“You’re a child, Udo.”
I don’t know why, but that simple sentence, spoken in Frau Else’s melodious voice, was enough to make me blush. Then she made it clear that she was busy and I should leave her alone. Before I left I asked her what time it usually got dark. At ten, said Frau Else.
From the balcony I can see the little boats that ply the tourist route; they leave every hour from the old fishing port, head east, then turn north and vanish behind a big outcropping that they call the Punta de la Virgen. It’s nine o’clock and only now is the night beginning to creep in, slow and bright.
The beach is almost empty. Only children and dogs cross the golden sand. Singly first, and then in a pack, the dogs race toward the pine forest and the campgrounds, then they return and little by little the pack breaks apart. The children play in one spot. In the distance, near the old town and the cliffs, a little white boat appears. Ingeborg is on board, I’m sure. But the boat hardly seems to move. On the beach, between the Del Mar and the Costa Brava, the pedal boat guy begins to pull the boats up away from the shore. Although it must be heavy work, no one helps him. But seeing the ease with which he drags the huge things, leaving deep tracks in the sand, it’s clear that he can handle it himself. From here no one would guess that most of his body is horribly burned. He’s wearing only a pair of shorts and the wind tosses his too-long hair. He’s a character, all right. And I don’t say that because of the burns but because of his singular way of arranging the pedal boats. What I had already discovered the night that Charly ran offdown the beach I see again, but this time I watch the operation from the beginning, and, as I imagined, it’s slow, complicated, serving no practical purpose, absurd. The pedal boats face in different directions, assembled not in a traditional row or double row but in a circle, or rather a blunt-pointed star. An arduous task, as evidenced by the fact that by the time he’s half finished, all the other pedal boat guys are done. And yet he doesn’t seem to care. He must like working at this time of day, in the cool evening breeze, the beach empty except for a few children playing in the sand far from the pedal boats. Well, if I were a kid I don’t think I’d get close either.
It’s strange: for a second it looked to me as if he was building a fortress with the pedal boats. A fortress like the ones that children build, in fact. The difference is that the poor brute isn’t a child. So why build a fortress? It’s obvious, I think: to have a place to spend the night.
Ingeborg’s little boat has docked. She must be heading for the hotel now. I imagine her smooth skin, her cool, sweet-smelling hair, her confident steps crossing the old town. Soon it will be completely dark.
The rental guy still hasn’t finished building his star. I wonder why no one has complained; like a tumbledown shack, the pedal boats spoil the charm of the beach. Though I suppose it isn’t the poor guy’s fault, and maybe the unpleasant effect, the strong resemblance to a hut or den, is clear only from up here. From the Paseo Marítimo does no one notice what a mess is being made of the beach?
I’ve closed the door to the balcony. Where is Ingeborg?
AUGUST 24
I have so much to write. I met the Burn Victim. I’ll try to sum up what’s happened in the last few hours.
Ingeborg was radiant and happy when she got home last night. The excursion was a success and nothing needed to be said in order for us to proceed to a reconciliation that was all the lovelier for being completely natural. We had dinner at the hotel and then we met Hanna and Charly at a bar on the Paseo Marítimo called the Andalusia Lodge. Deep down I would rather have spent the rest of the night alone with Ingeborg, but I couldn’t refuse to go out at the risk of disturbing our newfound peace.
Charly was excited and on edge, and it wasn’t long before I learned why: that night the soccer match between the German and Spanish selections was on TV and he wanted the four of us to watch it at the bar, along with the many Spaniards who were waiting for the match to begin. When I pointed out that we would be more comfortable at the hotel, he argued that it wasn’t the same. The audience at the hotel would almost certainly be German, whereas at the bar we would be surrounded by “enemies,” which made the match twice as much fun. Surprisingly Hanna and Ingeborg took his side.
Although I disagreed, I didn’t insist, and soon afterward we gave up our seats on the terrace and went inside to sit near the TV.
That was how we met the Wolf and the Lamb.
I won’t describe the inside of the Andalusia Lodge; let me just say that it was big, it stank, and a single glance was enough to confirm my fears: we were the only foreigners.
The audience, scattered in a rough half circle in front of the television, was more or less all young men with the look of laborers who had just finished work for the day and who hadn’t yet had time to shower. In winter it would probably be an ordinary scene; in summer it was unsettling.
To heighten the difference between them and us, the patrons all seemed to be old friends and they showed it by slapping each other on the back, yelling back and forth, making jokes that were increasingly off-color. The noise was deafening. The tables were overflowing with beer bottles. One group was playing a loud game of foosball, and the sound of clanging metal rose above the general din like the rifle shots of a sharpshooter in the middle of a battle waged with swords and knives. It was clear that our presence had raised expectations that had little or nothing to do with the match. The glances, some more discreet than others, converged on Ingeborg and Hanna, who, in contrast to those around them, looked like two storybook princesses, Ingeborg especially.
Charly was in heaven. This was clearly his kind of place. He liked the shouting, the vulgar jokes, the air filled with smoke and nauseating smells; and if he could watch our selection play, all the better. But nothing is perfect. Just as we were being served sangria for four, we discovered that the team was East German. Charly took it hard, and from that moment on his mood grew unpredictable. To begin with, he wanted to leave right away. Later I would find out how exaggerated and absurd his fears really were. Among them was the following: that the Spaniards would mistake us for East Germans.
In the end we decided to leave as soon as we were done with the sangria. Naturally, we paid no attention to the match, busy as we were drinking and laughing. It was at this point that the Wolf and the Lamb sat down at our table.
How it happened, I can’t say. With no explanation, they simply sat down with us and started to talk. They knew a few words of English, insufficient by any measure, though they made up for any language deficiencies with their great skills as mimes. At first the conversation covered all the usual topics (work, the weather, wages, etc.) and I acted as interpreter. They were, I gathered, amateur local tour guides, but that was surely a joke. Then, as the night wore on and everyone felt more at ease, my expertise was required only at difficult moments. Alcohol works miracles, it’s true.
We all left the Andalusia Lodge in Charly’s car, heading for a club on the edge of town, near the Barcelona highway. The prices were quite a bit lower than in the tourist zone, the clubgoers were almost all people like our new friends, and the atmosphere was festive, lending itself to camaraderie, though with a hint of something dark and murky, a quality particular to Spain that, paradoxically, inspires no misgivings. As always, Charly was quick to get drunk. How, I don’t know, but at some point during the night we learned that the East German selection had lost two to zero. I remember it as something strange, because I have no interest in soccer and yet I experienced the announcement of the results as a turning point, as if from that moment on all the clamor of the club might turn into something else entirely, a horror show.