cervantes died on April 23rd, except they didn’t really, since when Shakespeare died they were still using the Julian calendar in England. So he actually died on our May 3rd. And Cervantes’ funeral was on the 23th, but he died the day before, I think.
Anyway. Anyway, girls buy books for their loved ones, and get to complain because they are more expensive and picking a book is not as easy as picking a red rose.
Well, in truth, everyone buys books for themselves, too, since there’s a discount, and street stalls just outside the bookshops, authors signing copies everywhere… it’s gotten very commercial, but since it’s all about selling books, I think it’s still fun.
And last Sant Jordi, Julia had a date. As in, Charlie had asked, very flustered, if she wanted to go with him, alone, to see the stalls in La Rambla. That’s a very famous street that gets very crowded and very interesting on that day. Julia had said yes.
Unfortunately, Julia had also been very good to Lola Colinas, not letting Dídac and Cristian pick on her, spending time with her and such. She had been too good, in fact, because Colinas now kept following her around, not leaving her alone for one second. I mean, really, you got home, asked “Where’s Julia?” and Colinas was all “Got into the bathroom three minutes ago.” Creepy.
One free afternoon was very much out of the question, as you might guess. As soon as she knew Julia was going out, she insisted on going with her, too. Julia was too shy to tell her she was actually looking forward being alone with Charlie, and too modest to actually believe it was the date it obviously was. So she wouldn’t say anything to her. It would have been the easiest way, wouldn’t it? “Look, Lola, I have a date, I can’t pretend I like you this afternoon.”
Julia explained to me, patiently enough, that Lola was very insecure, lacked social skills and must have led a very lonely life so far. I said Lola should learn to make friends -and, most importantly, to keep those she had. She needed constant attention and kept doing that thing of being both ridiculously humble and terribly self-centered. And the whining, the whinning got on my nerves like anything else could. Not to mention she had views on everything, and insisted on lecturing you no matter how offensive you found it.
Yes, I didn’t like her much.
But I ended up playing the martyr knight for Julia’s sake. I agreed to go meet Charlie with them and then discreetly take Lola away, leaving Julia and Charlie as alone as they could be in a street that packed with people.
That was the plan, anyway. It was a big enough sacrifice as it was, wasn’t it? Yet fate was against me. When we came out of the subway just at the beginning of La Rambla, and squinted around in the sun looking for Charlie, we found both Charlie and Isabel. Yay. They were saying goodbye to each other, but stopped when they realized Julia hadn't come alone, either.
"Oh my gosh, Isabel! Remember me? I work for don Carlos in Granada!" Lola practically threw herself at her in order to kiss her cheeks. Isabel stared at her, taken aback.
"Yes, I think I do. What was your name again?" I bet she knew, too. She looked like she knew exactly who Lola Colinas was and felt horrified at having found her there.
I tried not to laugh and turned to Charlie and Julia. They were standing quite close, beaming to each other and apparently planning their afternoon. "David and Lola will supposedly go their way," she was saying, in a hushed voice, and Charlie looked at me, grinned and then went,
"See, Izzy? You don't have to wander alone, you can get together with David and, er, Lola."
I would have expected her to refuse and run for her life, but instead she looked at me and frowned. As if this was my fault. She was wearing her hair high in a ponytail and the wind made it curl around her long neck.
"But, aren't we all going together?" Lola whined to Julia.
"Sure! Yes… This is Charlie…"
And so introductions were made. I didn’t miss the look Isabel gave Charlie over Lola’s shoulder. It plainly said, “Beware of her! Honestly, the things I do for you!”
Charlie didn’t seem to get it but, to his credit, he promptly set to monopolyze Julia’s attention and they soon were walking down the street together, hands casually brushing with each step. The street was packed. They had trouble advancing, and so did we. We followed them for a while, me trying to distract Lola, Lola trying to catch up with Julia, and Isabel bringing up the rear.
La Rambla is not one of my favorite streets. It apparently was very picturesque some decades back, but now it's all too turistic and has lost most of its charm. In my opinion, at least. It still has flower stalls, though, and pet stalls, and human statues. The human statue business is fun, I'll admit to that. Last year there were street musicians and performance artists, but they are all banned now because of pickpockets.
I remembered I was there with a couple of tourists, I turned to my charges and said, stopping them dead in their tracks, “Watch out and keep an eye on your belongings, OK?”
To which Lola said, “Where are they? I can’t see them anymore!”
She was talking about the happy couple, not her money. They had started darting conspicuous glances at us a while ago, all giggly, so it was possible they were currently hiding from us. At least I hoped so. We looked around. They had crossed the street and were quitting La Rambla entirely, Julia waving back at me laughingly and Charlie tugging her towards a small café.
“There they are! Hey!” Lola exclaimed, waving back. As she started forward, Isabel tossed her hair and grabbed the girl by the shoulder, having suddenly lost all patience.
“Listen now, Colinas. We are going to let them go. In case you hadn’t noticed, my friend needs a little privacy with your friend, and I don’t think she has any objections.” She glanced up to me at that, and I shrugged. No objections, no. She glared back at Lola. “So you either come with us or you go home, but stop being a pain in the ass.”
OK, that was rough. I was half expecting Lola to cry, or at least to go home. She didn’t. She sulked a bit and shrugged, too, consenting. Too late, I realized Isabel had created a parallel outing just then. Sure, I could say goodbye and leave, ‘cause I really didn’t want to spend the afternoon with two of the most annoying girls I knew. But there I was, feeling sorry for Lola, and for Isabel too. I mean, she was making the same sacrifice I had offered to do. The three of us were rather pathetic, really. So I felt I should at least show them around.
