Sanibel Scribbles (35 page)

“Great. Thou art a complete weirdo,” she mumbled to herself. She had no idea that her choice of words included ancient verses only used in
libros
, though books were where she had learned most of her Spanish. She defended herself by telling him about the Ancient Spanish Literature class she had taken at school last semester. It’s why her words sounded a bit outdated. But that was why she came to study in Spain, to transform words learned from a book into living, breathing conversation.

From her language style to her clothes, the observant, outspoken stranger sounded as if he were writing a commentary. She felt alienated and abducted, and wouldn’t have been surprised if he had drawn out a silver needle to probe her next.

Instead, he asked about her red-and-black sweater. Where had she bought it?

She told him it came from a boutique in Florida.

Then he asked how she liked wearing the pointy shoes of
Europa
.

She desperately needed to complain to someone about the narrow eighty-dollar pair of shoes she had bought and felt like a native as she yelled at the black torture devices on her feet. She told him she couldn’t wait until the end of the day so she could change into her comfortable American loafers. He bent down and touched her shoes, and that she found odd.

All this time, his car engine was running, so he excused himself,
un momento
, and returned with the keys.
“Perdoname, como se llames? ¿He sido hablando, pero no he preguntado su nombre?”

She hesitated, understanding his question but debating whether she would actually give her name to a man in Spain, a stranger with a fascination for her clothes, her shoes and the ancient style of her language.

“Vicki,” she replied.

“¿
Victoria?”

“Vicki.”

“Victoria, que hermosa!”
He kissed her once on each cheek, then asked for her last name, too.

She felt each kiss, so close to her lips, yet far, intimate and somewhat daring, yet completely innocent and only friendly. She knew the double kiss was simply custom in this country, a place full of romance. For a teasing split second, it brought this man close up and, like a wild, edible plant, he was good enough to bite, but of course she’d never do such a thing.

“Victoria. Victoria de los Estados de Unidos,”
she answered. He’d have to settle for that
“Quien esta?”
She asked his name to be polite.

He played along with her game. “Yo
soy Rafael. Rafael de Espana.”
She asked Rafael from Spain where in Spain he lived.

He explained that he came to Madrid frequently on business, but lived on a yacht in northern Spain. He worked as a fashion designer in Spain, Italy, and France.

Sure
, she thought, suspiciously, feeling ahead of the game.
I’ve read Danielle Steele. He probably wishes he worked as one. What an innovative way to capture my attention! Imagine me, a young, naive Americana falling for a pretend European fashion designer. Please, Rafael, just be yourself. You’re a nice hombre. Besides, I’m not attracted to you because you drive a Mercedes, nor because you dress well. These things don’t make a person. Better yet, I’m not attracted to you at all. I just understand your Spanish better than anyone else’s in this country. Normally, I go for personality, but I can’t seem to translate personality yet. All Spaniards have the same personality to me at this elementary stage in my language interpretation
.

“Que?”
She came out of her English-language daydream, realizing he had asked her something. Her mind took a moment to translate it.
Oh yes, what time does my class start?
She glanced at her watch, but, like a cruel joke, it looked as if it spoke another language as well. She was too nervous to figure out which dot meant what hour. That required more translating. She knew she shouldn’t have bought a watch with dots.

Again, Rafael asked her what time her first
clase
started, and when she told him nine-thirty, he glanced at his black leather wristwatch and
laughed, telling her it was now almost ten-thirty. They had been standing on the curb under the arch for an hour, speaking in Spanish.

“Oh no, no! My first class in Spain, oh, and my second too!
¡Tengo que ir!”

“Mañana,”
he declared.

“Mañana?
Tomorrow? What do you mean?” she asked with disgust. “No
te preocupes, hay mas clases mañana,”
he said.

“Of course there’s more classes tomorrow, but today was my first day of classes. This is not good!” She knew her words had switched to English, but that happened under pressure.

“Mañana, mañana, mañana, Victoria.”
He laughed, a laugh that normally would make her feel as if he were laughing at her, but those dimples pardoned him; then he pressed a button on his key chain and the trunk of his Mercedes popped open. Inside were piles of white blouses with opaque floral sleeves neatly placed over silky skirts. With his nod of approval, Vicki took a closer peek and touched the soft fabric of a pale pink blouse.

“Te gustan las ropas, Victoria? Tu puedes tenerlos, si quieres!
”

Had he offered to give her the clothes? She felt sure he had said they would probably fit her, and that she could pick one or two for keeps. No, that would be an embarrassment if she didn’t hear him correctly, so instead she shook her head and walked back to the sidewalk.

“¿Te gustan? ¿Te gustan?”
he asked in the same tone Rosario used when she asked if Vicki liked dinner. He grabbed a blouse and held it up to her.

“¿Si, me gusta mucho!”
She loved the clothes.

“¿Victoria, por favor, me gustaria tomarte a un restarante, si quieres?”
He looked nothing like the European male stick man Rebecca had scribbled on the tablecloth that night. This figure had dimples, something stick men didn’t have. And this figure certainly wasn’t naked. No, he was gorgeously dressed. Yes, he was much better, so much more in-depth than the silly little scribble, so she accepted his gift and agreed to meet for dinner. First, he’d be in France on business, and said he wouldn’t be back until early October. So they agreed to meet on October fourth at six-thirty in the evening.

