One of the thoughts I've had, writing and when finished and ready to present this to others, was whether or not people would get the visual of the spelling. Not only that, but the use of verbs as nouns, and vice versa.
To me, I've wondered if some of what makes this story for me would be lost if it were to be read aloud.
To say nothing of who or what the hell is the "You" running around in Henry's head.
I'd be interested to hear what others think.
Enjoy.
Chapter 16: Torrent. Ofrenda.
Sheep are different. Growing up in somewhat big city Ottawa I have not had the occasion of direct contact with said woolly animal beyond the one visit to West End Experimental Farm of fauna and crop, where all manner of barn variety are lovingly raised and showcased for stroke and learn. School children pile out of a bus within the city limits and sniff cattle ass for the very first time, discover the face of what be the eventual Eat or Slurp in cafeteria. Wonderful. Kid stuff.
Still, sheep be so very not intelligent. From the grand terrace of casa de Eduardo y Francesca I could hear a bellwether hung from that which I had mostly only read about. So, yes, it was is true about the dinging sound for them to follow the leader. A shepherd from yonder hills had presented his herd beside the park below us for their maybe daily feeding of that particular green green grass; I saw my very first sheepdog not of Warner Brother’s cartoon. Fantastic. Four floors below, a hundred yards out, beyond young hombres tweaking their motos outside apartment building - I realized my second missed desperta. I had been the early riser of Canadian couple; awake with the growing light through patio doors of bedroom despite its position opposite side from proper feng shui - the sun was walking over the Gulf over the Mediterranean over the loose pack of chewers watched by me and a short man in a hat, his long-haired doggy having a sit and a smoke.
It was Sunday, the Lord’s day of that past. Christian. I didn’t feel anyway near Jesus at that point of morn; nevertheless, I accepted a guilt. The sun was too high, and even my haze knew that once upon a clock it would tell me that my armpits sure to sting come the beginning of that night with new friends Chusko and tall Andamio; they naming me Pussy, or Spanish equivalent.
I had vague memories of the three others coming home that previous night-slash-only hours before, notions of dreams strung together by a sympathetic editor; awoke with a healthy hard-on and took it for a step out to the terrace - X snoring and under the covers. A sneaky peek down the hallway and I was off.
The sheep congregated, slowly dispersed. Across the street in front of apartment, at beginning of undeveloped open area beside park of wondrous palms and paved walkways and children's swing things, was long dirt rampart for that sheepdog to lean and rest; small man in hat was silent and not ten feet away from employee, sheep. It appeared to be a relaxing vocation. Ralph the dog took occasional whiz at various points of imaginary line forming loose box … waited for nothing, quite possibly something - I am, of course, from the city. But whenever one of tiny sheep did stray too far from the fray, he to butt out his ciggie and lay an eye or a storm of foot - and that be the end of it; I never ever heard him raise his voice that mid-morning.
He was a bouncer. I suppose he was Spanish, as much as animals are sectioned off into passports: a question for a Sunday with the growing heat carrying sound down hallway, through living room and past open sliding doors, out across red brick beneath my feet and into ear of this foreign citizen of particular part of World at given time. “Onray! My friend!” And so Damn I did cringe in front of sheepdog and herd and small man in tan hat - his face which was hidden beneath: “Onray, I hear you, and you not a sleeping on my porch!”
“It’s a terrace!” I yelled whilst the last chance. It was a guy thing. “Come on, you Spanish bastard - I’m not going anywhere!” He had has such big eyes behind Coke bottle glasses; he enjoyed Spanish neighbours on either side of open terrace.
The bags beneath both of them eyes of his. The smell of the previous night … before the see of him. The last look over and down the wall that was the apartment condo of Eduardo y Francesca; the sheep munching and behaving and in default to an animal more ancient than they. “Onray! Fallas …then you die. Cum on, man.”
“Hey - did I hear a knock? No - I did not.” Duardo waved away a smell, snarled my cheap excuse.
“I knock, man. I knock about three or four times, but I can’t go in on you guys and you’re naked - I am gentleman, Onray.”
“I thought you were a hard man - man.”
“Not so, Onray, not so.” He was kind, a funny whose humour showed the more his comfort with the English language grew; we practised - in Ottawa, there in Spain. “We let you two Canadians sleep, me and Frances did. So do not a worry about it, my hard friend, you have time left to do desperta - not that much, but still some.” I, we, still had the ofrenda of that night to give flowers and respect to the virgin saint, plus the added procession and display of costume for the transplanting that had been delayed the evening before. “Frances gonna be here in a minute and then we go get something to eat, Ok, Onray?”
Si, I said, taking yet another pack of petardos out of his hands and walking back inside, towards my shared bedroom.
