The International Writers Magazine: Spain

---

La Madrugada • Paul Read To a random rhythm, my fingers strum the mattress, limbs jerking intermittently and, as always during the restless hours before sunrise, my mind focuses on anything other than sleep. I lie looking at the tree outside the window, luminous green under the light of the wrought iron lamp that clings, with lizard-like tenacity, to the decaying masonry of the house.

Spanish Steps© Sam North

The relentless heat that accumulates throughout the day in this city of stone is transformed into a nervous energy that fills the veins of a thief and the twitching muscles of my legs. I fumble my way out from under the swathe of mosquito netting and tiptoe into the living room. Dragging a chair to the balcony, I sit down and rest my elbows on the railing.

Staring out into the sombre blackness of the empty plaza, I try to imagine the big man climbing his metal towers in search of copper serpents to sell, but his image melts into stone. From the convent opposite, where El Greco lies and Indian Nuns hold mass, to the plaque that speaks of Bequer’s short stay, everything in this small square seems to sigh for what it once held.

Though when we first came to this medieval metropolis seeking the cheapest rental in town, it appeared to be a beating heart in an otherwise comatose Castillian setting.

From early morning until mid-afternoon, the plaza is a tourist hotspot visited by those in search of what it once held. Flanked by convents and churches, the steep walls of the square are broken only by a few ruins that surround a crumbling corner 18th century building. It was here that we had just been shown the top floor flat, an appropriately arid and abandoned apartment. A deposit had been handed over and some old rusty keys thrust into our hands. We had believed the house to be empty apart from us, but as we emerged from the doorway into that lazy siesta sunshine, we were assaulted by the sound of approaching flamenco. A rusted, clanking overloaded Nissen-Trade van appeared over the brow of the hill leading up to the square, emitting at deafening decibels, the sound of 'Radio Olé'. Instead of parking, the van just stopped. Out tumbled a small frisky white dog and a numerous Portuguese gypsy family.

We recognised the driver, a dark skinned burly and sweaty man of about 30 years old. He was the unofficial parking attendant of the plaza, heaving double-parked cars with hand brakes off, back and forth to allow one to leave or another to enter. Stepping into the shade of a tree he shouted to us above the music. ‘Hola, I'm Albino,’ and then threw his head back and laughed a hearty chuckle, sure that we would appreciate the irony of his name. At only about five foot eight, he appeared a giant with sparkling eyes and a boyish grin. This compact scaffolding bore about 16 stone of fat, a little muscle and countless scars. The few tight-fitting clothes he wore begged to stay on him. Albino thrust a twisted hand towards me.
‘And this’, he said calling over a smaller version of himself, ‘little Albino, wife Cristina, daughters, Tamara, Rosio…’

The others were introduced as visiting cousins and wore mostly nylon with an array of hats perched at awkward angles, reflecting positions in an otherwise unspoken hierarchy. Despite the strength of the late afternoon sun, no-one wore sunglasses. I removed mine.
His eyes flickered above my head, ‘You take flat over us?’
I jangled the keys. The children giggled and pulled at our clothes and the dog bounced in front of us.
‘And this is Miki,’ added Tamara, a beautiful seven year old princess who was clutching a bundle of curly fur to her chest, ‘do you want to kiss him?’
‘Tsk, Tamara’ scolded Christina and approached us with her smile. ‘Too long, no neighbours’. Then she kissed us and the children bounced this time and the dog pulled at our clothes. Albino shook my hand again, cousins slapped our backs and I felt obliged to kiss the dog.

La madrugada: The meeting hour for itinerant spirits. Have we met somewhere before? Did we know each other back then? History catches up on us. It seeps out from cobbled patio floors, sliding under warped balcony doors, until it finds us, nestled in our insular disconnected world. The nuns in the convent come from a small village in India. The forefathers of Albino and the nomadic hats left Asia for North Africa before entering Europe. And we, who delight in demarcation, are we any different from our ancestors who left Africa, settled later in India before heading north? We all are cousins here. With or without the hat.

Over time, I found in Albino a sumo-like grace in his shifting of vehicles, the slapping of hands on metal and the grunts of exertion. And when he spoke the plaza took note. When Cristina’s mother came round in the morning, to pick up one of the children to join her, begging round the tourist bars, Albino would bawl from his bed-room to leave him in peace. When Miki barked frivolously at hapless cyclists crossing the square, Albino would bellow from some dark interior of his flat. He yelled from bedroom to kitchen, from patio to plaza, from driving seat to passenger seat and as he counted the coins his daughter had extracted from tourists that morning. But his was not the only voice I heard. My morning foray to the grocery shop would supply me with more than just bread and milk: ‘Keep your doors locked, they’ll steal anything … … what sort of loaf was it...? …kids don’t go to school … …beg in the streets with that witch... …anything else?’

