Monica heard the strident voice behind her call out with a phoney friendly tone:
“Evening ma’am. Look after the car for you?”
Monica felt her body stiffen with foreboding as she imagined the scene which might ensue. “Good evening,” she replied, feeling trapped.
She had arrived at the Alfredo Kraus Auditorium well before the start of the concert. The reason for arriving so early was to find a place to park where she would neither have to step in a puddle with her high heels nor have to deal with the usual “impromptu parking lot attendant” who would “look after the car”.
Monica had to drive around several blocks before she found a place on the esplanade located to the right of the concert hall. She had managed to avoid the puddle but hadn’t managed to avoid the disquieting figure she now had to face. She saw that he carried a dirty rag in his hand, which reminded her that she had changed her everyday handbag—a carbon copy of Mary Poppin’s handbag—for a ridiculous little bag into which she had put a handkerchief, her keys, the concert ticket, her glasses, a credit card, and a twenty-euro bill. She had left her cell phone under the seat of the car. She hadn’t wanted it, due to her usual forgetfulness, to ring during the concert. She now realized that she didn’t have any loose change with her. “How forgetful of me,” she thought, as the dreadful-looking boy approached her.
“Oh my goodness, young man,” she responded now, hoping to ease her way through the moment, “I haven’t got any change right now. When I come out of the concert, I’ll make sure I’ve got some for you.”
“Bah! Everybody tells me the same thing,” said the boy, twisting the dirty rag in apparent anger. “When you get out of the concert I won’t even be here!” He turned his back on her and started walking away.
She couldn’t help it—she just had to answer back: “If you’re not going to be here...how are you going to look after my car?”
The boy stopped in his tracks, looked at her over his shoulder, lifted his hand and shook the dirty rag at her—a gesture which clearly said: “Go to hell!”
Indignation took over her feelings. Although she understood that unfortunate boys like this one needed help from their society, and above all, from the institutions of their society, she could only feel rage at the cowardly way they behaved. She had noticed that, usually, they only approached women—who were more likely to feel afraid of them—and elderly men who wouldn’t be a threat to them.
Breathing deeply, trying to calm down, she started up the steps of what looked like some type of fortress from Yemen but was in fact the Auditorium. This building had been constructed with the idea of serving as a venue for the now famous Las Palmas Festival of Music. It was a replacement for the Pérez Galdós Theatre, which had become too small for the festival. When this Auditorium was built, its design had not pleased everybody in equal measure; nevertheless, with the passage of time, the citizens of Las Palmas had become accustomed to its austere lines and now they almost accepted it as another part of the landscape of Las Canteras Beach.
When she arrived at the foyer, a cheerful usher gave her the program brochure. For the first part of the concert, the Las Palmas Philharmonic Orchestra and its Choir would perform Hayden’s Symphony No. 96 in Re major, which would be followed by Mozart’s Exultate, Jubilate. Another work by the same composer, Requiem in Re minor, was scheduled for the second part of the concert. She had seen it advertised some days before, and, without thinking twice about it, had reserved a ticket. Her favourite seat wasn’t available but that didn’t bother her, although she had become accustomed to sitting in the same place since the Auditorium was inaugurated. Sitting there, she had enjoyed listening to all the great orchestras which had been invited to the Festival, as she had done before that in the Pérez Galdós Theatre. Music was one of the few luxuries which she allowed herself; it was a real addiction which she found difficult to give up. Nevertheless, this evening’s concert was not part of the Festival.
The Philharmonic Orchestra had come up with the delightful idea of presenting concerts on several evenings during Holy Week, and this was one of those evenings. These Holy Week concerts were performed in the concert halls of the capital city, as well as in various churches in the capital and other towns of the island. Monica had attended many of these, which made her realize that the attendance at these performances was increasing every year.
Here on Grand Canary Island, the taste for classical music had gone through quite a change in the past twenty years. The Canarian people had always appreciated classical music, but now it wasn’t just for the exclusive pleasure of elite groups; nor was it just an excuse for those who attended concerts and other events simply to see and be seen. This latter type of concert-goer would continue to exist, but they were no longer the majority.
Today, many young and not-so-young music lovers filled the Auditorium because they had a genuine interest in classical music and the great orchestras which came to play in the Auditorium. This was thanks to the initiative of various institutions and, in her opinion, the beneficial influence of the University of Las Palmas.
The foyer was quite crowded. She saw and greeted several acquaintances on her way to the terrace adjacent to the bar, from where one could contemplate an impressive view of Las Canteras Beach. There were still some fifteen minutes left before the concert started and so, although it was a bit chilly, Monica sat on top of one of the balustrades. At that moment, heavy waves, illuminated by the high arc-lamps along the promenade, were slowly surging up the beach.
Meanwhile, the moon vied with the arc-lamps for the privilege of lighting up the tiny pearls of saltwater which were ascending towards the promenade in the form of a tenuous curtain of silvery wispy mists. She felt like she had been transported to some marvellous world which had nothing to do with that almost sinister space she had left just a few minutes before. The slow surging of those illuminated waves and the anticipation of listening to the music swept her away and left her in a strange faraway frame of mind.
