Chapter Thirty-Six
He could do the walk to Hostal Esmeralda in his sleep. Which is probably just as well.
There is no one in the freshly scrubbed streets as William leaves the hotel (where, for once, he doesn’t bump into the ever-wakeful Pablo).
Nor is there much evidence, save for shop-window displays, that one of the largest and most spectacular religious festivals in the world is currently at its height.
The cathedral itself appears to be sleeping, as if storing energy in its ancient stonework for the upcoming Easter Sunday, Domingo de Pascua, the most important day in the calendar.
Energy sapped, thinks William, from the hundreds of poor artisans and craftsmen who most probably expired during its construction.
And then he thinks that such thoughts, whilst vaguely poetic and metaphysical, aren’t really getting him anywhere much, so he stops thinking them.
He has no idea how long he spends on the old bridge, by now so familiar, gazing down at the gently mesmerising river, with no proper idea where it has begun nor indeed where it is going. For William this is just a halting point on his mission, until the time is sensible to proceed.
He really does wish that he had a proper, definitive plan.
A honed-until-foolproof, long-term strategy for the future, with Sutherland and Co as the brand.
But none has occurred and if he thinks that watching an endless stream of muddy water will clear his head and sharpen his focus, he is seriously disappointed.
The Hostal Esmeralda is just awakening as he pushes open the gate.
There is no one in the courtyard but the shutters of his old bedroom, their bedroom, are open.
He hasn’t quite worked out how to explain his being outside their door so early in the morning and he knows that ‘just passing’ won’t hack it this time.
But in this brave new world, where different rules apply and lying through one’s teeth feels perfectly normal, he is confident that something will occur.
The tiny reception desk is unguarded, which he takes as a positive omen, so William is able to slip through and up the stairs without being observed.
He looks around but after thirty years he can’t honestly say that the creaky staircase or the old tiles adorning the walls ring the slightest bells.
Nor does the bedroom door when he finds himself outside it, wondering what to do next.
He has no need to wonder for long, as the door suddenly opens.
Reeling back against an available wall, he feels suddenly sick with the prospect that this is happening today, now, and is the initial phase of his master plan, which isn’t a plan at all but some species of desperate and clearly unrealisable dream.
The occupant of the small, first-floor room appears just as surprised as William.
He is a man of a similar age, but better skintone, to the total stranger on his landing.
Yet he bids him a hearty Australian (or Kiwi: William is never quite sure) good morning and slips past him down the stairs to enjoy his desayuno.
William doubts whether the man he just encountered is aware that he has been sharing a tiny room with a couple from the early nineties, but he knows that he shouldn’t hang around to find out.
He has not the slightest clue as to what to do next and doubts that he will have any firmer ideas after a good breakfast.
But he will at least have had a good breakfast.
*
It is well after nine when he finishes what was indeed an excellent breakfast. William supposes that if anyone can do a Spanish omelette, these guys can, and recalls with affection the myriad tasty omelettes he has enjoyed back home over the years, with Luisa and Claire and quite often with their closest friends.
The latter of course did include Sandy, which makes him decide he won’t think any more about omelettes right now.
He is not thinking about anything constructive when he finds himself on a bench in a small but delightful square, rich in statuary and bitter oranges, not far from the hostel.
He is struck by the acres of emptiness inside his brain.
William Sutherland, still apparently of Matheson Sutherland, whose mind is usually churning at such a rate, either with future plans or financial worries, long and short-term strategies, campaigns carefully targeted and dreams sadly unfulfilled.
He would do what the gurus advise and simply trust in the power of the universe, except he thinks that’s a pile of shite.
As the city comes to life, the benches around the square fill with bright-eyed tourists.
William watches them as they pore over maps on their phones and tablets, or more likely, he reckons, hit social media for their first fix of the day, indulging in the cyber-schadenfreude that only kicks in when flaunting to less fortunate connections back home a snapshot of Andalusian paradise these domestic observers possibly won’t ever afford.
(Or at the very least aren’t enjoying right now.)
A large Nazareno all in white parks himself next to William.
They exchange a polite nod, which is all the more impressive when your head is masked and conical. Had he even wished to begin a conversation, which William doesn’t, he doubts that they would readily find a suitable topic in common.
It is when William checks his watch – a habitual gesture, as there is nowhere in particular he needs to be and he has absolutely no idea where he is going – that he senses a pair of eyes examining it with interest. When he looks up at the eyes, which of course are all he can see of this encased man, he is surprised to find that they are staring at the elegant timepiece in what has to be pure admiration, as no one would linger this long merely to ascertain the time.
If William Sutherland didn’t trust the universe before, he does now.
As he remembers.