Chapter Six
“Aqui estamos, pase por favor!”
Indeed, were William observing the old man’s face right now and not simply flinging his laptop bag onto the inviting king-sized bed in weary relief, he would notice a degree of proprietorial satisfaction more normally reserved for people who have single-handedly reinvigorated a crumbling building marked for demolition.
Or at least who possess such an edifice in its entirety.
But all that William sees is a large chamber in semi-darkness, with its shutters sensibly closed. It could, at first glance, be any hotel room in the world (save for the UK, where a kettle and tea bags are provided as a matter of course and to avoid riots).
Dumping the suitcases on the racks provided, the stocky driver/porter/Jacobo-of-all-trades scoots with impressive agility across the refreshingly cool bedroom, neatly avoiding a low, oak-like table in its centre.
He flings open the shutters, bombarding himself and everything around him with radiant if somewhat merciless afternoon light.
Adding tour guide to his resume, Pablo beckons his new guest over, in the certain knowledge that this William Sutherland hombre will go loco over the tastefully tiled and curling, wrought-iron balcony, with all that lies sunnily beyond.
But William, still understandably shaken by recent events (or non-events), is already at the minibar. He is relieved to discover sufficient miniatures of a Scotch to which he is not entirely indifferent and which is hopefully non-hallucinatory.
He reckons he needs to return as soon as possible to that – he struggles for the word – stasis, yes, in which he recognises that he lives and in which he is thankfully just about able to manage his work and his existence.
Whilst he would be the first to concede that the balance of his daily life is most probably far from perfect (and, come on, whose is?), it suddenly feels a whole lot more grounded than the heart-thumping, body-shuddering anxiety he’s experiencing right now in this indifferently pleasant room.
There is a large and rather beautiful bouquet of flowers on a nearby table. Yet his troubled mind barely takes this in as he finally obliges a perfectly back-lit Pablo with the requisite attention.
“Catedral!” enthuses the old man, pointing excitedly, as if William might otherwise fail to spot one of the grandest and most breathtaking places of worship in the civilised world, just a few hundred metres from this railing.
“Muy bien.” Even the man’s heathen guest can detect that the fervour bubbling over in room 381 is as much spiritual as architectural, and William has the good grace to endorse it.
“Aye. Muy bien. Multo muy bien.” Which seems to do the trick. And he has to concede that the massive and overwhelmingly ornate, Gothic cathedral, so golden in the unremitting sunlight, is indeed deserving of a proudly pointing finger.
“‘Hagamos una iglesia tan hermosa y tan grandiosa que los que la vieren labrada los tengen por locos,’” quotes the old man, although William recognises only a word relating to madness at the end and wonders if it is referring to him.
The moving and slightly oil-stained finger moves on and upwards to the soaring bell tower, once Moorish minaret and now landmark of every local guide book and postcard and T-shirt in Seville, standing proud against the unrelenting sun.
“La Giralda! Muy famoso.”
A vague memory stirs in William. Yes! They walked all the way up that tower, surely they did.
He and Lu, as he used to call her in those days.
It’s the sort of thing they would have done, when they had all the energy in the world and that same world didn’t sit like a rock on their shoulders.
And curiously, to his surprise, there hadn’t been any steps, at least not until pretty near the top.
“There were ramps!” he cries out. “Huge ramps. Aye. For the horses.” Pablo’s face is a tableau of incomprehension. “Ha! And she tells me I never remember anything!”
“Ah, felicitationes!”
“Excuse me?”
This is a word William knows, but he is not exactly certain on what the old man is congratulating him.
His prodigious memory? Then he sees the bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice on a side-table, with a small hotel-card around its golden neck.
William reads it and nods, not totally overjoyed.
“From my business partner. Sandy.” As if Pablo cares. “Gracias, pal. I’d better not be seeing the bill for this when I get back!”
William decides to open the bottle there and then.
Taking it onto the balcony, he sets it down on a small, tiled table.
Yet, as ever, the call of his silent mobile proves too strong.
He proceeds to dial a number, hardly aware that Pablo has parked the old retainer schtick and is watching his every move.
Yet William knows, as he makes the call, that the old guy is still around. They never leave without their tip.
“Ah. Spanish answer-phone,” he explains, over his shoulder, as he watches visitors down below stream into the cathedral.
He wonders if there’s an entry fee – they could be making a fortune.
Mind you, the upkeep… “Hello… hola… No, still rabbiting… dear Lord, sounds like he’s reciting Donkey-bloody-Oaty!
… Ah… finally! Hola, Senor Barbadillo? It’s William Sutherland here.
From London. ‘Matheson Sutherland’? Er… Ron Parfitt suggested that I – we – I’ll call again, shall I? Try to catch you… Aye. Er – adios.”
William remains on the balcony as he tries to open the bottle. He decides he has to make another call.
“This was all my darling daughter’s doing, Ped…
Pablo. This ‘second honeymoon’. Well, her and the ‘artiste’ she went and married.
Don’t ask me how they afforded it. I’m just calling to say, y’know, we’ve arrived in one piece.
And of course thank you. But she doesn’t seem to…
” William tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
No need to display your emotions to the staff. “You got kids, Pablo? Er – ninos?”
Pablo makes a five with his hand. Then another five.
“Jesus! And you can still lift a case!” He clicks off. “Clearly too busy for her old dad. Ah well. Care to join me in a—?”
He turns to find that Pablo has gone. Saved me a euro or two, thinks William, as he finally pops open the champagne.
The cork flies onto the empty balcony directly adjoining his. William finds himself wondering, as he always does, if a potential client might be staying there. Stranger things have happened. In fact, they’ve already bloody started.
“Let the party begin,” he announces to nobody at all.