Spanish Portrait
This is something I started shortly after the beginning of the year. I’d been to Rota, Spain and saw a gentleman in a bar that made me start thinking of a story to go with the image I was seeing. This is the result.
He walked in, seemingly unnoticed, and proceeded directly to the end of the bar where he assumed a station he’d obviously assumed before. He turned ninety degrees, putting his right elbow on the bar, lifting his foot onto a bar stool stretcher in front of him and through watery eyes slowly surveyed the near empty bar. His scan was deliberate though there was what appeared to be a hint of fear behind the grey eyes that glistened around the edges from the cold and stiff wind off the ocean he’d walked through moments ago. It was as though he was afraid he would be seen and yet not seen.
Without cuing, the young woman behind the bar produced a glass of vino tinto and placed it on the bar next to his arm. He turned and mouthed “Gracias,” but no sound came out. She apparently expected no thanks and collected no coin as she left for the other end of the bar to continue her chattering with her girlfriend. He squared himself back to the bar, took the glass stem between his thumb and index finger and raised it to his lips. Tipping his head back a bit, he took the tiniest sip. Before setting the glass back on the bar, he kept this head back while savoring the drop in his mouth. It was theater. A performance of epicurean adventure for anyone who cared to see . . . and no one did.
When he set his glass on the bar, he hunched his shoulders up and with his right hand began turning down the collar on the grey wool jacket. It had once been of the best material money could buy. Now it was discolored around the button holes, shiny at the elbows and the wool at the edges of the pocket openings was showing signs of fraying. When it was new, it fit him as though it had been tailored especially for him, and perhaps it was. Now, though, it was obvious that buttoning the jacket would stress the old seams. Beneath it he wore a black wool waistcoat buttoned top to bottom. It was of only slightly better condition than the jacket. The waistcoat covered a white dress shirt that was now a dingy ivory color from age. He wore the top buttoned. The narrow collar exposed a great deal of his neck making it appear long and regal. He wore black slacks above white socks and black loafers that were polished on the toe, but scuffed grey at the back.
From the doorway, a younger gentleman waves to him and says, “Adiós, Míguez. Nos vemos mañana.” Míguez lifts his glass and the departing gentleman shakes his head as he leaves.
When he was in his middle years, Míguez must have struck a dashing figure. He was a little taller than most in this region of Spain, slender by not thin. His posture, now bent with years and relief, was obviously proud and boastful as he’d walk to the Playa de la Sol with his wife on his arm. When they’d meet people with a “Buenos Noches,” Míguez was always the first noticed of the pair. In this marriage, he was the more prominent than she as they walked the calle in the early evening headed to the church to light a candle and visit the Stations of the Cross. When they’d leave after crossing themselves, his visage in his wool jacket and waistcoat, crisp white shirt and thin black tie perfectly knotted, pressed black pants and freshly polished shoes gave him the appearance of an important businessman or a government official. His perfect posture and head held high showed a man proud of who he was and confident that who he was and what he had should be the envy of all.
Yet, as self-confident as Míguez was and as important as it was for him to be well dressed and presentable, he was devoted to his dear Imelda and his devotion only increased over the years of their marriage. After their evening visit to the church, they would always stop in next door at the El Castillo bar. He and Imelda would each have a vino tinto. During the warm season, they would sit outdoors at a café table with the young lovers and tourists. He would eschew the company of the men talking politics or business or watching futbol on the small black and white television above and behind the bar in favor of talking with his wife or silently watching strangers or watching the pigeons around the fountain on the square in front of the church. During the cold season, when wind and rain swept in from the Atlantic Ocean, they would sit at a small table against the back wall.
Míguez would always have a second vino while she would still be sipping on her first. Every third evening, he would purchase a pair of tapas plates and bring them to their table. The two would share the seafood delicacies. The next night, they would go to one of their favorite restaurants.
Every night they would stroll the calles, seeing friends and neighbors, helping the wine and food to dissipate, and window shopping. They would stop next to orange trees planted on the walkways and talk with friends. In the fall, the oranges would fill the air with a sweetness more fragrant than flowers. In the winter, because the fruit was so plentiful, oranges still hung on the trees, slowly decaying ornaments. The ladies would talk and the men would stand in silence. Míguez would remain attentive to the ladies’ conversation while the other husband might wander away to look in shop windows or towards a tapas bar always remaining in sight of the friends.
When they’d window shop, Imelda might stop and silently admire an item in a window. Míguez would notice and say, “Do you like it, my Dear? Would you like to have it? I can get it for you.”
More often than not, Imelda would say, “No, no. It is frivolous. You should not spend your money.”
But Míguez hid from everyone, including his wife, Imelda, a secret. He had no savings. No plan for retiring. Early in their marriage, he asserted himself as the keeper of the new family’s budget. And he was adept at it, always able to pay the rent and bills, put food on the table, and put a little aside for when the children came. But they never came. During the tenth year of their marriage, his wife slipped into depression from the despair of being barren. The only time she would leave their home was to go to the church of Parroquia Nuestra Señora de la O where they would light a candle and ask forgiveness from the Virgin Mary.
