This is part of my commitment to write and publish something on Medium every day for 90 days. To find out more about this weird challenge I’ve set myself, check out this post.
Today’s offering is a a chapter from the novel I’ve been “writing” for about five years, about a young British guy who is hiding from his problems in Spain.
Chapter 8
Seville was too hot.
Blake had made the mistake of thinking that July in Seville would be like July anywhere else in Spain — hot, yes, but pleasant. Summery.
This was not like that.
The air was silky and heavy, and in normal circumstances would not have been unbearable.
These were not normal circumstances.
No wind and 3 0'clock rays combined to create a trance-like intensity of heat that Blake had never before experienced.
Where Alicante and Malaga had a distinctly salty aroma, Seville’s was a musky deadness — everything was dulled.
A siesta was a must, Blake thought, but where to go?
With no hotel, almost no money and no network, Blake was at a loss.
He could use his last few Euros for a bed for the night.
He could use his last Euros for a drink and a meal.
Like any animal, short-termist survival instincts kicked in; though it’s debatable as to whether you could say satiating his thirst with a too-chilled cerveza grande is the definition of darwinism.
Blake wandered into the nearest bar. An empty bar. It was dark, quiet and instantly calming.
The all-too-relieving rush of cool air conditioning almost made him feel comfortable.
There were only two or three tables in this place. A stool at the bar. A TV silently blaring out some overproduced, under-watched telenovela.
And Cristina.
Cristina was a large girl, not fat as such, but genuinely big boned.
She stood at around six feet tall, so tall the glass shelf above the bar covered much of her head.
Dark greenish eyes, a flat smile and pock marked in every bit of her face.
Blake could not immediately discern her age — her appearance was that of a middle aged woman, her demeanour that of a teenager — all clumsy, lolloping, exaggerated movements and overacted expressions.
As she stooped to greet him, Blake could see she was missing small patches of hair in places, and the darkness of her remaining hair made these lacking pieces all the more obvious.
“Hola chico” she leaned in further as she noticed Blake’s hesitant approach. “Que quieres?”.
“Una cerveza por favor” Blake responded in the best Spanish accent he could muster.
The jig was already up. Like anywhere, the tongue of a foreigner simply does not have the same sonic qualities of a Sevilliano. It was easy to spot.
Cristina had spotted it. She made no comment though, as she extravagantly reached for a tankard.
Blake was starting to ache now, as his eyes darted from Cristina’s pouring to the various trinkets and wall hangings adorning almost every space in the bar.
Where do they get these things from? Blake wondered.
His legs buckled, and he let out a sharp gasp. Cristina did not seem to notice, or care.
What the fuck was he doing here.
At certain points in one’s life, you find yourself in a place — it can be somewhere as non-descript as a Spanish bar or as grand as a gulf-state palace — and your mind cannot help but separate itself entirely from its surroundings and do its best to piece together the trail that led you to be here.
It is almost never successful of course. We would live in a far greater world were it so easy to determine causality to such specific degrees.
This was one of those moments for Blake.
Perhaps it was the pain that caused this mind/body split, or perhaps the pain was a symptom, but it was clear that Blake had left the room.
Tracing as many steps as it could muster, Blake’s mind focused on all the decisions and moments it decided were key, and left them in a puddle in his vision.
No categorisation, or sorting, or justification. Just a puddle.
Snapping of fingers sent him back to the bar.
Cristina’s plain smile had been replaced by bemused concern and was asking after payment.
“Lo siento” Blake stuttered, and handed over a crumpled 5 euro note. His last 5 euro note.
Cristina grabbed his money and nodded to the warming beer on the bar.
Blake was still feeling the pain in his calf and despite the cool interior of the bar, was still dizzy from the outside heat. With that first sip of beer, both began to subside.
For the next hour or so, Blake sat at the table furthest from the bar, chain-smoking Fortuna and sipping his beer until it was too warm to consume.
His attention was divided between the awful telenovela on the tiny screen and the local newspaper ten times read, strewn on the chair next to him.
Cristina had paid him almost no attention for the entire hour, but when that mark was reached, she started making movements and noises.
Blake wasn’t sure whether he was outstaying his welcome, or whether Cristina was just a bit odd.
No one else had entered the bar in that hour, and though admittedly still afternoon — and peak siesta time — Blake did wonder how a bar in the centre of a city could ever be so quiet.
He kind of liked it though.
In one of her more obvious movements, Cristina began to start moving coasters and ashtrays around on the tables next to Blake.
Ostensibly cleaning.
Catching her eye, Blake tried another bit of poor spanish.
“Hay comida?” he asked, starting to feel the hunger of not eating in a day.
“Si, claro!” Cristina looked very pleased and trundled of to behind the bar and through a door Blake hadn’t noticed before.
So far in life, and on this trip, planning and making choices had not been Blake’s forte.
So he was half-relieved when Cristina returned from the kitchen five minutes later with a dish rather than a menu.
It was brown. Brownish grey actually.
It smelled wonderful though. An earthy, homely, meaty smell — like a Sunday roast beef — but with tangy, spicy topnotes of paprika and garlic and tomato.
Lumps of something meat-like perched atop the particularly liquidy brown sauce.
Blake took a spoonful and immediately groaned with pleasure, a completely organic reflex action.
Cristina heard this exultation and beamed.
She came bounding over to the table with lightness of foot one would not expect from such a big person.
“Te gustas? Uh… you like, yes?”.
Blake could not tell which was more of a relief- a home-cooked meal that felt like a hug to his soul, or the sounds of wobbly, yet charming attempt at his native language.
Having not heard English in around two months, he decided the latter just took the crown.
Once Blake’s plate was cleared, Cristina returned to ask if anything else was needed.
Knowing he only had about 8 or 9 euros in change, he thought the better of asking for another beer and simply asked for the bill.
With bill in hand, Cristina suddenly became curious.
“Where you stay?” she asked.
“I don’t know” Blake responded, honestly.
“We have room here, you want?”
“Thank you but I don’t have any more money” Blake said, starting to realise that he would be sleeping on a bench or pavement tonight.
“S’okay” Cristina hissed “I need go out tonight, you keep bar for me, you stay no charge”.
Blake couldn’t hide his relief and his gratitude, and Cristina grinned a toothy smile back.
“You sleep now, work a las ocho” Cristina instructed, and beckoned Blake to follow her up to his temporary living quarters.
At least he had a bed for tonight, Blake thought. Things were looking up.
IF YOU LIKED THIS PIECE, HIT THE OLD GREEN HEART AT THE BOTTOM THERE AND KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR MORE CHAPTERS THROUGHOUT THE NEXT 90 DAYS. IF YOU DIDN’T LIKE THIS PIECE, KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR OTHER BITS OF WRITING I’LL BE DOING INSTEAD. YOU MIGHT LIKE THEM MORE.
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