As if in a flashback, she remembered that morning when, as she did every year to please her mother, she had gone to see the procession of the image of Christ crucified emerge from the Chapter Hall of the Cathedral. Every year on Good Friday, Monica’s mother reminded her that she had made a solemn promise to attend that procession. Monica was just an adolescent when she fell into a state of deep melancholy which had kept her isolated from the outside world for almost two years. For the first time, life had shown Monica its sorrowful side. In order to bring her out of that state of melancholy, her mother had made a solemn promise to the miraculous image of the crucified Christ. That solemn promise had been delegated to Monica when her mother’s advanced age prevented her from moving about with her accustomed ease.
And so, every Holy Week Monica kept her mother’s solemn promise and then she felt absolved of all the guilty feelings which she had during the year. As Monica gazed at the wispy mists, her spirit seemed to start gliding towards the tenuous curtain, parting the briny beads with invisible hands.
All of a sudden she saw herself, there on the beach, there, on the sand to the right of the changing rooms, on a dazzling day in summer, playing the ten-penny nail game in the sand with her group of friends. These teenage boys and girls were chatting about everything, just as any group of teenagers do in any other place and time; they talked about school subjects, about having fun, and above all, about boys and girls. In spite of the constant sermons they had to hear from the pulpit and at home, the subject of relations between boys and girls was the most important subject at that time of their life.
In this group, among other friends, were Isabel and her boyfriend Enrique, who worked in the romantic profession of merchant seaman. Alicia, her best friend and schoolmate, had not arrived yet. She used to turn up much later than the rest of the group and was usually one of the last to leave the beach. For that reason, Monica, who felt a genuine affection for her friend, couldn’t help but feel a bit envious of her at the same time. Monica had to be home by three-thirty in the afternoon, before her father left for work. Although her father was affectionate and moderately liberal, the discipline of established time limits was not to be transgressed. This bothered Monica quite a lot because she often had to leave the chat session just when it was really warming up.
On that day the chatting centred on two subjects: the arrival of one of Enrique’s friends, also a merchant seaman, and the film which was being shown at the Triana that week. It was called Singing in the Rain and it was having great success. Tickets were sold out quickly every day, but Monica had managed to see it twice.
“Monica,” said Luisa, “have you met Anastasio?”
“Anastasio? I haven’t had the pleasure. Who is he?”
“Enrique’s friend. He’s super tall—super handsome—just super super.”
“You can forget all those supers. I’m not interested.”
Monica was rather short and she was terrified of being seen with a really tall boy. That would accentuate the complex she already had; she was sure she’d have to put up with “Mutt and Jeff” type of jokes from the group. Alicia was more or less about the same height, and shared that same complex with Monica. That was one of the reasons why they were such close friends. All the other girls in the group were much taller. At that time of their lives, one centimetre more or one centimetre less could decide the future of an adolescent girl—the world could simply stop turning.
The turn in her life occurred when a six-foot-tall young man approached the group. He was carrying some skin-diving equipment; it was the first time she had ever seen such equipment. He had an athlete’s body and lightly bronzed skin. His hair was the colour of a crow’s wings and made a shade over his greenish-blue eyes, which crinkled up when his perfect lips smiled. Monica felt as if every fibre in her body had crystallized. But she rejected the poor young man instinctively and made the excuse of going to have a swim, without waiting for the introductions. After a short swim she had managed to control her emotions. Acting as if nothing at all had perturbed her, she returned to the group.
“Monica,” said Enrique, “I’d like you to meet my friend Anastasio.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she replied, employing the handy formula. Then, overcome by curiosity, she just had to ask: “What’s that you’ve got in your hands?”
“I’ve got a couple of diving outfits,” he said, smiling sweetly and looking at her as if he were looking at a little girl.
“And…how do you use them?” asked Monica, with an affectation of the most absolute indifference.
Anastasio burst into explanation: he was conscious of the fact that the skin-diving equipment was a novelty on the beach. She followed his explanation attentively, as if this were a science class. The moment the young seaman started describing the seabed here at Las Canteras, Monica forgot her mental control and allowed her body to relax. “Who…” she thought, “wouldn’t want to see it?” She knew the names of all the rocks which protruded above water and could be seen from the beach, starting from Pastel Rock to La Vieja Rock and even, next to a tiny neighbouring reef, Las Pulgas Rock, which was completely covered over by sand nowadays. She knew them all, including the Barra, that fascinating barrier reef, with its natural pools and its slippery surfaces.
As if he had been reading her mind, Anastasio then said: “When you like, we can go out and have a look all along the Barra. You’ll really enjoy it, I assure you.”
That same invitation, made today in a similar context, could be subject to colourful comments of all kinds. Not at that time, not in that group, and not on that beach.
“To tell the truth, I’d love it,” said Monica—not paying attention now to the difference in their height or the knowing smiles of the rest of the group.
“Well, let’s go,” he said with decision and firmness, “and don’t be afraid.”
