EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALMarch 13, 1999
Calle Conde de Barajas, Seville
Javier’s Seville
The telephone rings. It’s Javier. He’s driven from Santa
Maria to Seville today to visit with his girlfriend, Pilar.
Pilar and Javier arrive at the Conservatory with Rich and I vibrating
with excitement. They sit in our salon and we bring them drawings, one by one, of Santa
Maria. Eventually I am piling portraits of Chucha and tiny drawings of cacti on
Javier's lap. He’s especially fond of the pastel of Santa Maria’s door.
The original has been sent to Canada already. I can only give him a large print from the
computer. I offer a portrait of Javier standing with his greenhouse but he says I have
drawn him too fat, and with not enough hair. He peruses the pastels of the bedrooms, the
mirror, and the greenhouse. He says, "My Santa Maria’s colours have been
good for you!"
Pilar and Javier’s passion, and mutual exaspiration are material
for an Andalusian song. Pilar is the city girl, an Epidemiologist. Tonight she wears a
straight skirt and a long, winter coat. Javier is the farmer, a free spirit, and a mind
jumbled with the free-form activities of Santa Maria. Javier and Pilar are electric
with affection. At the same time they seem to inherently bypass each other’s
expectations of one another and wind up in a frustrating exchange of question and answer.
"Shall we walk?" "I want to drive." "Then shall we drive?"
"Are we walking?" "Are you driving?" "I don’t want to
drive." "I’m not driving." "Where are we going?"
"You’re driving." "Where are we?" "We will have to walk from
here."
It’s ten o’clock and time for a nibble. We step into Modesto,
a famous tapas bar at the edge of Seville’s Santa Cruz district. The place is narrow,
with standing room only now that the place is jammed with Sevillians. The bar is stacked
with lobsters, baby clams, olives, pimento salad, and varieties of bruschetta—skewers
with meat and seafood chunks too large for one mouthful. The dozen or so camareros
wear black vests and ties. It’s like they are part of a musical ensemble. They rush
from end to end of the bar, and to the kitchen behind, weighing prawns and clams, shouting
and clapping and waving their arms. A camarero’s most important skill is
keeping an eye on each of his customers—and he may have half a dozen at the bar and
another handful at small tables. He goes about his business of adding to each groups
"cuenta", or bill, as the night progresses. He makes eye contact with
each patron every few minutes, because when one small plate or "racion"
is devoured, a next is immediately desired. One never knows what one will fancy until one
sees it pass to another table, or checks the menu again, or thinks it up. The camareros
are lightening fast. Drinks are poured, bread is cut, clams steamed, mushrooms grilled and
new customers’ faces and needs memorized simultaneously. The camareros do it
all with masterful ease, smiling and anticipating the next request. The only item which
may take a while to arrive is the final cuenta. The camareros take their
time with the bill because they are always hoping you will want a little more.
La Carboneria is a converted slaughterhouse. It’s a series
of small rooms and a large hall lined with long tables and benches. The stone floor slopes
in a trough towards the door. The ceiling is a collection of overlapping tarpaulins. In a
corner a group of gypsies play Flamenco informally. The corner is alive and rocking with
hand-clappers. This guitarist plays a lively series of songs. His younger brother sits on
a wooden box beside him, drumming on the hollow surface of the wood. Another man sings
loudly, with lots of melody. He says, "Me mujer, me mujer, esta me mujer"
(my wife, my woman, she’s my woman) and, "La cuenta, la tiempo por la cuenta"
(now it’s time to pay the price). We all join in with the clapping. I am reminded of
my pre-school Orf classes. Every child is given a drum. The teacher plays a strong rhythm,
and may have another person play a melody on a simple flute. Each child plays the rhythm
he or she finds inside them. Everyone plays a slightly different variation. Everyone in
this room is clapping a unique, but harmonious rhythm, and anticipates when the guitarist
will break, or stop completely for a moment with a powerful series of strums and soundhole
taps.
In the next room patrons play a game like Othello at small tables, in
front of a large open fire. This game, much like checkers, is a one I have often played
with my Grandfather. There’s a man here who approaches me as I warm myself beside the
logs. He wears a series of tattered shirts, with an Andalusian flag pin. His toque is
embroidered with the portrait of someone from the Black Panther Group. His black and white
beard is long and narrow, like a foo man chu. He says, "Tu es Americano? This
chimney is hot. Yes, heat is muy importante. Very important." He tells
me he is an amateur hand-clapper and that he knows about Quebec.
At midnight a band starts up in the big room. It is a line-up of young
men in dark suits, with beautiful antique electric guitars. Their sideburns are pork
chops. They play an edgy, honky-tonk. We four sit at a little bench. Before long Rich and
I notice that we are surrounded by foreigners, including a Vancouverite, fresh from a
month in Belgium, who has come to Seville to live indefinitely. Two pretty German girls
are across the table. Beyond them is a cluster of Japanese flamenco aficionados, many
Americans and a roomful of older couples, more pink, and better dressed.
The Carboneria is thick with smoke and the heat of the fire and
hand clapping. The air is the kind that provides a sticky glow—rosy cheeks, bare
shoulders, and the delicate curls of hair at the napes of necks. Javier clutches his
throat and motions towards the door. When we step into the cool, spitting rain, I tell him
that too much time in the Sierra has made his constitution weak for city life. We walk
through the narrow streets of Santa Cruz singing, "La lluvia en Sevilla esta
maravilla!"— Rain is Seville is a marvel.
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