The South (2 page)

I did not go to look at the paintings in the square that day. I felt too well-dressed, too conspicuous. I turned instead into the bar and ordered a coffee. The waiter brought it over to me and I asked for a croissant, but he didn’t understand and I had to go up to the bar and point at what I wanted. I had already noticed the man who was standing at the bar. He was
wearing a red pullover and brown corduroy trousers; his shirt was open at the neck.

I noticed that every so often he would glance over at me. There was a manic look about him. His dark eyes were close together and his mouth was wide. His teeth were perfect. I noticed he was clean shaven. I looked away. I was not wary of him or afraid. He did not seem like the sort who would follow you in the street. When I looked again he was leaving. He turned and glanced back for a moment and smiled when he found that I was watching.

I walked out into the Plaza del Pino, into the mild heat of midday, and looked at the paintings. The man who had been watching me in the bar was sitting on the ground but when he saw me coming he stood up and put his hands in his pockets. There was a woman, a small dark woman with long hair who was standing behind the easel; she was also selling jewellery. He seemed to be with her. I wasn’t sure about this. I nodded my head and smiled at her as I passed by. She said something, it sounded like a greeting, but I didn’t understand.

That night I found the real Barcelona for the first time. I had dinner in the Hotel Colón opposite the cathedral and afterwards it was dark and I walked up by the church. I had not been this way before. I had not seen this before. The streets were deserted and there were shadows everywhere cast by the lamps which shone from the walls. The stone of these buildings—the churches, the libraries and museums—was solid and thick. There was hardly anything modern: even the electric light from the walls resembled light from a torch. I found it overwhelming.

Eventually, I walked down a narrow passage which I had thought was a cul-de-sac. The air was still warm and when I touched the stone I was shocked at how cold it was. I remember
I stood there and I shivered. I was going to turn back but around the corner I could see an archway leading into a square so I kept on.

There was a small fountain in the middle with two trees on either side. The trees had been pruned down to their essentials: gnarled branches which seemed deformed and grotesque like arms and legs with bits chopped off. It was impossible to imagine how they could grow again.

The square was irregular and dimly lit; there seemed to be another narrow passageway at the other side and I made a note that I would go out that way, although I did not know where it would lead. There was a small church on one side, its walls all damaged by what looked like bullet marks or shrapnel marks. I went over to the opposite side and sat on a ledge. I had been in Barcelona for about a week and suddenly I felt as though I had found the place I had been looking for: the sacred core of the world, a deserted square reached by two narrow alleyways, dimly lit, with a fountain, two trees, a church and some church buildings.

I thought of Enniscorthy. I thought of Tom sitting in the draughty house thinking about me, trying to come to some conclusion about me. I thought of what it would be like to be there. I thought of what it would be like to settle down for the night there with the crows and the jackdaws chattering in the bare oak trees near the river.

I thought of the desolation of the place and I stared at this desolation, this desolation of stone, this stunning, broken-down square behind the cathedral of Barcelona and I knew that I was right to be here. I knew I had to be here.

I thought of my mother’s garden in London in late August before I left, when I could not make up my mind what to do. The soothing garden with the huge cherry tree and the
run-down sheds, the distant light in late afternoon, the grey flagstones of the garden path, the rickety bird-table, the faint sound of London traffic, the shadows.

My mother told me I was preoccupied. It sounded like an accusation.

“Yes, I am preoccupied,” I told her.

“Are you sure you are right to be preoccupied?” Her tone was mocking and annoyed.

“Did you ever regret leaving my father?”

“No, I did not.”

“Did you never feel guilty?”

“I felt nothing except relief.”

“Even when he died, did you not feel bad?”

“Your father was a nice man.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“Go, go.”

“What about Richard? He’s only ten.”

“His father can look after him. He’ll be all right.”

“What will I do?”

“Go away somewhere. Spain. I told you, I’ll get you the visa. I know someone in the embassy. I’ll give you money.”

“Go away somewhere? What do you mean go away somewhere?”

“Abandon ship.”

