I always find late afternoon a mysterious time. To start with, there’s usually nobody else out and about, except for me, and maybe a donkey tied to a tree. Shops and shutters are closed, and even the flies are sleeping. But then, all this changes shortly as people get ready to begin their day once again.
Sunlight smacks shadows on the white houses and dirt roads as women dressed in black slowly appear outside to mop their patios already pristine, already cleaned just a few hours earlier. They water the flowers hanging on the walls of their homes, dust orange butane bottles sitting underneath the green window blinds.
I often wonder why they clean so frequently and what they are thinking about during this delicious peaceful interlude that permeates each afternoon. I’ll probably never know, for mysteries abound here and I can only wonder at everything before me.
Blinds and shutters go up slowly, click by click, and I suddenly hear a radio blaring through open windows piercing the stillness. The voice of Manolo Escobar singing ‘Que Viva España’ (Long live Spain!) rings out heartily in the late afternoon. Stray dogs are stretching their skinny legs as they uncurl themselves underneath trees, and their long noses look lazily up at me walking by. Tiny birds in tiny cages are silent, lifting up their beaks, searching for something.
I saunter along the narrow road pronouncing words in my mind, pleased that Mr. Escobar repeats the lyrics over and over so many times that even I could sing them without hesitation. I feel as if I’m making progress in Spanish simply by understanding just three words, Que Viva España.
Little boys dash out from behind beaded curtains, knocking over the bucket and mop leaning against the white wall of their house. They play Cowboys and Indians around the fountain whilst old men wearing berets sit down on red chairs and place their hands, just so, on top of their walking sticks. I sit on a bench near them and tell myself that it’s quite fine to be idle, despite feeling I should be doing something more useful and productive. They begin talking, slowly at first. Then the words run into one another and before you know it the old men are all talking at the same time.
I like the challenge of trying to understand each and every word. It’s impossible, however, for the sentences seem never-ending. I keep hearing the same word over and over. It’s ‘verdad‘. I equate it to ‘n’est-ce-pas‘ in French. People nearly always finish their spiel with ‘verdad‘ which they pronounce as a question or even sometimes as a command. I think that the rhythm of the Spanish language sounds like the Morse code, that something very mysterious is being transmitted.
I feel as if I’m a spy being swept away in a fascinating, foreign land where my senses are stimulated into experiencing sensational delights as I investigate mysteries. It is intriguing to watch people interact with one another. It seems to me that they are either really angry with one another as their voices get louder and louder, or they are the greatest of friends strolling along arm in arm. Their heads are so close to each other that nobody can really hear what they’re saying.
Whenever I meet someone they invariably hug me with enthusiasm, kiss me on the cheeks and call out my name as if I’m somebody important. They are so delighted to see me. I’ve never, ever heard my name pronounced with so much vigour! I must confess that I don’t really like all this touching and intimacy, and I have to add that I don’t return the embraces or pecks on the cheek.
Gosh, maybe the local people find me a mystery?!
Want to know what I find an even greater mystery? Books. It’s always a surprise when I open them only to find that some pages are joined together. The spines crumble and pages come loose so very easily. Even the print is at times illegible. I tend to slide my fingers across the words just as a blind person would do whilst reading braille as if this will help me comprehend what is written. I place the pages carefully back inside the covers, hoping the books will remain intact, that their meaning will not ever be lost.
Mysteries are fine things, but the written word should be preserved, intact, and free of extraneous error.
I do like to read the magazines. “Hola” is my favourite one. There are so many interesting photos and articles that it has become a pleasure to read Spanish. In fact, whenever I see anyone munching on a bocadillo I sometimes think of the fancy people I see in “Hola” magazine. The singer Raphael, who married Natalia Figueroa just last year, does he bite into crunchy bread with the same gusto as children playing in the streets? Do Carmen Martínez Bordiú and her grandfather, the dictator, Francisco Franco eat bocadillos filled with thin slices of jamón york or thick chunks of tortilla española? Do they smile just like the knife sharpener does after filling their bellies with a humble barra de pan de un duro? (a 5 pesetas baguette)I can only assume they do.
Well, if all these people are eating bocadillos, quite possibly on a daily basis, then the humble barra de pan unites them, ¿verdad? Munching heartily on one is the favourite pastime all Spaniards share. It’s the ritual that binds them, regardless of who the person is, dictator or singer, peasant or aristocrat, old man or young child, and unlike so many books, this ritual will never crumble. Pun intended.
Yes, if not for the bocadillo there would be no Spain, of that I am convinced. At least, not the Spain that I see before me now.
Have I just solved a mystery?! ¡Que viva el bocadillo! (Long live the bocadillo!)