We didn’t have much to talk about, except for literature. Well, and the fact that Lola lived with me and worked for Isabel’s granddad. They talked about his health for a while, and then I told them my dad lived near Granada too. I don’t know why I did that, because then I got invited… OK, I know, they were talking about the exquisite library the man has when I happened to mention I’m usually there in August. Lola said I could call and go have a look. The man apparently lives in this sort of hacienda and Lola is there all day, serving as a sort of secretary. Isabel said nothing, only looked up quite sharply. Not a surprise, really.
Then we talked about how Isabel is from Madrid but was studying in Salamanca and lived there with her cousin, and Lola wanted to meet that cousin, bla bla bla (that is, yadda yadda yadda). I kind of zoned out because anyway it was mostly Lola doing all the talking and I had to concentrate on navigating the street. They both kept bumping into me and it was becoming annoying. More than just talking to them, you know.
We headed back towards the Fnac, sorting the Corte Inglés’ stalls -they are both big shops, and once there we thankfully decided to split and meet there ten minutes later. As soon as she got back, Lola picked up her long explanation of don Carlos’s views on gay marriage (don’t ask) right where she had left it. Isabel, carrying half a dozen books, didn’t even look like she was listening. So I had to nod and say “Aha” in all the right places for the two of us.
I herded them towards the nearest Starbucks, where I treated them to coffee and convinced Lola to buy herself a couple of cookies, too.
You see, she doesn’t talk when she is eating.
It’s marvelous.
We found a bench in the sun and sat down to relax. I thought all was well and that I could relax and just listen to the silence -OK, to the traffic and the crowd and so on. Let me tell you, those are way less stressful than Lola. But then it was Isabel who tried to start a conversation.
I kid you not.
“You have cut your hair,” she said.
I didn’t like her reproachful tone at all. I shifted and drew a hand through the hairs at the nape of my neck. It felt weird, because my hair had reached the collar of my shirts before. Carla had cut it for me, and now the April breeze against my neck made me feel cold.
“Yes. For the play.”
“Are the sideburns for the play too?”
She sounded nearly mocking, to me at least. I glanced at Lola, to see if she thought so too, but she was just looking at us curiously from behind the whipped cream in her frappuccino.
“Yes. I was supposed to wear a moustache too, but there was a shaving accident. Maybe it will grow back in a week. I rather hope not.” It had to be one of those little curly moustaches, you know, and that just looks ridiculous on me. Well, on any guy, really, no matter what Carla says.
Isabel picked at her muffin. She looked like she was making this huge effort just by being there with us, buying books like the rich girl she was, drinking an almond flavoured latte and making conversation. And don’t forget the blueberry muffin. It must have been torture.
“When’s the play?”
“Next Thursday.”
“Is it in Catalan?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” She looked up, and a strand of hair in the ponytail got tangled with her long earrings. She reached up to untangle it. She had very slender and white hands.
“You look good. You were starting to look like a gypsy.”
Thank you, Isabel.
I don’t know what’s wrong about looking like a gypsy. Not that I want to look like one, but you know. She just sounded so condescending. It irked me as much as Lola’s borrowed opinions on gay marriage had.
I got up and said I wanted to check some other place where they might have a better poetry selection. Unfortunately, they thought it was a good idea, and decided to come with me.
As we strolled towards this other library, we discussed favourite genres and styles. Lola loved Naturalistic novels. They bore me to death, because they are always about women cheating their husbands and everything ends miserably for everyone. They aren’t even tragic. They are just sad.
Isabel said, quite curtly, that she liked poetry in general, especially that of the Golden Age-that covers both Renaissance and Baroque-and first half of the twentieth century.
“I love the origins of fictional prose, up to Cervantes,” I said, and Isabel eyed me incredulously. We were just stepping inside the library, and heading toward the interesting shelves. Lola had paused by the novelty books outside. She doesn’t listen much to what other people say.
“The what?” Isabel said.
“Well, you know. Chivalric romances, mostly.”
She didn’t understand, that was clear. Most people don’t, you see, because not many Spanish romance manuscripts have survived, and there isn’t much to study on that. Catalan tradition is better, although not as good as French. But then in Spain Cervantes wrote Don Quixote. A masterpiece must be the best ending a genre could have, don’t you think?
I just like the style. And the knights that can cut a giant in two and then die of love two pages later. It reminds me of the way I saw the world when I was six and watched Dragon Ball on TV.
I didn’t try to explain this to Isabel, who went, still dead-panned,
”But they are... boring. And so long.” She made a gesture with her hands, as if measuring a thick book.
“Maybe you aren’t reading them well.” Haha. Now she looked incredulous. In italics. She raised one eyebrow and I explained: “You see, they were meant to be read aloud…”
“I know that.”
“Yes. But people didn’t have to listen to the whole book… Think of the Amadís as a soap-opera.” The Amadís de Gaula is a four-volume book on a knight, published in Spain on 1508. “You can watch one episode one day, and then another one two weeks later, and it’s OK. You don’t have to read it as a real novel. And it does work better when you read it aloud.”
“So you are telling me you like medieval soap-operas best? Of all Spanish literature?”
I grinned, but only to annoy her.
She smiled back and wandered off, and I was left to puzzle.
Ten minutes later, she was back, carrying seven new poetry books plus the half a dozen she had bought before. I was still at the same spot, leafing through the book I had wanted but couldn’t buy since January or so.
It was a romance, what else, but it was the best romance in prose in the world. You will not have heard about it because it’s Catalan-or rather, Valencian. It’s called Tirant lo Blanch-Tirant the White, the name of the knight. In Cervantes’ words, “In all truth, my friend, by right of its style this is the best book in the world: here knights eat, and sleep, and write their will before dying, among other things that all the rest of books of this genre lack.”
