Chapter 2
He is glad that he has packed his book at the top of his rucksack.
In fact, he has treated it with far more respect than his shirts or his trousers, despite her kind and repeated offers to do that perfect folding.
The sort, with its wee pats and tucks, that only women appear able to achieve.
Including his ma, which always surprised him, as the rest of the old tenement flat was a bomb-site.
He loves to read, of course he does, but he has had little opportunity so far.
Or – more importantly – to write. They have either been talking or eating or making love (and, on one notable occasion, all three).
But, now that she is jabbering so fast to the older Madrilenas sitting opposite, with their bulging handbags and equally overflowing sandwiches, he can probably devour a few chapters before the train pulls in.
He loves this author, so he hopes he won’t be disappointed.
And, who knows, he may even scribble the odd word. Actually, no “may” about it. He has set himself a certain number of words per day, as he has it on the best authority that this is what you do. But he is already behind and it is making him cross.
The trouble is that Spaniards talk so bloody loud.
He is sure that this isn’t just him and his prejudices, etched even deeper by what has happened over the preceding few days in the capital. Her city. Days that mean they are on the train to their real destination earlier than intended.
He cannot understand or even make out a single word. He wonders if this is because they also speak faster than any other nation. Or perhaps you always think this when you can’t make out a single word.
Then two words suddenly sing out, because they are already familiar to him and the jabbering women keep repeating them over and over again. Semana and Santa. Semana Santa. Semana Santa! It is almost as if they are warning them. Why the hell should we beware of Holy Week. Be ‘feart’ of Easter?
Semana Santa!
Finally she turns to him. “They are saying us we will not find the place to stay this week. They are saying us everywhere will be completo – filled.”
“Full. Bugger! We should have booked. I told you we should have booked. I even marked out some nice cheap places in that new guidebook we got given. We should have phoned ahead. We should’ve—”
“Is okay, carino. It will be fine.”
“It might not be,” he insists. Because he knows that things often aren’t.
She just grabs his hand and continues to talk to the concerned older women, fast and loud.
He muses that, curiously, where this impenetrable, unshared language should form a barrier between them, it actually adds to the enchantment and draws them even closer.
He feels immensely proud of her, having this wondrous facility that he lacks.
“Gracias,” he says, and opens his brand new book.