Spanish Eyes

Blue Spanish eyes.

 I sat drinking coffee at a small café in Tortosa, convenient for Barcelona. An attractive spot, overlooking the conjunction of the river Ebro and the sea. Warm breezes caressed the drapes overhanging the tables shading the heat of the Spanish sun. I had gone there to relax, really to write a book, but the soporific environment had taken over, I had no wish to do anything but idle about. I idled very nicely at the Taverna, thank you very much. The Spanish see the English as very odd, in a way we are too nice, they rather think we are pansies, the women like that, anyway the Madam pandered to my tastes, but the men, ah, the men, they scorn us.

 As I lifted the coffee cup to my lips she came into view. I stopped, no, I was stopped by her beauty. I held the cup to my lips and peered over the rim. She was Spanish, no doubt about that, the movement of the hips, the tilt of the head, the pertness of her breasts through the open blouse covered by the lace Spanish shawl said it all. And then there was her hair, black as ravens, swinging in a sensual way as she moved her head, held in that proud way that comes so natural to them. She was nobility and yet she was bare footed.

 She was swinging along the track as she passed the Taverna, not a care in the world; the tenancy of the young. I felt inadequate at her sight, I put the cup down and felt the weight of years on my shoulder, and then she waved, not at me surely, I looked round, I was the only one. I was stunned, it was now or never, I beckoned her over to my table, mimicking drinking a cup of coffee. She laughed and went on down the track.

 I did not sleep well that night. You fool, I told myself as I tossed about the bed thinking of what might have been. Old men can soon be made fools of, especially the English, we do not have the ruthlessness of the Spanish male who would think of deflowering one so sweet as an honour bestowed upon them. The morning dawned and I could not wait to get to my seat in the Taverna.

 To disguise my anticipation I took a book with me and pretended to read. I was on my second cup of coffee when, there she was. Did she seem different, was she somehow more dressed up, and did I see that she was wearing shoes this time, red to boot! I but the book down and attempted a smile as a Grandee might, as if to say welcome to my court, and if you are lucky, my bed. No forget that, I have been reading too many Mills and Boon. I was flustered, as I turned I swept the book to the ground. I bent to pick it up and as I looked up there were blue Spanish eyes engaging with mine. She smiled Si, Si.

  Teardrops falling from those Spanish eyes.

 And so she enticed me. And yet, and yet, did I feel a feeling of power. I was cock of the hoop. She said she loved me. I revelled in that. The power flowed, I was as a God, I had the power, and yet more fool I, did I promise too much? The flower of Spain was open before me. We dallied. We sat at the coffee table. The sound of guitars filled the air. The smell of mimosa entranced our senses. Could it last? I fooled myself in thinking, yes, for ever, until one day she came with a proposition, she was happy that I should go and see her father.

I pondered over this, I’m not sure that it would be a good idea. Love blooms on the pool of innocence where there are no demands, the Spanish sun and enticing airs are perfect for this. We lived in an idyllic world of make believe. I knew this, and it was part of the romance, no concerns or responsibilities for tomorrow. I thought of the films I had seen. Spanish grandees bound up in the honour of their families. I smiled to myself, I needed the charm and off handedness of John Wayne to handle the standoff. But the temptation was the snare!

Please don’t cry.

 It was not easy. We lay together in one another’s arms, her smooth skin next to mine. It was vibrant and expectant under the moonlight and a warm Spanish night. We had thrown the bedclothes off and lay naked together. I sensed a change, I thought of the song, ’Love is the Tender Trap’. She expected more. She had spoken of her family, her mother who tended the pigs. Hold on, ’tended the pigs’, I thought she was of noble birth! Her father who was a famous Groucho and an expert at hunting. Was that the outline of a 12 bore I could see in the shadows of the moonlight, or just my imagination? And so the real world intruded on my liaison with a Spanish beauty. Romantic love always founders on the expectations of the beloved. And so it was with Spanish blue eyes, she wanted more and I wanted tenderness without demand. And so she cried as I departed.

This is just adios and not goodbye.

 And so I gave her the scoundrels sweet goodbye, only adios! Sweet Jesus how could I do it, I thought of myself as an honourable man, well no, just ordinary. I did not want to hurt anybody, but it had gone too far. There were demands to take into account. I pondered it a long time. I could stay in Spain, but I was aware of the looks I was getting - do not dally with our maidens!

The Madam of the Taverna did not welcome me with her usual relish, I was not top of her pops, so to speak. And then there was the family - there are certain conditions, there are certain customs of the country that have to be taken into account. Could I give myself over to them. The male ego asserted itself, just a minute, I was fancy free, I did not need this, and somehow it became her fault, I began to hate her hold over me. What a weak man. I left a message that I had been recalled to London on urgent business.

Soon I’ll return, bringing you all the joy your heart can hold.   

        
     What a cringing coward. I had torn a heart out. I had shredded it. How could I do it? As I sipped my G&T I realised that I could, easy! That old devil wagged his tail; you had good time, well let the good times roll. Yes, of course I had. She was probably a tart anyway, well she must have been. I reflected; was she a virgin? Do you know I was not experienced enough to tell! Then I had a twinge of conscience, I would return. It took longer than I expected. I had book signings to attend to!

 I returned to London and my publishers told me that they had just released my latest book and I had to help publicise it. That meant going to those poxy book fairs, and signings in god forsaken parts of the country. Before I knew it a year had passed. I know, that sounds weak, but the arts world is a heady mix, suddenly blue Spanish eyes were a distant memory. But I did return. Would you believe it my publisher had arranged a deal with a Spanish publisher. This time I returned in the luxury of a private jet. I felt I was returning to my love in style!

Please say Si Si. Say you and your Spanish eyes will wait for me.   

 We flew to Barcelona, we stayed at the Alicia Hotel in the old gothic part of the town. Sadly the inside had been modernised but it was certainly comfortable enough. I felt at home in Spain, I thought I knew something about the country and it’s people that gave me an edge. I spoke several words that I paraded about, but I’m sure they did not understand a word. I went through the motions. I shook hands. I smiled. I signed books.

All was going very well. My publisher was well pleased. He suggested we have a rest and there was to be a parade through town that we were recommended to see. And there she was. Astride a white horse; in all the glory of a Caverliros was blue Spanish eyes! ‘Who’s that?’ I asked? ‘Contessa del Castella de Vigo,’ ‘And the man?’ ‘Her husband!’

 Her husband rode proud, his face sharp, his lips thin in that arrogant way , his dark hair swept back. ‘He is the Conde.’ His eyes met mine, black as coal, no recognition. I searched for something from her eyes, their blueness meeting mine with impish disdain. Her lips formed as if in a kiss, and I recognised Si, Si.

 As she departed her horse dumped a load on the cobbled roadway.

Ah, I thought, I know the feeling well!