He would try to entice her to stop and look in shop windows on their way to and from the church, but she’d refuse and would walk ahead determined to not be distracted from the darkness on her way home. Míguez would plead with her to stop for a vino tinto at the El Castillo after services, sometimes turning toward the door in hopes that she would follow. She didn’t and he’d have to walk briskly to catch her. The same would happen when he’d suggest dinner at their favorite restaurant.
All his efforts to lift her back into the world they once had met with failure. His desperation mounted as each attempt was brushed away. He tried to convince her that they didn’t need children to be happy together, but that seemed to cause the skies to darken even more.
One evening, when he left Imelda at home and went to the El Castillo for a vino and sherry, Míguez walked back home, down the calle he and Imelda always walked, an in a shop window a shimmering, ivory-hued silk scarf caught his eye. He looked at it for a moment or two and then, with purpose, entered the shop. The label said it was pure silk, made in Thailand. The surface was very slightly textured, but had the softest feel he had ever experienced. He took the scarf to the woman running the shop.
“¿Cuánto es el pañuelo?”
“Siete mil quinientos pesetas,” answered the shopkeeper. “¿Quieres que te lo envuelva?”
He didn’t pause long before nodding, “Sí, por favor. Gracias.”
Míguez knew it was more than his budget would allow, but his desperation was now in control and pushing his rational side to the rear. This was another, and so far as he knew perhaps the last, chance to help his wife from her depression. The cost was immaterial. It was a pittance to the potential gain. The budget was forgotten.
When he arrived home, he placed the package in Imelda’s lap as she lay on the bed and stepped back, waiting for her to react. Imelda looked at the package and then at Míguez. She then put the unwrapped package on the night table and turned her face away.
Míguez was heartbroken and even more frantic about her than before. He now felt entirely helpless and felt she would die having never emerged from her depression. He walked to the beach and in the darkness, hot tears streaked his cheeks.
When he returned home, though, Imelda had opened the package and the scarf now lay on her lap. Her hand slowly moved across the surface of the silk as though reading the fabric and Míguez could imagine she felt the same incredible softness he felt when he bought it.
“¿Te gusta?” he asked.
“Es demasiado.”
“No. No es por tu amor.”
The next night, before they departed for services at the church, the last thing she did before stepping into the courtyard was to wrap the silk scarf around her neck and adjust it so it was clearly visible from beneath her coat. Míguez smiled.
It took months, but Imelda emerged from her darkness and at her side the entire journey was Míguez. Even though he knew he needed to save for their future, every time he saw the sadness darken her eyes from her failure to produce a child he would buy her a fine gift or hold her hand while they sipped vino tinto at the El Castillo or ate paella at their favorite restaurant and their favorite table overlooking the sea. He would buy her fine clothes with embroidering and lace surprising her with most things. He purchased new clothes for himself, a new shirt and shoes made of finest Spanish leather. All the while, he was dipping into the savings he had accumulated for the children that would not be. After several years, the savings was gone and Imelda was herself again.
Míguez now lived paycheck to paycheck still purchasing gifts for Imelda but not at the rate he had when she was in her darkness. Imelda never suspected. Míguez would occasionally go out alone and walk on the beach stopping to stare at the waves. He would think, ‘I cannot become ill and lose my work. I cannot die before Imelda. What would she do?” These fears haunted Míguez day and night, though no one knew.
When they entered the twilight of their years, Imelda began to experience stomach problems and when they became so painful she couldn’t rise from bed, Míguez took her to the hospital. That’s where they found the cancer throughout her body.
Míguez was devastated. He held her hand as she slept on the hospital bed. At times his head would drop to the sheets and he would weep. When the initial shock of the diagnosis had passed, a thought would occasionally creep across Míguez’s mind. It was relief. Relief that Imelda would not be left behind after Míguez had passed. That he, Míguez, would be left behind without the money and not Imelda.
Míguez would have this thought and then immediately feel guilty for it. It was a thought that felt strangely like he was happy Imelda was dying. His guilt became consuming, and yet there could be no release. He could not even bring himself to hint at the thought during confessional fearing that the priest would think him a monster. No. He kept the guilt buried from all. And still the thought returned.
The hospital released Imelda to go home and die in the fall as the orange trees were bearing their fruit. Neither Imelda nor Míguez noticed. Imelda became increasingly weak and Míguez did not leave her side. She would try to send him to the El Castillo so he could have a vino and a sherry and talk with some of their old friends, but Míguez refused. When she insisted, Míguez would go, but did not mingle and came straight home when he’d taken his last sip of sherry.
Imelda passed in the winter leaving Míguez alone and with his thoughts. While the pain of longing dominated his mind, there was also the relief that never left. And the guilt.
Now, five years on, he stands at the end of the bar, his vino tinto at hand, talking to no one. His shoulders show burden, the hair beneath his cap bleached with the harshness of years, and the lines on his face spell sadness. And in the old ice of his eyes is the guilt. The guilt of someone who betrayed, of someone who was dishonest in his silence, the guilt that only love lost can bring.
I motion to the waitress who comes to my table. I touch my glass of sherry, and point to Míguez. She puts her hand on my arm and nods before going.