They also fall off their horses, lust after princesses and conquer Constantinople back.
Of course I already had the book at home, but the edition I was looking at was one big volume with good glossy paper, proper footnotes, colorful pictures evoking miniature illustrations and a price I couldn’t actually pay right then. Or back in January.
“Oh, pretty,” she said. Pretty.
I closed the book and put it back in the shelf.
“Yeah. Can’t buy it at the moment, though. I know myself and haven’t brought enough money.”
She took the book out again and searched for the price. It was fifty euros, with the discount. “Credit card?”
“Same reason. Anyway, by this time of the year I’ve spent too much of what I earned in the summer.”
“Do you work in the summer?” She had braced the book and was looking at me with inscrutable eyes. Why did she keep doing that? It was unnerving. I guessed she didn’t work at all, since her parents would surely pay for everything.
“I wait in a bar in Granada. And I tutor a few kids during the school year, so I can -what are you doing?” The end of the sentence was ‘so I can buy drinks and cinema tickets or pay for motorbike repairs, not buy way-too-expensive books’, but Isabel had suddenly picked both her purchases and the Tirant and was heading towards the paying line.
She looked at me, clearly not taking me very seriously. “What does it look like? It should look like I’m buying you a book. Here,” she said, putting all the books in my arms so she could look for her wallet.
“No, you are not. It’s too expensive.”
“There’s a discount.” She took out a credit card and raised her eyebrows at me, as if telling me to shut up.
“But you won’t get the money back ‘til August!” I had to protest, no matter how much I wanted the book.
She stared at me as if I was stupid. “You don’t have to pay me back.”
I pushed the books back into her arms. “Yes I have.”
She looked seriously displeased and placed the books on the counter. She glared at the poor cashier. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
We got out and Lola joined us, starting to say something. But as she opened her mouth to speak, Isabel handed me my new book and said, “I’m going home.”
So she had finally grown tired of hanging out, as I had been expecting.
“Me too,” I said. “Lola, you coming?”
I had to buy the roses yet. I had thought I’d need three of them, for mom, Carla and Julia. And right then I realized I’d have to buy one for Lola too, so she would have at least one and not be the only rose-less girl in the flat. Well, she had a rose, they give them out at the stalls when you purchase a book, but it’s not the same thing, is it?
What I didn’t want was feeling forced to get one for Isabel. Especially since she was suddenly moody and didn’t even kiss our cheeks goodbye. I’m not sure she even said goodbye, to tell you the truth.
On the way to the subway station, I bought sunflower seeds for Lola to nibble. And I got an instant message from Julia: "Tell mom I'm staying at Caro's tonight! I'm so happy!"
***
From: Izzy Díaz
To: Jorge Díaz
Subject: Big big hugs
Don’t despair, love.
Yes, I know it’s easy for me to say. I’m not there in goddamned Scotland, I have few problems, and I’m of age so dad can’t control me. But you know he means well.
I can’t say it will work out for the best, but what I can tell you is that I just bought tickets to see you again, next weekend. How does that sound?
Yes, yes, I love you too, I know I’m the best sister you could possibly have and you can’t wait to see me. Just so you know, I miss you lots too. And I’m being selfish anyway. I’m kind of tired of Barcelona and the university.
I don’t feel great and I’m tired, but I did go see the play and will tell you all, as asked. Only don’t expect it to be sparkling with wit, or very long…
The show was held in a neighbourhood cultural center; nothing fancy and definitely nothing very big. The chairs were not exactly comfortable, either… No cobwebs, though, so I won’t complain much. It was so full of friends and family people had to sit down on the floor to see the play. I went with Charlie and Julia, who I swear didn’t stop holding hands all afternoon. Julia worked as a translator when we needed one, because the play was in Catalan. Still, since she had summarized it beforehand, it was quite easy to follow.
The play (La filla del mar - The Sea’s Daughter) was about an orphan girl found in a sea village after a shipwreck. She is adopted, grows up, becomes the typical Romantic heroine, passionate to the point she was somewhat scary. She was played beautifully by a girl with a wild mane of dark hair.
David played a rake. All the girls in the village wanted him, apparently, and he tricked one after the other. When the play begins, he is secretly seeing one girl, the wild girl’s step-sister, played very nicely by Carla, D’s snarky friend. When it becomes public knowledge, she convinces him to woo the heroine to throw off suspicions.
Except, well, he does fall in love with her. The heroine I mean. They are very cute together except he is still seeing the step-sister and she threatens to kill him if he ever stops loving her. To which he gives his permission. Yes, they are both mad.
Anyway, she discovers the plot, he convinces her to marry and go away with him -they kind of rolled on the floor while she tried to kill/hit him and he kissed/convinced her. I know I’m not telling the story well but it was very thrilling. And then when they are about to marry, every woman in the play turns against him-the evil step-sister, the village girls and a woman he had dumped long ago and was still bitter.
He had it coming, if you ask me.
The heroine catches him being hugged by the evil step-sister and stabs him. He dies and she throws herself to the sea. And dies, too. It was all very tragic, although he was a bastard and she was scary. I mean, I kind of hated him through the play, but David did great and you could tell he was trying to redeem himself for her.
I was kind of relieved he didn’t make it in the end. I must be very unfeeling, since half the audience cried. But, you know, he was a bastard.
In all, good play.
I’ll try and talk to dad, okay? But you know he doesn’t trust my judgement much.
Love you,
Isabel.
***
“Who’s this guy and how did he convince you to step into a nightclub?” Carla loves laughing at me. It is usually because I don’t go out, but the fact that I was going out that night wasn’t going to stop her.
