Mesmeric

                                                       

                                         

                                                             MESMERIC

 

     Some German society woman, can't remember her name, what her husband did. She painted mediocre abstract expressions and sold many of them to others of her kind. She was beautiful, yes, well for a while, and I'm sure she considered me the same. What limited German I had certainly was improved.

     She was taking the bus from Malaga to Motril because she wanted to experience something picaresque, folkloric and slightly dangerous. She usually flew to Granada and taxied over the mountains to Motril then to her villa in the colony outside of Salobrena. She also wanted to worry her husband a bit, though later she admitted he probably wouldn't care. He was so wrapped up in his business and he'd been impotent for some time.

     I didn't really look at her until midway along when the bus was twisting around the cliffs. When I did first see her, the pale, somewhat nauseated look on her face completely disguised the above the world expression she was most comfortable with. A peasant woman next to her continually vomited into a very thin plastic bag.

     There was an empty seat beside me and when the peasant asked the bus driver to stop a moment so she could empty her bag, Beatre stumbled as gracefully as possible over to me and sat down without asking. After some minutes, she regained her composure and noticed me.

     We talked in broken German and English and both lied somewhat. She was a famous German stage actress who'd given it up because it was all so shallow. I was a successful writer absorbing for a new novel. We were both lonely, but we didn't discuss this. She commented on the beautiful scenery, the mountains, the sugar cane fields. We agreed in our disgust of the innumerable high-rise hotels towering above tiny fishing villages. She told me of some beaches below the cane fields that were only polluted with goat manure as opposed to raw sewage from the hotels. I told her I hadn't bathed in four days. She lied she hadn't in five.

     Eventually we decided to take a swim in the Mediterranean. The bus stopped at a small town with a restaurant and store. We descended the stairs and the mountainside through sugar cane fields to a pebble beach. It was very hot. A herd of goats and a shepherd stared glass eyed at us as we swam in our underwear. She was just the slightest bit stocky, some Bavarian skeleton in the closet no doubt, and her medium sized breasts curved upward the way her nose did. Her hair was red with streaks of blond, and wavy after drying in the sun. I kept staring at her naturally puckered mouth and the shepherd and his flock kept staring at us until the combination made us both nervous enough to climb back up the mountainside. At the restaurant, we ate tuna salad with Bermuda onions and fritatas. The next bus was on time. Beatre asked where I was staying in Motril.

                                                                        *

     I am pouring wine for a party of Harvard School of Business potentials. There is much talk about how surprisingly cold it is for early December in San Francisco, nothing compared to New England of course. Someone comments on how wet the fog in San Francisco is, being so close to the ocean and the Japanese Current, you know, with thick fog and all, that's practically icy drizzle. But what about sleet storms? Not one of them has more than two glasses of wine. They all look like underfed chickens.

     Paul is early and stands at the end of the bar tossing smiles at me and quietly making rude comments about the party. I'm sure some of them hear and it makes the last half hour of the shift pass quickly. As I leave, the party is still on, and the manager makes a joke about firing me for quitting early. I tell him to go ahead and fire me and he laughs nervously, jerking his head back and offering a little squeal.

     At seven o'clock, the Financial District is empty except for a couple of bars. The dark chill is a relief. Paul strokes my hair once as we walk to the car and asks me about the day. We were to go to Catrina's in the suburbs for dinner.

                                                                          *

     There was a stop just before Salobrena. Beatre and I got off and walked down a gravel road into a cluster of villas mostly mock North-African in Architecture. She told me hers was the only combination Spanish-Italian style villa and had one of the best views and certainly the best tile floors. She'd seen or heard about the interiors of all of them. From the breakfast balcony, you could see the bleached town of Salobrena crawling halfway up the remains of an old volcano topped with a ruined Moorish fortress that overlooked a flood plain planted with sugar cane. From the dining balcony, you could see fifty kilometers west down the coast towards Malaga. We watched the sunset eating bread and butter cheese. She assured me the local wine was drinkable. After supper and a litrer and a half, she complained of the salt in her hair from the afternoon's swim. She asked me to help her get it out in the shower.

     We scrubbed each other with soap and brushes frantically kissing in the boiling steam. The night was hot. We dried each other in clean sheets. Gradually our caressing became gentle. She fell asleep first. The open window letting in the sounds and smells of the sea kept me awake and peacefully excited for a while. I closed my eyes and smiled.

                                                                        *

     "Oh, hello, Dahlings!"

     "Catrina, we come bearing vodka and wine!"

     "Oh, marvelous, boys!" Catrina flutters up, one hand pressing her breasts to stifle a burp before giving us both a kiss. Paul runs into the den and starts roaring at her kids watching television, threatening them with cheesy farts and tickling.

     "Stop farting at my children!"

