At five to six, I prepared to close the shop when two customers came in. Great, I thought, I'll never get home to Max at this rate. But as they came a bit closer, I recognized them. I saw a tall, good-looking man and a woman whose face had been pressed close to mine, on the other side of the glass.
EL RITMO DE LA NOCHE
Helen always thought of herself as polite and reserved. If you were being unkind, you might even call her uptight. Casual sex was certainly not on her to-do list when she and her friend toured southern Spain. But one balmy night at a fiesta in a tiny town near Gran ada, she found that even the prissiest girl sometimes needs a little Latin in her. It's nine p.m. and the sun is only just begin ning to set. A low red orb hangs in a streaky amber sky above the red roofs and white walls of this small Spanish town. In the street beneath our balcony, the local youths climb trees without ladders, throw each other strings of lights, wind them around the branches, and fix up banners between the buildings. All day people have been parading through the town, carrying statues and effigies, praying, marching, and singing beautiful, ancient songs that I don't understand but are evocative all the same. But now that the religious ceremony is over, the real festival is about to begin. I've been told that music will fill these streets all night, alleyways will throng with bodies, and the dancing won't stop until dawn.
I step back from the balcony into our hotel room. The city is dressing for the evening; I should, too. Lara is massaging after-sun lotion into her tanned, toned skin. As she smoothes the lotion into her limbs, they turn golden and glisten in the lamplight. Her task complete, she reaches for a white sundress that shows off her tan to perfection. I look at the long, dark hair that cascades to her bottom. She's as brown and beautiful as any of the local girls, and I know that she'll be the center of attention when we go out tonight.
I check my own reflection in the mirror: I am as pale as Lara is dark, skinny where she's curvy, nervous where she's confident, edgy where she's sensual. Lara has orgasmic sex with every partner she chooses; I have never come, never been able to relax that way, although I would never tell anyone this. I think I've been close a few times, felt butterflies in my stomach when I've kissed a boy, but those fireworks that Lara talks about? It's never happened to me. I guess some girls just aren't programmed to enjoy sex that way.
We've been traveling through southern Spain for ten days now, and while Lara fries herself in olive oil every day I've had to carry a parasol and smother my body in SPF 50. I have nothing to show for my time in the sun but a smattering of freckles on my nose. Well, that's not quite true: My already blond hair has been bleached almost white. Each fine, straight strand will look luminous tonight. I decide to wear the cobalt-blue sundress I've been saving for a special occasion. It makes my blue eyes, the only splash of color on my milky-white face, stand out. I may not have many assets, but I know how to make the most of those I do have.
Before we go to dance, Lara and I share a huge plate of paella in a restaurant in the town square, marveling at the enthusiasm of the town's young people. Groups of beautiful young men stroll arm in arm through the square. Teenage couples kiss passionately, oblivious to the merriment surrounding them. Children, who, back home, would have been in bed hours ago, sit on laps, crawl under tables, or sleep on seats. Lara and I linger here, watching the people and absorbing the atmosphere. Even someone as uptight as I am feels the tension melt away, and I start to unwind. I feel my limbs loosen, and I'm even breathing more deeply, slowly, more relaxed. We stay at our table until the square becomes so full of people that I don't believe there's room for a single extra soul, and a very modern sound system starts blaring out Euro house. Those not already standing leap to their feet and begin to dance where they are.
"It's early," says our waiter as the clocks strike midnight and grandmothers dance with toddlers to the sound of a throbbing disco beat. "The night is… What are the words?… still young!"
Lara and I walk through the streets together, happy just to absorb this wonderful atmosphere. We turn heads everywhere we go, all the boys looking at Lara in her white dress. She looks like a bride, a princess. I feel like a ghost by her side. Lara nudges me in the ribs.
"Helen!" she whispers, excitedly. "You're a sensation!"
"Don't be ridiculous," I say. "They're all looking at you. They always do."
"Don't be so sure," replies Lara. "Listen."
As I listen, I hear "bianca guapa," which means "white beauty." When I realize that they're talking about me, I become a pink beauty.
"They've never seen anyone like you around here," says Lara. "You're a hit!"
Feeling a little more confident, I smile shyly at one boy in washed-out jeans and a pale-blue T-shirt. He's the only one not whistling or catcalling to me, but I like the look of him the best. He looks like all the rest of them-tall, lean, tanned, and chiseled-but he's silent, respectful, and there's something intense about him that draws my eyes to his.
Lara gets chatting to one of the guys. Her Spanish isn't much better than his English, but even I know what bailamos means. "Let's dance." And so a group of us follow him down a side alley to a little flamenco bar that appears to be carved into a rough hole in the wall. Inside it's more like a cave than a club, the whitewashed walls curving over to touch each other in the middle, forming a ceiling that hangs low over our heads. An old man plays guitar while the women dance and make animal-like noises, whooping and clapping, and I know that I've stumbled across real flamenco whose sexy, earthy beat has pulsed in this city for hundreds and hundreds of years.
All the local girls do the steps, managing to look sexy and elegant whether they're in high heels, sneakers, or flip-flops. This dance is in their blood; they were born to it. Lara doesn't have flamenco in her blood, but she embraces the spirit of the dance, nevertheless, letting one of the local boys whirl her around by her hands until her hair flies out behind her and her feet are a blur. Even I can tell that she's absolutely hopeless, but she's trying, and she's enjoying herself, and that's what people find so attractive about Lara. I order myself a glass of sangria, content to watch her make a fool of herself, happy to blend into the background here in this club where the walls are the same color as my skin and my hair. But the boys have other ideas. They grab me by the hand, refusing to take no for an answer. I giggle as a couple of them whip me around, my feet all over the place, but it's actually fun. Lara looks at me with pride in her eyes; I can tell she's pleased that I've begun to relax and show a bit of spontaneity for a change. Well, there's a first time for everything, even if I do spend more time keeping my vulnerable sandaled feet away from the stomping shoes of the locals than I do dancing. I'm passed from boy to boy, and the whole experience is a blur of denim, strong brown arms, dark curly hair, and white smiling teeth. And then, suddenly, I am still, and I'm in a different pair of arms. Whereas other hands had grabbed at my body, these arms pull me softly toward someone new. As if in a trance, I follow this boy in the baby blue T-shirt to a corner of the bar. My heart is beating fast as I dance with him. The chemistry between his flesh and mine has transformed me from a gauche, awkward girl into a real dancer. I am suddenly able to feel the music. My feet move in time with his, and my body is fluid and responsive. I have never been much of a dancer except at student discos and at friends' weddings, but here, in a cave in a small town, with a stranger and with only the most basic music, I feel my body open up, and I let the sound flow through me and tell my body what to do.