“I do venture into clubs. Once a month, yes, but the theatre parties make up for it, don’t they?” You know, the ones after rehearsal. We go out each Friday, so really. How much partying can one guy do?
I was using the girl’s bathroom, as usual. I was actually trying to shave, but Carla kept looking at me from the doorframe.
“Do not shave the sideburns,” she snapped, when the razor slid too close. “You need them for our next performance.”
“But they itch. Anyway, you know Jaime. He’s the tall guy Elena is seeing. You know, the one I told you Bitter Bitch tried to kill with a glare.”
“Oh, the one that looks like a walking cologne ad!”
Yeah, you could say it like that.
We had met Jaime after the show, when he came back to greet and congratulate us. He had been invited by Elena, the girl playing the heroine, since they were kind of going out. Elena is striving to be a professional actress, and had met him at the Institut del Teatre. I take it you don’t need a translation.
Barcelona is the European city with the highest density of professional actors, you know. My company is amateur, but we are registered and all so we have a license and can go to contests and such. We don’t do that anymore, since we are all finishing university and starting to work, but it was nice. What we still do is a series of performances in four or five small towns, paid by the town council. Being the beginning of the summer and doing a very Catalan play, we did have a busy July planned.
OK, back to the story… Jaime had warmly congratulated us all and, since he was so easy-going, I liked him from the start. He had handsome, intense features, blue eyes and black wavy hair like Marlon Brando. All the girls were quite giggly around him, but you can’t blame a fellow for that.
It was his nonchalance that charmed me, and the fact he looked very comfortable talking to the perfect stranger I was. I was still high on adrenaline, and I guess that helped to the feeling of mutual understanding, but in no time at all we were chatting and laughing rather loudly in the middle of the crowd that had formed outside the changing room. People like seeing friends or relatives on stage and they all look for you afterwards to tell you how well you did. Yes, it feels great. While talking with Jaime, I highfived Dídac and Cristian, shook hands with Mario, was squeezed by my mother and kissed on still made-up cheeks by a couple of girl friends.
And then Charlie and Julia popped out of nowhere, Isabel in tow. I wasn’t expecting to see her there. Unlike my sister’s and her boyfriend’s, her eyes weren’t red-rimmed, but for a second I thought she glowed with contentment and a hint of admiration. Her cheeks were rosy and her dark eyes were bright, but the moment she took me and Jaime in, her face shuttered and the feeling was gone.
While I was hugged by Julia and carefully patted on the back by Charlie -my shirt was still soaked with false blood-I watched Isabel grow pale, then red high in the cheeks, and stab Jaime with the most venomous glare I had ever seen. He was pale, too, but held his chin high and didn’t even flinch.
Julia had asked me if I needed a ride home or something like that, so I had to look at her to say we still had to put everything back in order, and then we planned on celebrating over tapas and rum with cola.
When I looked again, Isabel was gone.
Jaime, since he was Elena’s current affair, stayed and helped us tidy the theater. He made the kind of jokes that are so easy to follow up they just keep going until the conversation makes no sense anymore and you are laughing so hard you can hardly breathe. Then he came with us to celebrate, of course, and we bonded definitely over a plate of polbo á feira. I went away with my head full of him.
And of course, since we had somehow become best pals through the night, he went away with my cellphone number and instructions to find me on Facebook. And so he had called, after a witty exchange through the site, and said he and Elena had had a fallout and if I wanted to do something on Saturday night.
By the way, I checked on him and Isabel, and he wasn’t friends with her on Facebook. Still, he did have a picture, among the hundreds in his profile, in which he was with her on a beach, both of them looking cold and slightly younger. His hair was shorter, her face was rounder, and he had an arm across her shoulders. They looked as if they had been strolling down the beach in midwinter and the photographer had called at them from behind. He was smiling. She was not.
I think I got very side-tracked here, since I actually started with me shaving and talking with Carla. I truly don’t know how to go back to that, so I’ll just drop it. Jaime Guimarán and I were friends, and went out together that night.
***
From: Izzy Díaz
To: Jaime Guimarán
Subject: Re: Se Mercé fosse amica a' miei disiri...
How dare you.
You bastard. You depraved, spiteful, venomous bastard.
So you’ve run out of money, haven’t you? What, exactly, were you trying to accomplish by emailing me? Did you think you could seduce me? Have me wrapped around your little finger again?
Nice try, looks like you put a lot of effort. Asking about Jorge. Begging forgiveness. Quoting Cavalcanti, no less. And you miss me so much.
I’ll make this as clear as it can be: Stay away from me. I don’t want to see your face again. You don’t want me to see you again. So stay clear from my university and my friends.
If you ever try this again, I’ll make sure you feel truly sorry.
Isabel, ‘that frigid little bitch’.
***
Thank you everyone for reading, and special thankyous to hlbr, my beta-reader!
Chapter 6
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
‘Doncs deia que és ric perquè no treballa, i tot el dia estrena corbates. I deia que és bon mosso i rumbós per... perquè ho és, i perquè totes se n’enamoren; i si enganya a les xicotes, que diu aquesta, és perquè elles se deixen enganyar.’
‘And so I said he’s rich ‘cause he doesn’t work, and he’s always wearing new ties. And I said he’s handsome and openhanded becase… because he is, and so all the girls fall for him; and if he tricks them, as she says, it’s only ‘cause they let him.’
Àngel Guimerà, La filla del mar
*
Se Mercé fosse amica a' miei disiri,
el movimento suo fosse dal core
di questa bella donna, e 'l su' valore
mostrasse la vertute a' mie' martiri
If Mercy were kind to my desire
and arose from the heart
of this fair lady, and its worth
showed virtue and hope to my agony…
Guido Cavalcanti
***
Sant Jordi Day is not a national holiday, which is a shame.