She was under sheet and I whispered her name just so soft, before lighting a few Cobra and closing the door. Fun. Probably what Duardo should have done that morning, or the one before; I strolled, counted towards three. Pop Pop. She was my ex and it didn’t really matter. Fun. And perhaps memory of emotion, not spite. With her initial scream I laughed along; to Duardo’s yell I hummed a sing, ran past him and left the two of them to meet somewhere in the middle - she was wrapped in a blanket, buck naked underneath by my guess. It played out, along with our fabulous cover story.
And they were mad and I was the juvenile for a brief. And perhaps before my eyes was stuff better than grief or anger - maybe a Former expressing something that was missing. Just possibly excitement.
“You asshole!” the female did say.
“Oh, Onray Onray, no push push for you tonight, man.” I winked at X in her blanket and messy hair and thanked Duardo for the news flash. Memory has me being witty, voicing something self-effacing and highly appropriate; I think that I just kept staring at X and shrugged my shoulders, let it go at that.
Time passed and You’ll find the rest.
Frances returned carrying bags beneath her eyes, a sack of large Valencia oranges under an arm; future cocktails that found their way into a morning juicer minus the booze. X was awake and smiling thanks to me, her blood flowing; she was recounting a stupid story to Frances, courtesy that which I had pulled. Perhaps it was all this exhilaration that has me recalling.
And it used to be easy and natural, the Between-Us that was X and me. Time passed, and I’ve promised at length to let her speak beyond swear words and reprimands.
This is me with the past in the background.
We got in the car and drove, travelled at high speed with Frances’ hands at the wheel. We took a series of lefts and rights within the town city suburb called Torrent and managed to talk - the girls in front, the guys in back. And it was too late for desayuno’s small breakfast of bits and sips; beyond almuerzo and its late morning break, possible small bocadillo. There be three or four other separate meal names possible in the day that I’ve forgotten to remember, but they of Spain’s many more millennia to invent the where needed - to take the siesta, to take the heat out of the midday with a nap or a simple sit. They much more closer to the Equator and away from one of two Pole that is mine.
Yes. Then amongst different eatery that I will remember name of soon enough to go with great story and maybe grand description of what be then.
“This is …this is where Duardo and I met, three-and-a-half, four years ago.” I was so very happy for them that I knew. We walked in and looked around, said ‘Really?’ and smiled; the two of us that were a pretend couple together moved with them through the small and narrow of initial, made way under a high arch leading to left and large dining room of maybe checkered cloth on tables, lots of flipped glassware, servers working without tip but supposedly higher hourly wage of theory. There be some moms and some pops and other of persons in or out of university - quite pleasant as they took our non-exotic order of bull’s tail in a truly unforgettable sauce - a firm and a low end taste, the hint of wild game; the wine of the house whispered en Español.
But I proceed with a thought from that Good Book of North American hotel motel, a narrative that invents itself to me where needed: Gideon said that one of the couples at the table spoke a series of quick Spanish, and added that I shall never ever feel a hurt again - all of this from the tightly bound offering of every room that is of the road, and only a moment on the mind of a person experiencing the Jesus Years of his own.
We simply sat in that restaurant paired off in couples under a stippled sky of pride and craftsmanship; the four of us in civvies, without the blousons of festival custom. And I am lousy at repeating but fair with creation, so here goes.
“Duardo was with a friend of my family, and they both happened to speak a little English. We, a group of mine, came here to get out of the rain that we’d been walking in for some time and happened into him and this pal, on the bar side.”
“No, Francesca, we were supposed to meet with all a you guys on accident that night. Marco, he set it all up that time - Sorry.” A grin and a Coke-bottled smiling of the eyes.
“What the hell do you mean sorry? You guys planned that all along?” Great. They were mock fighting before us; emotion and the lovely that was solidified across the Atlantic. I wasn’t jealous, merely watching and strangely certain that I would never ever feel hurt again as long as stay sat in a Spanish restaurant whose name escapes this current memory. “So we met in this damn place,” returned Francesca to us. There be a reason of why her customers at Maxwell’s liked her so. “A freakin’ set up?” she gave Duardo. Fun. Fantastic, as long as I stared at these two friends of know and let them go at it; Mademoiselle X a quiet outward as my left hand grazed her right leg and remained it at that.
The name of the place was is Pedo’s. Perhaps I have made this up, but trust and rely that I have the ability to recall colour and the odd fact when I try.
“Give me break, Frances.” At that point they returned to a quick of Spanish; their need for ultimate expression. Wonderful to watch the flip of a between: her then comment in English and his rejoinder outside the language of bouncers at Griffon’s of Ottawa when becoming comfortable with me in those early days - myself merely sat there and presented to X the bartender.
The whirl of a ceiling fan in that Spain bent my neck and further enticed the thought of my palm pinching patella on the way to her shin - rinsing, repeating for the thoughts at home. I listened and avoided the argument out of politeness; and it wasn’t a bad at all - just a play. This was friends at that Pedo’s. Simple.