“I’m thinking of leaving my husband,” I suddenly said to her. She looked at me sharply.

“Yes, I know. I understand that that is what we are talking about.”

I was thinking. I did not notice the figure at the other side of the square that night. When I saw him I was startled for a moment and considered which way I should run if it should happen that I would need to run. I had thought I was on my own. When he moved from the doorway where he had been
sitting and walked towards the fountain I knew who he was. I recognised him by the red pullover. He did not look over until I stood up to leave.

It is late now and I must soon go to eat before the restaurants close. I spend all day doing nothing. I have taken the armchair from the corner of the room and moved it up to the window. I spend hours looking on to the house opposite, looking down on to the street. Nothing happens. After my dinner I drink a brandy with coffee and I am always slightly drunk when I wander back into the Barrio Gótico. And always I light a cigarette in Plaza San Felipe Neri and sit down on the same ledge as I sat on that first night, look around at the square and think about how I am going to manage this.

I have tried to write to Tom. I have tried to say that I want to get away for a while and maybe I will see him soon. That is not what I want to say. I want to say that I am starting my life now. This is not my second chance; this is my first chance. I want to say that I did not choose what I did before, I am not responsible for what I did before. I want to tell him that I have left him. My son is withdrawn from me, my son will look after himself. There is nothing more I can do for him. No matter how guilty I feel I must look after myself.

I am in Barcelona now. I sleep late in the mornings. If I want to sleep in the afternoon I will take some wine at lunch and I will descend into a heavy sleep with vivid dreams which mix up where I am with where I have come from, the stream at Newtownbarry with the fountain in Plaza San Felipe Neri with the Market Square in Enniscorthy. I wake after an hour, maybe two hours, and I feel numbed by the sleep. I sit and brood. I sit and imagine until the light starts to go and then I make my way down the corridor and I shower in cold water. I go and eat and I come back here. Through the walls I have the opera man and his operas in the next room.

I wrote to my mother and gave the address of the
pensión
; this was where money was to be sent. I need more money soon. I did not explain why I am here, what I am doing here, how long I am going to stay, I told my mother nothing. Her reply, when it came, was as brief as her original letter. The money would come through a local bank. Your husband is frantic, he has no idea what you are doing. All my love. There was no mention of Richard; she knew that I had put him out of my mind.

A few weeks ago I tried to take a different route to the Hotel Colón where I was going to have my dinner. I was not in a hurry so when I saw a restaurant and heard a loud murmur of voices inside I stopped and looked. The place looked dingy, perhaps even dirty, but it was full of people drinking at the bar and waiters trying to get by them to the restaurant which was at the back. I ventured in. I suppose I was attracted by the people. I indicated to the waiter and he took it that I wanted a table for one. We both looked around and there seemed to be no free table so I was just going to leave and come back later, or maybe come back some other night, when a couple stood up having paid the bill and the waiter took me to their table. The menu was written in chalk on a blackboard and it was unclear. I had a phrase book which listed items on a menu. I was checking through the book to see if I could find any words on the blackboard when I spotted him.

He was with a number of people at a long table opposite mine; most of them were men but there were also a few young women. He was wearing a light grey suit and an open-necked white shirt. He had his back to me, but at intervals he glanced around. His companions were young, though some were not young enough to be students; they were young enough to laugh at most of what was said. I looked for the woman who had been selling jewellery in the square but she was not there.

At first, I remember, Tom was afraid to let me see him naked. He undressed by sitting on the bed and slipping on his pyjamas. When he turned out the light he would lean away from me in the bed and we made love only when the heat of each other in the same bed brought us together. But even then he was nervous when I touched him. He wanted to lie beside me for a long time holding me with his head buried in my shoulder and neck. He would lie still. Sometimes I thought that he was asleep and I would reach down and touch his penis and it would be hard and waiting. He would gasp for a moment and move his hands along my body. Almost as soon as he was inside me he would ejaculate, crying to himself, whining almost and then he would want to turn and sleep.