But in the afternoon, bookstores are as full as a pub at midnight, and rose stalls- oh OK. You see, Sant Jordi is Saint George. He was a saintly knight who slayed a dragon, saving a pretty princess from being its breakfast. A single red rose sprouted from all that dragon’s blood, or so the legend says, and that’s why boys get their girls a rose. In Catalonia, that is. Saint George is the patron saint of a dozen other countries, including England. I mean, knights, dragons, a pretty princess in distress… they loved him in the Middle Ages. He was the coolest saint by far.
It’s also the International Day of the Book, because both Shakespeare and Cervantes died on April 23rd, except they didn’t really, since when Shakespeare died they were still using the Julian calendar in England. So he actually died on our May 3rd. And Cervantes’ funeral was on the 23th, but he died the day before, I think.
Anyway. Anyway, girls buy books for their loved ones, and get to complain because they are more expensive and picking a book is not as easy as picking a red rose.
Well, in truth, everyone buys books for themselves, too, since there’s a discount, and street stalls just outside the bookshops, authors signing copies everywhere… it’s gotten very commercial, but since it’s all about selling books, I think it’s still fun.
And last Sant Jordi, Julia had a date. As in, Charlie had asked, very flustered, if she wanted to go with him, alone, to see the stalls in La Rambla. That’s a very famous street that gets very crowded and very interesting on that day. Julia had said yes.
Unfortunately, Julia had also been very good to Lola Colinas, not letting Dídac and Cristian pick on her, spending time with her and such. She had been too good, in fact, because Colinas now kept following her around, not leaving her alone for one second. I mean, really, you got home, asked “Where’s Julia?” and Colinas was all “Got into the bathroom three minutes ago.” Creepy.
One free afternoon was very much out of the question, as you might guess. As soon as she knew Julia was going out, she insisted on going with her, too. Julia was too shy to tell her she was actually looking forward being alone with Charlie, and too modest to actually believe it was the date it obviously was. So she wouldn’t say anything to her. It would have been the easiest way, wouldn’t it? “Look, Lola, I have a date, I can’t pretend I like you this afternoon.”
Julia explained to me, patiently enough, that Lola was very insecure, lacked social skills and must have led a very lonely life so far. I said Lola should learn to make friends -and, most importantly, to keep those she had. She needed constant attention and kept doing that thing of being both ridiculously humble and terribly self-centered. And the whining, the whinning got on my nerves like anything else could. Not to mention she had views on everything, and insisted on lecturing you no matter how offensive you found it.
Yes, I didn’t like her much.
But I ended up playing the martyr knight for Julia’s sake. I agreed to go meet Charlie with them and then discreetly take Lola away, leaving Julia and Charlie as alone as they could be in a street that packed with people.
That was the plan, anyway. It was a big enough sacrifice as it was, wasn’t it? Yet fate was against me. When we came out of the subway just at the beginning of La Rambla, and squinted around in the sun looking for Charlie, we found both Charlie and Isabel. Yay. They were saying goodbye to each other, but stopped when they realized Julia hadn't come alone, either.
"Oh my gosh, Isabel! Remember me? I work for don Carlos in Granada!" Lola practically threw herself at her in order to kiss her cheeks. Isabel stared at her, taken aback.
"Yes, I think I do. What was your name again?" I bet she knew, too. She looked like she knew exactly who Lola Colinas was and felt horrified at having found her there.
I tried not to laugh and turned to Charlie and Julia. They were standing quite close, beaming to each other and apparently planning their afternoon. "David and Lola will supposedly go their way," she was saying, in a hushed voice, and Charlie looked at me, grinned and then went,
"See, Izzy? You don't have to wander alone, you can get together with David and, er, Lola."
I would have expected her to refuse and run for her life, but instead she looked at me and frowned. As if this was my fault. She was wearing her hair high in a ponytail and the wind made it curl around her long neck.
"But, aren't we all going together?" Lola whined to Julia.
"Sure! Yes… This is Charlie…"
And so introductions were made. I didn’t miss the look Isabel gave Charlie over Lola’s shoulder. It plainly said, “Beware of her! Honestly, the things I do for you!”
Charlie didn’t seem to get it but, to his credit, he promptly set to monopolyze Julia’s attention and they soon were walking down the street together, hands casually brushing with each step. The street was packed. They had trouble advancing, and so did we. We followed them for a while, me trying to distract Lola, Lola trying to catch up with Julia, and Isabel bringing up the rear.
La Rambla is not one of my favorite streets. It apparently was very picturesque some decades back, but now it's all too turistic and has lost most of its charm. In my opinion, at least. It still has flower stalls, though, and pet stalls, and human statues. The human statue business is fun, I'll admit to that. Last year there were street musicians and performance artists, but they are all banned now because of pickpockets.
I remembered I was there with a couple of tourists, I turned to my charges and said, stopping them dead in their tracks, “Watch out and keep an eye on your belongings, OK?”
To which Lola said, “Where are they? I can’t see them anymore!”
She was talking about the happy couple, not her money. They had started darting conspicuous glances at us a while ago, all giggly, so it was possible they were currently hiding from us. At least I hoped so. We looked around. They had crossed the street and were quitting La Rambla entirely, Julia waving back at me laughingly and Charlie tugging her towards a small café.
“There they are! Hey!” Lola exclaimed, waving back. As she started forward, Isabel tossed her hair and grabbed the girl by the shoulder, having suddenly lost all patience.