“Marco is kind of nerdy - early to finish school, Phd. at twenty-three …that stuff. Nothing bad, though. His father knows my father and Marco has soccer with the same group of guys that Duardo plays with.” A pause. “I feel cheap …shouldn’t I?”
I grabbed the inside of X’s yellow seam that was in fact Levi’s Inc. and took a finger for stroll, stared the opposite couple straight in the communal eye. For a brief it was an accidental thought of the left hand; as the fake fight progressed I gained a moderate erection, let my index do some more walking.
X grabbed my hand and squeezed; then, quite hard. Fine. I stopped, picked up the listen. “I go to meet her in the Florida for vacation …this after she return to Canada and fall madly in the love with me; I watch Miami Vice shows all that time - with all the beautiful woman in the pink bikini - and I get off the plane and start my look around for Frances …but all I see are the fat woman. In the airport the big woman they are everywhere, the red Ferraris outside too, but hardly I see any the people I want in a pink bikini to see.” I told him that was America, was Canada. I mentioned the size of the desserts at my restaurant. But they were in love at the time and still are, and this was just a funny story about culture and television and the fact that it didn’t really matter if their marriage was started by someone supposing that they would be good together.
Their wonderful tale of being single had been told to me before, almost word for word.
And to this, added context - my ex to my immediate left. A pause and stare from our Spanish couple, more of a lean to the fact of a something that had never come up in the previous tête-à-têtes in Ottawa: “Onray, you always love X?” I told Duardo that I didn’t have a Miami story; referred him to X and that first glimpse of ours within that bus station, how I had cleaned her up with an offer of a warm home and promise to never ever lay a hand on her. We all laughed and I avoided the way that I taught her how to spell Centretown. She was originally from the country, mostly a small town that only be famous if and after a TV miniseries receives the government funding to use it as a locale, gets a Sunday night showing on the old CBC. It has a name that I will withhold for that particular reasoning of my own. I dug my nails into denim. Sorry. I did not hurt her; proceeded to displace a something that must go somewhere - whether to a spasm of the eye lid or towards left side cramp. Somewhere crept its growing nail down said denim before grabbing a glass and slurping its spot of house red, touch of gaseosa. I swallowed the burp.
“Henry was very sweet. All of the bouncers thought that he was a bit whacked the way that he kind of hung around and did nothing. Just drank Guinness by himself.” X took the time to swirl the left of temples with left of hand. The mostly universal. “When he was alone he would sit at the bar and read; this was all early and before it got so busy at night there.” I brought up the fact that I was neither a nerd nor a serial killer. That I had been displaying myself in a very user-friendly manner. I left out the part of me being infatuated, jealous of an ease that I’d only seen in one other person - that being a male bartender: Fonzie, a man who has the gall to claim me that he is the horniest man on the face of this good green planet of ours.
My hand left her thigh and we, X and I, had almost shared a moment within time of siesta; the gaseosa had spritzed the red wine had lightened the conversation had eased us into the new day, before another of same and entirely different night.
We couples fought over the bill and I left the coinage change as tip. We moved from that first meeting place of theirs and headed back to the casa at a most high rate of speed to have performed upon Francesca’s hair that which had taken X a good thirty minutes to let loose the night before. Thus the boys toked, sat on the couch and observed Spanish TV as the girls went downstairs to have Frances’ mom redo the operation. There was the live feed of the daily mascleta; a display and explanation of each falla and its individual ninots, complete with theme and euro cost and part of city.
Sports highlights followed; big-haired gossip show hosts. Television with a bit more nipple save the North American guilt. Fascinating stuff. The lure of TV to the eye.
A soap opera - and I then struggled to find my breath, stepped out onto the fabulous terrace of Eduardo y Francesca and witnessed none of my sheep; 3 children played off to the left and bounced an orange sphere upon black pavement and made various attempts to place it clean through a ring the colour of an ageing oil tanker - occasionally employing the use of a faded wooden backboard the once colour of white. Their giggles an echo; Duardo coming outside and me asking of him this: “Does anyone ever get mad when they see themselves displayed in a falla? The ones that are specific - does anyone ever kind of sort of lose it and take a knife or sue someone? Huh?” I took the time to put the index finger of my left hand up to my temple and perform a slow circle.
“No. No, Onray, that never happen. It about everybody and the country - Spain, Europe.” I was overly sensitive, I supposed at time of talk. “Sometime it about somebody on the TV or a politician man, but there is nothing he can do because it is Fallas.” And then you die, I thought, slowly getting hosed and having those high thoughts that make sense at the time. It felt safe enough to return near the TV.
