Chapter Twelve
He would like to say that the old hostel has hardly changed over all the years.
But William can’t honestly swear, hand on heart, that he recalls how it used to look in the first place. Yet, after his mind-bending experience just a half-hour earlier, William Sutherland is delighted he has even the wherewithal to push open the heavy gate.
He wouldn’t have paused here at all, especially now that he has finally picked up all Luisa’s missed calls and texts.
Yet the name Hostal Esmeralda had been highlighted in felt-tip in the newly purloined guidebook.
And he had spotted, with some satisfaction, the (inevitably) tiled nameplate as he came off the bridge.
He just hopes he doesn’t meet anyone he used to know.
Such as himself.
The courtyard, which even he has to admit is rather appealing, with its trickling stone fountain and abundant orange trees, is empty, save for a stocky, deeply tanned man in his forties, fixing a downstairs shutter.
William gazes around and finally up at a first-floor bedroom, whose own perfectly functional blue shutters are open to the day.
He senses the handyman staring fixedly at him and looks away.
“William?”
“AHH!!” The old guidebook slips out of his hand, as he turns slowly around. “Oh, dear God, it’s you! Luisa.”
“Who else knows you in Seville?” she asks, reasonably. “The Virgin Mary?” She looks at him – something is wrong. “William, you’re trembling. Are you okay?”
“No, not really,” he admits, retrieving the mercurial book. “Luisa, the most surreal thing has just happened. Possibly.”
“You have been drinking,” she interrupts. He has no idea whether this is a response or a new question.
“NO! Well, just some champagne.” He stares at her. “It was from Sandy.” He notices that for a brief moment she looks vaguely uneasy, just before she smiles.
“Oh. Well, this is kind,” she says, almost dismissively. “Why are you here, William?”
“Here?” He is momentarily confused, as if the question is unexpectedly existential.
“Oh, this place. Well, I was just passing and – you see! I do remember stuff, Luisa! Hostal Esmeralda! As in, you know, Quasimodo and Esmeralda. The Lunchpack of Notre Dame.” He laughs but she doesn’t join him.
She is looking up at that same little first-floor bedroom.
William grabs the opportunity to stare directly at her, examining her upturned face with the most intense of scrutinies.
Something he is certain he hasn’t done in years.
Why would he? Luisa flinches disconcertedly when she becomes aware of this, as if finding herself suddenly married to an overzealous dermatologist. So he judiciously dims down the glare.
“Luisa,” he implores, “forget the drink. Please! It wasn’t the drink. At least I – you will not fucking believe who – what – I just – huh?”
She has noticed the old guidebook in his still-trembling hand. Gently taking it from him, she flicks through its well-thumbed pages. He can only watch as she begins to read aloud.
“‘There are 115 processions during Semana Santa. They each proceed from their parish church right through the cathedral. But if it rains really badly, a procession can be cancelled.’ Now this you underline!”
“Yes, okay! But, Luisa, the guidebook. You notice how old it is? About thirty years old. Well—”
“‘BECAUSE some of the floats date from the thirteenth century. So the people have to wait until the next year, when the sun is shining.’ Only you would write under this – ‘pack umbrella’. You and your bloody rain!” Yet she says this with at least half a smile and indeed appears strangely touched.
“William – you keep the book all this time?”
William nods, sentimental old fool and shameless liar that he is. But the triumph is short-lived.
“No – you did not just ‘remember’ this hostal! It has the big circle here in red. Where you write ‘cheap ’n’ cheerful’ with two ticks! Sí – I have the memory now. There was a guy here, at the station. With a postcard!”
“Our hotel’s nice,” says William. “It’s got Wi-Fi.
” He can sense that this is neither a cultural nor emotional highlight.
“Oh, and the kids sent lovely flowers. Well, Claire did. I tried to thank her but she was busy.” He grabs her arm, startling her.
“Luisa, just now, after I’d been to the ceramics shop—”
“The ceramics shop? William, we have to talk.”
“What am I bloody trying to do?”
The handyman suddenly coughs. They turn to see him point suggestively towards the upstairs rooms. William and Luisa both vehemently shake their heads.
In harmony for once.