“Listen now, Colinas. We are going to let them go. In case you hadn’t noticed, my friend needs a little privacy with your friend, and I don’t think she has any objections.” She glanced up to me at that, and I shrugged. No objections, no. She glared back at Lola. “So you either come with us or you go home, but stop being a pain in the ass.”
OK, that was rough. I was half expecting Lola to cry, or at least to go home. She didn’t. She sulked a bit and shrugged, too, consenting. Too late, I realized Isabel had created a parallel outing just then. Sure, I could say goodbye and leave, ‘cause I really didn’t want to spend the afternoon with two of the most annoying girls I knew. But there I was, feeling sorry for Lola, and for Isabel too. I mean, she was making the same sacrifice I had offered to do. The three of us were rather pathetic, really. So I felt I should at least show them around.
We didn’t have much to talk about, except for literature. Well, and the fact that Lola lived with me and worked for Isabel’s granddad. They talked about his health for a while, and then I told them my dad lived near Granada too. I don’t know why I did that, because then I got invited… OK, I know, they were talking about the exquisite library the man has when I happened to mention I’m usually there in August. Lola said I could call and go have a look. The man apparently lives in this sort of hacienda and Lola is there all day, serving as a sort of secretary. Isabel said nothing, only looked up quite sharply. Not a surprise, really.
Then we talked about how Isabel is from Madrid but was studying in Salamanca and lived there with her cousin, and Lola wanted to meet that cousin, bla bla bla (that is, yadda yadda yadda). I kind of zoned out because anyway it was mostly Lola doing all the talking and I had to concentrate on navigating the street. They both kept bumping into me and it was becoming annoying. More than just talking to them, you know.
We headed back towards the Fnac, sorting the Corte Inglés’ stalls -they are both big shops, and once there we thankfully decided to split and meet there ten minutes later. As soon as she got back, Lola picked up her long explanation of don Carlos’s views on gay marriage (don’t ask) right where she had left it. Isabel, carrying half a dozen books, didn’t even look like she was listening. So I had to nod and say “Aha” in all the right places for the two of us.
I herded them towards the nearest Starbucks, where I treated them to coffee and convinced Lola to buy herself a couple of cookies, too.
You see, she doesn’t talk when she is eating.
It’s marvelous.
We found a bench in the sun and sat down to relax. I thought all was well and that I could relax and just listen to the silence -OK, to the traffic and the crowd and so on. Let me tell you, those are way less stressful than Lola. But then it was Isabel who tried to start a conversation.
I kid you not.
“You have cut your hair,” she said.
I didn’t like her reproachful tone at all. I shifted and drew a hand through the hairs at the nape of my neck. It felt weird, because my hair had reached the collar of my shirts before. Carla had cut it for me, and now the April breeze against my neck made me feel cold.
“Yes. For the play.”
“Are the sideburns for the play too?”
She sounded nearly mocking, to me at least. I glanced at Lola, to see if she thought so too, but she was just looking at us curiously from behind the whipped cream in her frappuccino.
“Yes. I was supposed to wear a moustache too, but there was a shaving accident. Maybe it will grow back in a week. I rather hope not.” It had to be one of those little curly moustaches, you know, and that just looks ridiculous on me. Well, on any guy, really, no matter what Carla says.
Isabel picked at her muffin. She looked like she was making this huge effort just by being there with us, buying books like the rich girl she was, drinking an almond flavoured latte and making conversation. And don’t forget the blueberry muffin. It must have been torture.
“When’s the play?”
“Next Thursday.”
“Is it in Catalan?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” She looked up, and a strand of hair in the ponytail got tangled with her long earrings. She reached up to untangle it. She had very slender and white hands.
“You look good. You were starting to look like a gypsy.”
Thank you, Isabel.
I don’t know what’s wrong about looking like a gypsy. Not that I want to look like one, but you know. She just sounded so condescending. It irked me as much as Lola’s borrowed opinions on gay marriage had.
I got up and said I wanted to check some other place where they might have a better poetry selection. Unfortunately, they thought it was a good idea, and decided to come with me.
As we strolled towards this other library, we discussed favourite genres and styles. Lola loved Naturalistic novels. They bore me to death, because they are always about women cheating their husbands and everything ends miserably for everyone. They aren’t even tragic. They are just sad.
Isabel said, quite curtly, that she liked poetry in general, especially that of the Golden Age-that covers both Renaissance and Baroque-and first half of the twentieth century.
“I love the origins of fictional prose, up to Cervantes,” I said, and Isabel eyed me incredulously. We were just stepping inside the library, and heading toward the interesting shelves. Lola had paused by the novelty books outside. She doesn’t listen much to what other people say.
“The what?” Isabel said.
“Well, you know. Chivalric romances, mostly.”
She didn’t understand, that was clear. Most people don’t, you see, because not many Spanish romance manuscripts have survived, and there isn’t much to study on that. Catalan tradition is better, although not as good as French. But then in Spain Cervantes wrote Don Quixote. A masterpiece must be the best ending a genre could have, don’t you think?
I just like the style. And the knights that can cut a giant in two and then die of love two pages later. It reminds me of the way I saw the world when I was six and watched Dragon Ball on TV.
I didn’t try to explain this to Isabel, who went, still dead-panned,
”But they are... boring. And so long.” She made a gesture with her hands, as if measuring a thick book.
“Maybe you aren’t reading them well.” Haha. Now she looked incredulous. In italics. She raised one eyebrow and I explained: “You see, they were meant to be read aloud…”
“I know that.”
“Yes. But people didn’t have to listen to the whole book… Think of the Amadís as a soap-opera.” The Amadís de Gaula is a four-volume book on a knight, published in Spain on 1508. “You can watch one episode one day, and then another one two weeks later, and it’s OK. You don’t have to read it as a real novel. And it does work better when you read it aloud.”