This was the exact point when I was gonna use my numbing lips to tell my Spanish friend; I would stay standing up or squat down cozy and lay it all out, all of the shit, right then and there. A dwindling spliff was passed to the left and I had me a good long look around the apartment, studied the type of cherry used to name wood for armoire that housed the satellite-equipped TV - an unnecessary luxury, Frances had told us. I grabbed a pixel and followed its changing of colour, recalling that scene is actually one dot moving fast enough to seem as many. Perhaps. This thought was told to Duardo and he said something …and I said si. Said si a few more times. Mumbled.
When I woke up I was alone with a television put to Mute; I sat silently and tried to get the blood working in my hands, face. My brain considered whether it was the 17th or 18th of March; I told myself that I was not dead and just merely slow and within the smell of flowers, a brightness - but I was low on my specific recognition. A bouquet sat on the wooden dining table to the right of the armoire. Frances swooshed down the hallway from their bedroom, resplendent of a Spanish ceremony: the hair be up, a black choker and gold pendant hugged her neck. Long, dangling earrings. She was beautiful and smiling to the azure background that was the colour of paint applied to walls, me. “Can you smell my pansies?” I nodded and sat up straight, grabbed the sleep from my eyes. Her shade of lipstick moved towards me and leaned its particular red forward to place the assortment of flowers under my nose; I was awake and admiring her grand maroon gown, white cotton overlays that be parts shawl and elegant apron measured down to ankles and pleated bottom of silk dress. To this sniff of supposed pansies - Duardo scuffing his heavy black shoes over the polished terrazzo, my ex following on tiptoe and swatting bits of white from left and right shoulder of la cucaracha: the tuxedo was on, a purple sash around his waist. Everyone was traditional, X in her blouson, and me with the flowers still up my nose.
To the washroom and toilet and quick splash from bidet up my crotch. To the tiny elevator and street level; to gloaming and others roaming towards respective falla and procession and their very own offering of flowers to that virgin saint of certain name.
A left turn: second-storey balconies staring out from concrete white; the front of casalet and gathering of all and some we knew by name. Sophia, and Salvi’s non-common-law girlfriend - Amelia - adorned with the gild of diagonal sashes and formal dress bottoms puffed beyond Frances’; every outfit different in the collective festival photo.
Chusko, Jacinto, Piso, Andamio, and even Salvi appeared much as the main ninot of their giant papier-mâché falla: long itchy socks and open-toed sandals; bloomy shortpants and shirts denied collar, wide sashes around the midriff - cummerbund not really the word; some wore vests and all draped a striped shawl around the shoulder, sported colour of bandanna upon head.
I was given a shrug of those shoulders and raise of the left eyebrow by the two Chusko and Andamio; they approached and double-kissed X, smiled and passed me a bottle of Cutty Sark - I slapped their hands and supposed that they would pound my sleepy ass later. Yes. But the burn of a blended whisky straight down the throat. But they had all won the lottery and this was another night to splurge on givings, put forth more thanks to a long-dead girl of sainthood: for her - a grand floral arrangement of sunflowers and one positively giant lily …along with other intermingled flower of probable Latin name to lead procession; a gaggle of a band bringing up the rear.
And our part soon to begin, this procession and ofrenda to the virgin resting comfortably at the main town church as of that afternoon. Within the suburb of Torrent, as within the grand plaza of capital Valencia, it was already underway as we waited, and the sheer number of fallas would make it last well into the coming night.
By neon sign Ciudad, in front of said local bar and beside casalet of our falla, big Chusko and Andamio done performed the occasional in-tandem slow circle around me; a few others joined them in imitation of stare down but I actually felt quite comfortable being toyed with in a foreign country. There be worse things in a life than earning playfulness: I could have been a tourist and they may to have truly turned up their noses, kept walking. They could have fake-smiled me, us. Yes, they’re truly were worse things in a life, and You know some of That. I placed my arm around shoulder and shawl and received similar to own as I mugged for the various cameras - but this was not tourism. I was lucky. I had friends, and I possessed an ex who attracted them. We had this couple in Spain that introduced us to a wonderful and a behind the festival scene.
Time to go, time to walk. The band played, and I was guessing they be high school students hired to read music and drink free liquor - the tuba player had never ever touched a girl. Yes, fantastic as we moved feet down cobblestone and through left and right of unknown street. Initially, us and some of our new friends in the rear, following the band and the parade of money spent on formal dress and sash and arrangement of flora and necessary liquor; and soon enough X and I walked the sidewalks beside and separated from our falla for the very first; together, and we were the after-all visitors, not of a formal garb.
Another ancient left and a three-storey of brick building appearing just to the right of vista, a gaggle of Spaniards waving from the various level of tiny balconies with doors flung open on a warm night in March. Flags of Valencia everywhere - their provincial, with the occasional national Spain hung between. I thought the more of Quebec; Québec.
