primavera

Spring here is brief. For three or four weeks it wakes up the palms and calls the people back to the patios, then it disappears into the dry heat of summer. We’re at the end of it now; midday temperatures already illicit heavy moans of “Ay, que calor” from the shoppers on Calle Sevilla as they retreat into the air conditioned stores.

The better the weather, the more cancellations, so we spend hours unemployed in the crowded plaza bars, drenched in sun and iced red wine, listening to the French and German of passing tourists, migrating from table to table as friends come and go.

One day we’re sitting on the patio of a favorite café when one of the plaza barflies joins us. Juan’s in his sixties, or maybe just looks it after years of Spanish sun and cigarettes. He has a spectacular bird’s nest of a beard and deep black wrinkles on his leathery face. His eyes are bloodshot from the joints he chainsmokes.

We’ve met several times, but he asks our names, having remembered us only as ‘los americanos.’ He calls over a younger, more clear-eyed friend who introduces himself as Ignacio. Ignacio is the sober voice of reason in this relationship; he spends the next hour scolding Juan for his often nationalistic and occasionally racist tirades.

Juan has a problem with everyone, but never a problem that can’t be solved with another drink or another joint. He can’t stand these Zafra folks with their big-city arrogance; his neighboring village of 300 people is where the ‘real Spain’ lies. Then he points out his apartment, about 50 feet from our table. He says Levi’s not handsome enough to have a redheaded girlfriend, then demands that everyone at the table tell Levi how gorgeous he is. When Ignacio consents and tells Levi he is indeed guapo, Juan laughs and calls him a fag. Then suddenly he’s at war again, telling us all that Ignacio is no fag, and that none of us should be calling him that. Every time his blood seems to rise, he disappears behind his glass for a moment or two and emerges, calm and smiling.

After a couple of beers, he begins an assault on our ringless fingers. ‘You’re living in sin!’ he insists, Cruzcampo sloshing in his glass as his arms wave angrily about. ‘Aren’t your parents angry? It’s a sin! You have to get married right away! You’re living in sin!’

He settles back into his chair, his apparent anger suddenly evaporated. He takes a long drag off his joint and cracks a mischievous smile as he exhales a cloud of smoke. ‘I’m only kidding.’ He puts down the beer and fixes his eyes on mine, suddenly a vision of earnestness and wisdom.

‘Gods don’t exist.’

His seriousness passes quickly, and now he’s on about immigrants, particularly those from Africa. He doesn’t care for those Gypsies either. Ignacio is shaking his head at us in embarrassed apology.

Juan’s curious about life in the United States, and asks a few questions about the day-to-day experience of Americans. ‘What about safety? Do you lock your doors at night?’ I tell him it depends on where you live, but generally people in the US do lock their doors nowadays.

‘I bet that’s because of all the blacks.’

That’s it for us, and Ignacio’s had his fill too. He invites us back to his house for a drink with some friends, and we leave Juan to another table of friends.

•••••

We’ve hit Semana Santa, the week-long Easter celebration typical in the Latin world. A friend tells me that this is the one time of year the otherwise only nominally Catholic Spanish become true devotees, weeping as processions of white-robed men carry a wooden body of Christ though the streets. She also warned me to be prepared for what, to my American sensibilities, is going to look strikingly like a KKK rally. Lovely. Potentially offensive photos to follow.