“So you are telling me you like medieval soap-operas best? Of all Spanish literature?”
I grinned, but only to annoy her.
She smiled back and wandered off, and I was left to puzzle.
Ten minutes later, she was back, carrying seven new poetry books plus the half a dozen she had bought before. I was still at the same spot, leafing through the book I had wanted but couldn’t buy since January or so.
It was a romance, what else, but it was the best romance in prose in the world. You will not have heard about it because it’s Catalan-or rather, Valencian. It’s called Tirant lo Blanch-Tirant the White, the name of the knight. In Cervantes’ words, “In all truth, my friend, by right of its style this is the best book in the world: here knights eat, and sleep, and write their will before dying, among other things that all the rest of books of this genre lack.”
They also fall off their horses, lust after princesses and conquer Constantinople back.
Of course I already had the book at home, but the edition I was looking at was one big volume with good glossy paper, proper footnotes, colorful pictures evoking miniature illustrations and a price I couldn’t actually pay right then. Or back in January.
“Oh, pretty,” she said. Pretty.
I closed the book and put it back in the shelf.
“Yeah. Can’t buy it at the moment, though. I know myself and haven’t brought enough money.”
She took the book out again and searched for the price. It was fifty euros, with the discount. “Credit card?”
“Same reason. Anyway, by this time of the year I’ve spent too much of what I earned in the summer.”
“Do you work in the summer?” She had braced the book and was looking at me with inscrutable eyes. Why did she keep doing that? It was unnerving. I guessed she didn’t work at all, since her parents would surely pay for everything.
“I wait in a bar in Granada. And I tutor a few kids during the school year, so I can -what are you doing?” The end of the sentence was ‘so I can buy drinks and cinema tickets or pay for motorbike repairs, not buy way-too-expensive books’, but Isabel had suddenly picked both her purchases and the Tirant and was heading towards the paying line.
She looked at me, clearly not taking me very seriously. “What does it look like? It should look like I’m buying you a book. Here,” she said, putting all the books in my arms so she could look for her wallet.
“No, you are not. It’s too expensive.”
“There’s a discount.” She took out a credit card and raised her eyebrows at me, as if telling me to shut up.
“But you won’t get the money back ‘til August!” I had to protest, no matter how much I wanted the book.
She stared at me as if I was stupid. “You don’t have to pay me back.”
I pushed the books back into her arms. “Yes I have.”
She looked seriously displeased and placed the books on the counter. She glared at the poor cashier. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
We got out and Lola joined us, starting to say something. But as she opened her mouth to speak, Isabel handed me my new book and said, “I’m going home.”
So she had finally grown tired of hanging out, as I had been expecting.
“Me too,” I said. “Lola, you coming?”
I had to buy the roses yet. I had thought I’d need three of them, for mom, Carla and Julia. And right then I realized I’d have to buy one for Lola too, so she would have at least one and not be the only rose-less girl in the flat. Well, she had a rose, they give them out at the stalls when you purchase a book, but it’s not the same thing, is it?
What I didn’t want was feeling forced to get one for Isabel. Especially since she was suddenly moody and didn’t even kiss our cheeks goodbye. I’m not sure she even said goodbye, to tell you the truth.
On the way to the subway station, I bought sunflower seeds for Lola to nibble. And I got an instant message from Julia: "Tell mom I'm staying at Caro's tonight! I'm so happy!"
***
From: Izzy Díaz
To: Jorge Díaz
Subject: Big big hugs
Don’t despair, love.
Yes, I know it’s easy for me to say. I’m not there in goddamned Scotland, I have few problems, and I’m of age so dad can’t control me. But you know he means well.
I can’t say it will work out for the best, but what I can tell you is that I just bought tickets to see you again, next weekend. How does that sound?
Yes, yes, I love you too, I know I’m the best sister you could possibly have and you can’t wait to see me. Just so you know, I miss you lots too. And I’m being selfish anyway. I’m kind of tired of Barcelona and the university.
I don’t feel great and I’m tired, but I did go see the play and will tell you all, as asked. Only don’t expect it to be sparkling with wit, or very long…
The show was held in a neighbourhood cultural center; nothing fancy and definitely nothing very big. The chairs were not exactly comfortable, either… No cobwebs, though, so I won’t complain much. It was so full of friends and family people had to sit down on the floor to see the play. I went with Charlie and Julia, who I swear didn’t stop holding hands all afternoon. Julia worked as a translator when we needed one, because the play was in Catalan. Still, since she had summarized it beforehand, it was quite easy to follow.
The play (La filla del mar - The Sea’s Daughter) was about an orphan girl found in a sea village after a shipwreck. She is adopted, grows up, becomes the typical Romantic heroine, passionate to the point she was somewhat scary. She was played beautifully by a girl with a wild mane of dark hair.
David played a rake. All the girls in the village wanted him, apparently, and he tricked one after the other. When the play begins, he is secretly seeing one girl, the wild girl’s step-sister, played very nicely by Carla, D’s snarky friend. When it becomes public knowledge, she convinces him to woo the heroine to throw off suspicions.
Except, well, he does fall in love with her. The heroine I mean. They are very cute together except he is still seeing the step-sister and she threatens to kill him if he ever stops loving her. To which he gives his permission. Yes, they are both mad.
Anyway, she discovers the plot, he convinces her to marry and go away with him -they kind of rolled on the floor while she tried to kill/hit him and he kissed/convinced her. I know I’m not telling the story well but it was very thrilling. And then when they are about to marry, every woman in the play turns against him-the evil step-sister, the village girls and a woman he had dumped long ago and was still bitter.