Each individual procession was now one grand throng separated by mere pause. The various of infants within, miniatures dressed to their own hilt and holding onto an older of hand, tagging along when not too tired. That’s a great picture, I said, and X snapped one. We moved onto a wide promenade, replete with median of walkway and kiosks and those palms that I so love and wooden benches that we sat atop, to rest and see our friends and others to pass us by. I accepted her further click of our camera, albeit disposable, without thought.
On we went, with the small of talk along that whole way, a necessary that was the lone two of us together and following the many fallas and the tradition of a people coming together at some designated point on the recognized calendar; the intent gaze of onlookers beneath equally spaced street globes that lit my very next in-depth say: “Honey, do you figure on us keeping up with them?” She apprised me of the fact that we were walking, if not strolling the streets of the before us in equal time with them. “No. The spectacle of it all, the language. Thee …umm.” And, yes, the pause that was the between. I wasn’t making shit up. We were making a steady pace and keeping within grinning distance of Duardo and Frances; we could hear our band play the music with a name of song we did not know. “You’re doing alright, though? Feelin’ Ok? Standing on the 59th Street Bridge?” That one to float right over the pretty auburn of hair I used to nuzzle and sleep in. “New York City - the Queensborough Bridge? Simon and Garfunkel - Feelin’ Groovy? The song?” A close of eyes and shake of her head; the shape of her ass in tight denim walking away and the me that still cared enough: the grimace upon face that was mine following the curl of hair that had not been straightened with a blow dryer; a new look, a natural one. What girls tend to do when starting anew.
The procession stopped; my ex held that fabulous sway of hers, turned her head and looked for me as the All waited at confluence of grand to smaller side street. She preferred I call her Hun, not certain version of X that was short form for given. “Hun?” she said to me, but I was smelling pastry and trying to read the Spanish of churro stand. I pointed to the small vendor and she waved me up. A tilt of my head towards aroma, and she bulged her eyeballs of that hazel I made speak of in the before; and I suppose I could have done whatever the hell I felt to do but, yes, I did want to keep up with the person who was my contact and the reason I had friends in that Spain.
Some of the Try behind my way of tending bar. The Wealth of myself that was leaving me too soon.
So we met up with Spanish friends, stood at back of growing line waiting to thank the dead lady; eventually this became so crowded that we spilled into a cerveceria and had a seat, watched soccer and had a few quintos; held court with actual pig’s hind leg and hoof hung above a counter beside the bar - a fresh kill cured and ready to slice, a large knife in plain view. I reached across and stroked its remaining hair against the grain, and X the vegetarian ever since that country upbringing of hers truly presented itself to a young girl - even as she then never preached or threw red paint on mink coat sashayed down local street of her whenever time.
We left that tiny taste of fresh beer and rejoined the line up to move farther down the alley and come into direct contact with the church housing representation of virgin of name; X and I were briefly again part of procession - albeit waiting. Chusko tilted his head, opened his mouth and chugged the most vast amount of scotch that I have ever done seen. He handed me the three fingers left in the bottle and I was good for two before the burn passed the bottle to the left, to my friend Duardo. Cameras flashed and people leaned against the walls of that narrow alleyway that typified the Old World. Wonderful. The uneven of long-laid stone beneath my Nikes; I scrubbed a footprint and said jealous things to myself. “OnRay. El toro.” And olé and all that good stuff that guys like to do in situations public. Sorry: that was tall Andamio speaking just then in Spain Spanish, and there be a difference out and about in the Latin World. He had witnessed my musings and taken the correct course; very many people turned towards me with offerings of alcohol - I took a swig of Veterano and passed to the unknown right; a cheer and a series of songs with the ring of a soccer stadium to them. At least three of the tunes within cadence of When the Saints go Marching in, an overlay of Spanish wording. I considered the Louisiana Purchase, them Cajuns and erstwhile Canadian Acadians boarded on ships and eventually mixing with a larger nation and sounding funny to the rest, becoming almost indiscernible after a few pints.
I think of all that now. The luxury and this Now. In that alleyway I smiled and rubbed up against the denim of my X; I hit-and-ran over to Frances of the lovely maroon gown of a dress and square buckle of fool’s gold upon dark brown shoes on tired feet. “What was that bull thing all about?” Nothing, I told her. I had merely been caught thinking out loud. “Don’t let them make you drink all that shit, Henry.” She laughed. The history was speaking to me; a girl with tastefully applied make-up spoke to little old me in real time as to the particulars of a male pride, her bouquet of flowers dangling within both hands. I could still sniff and smell the wake-up call that had separated that day into the bits and pieces of memory that I think to You in the now.