It is October in Barcelona. I continue to explore and find new places; days fill up. I change habits. I now have breakfast in Calle Petritxol which winds out of Plaza del Pino. There are several little cafés that specialise in coffee, chocolate, little sandwiches and pastries. I go to the same one every day at the same time; they know me now and smile at me when I come in.

At first I did not know if they were open on Sundays. As I walked down to find out I passed through Plaza del Pino and found once more the paintings on sale in the middle of the square. I was thinking of him. The crowds were coming out of mass in the church of Santa María del Pino as I walked by. The café was open but all the places near the door were taken so I had to go and sit at the back. As the waiter led me down to a vacant table, I saw him fix his eyes on me. I had not expected to see him here. He was paler than I remembered, but his eyes were the same and his lips. He looked at me as though I were coming to join them at the table. When I sat down he did not look away. His companion was older, more
sallow than he, almost unhealthy looking. His face was thin. He was wearing a bow-tie. They continued talking and when they stood up to leave they both smiled at me. He did not look behind as he left.

I went out onto the Ramblas and walked up to Plaza Cataluña and then back down towards the cathedral. I stopped and tried to think for a moment. I tried to work out what I was doing as I walked back towards the paintings in Plaza del Pino. The small woman was there again and he was standing behind her. I walked around looking at the paintings until I came to them. I stopped and the woman spoke to me.

“English? American?” she said.

“English,” I said. He was watching me.

“Tourist?” she asked. I smiled and shrugged.

“You like Barcelona?”

I nodded. The man spoke to her for a while and then they both turned and looked at me.

“You live here in the Barrio Gótico?” she asked.

“I live in Calle del Pino,” I replied.

“You live in
pensión
?”

“Yes.”

“You have family here?”

“No.”

“Work?”

“No.”

“What is your name?”

“Katherine.”

“I am Rosa. Do you like paintings?”

“Yes,” I hesitated, “yes, sometimes.”

They spoke among themselves and I wondered if I should leave. I wondered if I should walk away.

“He want to paint you, this man,” she said.

I smiled and shook my head.

“No, I don’t want to.” She translated for him. “Is he your husband?” I asked her.

“No.” He looked at me and made a sign as though he had a brush in his hand and painted at his face. He began to nod in assent. I shook my head.

“Why not?” the woman asked. I didn’t reply. I pointed to a painting of boats on a beach on the easel beside us.

“Is that his?”

“No,” she said. When she told him what I had asked he laughed.

“He is good painter,” she said and he nodded in agreement.

“I must go,” I said.

In the week that followed I thought I saw him several times on the street. Yet when I did see the painter one day as I was walking towards the market I was startled. He was coming out of a doorway on Puertaferrisa. His lip curled up as though he were amused to meet me by accident in such a way.

“Bonjour,”
he said.

“Good morning.”

He said something I did not understand. He laughed for a moment and then he pointed at my face and waved an imaginary brush in the air. He kept saying
“si”
and nodding his head. He held my hand for a second in the street.

“I must go.
Je dois aller
,” I said.

“Non, non,”
he said.

He was insistent, and I wanted to get away. He wanted to know where I lived. I pointed to the
pensión
on the corner. If he called there or disturbed me I could move. There was a
pensión
on every corner.

Yet I became worried that he would call and create a fuss and was relieved when he did not. He simply arrived one day with Rosa and they asked me to come and see their studio.
They were eager and friendly. The landlady’s face darkened when Rosa spoke in English. I said I would go with them some other day.

“Tomorrow?” she said.

“Yes, that’s fine.”

They come again the next day and I went with them around the corner to Calle Puertaferissa. It sounds funny but I did not feel nervous about going up the stairs of a house I had never been in before, the same house from which I had seen him coming the other day. After a few flights of stairs he pushed open a door and we went into a huge long room with large windows at either end and a glass roof. There were easels and paints everywhere. A few people, mostly young women, were sitting on stools, painting from a photograph of a street. The man I had noticed in the café on Sunday was standing behind the easels demonstrating something to one of the students. He looked at us for a minute and then continued what he was doing. The other man looked at me and pointed to himself.