He had it coming, if you ask me.
The heroine catches him being hugged by the evil step-sister and stabs him. He dies and she throws herself to the sea. And dies, too. It was all very tragic, although he was a bastard and she was scary. I mean, I kind of hated him through the play, but David did great and you could tell he was trying to redeem himself for her.
I was kind of relieved he didn’t make it in the end. I must be very unfeeling, since half the audience cried. But, you know, he was a bastard.
In all, good play.
I’ll try and talk to dad, okay? But you know he doesn’t trust my judgement much.
Love you,
Isabel.
***
“Who’s this guy and how did he convince you to step into a nightclub?” Carla loves laughing at me. It is usually because I don’t go out, but the fact that I was going out that night wasn’t going to stop her.
“I do venture into clubs. Once a month, yes, but the theatre parties make up for it, don’t they?” You know, the ones after rehearsal. We go out each Friday, so really. How much partying can one guy do?
I was using the girl’s bathroom, as usual. I was actually trying to shave, but Carla kept looking at me from the doorframe.
“Do not shave the sideburns,” she snapped, when the razor slid too close. “You need them for our next performance.”
“But they itch. Anyway, you know Jaime. He’s the tall guy Elena is seeing. You know, the one I told you Bitter Bitch tried to kill with a glare.”
“Oh, the one that looks like a walking cologne ad!”
Yeah, you could say it like that.
We had met Jaime after the show, when he came back to greet and congratulate us. He had been invited by Elena, the girl playing the heroine, since they were kind of going out. Elena is striving to be a professional actress, and had met him at the Institut del Teatre. I take it you don’t need a translation.
Barcelona is the European city with the highest density of professional actors, you know. My company is amateur, but we are registered and all so we have a license and can go to contests and such. We don’t do that anymore, since we are all finishing university and starting to work, but it was nice. What we still do is a series of performances in four or five small towns, paid by the town council. Being the beginning of the summer and doing a very Catalan play, we did have a busy July planned.
OK, back to the story… Jaime had warmly congratulated us all and, since he was so easy-going, I liked him from the start. He had handsome, intense features, blue eyes and black wavy hair like Marlon Brando. All the girls were quite giggly around him, but you can’t blame a fellow for that.
It was his nonchalance that charmed me, and the fact he looked very comfortable talking to the perfect stranger I was. I was still high on adrenaline, and I guess that helped to the feeling of mutual understanding, but in no time at all we were chatting and laughing rather loudly in the middle of the crowd that had formed outside the changing room. People like seeing friends or relatives on stage and they all look for you afterwards to tell you how well you did. Yes, it feels great. While talking with Jaime, I highfived Dídac and Cristian, shook hands with Mario, was squeezed by my mother and kissed on still made-up cheeks by a couple of girl friends.
And then Charlie and Julia popped out of nowhere, Isabel in tow. I wasn’t expecting to see her there. Unlike my sister’s and her boyfriend’s, her eyes weren’t red-rimmed, but for a second I thought she glowed with contentment and a hint of admiration. Her cheeks were rosy and her dark eyes were bright, but the moment she took me and Jaime in, her face shuttered and the feeling was gone.
While I was hugged by Julia and carefully patted on the back by Charlie -my shirt was still soaked with false blood-I watched Isabel grow pale, then red high in the cheeks, and stab Jaime with the most venomous glare I had ever seen. He was pale, too, but held his chin high and didn’t even flinch.
Julia had asked me if I needed a ride home or something like that, so I had to look at her to say we still had to put everything back in order, and then we planned on celebrating over tapas and rum with cola.
When I looked again, Isabel was gone.
Jaime, since he was Elena’s current affair, stayed and helped us tidy the theater. He made the kind of jokes that are so easy to follow up they just keep going until the conversation makes no sense anymore and you are laughing so hard you can hardly breathe. Then he came with us to celebrate, of course, and we bonded definitely over a plate of polbo á feira. I went away with my head full of him.
And of course, since we had somehow become best pals through the night, he went away with my cellphone number and instructions to find me on Facebook. And so he had called, after a witty exchange through the site, and said he and Elena had had a fallout and if I wanted to do something on Saturday night.
By the way, I checked on him and Isabel, and he wasn’t friends with her on Facebook. Still, he did have a picture, among the hundreds in his profile, in which he was with her on a beach, both of them looking cold and slightly younger. His hair was shorter, her face was rounder, and he had an arm across her shoulders. They looked as if they had been strolling down the beach in midwinter and the photographer had called at them from behind. He was smiling. She was not.
I think I got very side-tracked here, since I actually started with me shaving and talking with Carla. I truly don’t know how to go back to that, so I’ll just drop it. Jaime Guimarán and I were friends, and went out together that night.
***
From: Izzy Díaz
To: Jaime Guimarán
Subject: Re: Se Mercé fosse amica a' miei disiri...
How dare you.
You bastard. You depraved, spiteful, venomous bastard.
So you’ve run out of money, haven’t you? What, exactly, were you trying to accomplish by emailing me? Did you think you could seduce me? Have me wrapped around your little finger again?
Nice try, looks like you put a lot of effort. Asking about Jorge. Begging forgiveness. Quoting Cavalcanti, no less. And you miss me so much.
I’ll make this as clear as it can be: Stay away from me. I don’t want to see your face again. You don’t want me to see you again. So stay clear from my university and my friends.
If you ever try this again, I’ll make sure you feel truly sorry.
Isabel, ‘that frigid little bitch’.
***
Thank you everyone for reading, and special thankyous to hlbr, my beta-reader!
Chapter 6