That Spanish of gang; those people close enough to one another for a defending on mere principle, no questions asked. This is a something to say and run on the spot for awhile or two, maybe take the ponder time for Clayton and his lovely bride of very long spell - Julia. I enter my brother’s personal Jesus into the fact of me by myself but still amongst people - then and the now that I speak in; I reach and enter the kingdom of same for what is left of this year that was the chronological demise of a certain precious Man mentioned in a rather large Book. Simple. Part of my clan is said brother, and sister-in-law. There be our immediate mother, and a once father to consider, if necessary.
The wee Spanish ones rested on the curb with the names of flowers I do not know; they waited and recharged and this be how children are when asked to participate and join their energy with an adult function. They danced the cobblestone that was a maze of ceremony formerly fresh and clean before becoming blocks of sweat and congregation and everyone leaning against a stone wall whilst having the obligatory ciggie hanging from lip. I walked ahead and stared the bit of procession that was ours; a walking float - flowers to that particular virgin.
Farther north, within the grand few million of Valencia, the specific Our Lady of the Foresaken grew more ornate with every offering presented to wooden template by emotional girl, young woman. Tears of bouquets. Baskets of stems and petals picked apart and handed and eventually thrown one by one up to perched man halfway up narrowing, twenty-foot trestle structure that was her with smiling head atop.
In the waiting streets, we chugged whisky and I stared at flowers arranged around a mini float upon various shoulders, a pedestal bearing the name of our falla that was carried out front. They had redeemed that winning ticket, and thus given a certain large measure of thanks - a tithe. There was that giant lily, the sunflowers, and those pansies, and the black-eyed Susans; the rest of sight and sound was because, of course, the celebration be the thing.
The young ones that were the people hired to play music for that night began to push their early-adult wind past reed into tube that was regulated by valve and movement of finger; sound began to overcome the line up that was me and X and those of us in Spain for one reason or another. We all moved, and so close together that X and I remained non-tourist. In. Fantastic. Frances’ mother, all of sixty-seven-years-of-an-age, at our shoulder level as she marched the raised curb beside me and the ex-girlfriend that spoke the same Canadian French that she had learned from various swims across the Atlantic with family in tow; Frances’ old man had laid carpet for a living with a friend of a guy within that Spanish community in Canada - he had a fabulous smile all those various Canadian years but longed for Spain, enjoyed keeping up with the biking tours run through the European mountains. This is all to say that he spoke very little English, despite having ventured outside the familial Littles of every large City that be not in Spain.
The Differents. And I myself cannot translate the songs that I heard that night.
“To bring the flowers to the virgin is a very big deal, Onray. The flowers, you see?” Yes, Duardo, I had observed the éclat that was me half-snapped on yellow label whisky and moving one foot after another. I shuffled and we moved into the early night that was a Sunday in that area of Spain that performed a certain part of a ceremony within a street along the way of festival Theirs. Me walking, X somewhat within reach under the sky that was European but was Spanish but was province of Valencia because the national flag of yellow and red stripes was now slightly more busy with add-ons of a blue at left end. There was the continued movement of persons towards a church of grand importance within the suburb of Valencia known as Torrent; there, awaited a virgin.
We marched with Frances’ peripatetic mother towards the immediate of lights and high trees; the slight lean of left that was me watching the procession deposit flowers to a receiving man in front of the chosen church in that older part of town. X stood by and clicked the cheap of disposable camera at the flood-lit spectacle that was us pausing in front of and then moving on; it was a nice church, a scary enough one, as far as echo arch doorway and steeple spire used stone with necessary mortar in the presumption of history: a most receptive capital-V virgin positioned up the steps, at the approach of doors.
France’s tiny mom and X carried on in French to my third or fourth word of recognition: her English so-so and the French came much easier - and I the pidgin of languages, my mouth dry from the obvious liquor. Made lazy ‘twas I, and my X has been told that she is fluent and can pass for native French of the Canadian variety; I can hear the motes that make her non-English first, but they are a quite small and I, after all, loved her and spent the occasional second or three listening to patois that was a girl from the part of our country that is a mix: Eastern Ontario near a border with a province that some of us consider another country - Québec spelled all proper and accented.
There in that Spain with my ex-girlfriend all pretty with the glow that all women inherit on vacation I tried to my very best to spell the new words in my head, in order to keep track and learn; I attempted - and the result I think to You … whilst naked in my bath; riding city bus just before the ring of bell and stop. I apologize, and I admit to whining and swaying whatever near the Truth that I have hit; I be a near miss, and have changed the names only this side of fantastic.
In that night that was actually not that late yet; in that walk away from the virgin resting comfortably in front of a church, we made our way. The procession be done and a return home was in order - for change to different ceremonial, to the everyday comfort of their blouson and pañuelo. But yes, magnificent the manner of the snake through the town that night.
I am sentimental, but forgetful: there was a part where France’s dear mom reached over from the raised sidewalk and fixed a small, protruding part of X’s hair - a couette, as the Québecois would have say. The wind had blown; something as simple as that as to have interacted with her and that which I open to You now in the maybe real that is me making up stuff that is trying to pass for a confession.
