Chapter Fifty-Six #2
If William finds dancing with two formidable, accomplished women, of differing ages and from different eras – neither of whom is aware of the other’s existence – unimaginably taxing, he tries bravely not to show it.
Hopefully, he reasons, the perspiration he can feel running down his face, and everywhere else beneath his expensive summer clothing, will be put down by the casual observer to some highly unfamiliar exertions.
Brought on by a spontaneous display of Caledonian flamenco.
“Legs are doing well, darling,” he tells the older woman, because he feels they deserve some acknowledgement on their birthday. And this can’t have been so misplaced, because he hears quite clearly two highly attractive Spanish women of differing ages murmur “gracias”.
On an impulse, William grabs the red rose from Senora Barbadillo’s hair, hoping its thorns don’t rip her head open, and grips it between his now beautifully capped teeth. This is, of course, before he realises that to poor Lu it appears he has plucked the flower completely out of thin air.
“Conjuring school,” he explains, to which Lu just nods, as if nothing about this man could possibly surprise her by now.
“What happened to your beautiful watch?” she asks.
He flashes his wrist, bereft of all the watches in his life, then adds what he considers a flamboyant touch by raising his arms and clicking imaginary castanets. “Gave it to a tiny peasant! Ay ayy!!”
Calming down, because he’s exhausting himself let alone anyone else, he moves closer to Lu and tries to lower the level of near-hysteria in his voice.
He ratchets it down to repressed panic, which he hopes she may not detect.
“You have no idea what I’m trying to tell you, carino.
Could be because – after thirty years – I’m only just figuring it out myself. ”
Thankfully, Senora Barbadillo dances off. Perhaps because she wants to rejoin her family. Or maybe because the flying Scotsman is now talking in hushed tones to a large, potted plant.
“We can’t control our whole world, Lu,” continues William, with a gentle smile.
“Believe me, no one can. Stuff – happens. Aye. It does. ’Fraid so.
But you know what? You know what? It’s not the bad stuff that does you in, Lu.
Not really.” He finds himself on the verge of tears, which he isn’t certain will aid his cause, but neither can he help it.
“It’s being someplace else when all the good stuff’s going on! ”
There!
For reasons he can’t totally fathom, he feels the urge to execute a move that will choreographically nail for all time the profound insights he has just received and felt impelled to share.
He essays a bizarre manoeuvre that involve both feet leaving the ground and, inevitably, he stumbles mid-flight.
Happily, a shocked Lu manages to catch him before he can do too much damage.
For a second he savours the support and breathes in that particular scent he still recalls with such painful longing.
“Just keep going where the music takes you, Lu. Wherever it takes you. Spontaneity, that’s the buzzword, kiddo. Go with your gut, go wi’ the flow.”
He glances across to Will, who is watching protectively. Patently hoping he hasn’t surrendered his innocent young bride to some raddled Glaswegian lecher.
“And it wouldn’t kill you to dance once in a while, pal!” says the raddled old lecher to his younger, stiffer self.
Yet he knows that respect and decorum dictate that he must reluctantly break away.
She isn’t his and may never more be so. As yet William Sutherland fears that his raging epiphany may turn out to be nothing more than a one-man show.
Stepping back, he sweeps up their half-sipped cocktail from Will’s hand, as if to propose a toast to his newer, wiser self.
He notices, without huge surprise, that the glass and its contents at once appear to look their age.
Yet, before the couple can spot this sudden desiccation, he swigs it down in one.
Amidst the gagging and retching, he manages to complete his life-changing thought process.
“You’ve just gotta go for the whole bloody cocktail!” he proclaims, rather neatly in his opinion. He muses that he might have made a half-decent writer after all. Another life. “1995. Mm. Vintage!”
He hears applause from the Barbadillo family across the floor. He doubts that this is for his dancing, so he reckons it must be for his guts.
And then it starts to rain.
But it’s 1995 rain. He watches as it lands on Lu and Will, but feels not a drop on himself.
“Come on, Lu,” says Will, leaping up. “We’ll get soaked!” He moves off to find shelter beneath an overhang at the central bar.
Lu watches him, then takes in the rain and finally lets her gaze rest on a smiling William.
Suddenly she cocks her head, clearly hearing something that William can’t detect but knows is resonating deep within her.
He suspects, from what his own ears have been telling him these wondrous days, that it is something primal.
Something that strikes more than the ears, something that thrums with the soul.
Perhaps the sound that has been so familiar this mystical week. That of distant drumming.
Whatever it is, it appears to be having some effect.
Lu shakes her head, at Will, at the elements, at the world.
And stays where she is, lifting up her face to the skies and letting the glorious rain soak her.
Because this is where she happens to be and here is where the rain is.
She swings her head around, like a puppy emerging from a river, droplets singing into the night air.
William moves into her rain. Embracing it as it dances off her. “Go with the flow,” he repeats, almost but not quite to himself. He smiles at her and raises his voice for one last plea. “Look, no umbrella.”
She looks into his eyes, the same deep blue eyes, she notices now, as her husband, and just nods as gentle rain tips her fine dark lashes.
He knows that he can do no more, though he is far from certain that he has done anything. So he simply offers this joyous young woman the same brief, heartfelt adios he gave his last two “wives”.
“Goodbye, Luisa.”
She looks at him and smiles. A knowing smile, although perhaps she doesn’t know quite yet what she knows.
As he passes the Barbadillo table, where they apparently can’t keep still for a single moment, he turns back.
To see Lu sexily enticing Will towards her, slender arms extended and weaving, drawing him sinuously closer, as if by an invisible cord.
Will resists – until he can’t resist any more.
He picks up a minuscule wooden umbrella from the bar and, raising it jauntily above his head, joins her under the downpour.
Lu laughs. But then she neatly plucks the umbrella from out of his hand and lightly throws it away.
*
It is only when William reaches the lift that the realisation hits him.
He stands, frozen for a second. Glancing back, he can just glimpse the young couple standing even closer, if this were possible.
What has just stupidly and all too belatedly occurred to him is that this whole time, this whole Semana Santa, he has been devoting practically all of his attention to Lu.
Whilst he can hardly blame himself, especially watching her now, her soft lips so close to – well – his, he is chastened to add one further damning insight to the evening’s mix.
And to all that he has learned this revelatory week.
Luisa was not – and has never been – the major “problem” to be solved.
He doesn’t wish to disturb the couple, yet he has to go back. So he manages simply to tap Will on the shoulder and to whisper into the young man’s ear.
“Look after her, pal,” he warns, “or you’ll have me to deal with.”
By the time Will turns round, the older guy has gone. Out of the door through which he came only seconds before.
Wondering if he has just been talking to himself.