Chapter Fifty-Two
When he turns up yet again at Hostal Esmeralda, William is just as exhausted from the street-pounding and procession-weaving, from rushing and pushing and scrambling, as he would have been in his old life. Which only confirms that Mr Hot Shot “TV” Sutherland pays someone to do his workouts for him.
The handyman is up his usual ladder, fixing yet another broken shutter.
William strides towards him and grabs the lower rungs. Before the stocky man can protest, William is shouting up at him, ignoring for the moment whether the object of his wrath can follow a single word he yells.
“Remember me, pal? I sure remember you! YOU’RE FROM THEIR TIME!
” William can’t believe he is saying this, and he’s rather glad they’re quite alone in the courtyard.
Yet he knows that he is right. And that the long-buried memory for which he was scavenging this morning, after last night’s orange-munching visit, has just kicked right back in.
“Senor?” says the apparently puzzled Sevillian, in that wary manner universally recognised as a prelude to summoning the authorities.
William decides to shake the ladder quite violently, although he knows in his heart that killing the man right now, however satisfying, might not necessarily further his cause.
“Listen, amigo, I don’t know what the hell is going on, or who you are – and I’m too bloody petrified to ask.
But if I don’t find those two innocent youngsters by midnight tonight and set them back on track – undo the damage I’ve done – I am totally screwed.
Trapped for eternity in game show hell.” He points to the small bedroom that he and Luisa once shared.
“Please – this isn’t about me! Forget about me.
Do you want to split up that sweet young couple?
” He pauses for a moment, his passion outrunning his logic. “One of whom, of course, is me.”
The handyman moves down a couple of rungs and stamps hard on William’s fingers with the heel of his old leather boot. William yelps in agony and leaps back out of range.
“Bloody Hell!” he cries. “Just because you’re surreal doesn’t mean you have to be nasty with it!”
“Plaza de Espana,” mutters the handyman, under William’s curses.
William believes that he has heard the man correctly – if indeed it is a man and not a spectre or a phantom or a product of his own, deluded brain. He certainly isn’t going to hang around and re-pose the question. “Yeah? Gracias. Bit unnecessary, but mucho… gracias!”
He rushes off and out the gate, rubbing his injured hand. He doesn’t see the handyman shake his head, nor does he hear him repeat “Plaza de Espana!” with a wicked laugh in his throat.
*
The Plaza de Espana is, of course, bloody miles away.
Or at least it feels like this, as William struggles and barges his way once more through the chattering, surging crowds. All doggedly tramping the streets in search of the week’s final processions, even though they have probably witnessed incredibly similar processions all week.
He stops and ponders, just for a moment, for whom exactly he is doing this. Then he realises he doesn’t have the luxury of stopping and pondering. And, anyway, he sort of knows.
The sun is sending meaningful hints about going down, after another steamy, full-on day, as William finally rolls up at Seville’s confusingly grand contribution to the 1929 Exposition and begins his search.
Alcoves and all. The haunting theme music from Lawrence of Arabia crawls unbidden, like an ear-worm, into his head.
William finds himself, forty-five fruitless minutes later, sitting on yet another trickling fountain, in front of the Plaza de Espana, alternately sobbing and cursing.
“Marmalade-eating bastard!”
He has totally run out of options. The unsuspecting pre-millennium honeymooners he is seeking so desperately, the couple who will now never enjoy a long marriage or thoughtful anniversary gift from a lovely daughter (or even that daughter at all), could be anywhere.
Yet anywhere is not on the maps in his pocket, his sexy new smartphone, his memory or his mind.
His expensive head has almost sunk into his chest when he glimpses them.
Strolling towards him, Easter Sunday smart, are his expansive hosts from the bullring.
Senora Barbadillo looks particularly radiant, flashing those sturdy, flamenco legs in sheer black stockings, beneath a respectfully dark yet still summery dress.
Her raven hair is jauntily topped off with a bull’s-blood pillbox hat.
William can’t believe how delighted he is to see them again.
“Senor Barbadillo! Senora!” He is immediately thrown off course by the utter bafflement on both their faces. “It’s me. William! …We just went to the corrida together.”
“No, Senor, we did not,” responds the portly man, gently but firmly.
“No, of course we didn’t,” admits William, sadly. “Sorry to—”
Before he can finish, Senora Barbadillo suddenly grabs hold of his arm. To no one’s surprise, she is extremely strong.
“How you know our name?” she challenges him.
Good question. “Er – flamenco! Everyone knows your name in Sevilla, Senora.” He turns to go. “And your legs.”
“Your name too, William Sutherland.”
William swings back in amazement. The older couple are smiling and pointing excitedly to his blouson.
He pulls it out like a flabby fold of skin and twists his neck round until he can make out “William Sutherland Productions”, emblazoned on the reverse in gold script.
He reckons he must come across like a dog chasing its tail, but it doesn’t appear to bother his onlookers.
“The more soon you are than I am!” they cry exultantly.
“May we have the photograph, Senor?” implores his new, old acquaintance. “Today is birthday of my wife.”
“Of course it is!” cries William. “You’re sixty!” He can sense the Senora isn’t thrilled with this. “So hard to believe,” he adds hurriedly. “So hard. Doing anything special tonight?”
Senor Barbadillo’s eyes take on the naughtiest gleam. “Hotel,” he announces. “Is best and oldest in Sevilla. With only our family. Very quiet.” He then steps forward and proceeds to give William a huge and bewilderingly conspiratorial wink, one that his wife cannot see.
William is attempting to process this nonsense when the flash of a camera, or perhaps a light suddenly going on behind, just nicks his peripheral vision. And moments later something flashes in William too.
A red glow?
He knows this means something. It has to do with the honeymoon, with Will and Lu, he is certain. But he can make no earthly or unearthly sense of it.
Until he catches the Senora smiling at him. And watches her red hat bobbing.
A hat. Something about a hat. A red hat?
And now he remembers. Or he thinks he does. It isn’t much, in fact it’s light years from much. But it’s a start.
He begins to move off, but then turns back and shakes both their hands. “Gracias. Very muchas. Happy Birthday.”
As he picks up speed, he calls back “Felicitations!” out of politeness and then, for some obscure reason, adds “See you on the show!” because it sounds the sort of thing TV folk like him say.
He can feel their puzzlement searing into the back of his limited-edition, corporate blouson.