You might notice the differences in spellings. Between the more predominant Castilian and the regional Valencian, I'm not so positive that I have it entirely figured out, so feel free to correct me. All that and it gets even more complicated.
Forthwith, a bit of a teaser chapter below; nonetheless, a necessary setting of the table for later. Enjoy.
Chapter 8: Torrent. Beginnings.
Depending upon the camera angle, somewhere very late into the Spanish Thursday night of March the 14th, I swaggered or sauntered into a spare bedroom of the home of the couple formally known as Eduardo Ruiz Colon y Francesca Cruz Marcos. When their to-be children are born, the Colon and Marcos will die, the maternals to be forever dropped to form Baby Ruiz Cruz; for a brief, or conceivably long time, one’s Spanish surname the proud proclaimer of both lineages.
Two separate single beds, Frances explained with sincere apologies. This was the set of a 50’s sitcom: when the lights went out and the Neilson kids set to bed we would push the two together and make fabulous whoopee; and in the morn’ of the next show X would be with child. Ratings would soar as predicted. The birth episode would involve me and a stubby Cuban cigar - waiting, overjoyed and wearing a bad tie in public.
Perhaps I know far too much about TV. Perhaps the useless inspires me.
We smiled and joked about the sleeping arrangement and then alone took turns using the washroom down the hallway. The door opening and closing to the click click amongst an apartment shut down for the night, the background of whispers or that of a television still On, then gone and Off. X rumpled the covers and exhaled a good night from across the room - a from her to me that blinked me once and turned my head towards the patio doors to my left. And the small bed was soft enough. And from what I saw, the Spanish night was still clear but its vastness of stars hidden by artificial city light. I heard a pop, a far away, and then another; it must have been close to 1-in-the-morning and I was hearing the beginnings or ends of the neighbourhoods of firecrackers that I’d been warned about. Another pop bang pop. A snore from X. A periodic back and forth of the two sounds that left me dangling on edge, switching positions and praying that X would at very least begin to talk in her sleep. She moaned briefly and delivered me the delicate sound of rubbing her eyebrow with her left hand, that which I knew without even looking over. Pop pop. Pop. Far away. Near. Didn’t really matter, but at some point I did find sleep and dreams which I quickly forgot. Sorry.
It was near noon by my watch when I noticed the flat tummy of X rising and falling in a gentle, calm rhythm. I strained thought for the recorded vision of myself setting the hands of time ahead six hours; half-asleep I still was when came the knock upon the door and the sound of Duardo’s voice ushering forth baritone through wood, he imploring us: “Get up, you two sleepheads. Mascleta! We miss the boom boom.” Yes, to this friend; I stood up then and there, naked and flush with the glory of a morning aimed directly at my X. I grinned and did the big stretch. Waved my love around as she lay still under the covers and straight-smiled me: she has that capacity; I shrunk then, as I do now, whereas I used to flirt and get off on it. Not cower and leave the room to have a shower. I waltzed into the kitchen and greeted Duardo and his boxers with, “Hola, amigo. ¿Como esta?”
“My friend, Onray, when you want to wash you must turn on hot water here. Cum. Here, you see? You turn on propane with lever and light the fire with maybe little match.” He was showing me how to turn on the gas and light the thermocouple, wait the obligatory thirty seconds and release: the starting of the pilot to heat the water. It was still early for me and for a moment I felt smart and somewhat useful. What a truly wonderful start. And so I basked in propane warmth and awoke again to the morning or midday nudity that was my self now showering in Spain. I had at least slept and was happy to watch over the winter whiteness of my skin as my body directed and diverted rivulets of European water down and below, into drain. Comfort turned me around, closed my eyes. Tilted my neck to the Put of my hands over face. I managed to relax and remember to grab out for my razor, to soap and careful shave my lowers. Smooth.
To this I dried myself and silent switched place with X on the way out, propane at the ready, still a-working its magic.
My tiptoe made way to kitchen, to slicing and squeezing huge oranges with Duardo’s power juicer to make ultimate as fresh. We sipped the most magnificent and saved a glass for X and talked of plans and the present. We mentioned specifics that quickly lost their exactness the minute X and the towel wrapped around her head sashayed into the kitchen. “For you, babe,” I offered with a shade of sunlight in hand, “go on and have yourself a good old suck of this puppy.”
“Duardo, I am awake now.” A sidestep of me. A style of speak with a lead of the chin. “I am ready for …I am ready for masc-le-ta. I am.” She’d counted out the three syllables of foreign fireworks with a bouncing finger in the air, and if I were not her secret ex-boyfriend I would have surely hit on her right then and there. “Mmm, this juice is shitrocking.” He laughed with her, and I snickered for an entirely different. “Look at the size of these oranges. Henry, have you seen these? Look at ‘em!” Yes, I suppose I had seen them. They were big and perfect C’s in the both of her hands, held up for us to see.
I quickly wished her much on the spot pain and eventual understanding. And this the What I had to look forward to in the forever years. I blinked. I became fascinated by the dried rinds of orange strung and hung in a wreath and nailed to the kitchen wall of this that their apartment. I reverted to, performed the sacred jet lag scrunch scrunch of toes into the cool tile of floor and awaited more of Spain and or immediate comfort. I said ‘cheers’ to lead us three in a dunk and to a move from the kitchen to the brief couch to the midday warmth that was the burning sky overhead the terrace, a canopy waiting at the ready. X armed and fired up the near last of her du Maurier ciggies and talked in circles with the various of flora lovingly raised upon said terrace of constant sun by one particular Francesca we knew. “Oh, my big Spanish man, you are. And this? This must be you’re girlfriend. She’s so very pretty.” Them plants, and little explanatory sticks one places into the soil of a pot saying Latin name and anglicized version of, but I forget them all. They were all pretty and mostly green, I believe even one a descendant from Ontario and baring the name of a bear. I realize that this doesn’t tell one very much, but what I can clarify is precisely what I was thinking of the exact moment X leaned over and kissed the leaf of a certain splendid:
What does one do if and when confronted by an ex-girlfriend bent before a shrubbery of unknown origin.
I asked this of the mature side of the brain, the thirty-three-year-old man of experience and not piety - a wish for consoling and yet goading myself with the same breath.
I had a sly peek down her exposed top and left it at that.
Follow me to mascleta, said of Duardo. "Cum on, kids, we go right now."
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