Lame in Spain. A near rhyme, albeit still lame.
Frances and Duardo changed back into the daily blouson and we returned up the street that was towards casalet; we stopped for the absolutely necessary bocadillos at the cerveceria that involved the choosing of something different to put within: the tortilla that implies omelette, that can involve any manner of mixture within egg. A few or more than three quinto whilst foil was wrapped around subs that were Spanish: and I shall say we continued, that night that be the move of my X slightly beside me and certainly comfortable with a chin at level set and not at all down around the chest or even near ankles that I once licked. So, yes, she survived or she faked. She would lean over and say ‘Hun’ before most every inquiry within the ordinary talk of that every day in that Spain; and at some point I made it known that I really actually kinda preferred if she didn’t call me that anymore.
Because.
To maybe avoid the very remind of past, people hearing the moans and thus contemplating a straining of their ears: apartment nine of 254 Cooper Street, Centretown, had thumped a constant bang of broom to the ceiling that was beneath my uneven hardwood floor; whilst the couple in number 17 shared a rock glass up against the drywall that was a mere separation laced with layer upon layer of paint and the lack of desire by Maintenance to scrape it away before applying a new coat. She’d cried out my name and now, yes - this past that I say of now - everyone knew the exact pronunciation of Jesus and God within ecstasy. But the angry notes of fellow tenants tacked to the morning door; them couples with young dogs scuffing a Loud and Clumsy noise over a hardwood floor, 6-in-the-AM, above the apartment before X and I decided to Glebe move in together. Screw them, I said to my new love. And I was proud, the male in myself was shining at the inducing of a female to scream with pleasure: I recover this past, cut and paste towards that Spain, that day and twilight that was courtesy we two boarding a plane to cross a very large pond.
The very next time she moaned she had said me Hun. And then we dated exclusively. And I’ve thought You some of the rest, aside from that Sunday night of the continuation of Spain and gathering at casalet.
“Hen, come here,” a wave of hand she said within grace and the belief in friendship in the After. The children of Spain were planting a circle of surprise for one of the many over-experiencers of Veterano and all of its soporific qualities: “They’re so cute. So silent.” They were very quiet to encircle that passed out fallero with perfectly legal petardos of love; they had produced a makeshift traca. Wonderful. As I approached my former, a young boy flicked a lighter to what would be the fruition of group mischief. And the flinch of X’s face. A string of Pops and the wake-up call that was the expression of a tired drunk, his blouson ruffled and pañuelo turned towards front in the bandit style, nontraditional. But still, the various tiny gold buttons of Las Fallas pinned across his chest much as Duardo and the brothers three.
And we all laughed, help pick him up and carry him inside. We sat at our saw-bucked table and ate in the manner of previous nights, cleaned up and stepped brief to pedestrian front, hit the back alley of an only occasional passing car, entered the garage of the bajo for our plastic cups filled with rum and personal preference. I squatted in the doorway and listened to the slice of twinkle sky that was speaking Spanish to my brain courtesy toke handed from friendly person - a breathing in that had taken a look around the Me that was ultimately by itself. My Nikes rapped against a man-created pathway that was probably akin to most of my country’s similar use of various earth, stuff that is at its base the same age maybe everywhere. The consequence of a big bang. That night that X finally comfortable enough to come home with me to my Cooper Street of before; the subsequent noise complaints from my neighbours.
This the Say of my Torrent night when one was feeling high and low in the spot of concrete home handcrafted by someone with the time for pride. Perhaps by a young guy with a lovely wife and two kids, of course a house, and maybe a brother who should visit him a tad more: my brother Clayton would know all the architectural terms that elude my description of church and street the world throughout.
“Hen. Hen!” She pulled up a stitch of that pride and sat beside me. My sorry ass X done began to talk to; I acknowledged being out there, the state of brain where I was. I was used to apologizing fairly frequently, as a Canadian, as a delineation of British manner. Perdoneme, in the language of Spanish that I understood little of and therefore repented for at least every ten minutes; I grew quiet and smiled a lot, forced my eyes to display the wrinkles one tends to accumulate 33 years into a range of emotions. “Don’t do too much weed, Henry.” I asked her for a cigarette instead, pled the fact that I was on vacation in a different land; I felt of a different time. We exchanged pleasures and took turns blowing a puff of smoke up and into the cartoon circles that would hold our words.
“What do you believe about the shelf life of secrets? Baby, can they go stale?”
“An expiry date does not exist, Henry. Why?”