Re-entering the plaza, I would stand and lean against one of the trees, sheltering from the early morning sun as it's warm rays played kaleidoscopic games of light on the sea of metal car roofs; the only sound, the discordant chime of a distant church bell. And then Albino would emerge from the patio, cussing loudly, pulling down the ever-rising hem of his ill-fitting t-shirt. His bulky form, zigzagging through shadow until he reached the safety of his van. One particular morning, with radio at full volume, he cranked open the doors and began to unload old bits of iron and coils of plastic coated copper wiring. From his back trouser pocket he produced a switchblade and with mastery, began to peel away the soft outer skin of the wire with an accustomed and unnerving ease.
He looked over gesturing me towards him. ‘Ven, Pablo, ven.’
‘Buenos dias!’ He shouted.
‘Buenos dias Albino.’ I stepped into the shadow of his vehicle and removed my sunglasses. Peering over his shoulder into the back of the van I could see a large church bell, wedged between piles of magazines and newspapers.
He laughed. ‘Police say Albino no work plaza any more. Albino find own work.’
‘What sort of work?’
‘Madrugada work. Lead from roofs, copper from electricity poles, paper from big green bins’. A twisted finger pointed away from the recycle bins at the north end of the square. ‘Sell old furniture from city dump…. and other things.’ His eyes held mine. ‘You and me we go to dump later Pablo, when it is dark. We find you some chairs for your empty flat’
‘Actually, we quite like it empty Albino.’
‘No good Pablo’. He pointed the blade at my throat. ‘Neighbours will talk.’

After midnight the plaza awoke again and I could hear the nocturnal tours arrive. I was trying not to move as moving expended energy and expending energy provoked an uncomfortable sweat. But sleep evaded me. I got up and dragged a chair to its usual spot. Below on the cobbled floor, tour-guides stepped around the slumbering forms of the visiting hats and a dissonant voice emerged from the van. Under the light of the chameleon lamp sat Albino trying to connect an electric keyboard to the van battery. Beside him, Cristina was peeling the skin from copper snakes. She looked up.
‘Buenos noches Pablo. You like Albino’s madrugada music?’
‘Buenas noches Christina, buenas noches Albino. It is difficult to appreciate his fine voice over the snoring of your cousins under my balcony window. Why not play inside the flat where there are better acoustics, electricity, and wall sockets’.
‘No light in flat,’ barked Albino, ‘no power. Cut off yesterday. Can’t see keyboard.’
‘No power! What will you do?’
‘Cousin on roof now. Soon have power again’.
I looked above me and saw movement. Then a cable swung down and one of the hats rose from the cobbles to drag it into a bedroom window.
‘Anyway, we go soon. Olive picking work.’
‘Go! For good?’
‘Two, maybe three months. First need to find school for kids.’
‘Do you know that the locals don’t believe you send your kids to school?’
He shrugged and then laughed. ‘Hey Pablo, you know why I’m Albino?’
‘Because of your fair skin?’
He hurriedly looked into the van wing mirror and pointed at his cheek. ‘No, I’m dark Pablo. When I was baby, I cry every day in sun. Sun hurt eyes. So I only go out at night’
‘So where’s your pink eyes then?’
‘A kilo of pink grapefruit please’
‘He’s the one. Lives above them.’ The shop assistant was addressing the customer behind me. ‘I’ve warned him, keep your car doors locked, don’t lend them any money, look for another flat. Kilo of what was it?’

In the safety of the twilight hours, Albino was in his element on the van roof, tying down mattresses, old doors, tarpaulins and kids bikes. Half a dozen assorted hats were piling essentials into the vehicle and the witch was herding the kids and Miki onto the back seats. I removed my sunglasses.
‘Albino, you are leaving us.’
‘Listen, I put cable from my flat to your window. Free power, Pablo.’ He clambered down and got into the driving seeat. ‘Tell landlady, back soon with rent.’
‘But Albino, picking olives is sunlight work.’
He started up the van and began to back slowly out the plaza.
‘Albino,’ I shouted, ‘where will you find your shadow?’
But they were gone, off to the endless dry plains and olive groves of La Mancha, and my first real shout had been lost amongst the sound of departing flamenco.

La Madrugada: I am waiting for the energy to dissipate and my body to find peace. I concentrate and my mind finds a small hollow and nestles there a moment. But the hissing sound of a plastic python sliding into the square removes this momentary emptiness. A manhole-cover clanks and the serpent spits and chokes its juices at the floor of the plaza. Inch by inch, the snake slithers over shimmering stone tugged by methodical cleaners that jet spray down the gratings of the plaza's drains and under the fortress doors of the convent. Gradually, they work across the plaza, shifting the accumulated dust and dirt of the day from every hidden corner and chasing it into a murky stream that winds its way out of the square.
The cable from the lizard-lamp that runs alongside my balcony seat catches my eye and I’m twitching again. I look out into the madrugada and for a moment I fancy I hear – cracking through the thick August air – the shout of a Portuguese ballad, sung to the accompaniment of an electronic organ; a strong sound to slice through the stifled staleness of this depopulated place.

© Paul Read Decmber 2006
teapotmonk@gmail.com


 
 More World Travel

Home

© Hackwriters 1999-2006 all rights reserved - all comments are the writers' own responsibiltiy - no liability accepted by hackwriters.com or affiliates.