Chapter Sixty-One
In a tiny upstairs room, at the pretty, “cheap ’n’ cheerful” Hostal Esmeralda, a young honeymooning couple lie naked in each other’s arms. Clothes are strewn all around the narrow and rigorously tested bed.
The couple are not asleep. They have woken up from that surreal, post-coital dreaminess and are talking about the future.
Their plans make no sense; minds are hardly at their sharpest right now, yet they love the sound of each other’s voices and the fire of hope in their eyes.
As Will reveals to her the theme of his new story, a theme he has expounded several times before but never so nebulously, Lu grabs hold of his left arm, currently lying across her belly.
He continues talking and to him at least the words make perfect sense, but she doesn’t listen.
She raises his hand and around it she wraps an elegant man’s watch, an expertly crafted and designed piece of functional jewellery, with classy Roman numerals, such as he has never had before.
He senses the coldness on his still-warm wrist and tries to examine it by what little moonlight sneaks through the shutters.
“Shit, is that the time!” he exclaims.
She seems disappointed and ready to cry, until she sees the smile on his face and the look of pure wonder, as he admires the only precious thing he has ever been given, presented to him by the truly priceless, bright-eyed gift he may also never believe he truly deserves.
“Muchas gracias, Senora Sutherland,” he says. “Now I’ll always have time for you.”
He places it next to his ear and immediately falls back asleep.
*
Seville hasn’t slept for a week but she is sleeping now.
The Nazarenos sleep, proud hundreds of pious men who have been tramping and sweating in vivid anonymity, draped in the historic garb of their brotherhoods, alongside their cross-carrying brothers.
The ancient pasos too, weary but still gleaming, sink back into their dusty chapels and churches, candles snuffed and flowers wilted.
The sturdy men-of-similar-stature snore as one, turbans unrolled and soaking, they themselves stretched out and equally scrubbed, thanking God in their dreams that they don’t have to bear that heavenly load until another fifty-one far less holy semanas have passed.
The righteous men, who have quit their balconies, slumber soundly, saetas of spontaneous devotion still ringing in their hearts and in the scented air.
The pilgrims and the tourists, shopkeepers with their fans and castanets and marzipan penitents, the tapas makers, legions of azulejos sellers, footsore flamenco dancers, the surly and the over-friendly waiters.
At least two surprised and satisfied Barbadillos, with bulging bellies and solid legs.
And the churros vendors.
All asleep, in the arms of their spouses, their lovers, Jesus Christ their Lord or someone they met watching a procession who is flying back home tomorrow but there’s always WhatsApp.
In his toy-strewn room, a small Spanish boy dreams, blond hair damp and clinging to his contented face. Beside him, next to the dimmed Spider-Man bedside light, is a lumpy ball of wax that isn’t quite as small as it was last year but nowhere near as huge as it will be the next.
No one knowing, as no one ever knows or should know, what tomorrow morning may bring.