He asked where he should pick her up, and she remembered that her
Spanish family never had anyone up to the apartment. She didn’t want to expose her Spanish family’s apartment to some stranger. She was the one to stop, turn, smile, and talk in the first place, so she’d pay the consequences if this man turned out to be a foreign creep. She told him she’d meet him on the main corner of El Corte Inglés, the seven-story department store that stood a block from the family’s apartment.

Rafael flipped throughout the pages of a black leather day planner and scribbled the date, time, and place, then drew a big heart and wrote “Victoria.” He wrote the same on another page, ripped it out, and handed it to Vicki as a reminder.

Wow, that’s quite a way to confirm a date!
She had to admire his finesse.

As he drove away, he waved his hand out the window until he could no longer see as the American woman with books in hand turned in the opposite direction from the university, heading for the Prado Museum at the other end of Madrid.

Visiting the museum clicked. It immediately became her place—a comfort zone in a big city in a big country in a mammoth world.
The world is large and easily overwhelming, and that is why it must be broken down. That is why people of all ages need to find their hangouts, their escapes, and little hiding places in life
, she wrote to her grandmother later.

While staring at the works of sixteenth- to eighteenth-century Spanish artists on the main floor of the museum, Vicki felt guilty for skipping her first two classes in Madrid. She blamed Rafael partially for her first skipped class, but she had had plenty of time to make the rest of her classes. Instead, she had chosen one of the world’s most famous art museums and convinced herself that she must live with such decisions. A museum could teach more than a classroom. Eventually, instead of feeling guilty, she felt risky, dangerous, and terribly adventurous. She told herself not to make eye contact next time, to keep walking, even if someone needed directions. Besides, who would dare ask a blonde with not a single dark root for directions in Madrid?
What a yahoo
, she decided. She couldn’t wait to write Grandma all about this character, who seemed to have popped straight out of a romance novel. Yes, Grandma would love the details about Rafael.

She heard the tour guide say in Spanish that the broad spectrum of paintings reflected the personal tastes, religious beliefs, and political power of the Spanish Crown dating back to the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. She listened, she learned, she thought. The Prado Museum became her place to stare and think. Who had time for staring and thinking? No one, but she made time.

She decided not to tell anyone of her encounter with Rafael. She had plenty of time to decide if she would dare meet up with this
hombre
on October fourth. He himself probably wouldn’t remember her in two weeks, let alone their scheduled date. Would she actually stand on a corner waiting for such a man three weeks from now? Probably not, she decided later, while looking at Goya’s works downstairs.

For the rest of the school week and the following week, she arrived early to reserve a front-row seat, and left each class with a severe headache. Listening and trying to recognize the Spanish words of her professors proved a strain. In one class, she was taught something about Spain consisting of two great kingdoms for two whole centuries of its history—Moors and Jews, if she heard right. Both had diverse dialects. The Spanish civilization during Moorish supremacy thrived. There were schools built, and many were free so that poor people could attend. She caught fragments of facts, nothing more.

As the days passed, her mind worked overtime listening, interpreting, and taking notes that flipped back and forth from Spanish to English. She felt confused, not knowing in which language she should make her notes. Her brain heard Spanish and tried to convert the Spanish into English. Should she take notes in Spanish or English? She worried that straining might create an indented fault line on her forehead. Late at night, she looked up the meanings of unknown words in her Spanish-English dictionary, and then studied her notes from class thoroughly.

After closing her dictionary, she would sit in bed late at night and noticed an old familiar problem returning. A terrible knifelike pain darted through her heart, accompanied by shortness of breath. Drained as she felt from interpreting her classes, she fought off sleep and stubbornly stayed awake for hours. She didn’t mind not sleeping—she only wished
she knew of something productive to make of the night, like tarpon fishing or chatting by the lighthouse. Soon, she promised herself, she would get to know Madrid at night.

Dear Grandma
,

When I can’t fall asleep at night, I look forward to the next day’s siesta. This entire country naps a couple of hours a day. I always viewed napping as a sport for babies. Maybe some Spaniards throw tantrums, but probably not. Owners close up shop, business people keep sofas in the back of their offices for resting, and insomniacs refresh themselves. I love the concept and wonder if I might be influential enough to take the siesta back to America with me. But where would everyone go to nap? At least in Madrid they can walk home to their apartments, or lie on a bench in one of the many parks. I guess Americans in the corporate world could bring mats and nap in the hallways or conference rooms. The lights could go off, and there’d be blankets handed out and a stardust lady to tap naughty nap takers on the shoulder
.

But no, only babies and cats nap, and for good reason. There’d be too many sexual harassment claims centered on naptime in America. People would have to lock their doors and sleep safely in their offices
.

Could the United States handle closing down business for an hour every day? Naptime would have to be mutually declared and perhaps made into a law. The siesta could only work if everyone went down for a nap at the same time. Winston Churchill napped daily and claimed that when the war started, it was the only way he could cope with his responsibilities. If I were president, I would declare a war on stress and mandate every U.S. citizen to take a one-hour nap every day. I wish my country would wake up to the benefits of the siesta, especially because everyone might then have more energy for fiestas and
for appreciating the night
.

P.S. Do you ever sleep up there? Probably not. You are no longer limited by fatigue, aches and pains, disease, or mental worries, so why would you need sleep?