Chapter Forty-Five
Everything! is exactly what William Sutherland and Tazmin Whatsername do on their first afternoon and evening here in Seville.
They walk the extraordinary city he feels he has been walking his entire life, yet apparently he just arrived here a few hours ago.
He can’t help noticing that his companion is more entranced by the designer shops than the historic buildings, but he manages to temper his disapproval by recalling that he didn’t want to be here for any of it, until he tripped over a pew and met his wife’s younger self in a cathedral and his whole world began to unravel.
He finds himself staring unblinkingly at the young woman, which she simply takes as her due.
She has no idea that she reminds him so much, at least superficially, of someone he used to know.
He wonders if he has had other affairs like this and if the young women have all shared a similarity, of sorts, to the one on whom he is cheating. Or at least her far younger version.
Fortunately, Tazmin is completely unaware of the puzzlement that clouds her lover’s face, as they explore the tiny streets and even tinier boutiques.
He is quite amazed at how much she can talk, without pausing for breath, and how little interest she has in anything he might have to say.
Not that, to be honest, he is actually saying anything of overwhelming interest right now, if indeed he is even capable of doing so.
He is almost relieved that his companion is stuck in transmit-only mode, as it gives him time to think.
He just wishes his thoughts could amount to something more practical than “get me the hell out of this” and “kill me now”. If he could only find his way back home to Luisa (wherever home is; he’d need to check that out subtly with reception) then maybe things might sort themselves out.
Perhaps hope has not died after all.
This suddenly sparks off a fragment of another vague thought, something darker, unformed yet dreadful, that unleashes a chilling, almost visceral terror deep inside him, causing his heart to thud like a Sevillian drum and the sweat to pour once again.
He can’t quite get there. Not yet. Especially not with all the excited chatter just a few delicately scented inches away.
But he will.
He knows and he fears that he will.
Several shopping sprees and sangrias later, night begins to fall. They find themselves snacking on the tapas for which Seville is justly famous and through which Tazmin is making staggering inroads. He silently prays that these aren’t mere appetisers for whatever else she may have in mind.
Then they hear the trumpets.
William swiftly grabs Tazmin and practically drags her out of the bar, pickled octopus in hand, for no better reason than this is something he feels the young woman must see and it may even stop her talking for a few blessed moments, although he has his doubts.
It soon becomes clear that, whilst Tazmin is sufficiently awestruck by the ‘gobsmacking’ candlelit procession to upload its highlights on her Facebook page, alongside pictures of every single tapas she has just tried, this is not the defining moment for her that it was for him when he first encountered it so many lifetimes ago.
But then, he reasons, this young person hasn’t been graced with the sort of spirited and spiritual guide he had first time round.
The insistent rhythm of the drums, solemn as it is, puts Tazmin in the mood for dancing. It isn’t long before she drags William off in the direction of a new club she has tracked down on TripAdvisor (“best disco in town – be prepared to stand”).
It is when she is leading him away that he feels a pair of eyes on him.
Turning back to the procession, William sees that one of the Nazarenos, this time clad all in red, is not looking straight ahead like his myriad fellows, lost in his own spiritual world, but is staring directly at him.
There is something about those penetrating yet soulful eyes that is curiously familiar.
He shakes his head vigorously, as if this might just ward off impending doom, but it is at this point that Tazmin happens to turn back and notice him.
With a smile full of misguided understanding, she nods and runs a delicate hand across the upper part of his thigh.
Yes indeed, perhaps they should just go back to their room.
Clubbing can wait until tomorrow. There are other ways to break into a sweat.
Oh God, thinks William, turning back to the Nazareno. But, whoever he was, he has gone.
An elderly man is sufficiently moved to render a croaky but impassioned saeta from his balcony, which makes Tazmin think it really is time to move on.
*
Pablo is manning the lift when they return but this doesn’t appear to impede the flow.
“I didn’t do politics at Warwick to produce tacky game shows all my life. No offence. The thing about television is you have to think outside the box. Are you ok, Willo?”
“Buenos noches, Pablo,” says William tiredly, ignoring the man’s exaggerated winks and knowing smiles. He realises that there is no way in this incarnation that he could have known the name of the old fellow – the man wears no identifying badge – but Pablo doesn’t appear in the least surprised.
As soon as they enter the room, Tazmin hurls her bulging bag of souvenirs onto the table.
They hear the clack of all the “hand-carved”, genuine flamenco castanets she has bought for her many nephews and nieces.
In one smoothly choreographed movement, she swivels and switches on the TV.
Clearly she has no intention of watching but it appears to be the natural background to whatever it is that she does intend and which cannot apparently be effected in silence.
“When you picked me out of all the candidates – even though I knew sod all about TV-prod, well, I thought – he must see something in me. And I don’t mean ‘you know’. You’re not that sad. Are you?”
“Possibly,” admits William. He watches her kick off her shoes and begin to massage her feet. He finds himself thinking that she really does have sensational legs. Perhaps he truly is this sad. “Time for a drink!”
“Haven’t you—?”
“Drunk enough?” He knows that he had been hitting the Rioja pretty hard at that tapas bar. Who wouldn’t? Yet he also knows that the blurriness in his aching head has nothing to do with alcohol. “Couldn’t happen.”
Tazmin suddenly shoots up and scurries across the room at some speed.
“Lu!” she cries.
William is immediately alert.
“WHAT did you say?” he shouts back.
For a moment the young woman looks alarmed. “I need the loo, William.” She smiles through the discomfort. “This is a killing place. What on earth made you think of it?”
She closes the bathroom door, emphasising the question’s rhetorical nature.But he answers her anyway.
“I have absolutely no idea,” he replies, quite honestly.