Nothing, I thought. “Gimme that, X, it’s entirely not good for you.” She might have thought that I actually still worried for her well-being; and, yes, this would be true - along with a desire for finishing that joint in her hand, a care about her staying seated beside me speaking the English language. “Does it matter on the severity of that secret Secret? Should there be, ah, a let’s say …war going on to make you or anyone hang onto that bit of juice for longer than any teenager would wanna?” My lungs expanded from the tailpipe that was the last of a harsh pinner sucked past the lips before a cough, and another cough. The placing of plastic cup to mouth, rum forced down throat.
People speaking that Spanish stuff in the background. “God, I can’t bring myself, Henry. I couldn’t at the time, and now … now I just need to be here in this fucking country with my Frances, with Eduardo, with Sophia and Fallas and all these little kids running around with firecrackers in their tiny little hands.” She needed me to stop talking; wanted to be free to stand up and walk over to big Chusko, and if need be, place a big wet one right on his fat kisser.
We had been distilled into a life of hands that were never held, and a surrounding cast that was too focused on the barrier of language to give us much thought as an Apart; in that beautiful world without war and its necessary secrets, I was still the man who wanted to have a natural say in mother tongue, enjoy words with her.
“X - did it not occur to you to tell them?”
“Did it occur to you to ask?” People speaking that Spanish stuff in the background. “I arranged everything while you sat on that couch of yours.” We had already begun the mental division of assets few; this would be a future smooth, and I truly am not ruining any suspense for You.
“I wasn’t even coming - remember? I was gonna be the gracious one and bow out.” But I had come. I had dreamed of Spain and warmed to a vacation there, the away. It was to be with my X, and the thought before You now. “I don’t know why, I just know that they don’t know … or, I don’t know what they know.” I was scared. “I’m borderline paranoid about this shit, and I’m able to speak with about two, three people here. Fuck, I can’t be asking Frances or Duardo to translate for me every five seconds.” But it had been wonderful, and I had drunk the water of Spain of Valencia of the suburban town Torrent. It had occurred to me that I was acting spoiled - as the manner of my voice left my lips and forced her to listen and think and consider what to say or whether to just walk away right then and there, but that would have been a temporary for her at that point of trip: we shared a room of separate beds, although a secret. Fallas would involve the four of us in manner of variation, them as solo or together guides and we the couple that never held hands. We the civil.
I lifted my ass up from the smooth concrete floor and tilted the plastic cup with the phonetic spelling of myself etched in simple black marker; steadied myself as I grabbed her left hand and helped her towards same. I swayed and she aligned and we paused between the real and the fake - so very hard to tell at that point of collective work experience. In the eyes, I supposed.
Back to casalet - thee then darkened and slightly disco dance room of transformation from dinner hall of bocadillos and Veterano brandy, white Marie Brizzard and tiny bottles of beer; the ongoing communal of two steps to the left with a spin or turn and continuation - I flashed to the late 70’s trot of the fox and the later dance of a line within a country song and pair of urban cowboy boots that never ever saw the shit nor haul of hay necessary to feed it. This was a fun and these were the young in time of satellite and long radio and the reception of television name brand; at some point I may have thought Grease or Abba to You. But I will continue this open-ended note that is maybe memory hitting me on Ottawa bus or tiny tub lit by smelly votive candle coloured red or orange, suds of certain white that last until I can coalesce into something of use.
I was grabbed by very nice people of the Spanish persuasion.
I was to perform the stepping in tune with others.
The making of sense that was me accepting and breathing in the scene, trying to remain with it.
“¡Emergency! ¡Emergency!” And my saviour Duardo pointing at me within the English language, amongst a throng of people doing Spanish things with their Spanish hips. And his moves not so much better than mine, but his town his country. My friend. And the shyness that was an unknown language; the certain dance of a world over me and a span of nights referred to as Las Fallas.
The making of sense that was me walking outside for another borrowed Fortuna, bajo en nicotina. This pot smoker with sore lungs.
I recall going up on tips of toes and peering myself back inside that open window that revealed most of said darkened dance floor.
I was beginning to see what was involved in the fabric of fighting for a woman. Having lost already. My ex within a many smile through that window.
The remembrance of a certain Royal Oak on Bank Street, Ottawa, Ontario; a flag of my own - middle of white around that patriotic shade of red leaf. Home.
For the very first time in life I proceeded to fake a headache, did reach for the temples that be the sides of my head at that give or take four- or five-in-that-A.M. I witnessed my X having the constant dance she always wished to.
Cheese. But true.
As I blew smoke; as I continued my way in and out of casalet and leave various parts out through terrible memory, I did eventually climb into a small European car and let myself be dropped off with a key that I had already been shown how to hole insert and turn. Rode tiny elevator towards.
One of the brothers four my chariot. And then he - Brooklyn Jacinto - off and back to the smoke, dance of male fallero and female fallera. Members and friends and X somewhere still there.
Me in soft, single bed that was to be the eventual morning. Myself. And maybe the petardo Pops. Invented snore beside. Pop. Pop, that gone night of little left.