Chapter Thirty-Seven
It takes William a good half-hour to find the small jewellery shop, which turns out to be just around the corner from the Hostal Esmeralda.
He might have deduced this, with his Holmesian skills, had he really thought about it.
But the frustration of tramping around the several streets abutting the square is far outweighed by his current elation, as he strolls down this final, exquisite little shopping parade.
It appears unchanged over the centuries, save for the large, ground-floor windows and the merchandise behind the glass.
The shop is empty, so he decides to wait outside, until – well, until whatever he hopes will happen actually does. Or doesn’t. In which case, he realises, he is totally stuffed once again.
“Senor?”
He spins round. A young man in a smart, grey suit has come out of the shop and is smiling at him.
“Mm?” responds William.
“Can I help you?”
“How did you know – that I was a Brit?”
“I have special powers. The government – they often call me in.”
Ha bloody ha, thinks William. But he tells the man “I’m just waiting.
” He realises this sounds a bit odd, so he extends the wrist of his left hand from under the sleeve of his vaguely summery jacket.
“I bought this watch here. Well, actually, my wife did. Your name was on the box – still got it, somewhere – and we were staying just round the corner.” The young man is nodding, with professional interest. “She came here thirty years ago – this very morning. I think. Yeah. Pretty sure. Before you were born.”
“I do not think so, Senor.”
“You must be older than you look.”
The assistant points across the road “I think it is there that she bought this.”
William looks at where he is pointing. It is a small, specialist CD shop. He gawps at the young man in confusion.
“We moved. It is the gypsy inside of us.”
William stares at him. Then rushes across the road.
*
The noise is deafening.
The CD shop, stocked mostly with secondhand or specialist items, along with some coveted vinyl, is quite small and narrow, yet stretches a surprisingly long way back.
It is already quite full of customers, mostly Spanish, some of whom are happily singing along with the blaring music.
This is William’s idea of hell and the surge of hope he felt on that bench in the square swiftly evaporates into the music-drenched air.
Then he sees her.
The young woman is bent over what he assumes must have been a glass counter, with its most precious items displayed beneath. All sealed and secured, until a man with a special key can release them. It is obviously such a man, or indeed woman, with whom Lu is talking so volubly.
William’s gaze lingers once more on her face.
He stands transfixed, for a moment, by the aching beauty he still remembers.
A beauty he recognises now as having deepened over the years, rather than being cruelly withered by them.
Not just on the outside but – more importantly – the beauty that lies within.
It isn’t Luisa Sutherland that he is now wanting to change, he reassures himself, but simply the circumstances that have changed Luisa Sutherland. And of course himself along with it.
Which makes him even more determined.
William knows that he has to attract Lu’s attention, across the decades, amidst all the noise and bustle.
But he can’t physically reach her. In his pulsating, musical world, there are stacks of CDs and a display of curious musical instruments, not to mention curious customers, barring his way.
So he has to resort to an undignified yell.
“LU? HI!”
The young woman turns at this, as indeed do most people in the record shop, despite the racket they themselves are making.
“Oh. Gordon. How are you – today?”
She smiles at him with genuine delight, without raising her voice. Because, as he soon realises, there is no need. Her long-gone shop is most probably empty. It certainly isn’t playing Now That’s What I Call Andalusian Music! 86.
He finds himself wondering if she would offer so disarming a smile to any considerably older man she might be forever bumping into on her honeymoon or whether she considers him just the slightest bit attractive.
Unfortunately he can’t quite hear the words that might afford him some clue, as they are burying themselves beneath this same smile.
“COULD YOU SPEAK A LITTLE LOUDER?” he yells.
“Why?” she asks, not unreasonably, wondering why he doesn’t just move a little closer. He really is a quite peculiar man, she thinks to herself.
“ER – MY EARS. YOU KNOW,” he explains, pointing to his ears in case the concept is proving too tricky for her. “AGE!”
“Oh – OKAY.” He can see her give a bemused shrug to the phantom jeweller. As well she might, for the elderly man, who is most probably six feet under by William’s time, has no idea as to whom his pretty young customer is shouting. “THIS IS BETTER? YOU CAN HEAR ME?”
William turns to a fellow record shop browser, who is staring at him. “Bloody madness,” he remarks. Which, whilst undoubtedly true, isn’t totally satisfying as an explanation. “JUST! I HOPED I’D RUN INTO YOU AGAIN.”
Lu just nods. Had she thought about it, she might have wondered how come this curious Scotsman keeps turning up in places she just happens to be. But she is a rather sweet and really quite innocent girl and the concept of stalking hadn’t yet fully taken hold in mid-nineties Spain.
“I WANTED TO APOLOGISE TO YOU. FOR YESTERDAY,” he continues.
“APOLOGISE? PORQUE?” she responds, getting rather used to this empty-shop shouting. She hardly notices the wary old jeweller swiftly returning and locking up the precious items he has only just taken out.
“You could apologise to us too, Senor,” mutters a disgruntled music-lover.
William just ignores this. “CAN WE TALK SOMEWHERE LESS CROWDED?”
As the customers respond with a heartfelt “por favor!”, Lu looks around the empty jeweller’s shop and wonder, if Gordon, husband of the oddly named Fanta, is actually insano.
“I was making a gift. For Will,” she explains, and, if he doesn’t hear, so be it. “His watch, it is not working. And he must always know the time! I come back later. Buenos días.”
This farewell is to the jeweller, who finds himself both disappointed and rather relieved.
The CD shop customers are wholeheartedly the latter.