     I accuse Catrina of being vicarious. Squeals, giggles and farts follow Billy out of the den. He demands a piggyback ride. I swirl him around the room as Barbara chases us slapping my butt. 

     "Stop this racket! Shut up!"

      Susan accuses her mother of having another hangover, dodges a slap and falls into Paul's arms to be ticked until she screeches.

     Eventually the kids settle down to lasagna. Catrina, Paul and I are in the living room drinking vodka and grapefruit watching a fire in the fireplace spitting pine and eucalyptus. We chide Catrina for running off to England for Christmas, leaving her kids to her ex and missing our party. She defends herself then falls melancholy. Paul reminds her that tomorrow we'll have a tree for the children, all have brunch together, have a tree decorating party. She cheers up and goes in to clean up the kids half cleared table, throwing threats at them she knows they can't hear over the television in the den.

     Dinner is a pork loin with parsnips, onions, potatoes, carrots, gravy, applesauce, Yorkshire pudding, corn and salad with a curry dressing. We talk of a reunion when she returns, our respected problems, some old and recent wildly drunken bar room scenes. We begin to get somewhat drunk. Exhaustion sets in. In the living room, we put a couple of more logs on the fire. The kids come out to have a final tussle before bed. Paul fantasizes the six of us moving to Granada. We talk a bit of Southern Spain. Catrina begins to nod off. Paul and I assemble a bed from couch and chair cushions. Catrina brings a sheet and comforters. She kisses us good night. Paul reads a magazine and I write a bit. I turn off the light and we settle into each other’s arms.

                                                                         *

     In the morning, Beatre was standing over me with a wet rag pressed to her forehead and a cup of espresso in her hand. I thanked her and asked for a glass of water. She smiled, set the coffee on the bedside table and walked slowly into the other room. She was gone fifteen minutes, and I became impatient. I took the cup and went to find her. She was sitting nude on the breakfast balcony buttering bread on a glass table. There was an empty chair with a glass of water on the table in front of it. I sat. She offered me some fruit, smiling and squinting against the sun. I ate while she spread butter cheese on the bread. As we relaxed, we became a bit more honest with each other. I told her I'd come to the Costa del Sol to escape December in Paris. She admitted she's never set foot on the stage.

     She told me her husband was expected at the villa that afternoon. She offered to taxi me to Granada. She wanted to give me a tour of the Alhambra. I agreed and thanked her. We went back to the bedroom and made love quietly. After, we lay looking out the window. I think she was listening to the sea as I was, but I didn't ask her. We showered together and dried. She called a taxi.

                                                                       *

     I awake with my back to Paul. He is moaning. I take him in my arms, and he becomes quiet. Fog has covered the house. I don't bother to look at my watch. I have slept restlessly, and cushions are spread apart. I rearrange them and doze off.

                                                                          *

     The taxi arrived and we rode silently over the mountains to Grenada. When the city came into sight, Beatre pointed to the Alhambra. I looked at te fortress and asked how it was considered a palace. When we arrived, she led me inside and I understood. We walked holding hands through the arched Gothic rooms with Moorish filigree and glaring courtyards traced with intricately patterned streams leading to and from small pools.

                                                                          *

     I wake again to see Paul staring at me. He kisses me and runs his fingers through my hair. The house is dead quiet. I don't know what time it is. I fall asleep with my head on his chest.

                                                                          *

     Beatre wanted to show me the gardens. She told me they were a maze like the arabesque arches and intertwining rain gutters. She told me a story about an imprisoned Moorish prince that wandered the maze waiting for his lover to claim him and free him. She was entranced, pointing to trimmed niches in the hedges, diamonds and stars of hedges. She squeezed my hand tightly and looked deep into my eyes as we emerged from the palace. I told her I was going to Barcelona. She instructed the driver to take us to the train station. We got out of the cab and walked towards the tracks. I took her hand and asked without looking at her if I could give her my address, if I could kiss her. She didn't respond. Her hand slipped from mine. I turned to see her getting in the cab. The driver left the station quickly.

                                                                        *

     I open my eyes and don't recognize the hushed voices of the children at first. Paul is leaning on his elbow. He smiles at me. Catrina and the kids are off to get the tree, Paul and I to buy breakfast. When we return, the children decorate, and Paul and I fix bacon, basted eggs, bagels, lox and cream cheese. Catrina has a hangover and there is some scuffling between her the kids who are screaming uncontrollably over the ornaments. Paul and I become man eating plants that try to squeeze the life out of the giggling brats. Catrina picks an old rag doll from her childhood as the Christmas tree crown. She tosses it at the seven-foot tree and it catches the top perfectly. Everyone applauds. At breakfast, Paul talks again about running off to Spain while the food is devoured. He asks me if I've ever been to Andalucía.