Although she didn’t have the stamina for long distances, Monica was a good swimmer. But even if she hadn’t been a good swimmer, she wouldn’t have been afraid to swim alongside someone who looked like he had just come up from Neptune’s Court itself. So he let her use some goggles and a pair of swimming fins.
They swam out until they were near La Puntilla and then turned and swam along the inner side of the barrier reef. One of his hands held her hand so that the current wouldn’t separate them; with his other hand, he pointed out what she should look at. He showed her the great variety of marine life which at that time populated the seabed here at Las Canteras: from the sea-snakes which tried to hide in the underwater grassland between Los Perros Rock and the popular “swimming pool” near the Barra, to fish like the brilliant cobalt blue bream; they also encountered a dangerous moray eel and a timid octopus. Monica was discovering a wonderful world, at the hand of one of the persons who best knew that world at that time. Anastasio had told her that when he was on shore leave he spent the whole day long on the beach.
At one moment during the exploration, her guide instructed her to dive into the water as deep as she could and then look up, towards the sun. Obeying his instructions because she trusted his competence, Monica dived as deep as she could. When she looked up through the water’s surface, she marvelled at the otherworldly spectacle. The flashing sunbeams were spreading out into thousands of little rainbows arching through the water around her, which made her feel as if she was in the centre of a fiery diamond.
When Monica came up to the surface she was speechless. She felt a powerful urge to embrace Anastasio in order to express her appreciation for having shared such an extraordinary experience with her, but she restrained herself. At that time, it was impossible for a girl to do such a thing without provoking mistaken interpretations and rumours. She never forgave herself for not having done it.
When they returned to their place on the sand, it was past three o’clock. Anastasio watched as Monica knelt and started gathering up her things and putting them into her straw bag. When she stood up, he asked her:
“Are you coming tomorrow, Monica?”
“Silly,” Luisa said impudently, “she comes everyday.”
“So we could go out along La Vieja Rock and look around when it’s low tide…”
“I hope I can come,” Monica said and walked away across the sand.
Then, going up the steps to the promenade, she realized that Alicia had not arrived. Perhaps she was ill. Alicia lived just around the corner from her; she’d go around to see her and at the same time she could tell her about everything that had happened. She just couldn’t wait. She had such a strange feeling: a mixture of happiness and dejection swirling around in her head and she didn’t know how to deal with those sensations.
She found out that the reason why Alicia hadn’t shown up at the beach was that she was in “those days” of the month. Monica gave her a detailed account of each and every one of the events. Naïvely, she confided to her that she had made quite an impression on Anastasio; while she related this, Alicia was looking at her as if she were a total stranger.
“You really surprise me, Monica—you’re the one who says that you don’t want to know about boyfriends until you finish your studies.”
“Who’s talking about boyfriends?”
“You talk like you’ve fallen in love with him.”
“Alicia…how am I going to fall in love with that giant?” she asked, looking her straight in the eyes.
Her friend’s face turned slightly gloomy.
“I understand,” Alicia said, lowering her head
“As a friend he’s going to be a delight, I’m sure of it. I don’t want anything else.”
“So then…you’re going to the beach tomorrow?
“Of course I am!”
“Well, keep me informed,” her friend said as Monica left.
The next three days with Anastasio were unforgettable. Their familiarity increased and then it wasn’t only their excursions into the ocean which gave her such pleasure, but also the long conversations they had while they sat around on the sun-filled sand. During these conversations, Anastasio would tell her about his voyages or speak to her about the last book he had read while he was at sea. He practically devoured books and he was able to summarize them with great precision in just a few words.
Monica listened to him with wide-eyed fascination while her retinas registered the attractive and expressive features of this seaman’s face. Anastasio had a big heart and the classic nobility of spirit which was typical of most tall men. Besides being educated, he had exquisite manners, and there was nothing he had to envy in Rock Hudson, the current leading man at that time. It was only natural that girls would fall in love with him. Monica was no exception, but she dissimulated this with such determination that no one in her group of friends suspected what was going on inside her. Furthermore, they all held the conviction that as a man, she felt indifference towards him. That conviction was just what the doctor ordered because it would prevent Monica from becoming the object of their jokes and gossip.
Five days after Monica and Anastasio met, he and Enrique had to ship out for a short voyage which would last a week. Monica missed the charming seaman a lot, in spite of the messages he sent her over ship-to-shore radio from the small cargo ship, the Medina Tanya. The group of friends had all been invited aboard for a bon voyage party.
During that week Monica occupied herself by weaving and un-weaving dreams. Luisa passed on the gossip: her boyfriend had told her that Anastasio had fallen in love with Monica and couldn’t wait for the voyage to end so that he could ask Monica out for a date. Luisa was thrilled, thinking that the four of them could go out on a date together, because in those days it wasn’t customary for unmarried couples to go out on their own. Monica didn’t pay much attention because, although Luisa was a nice girl, she was also quite gossipy and could be slightly derisive.
Meanwhile, Monica poured out her heart to Alicia during their afternoon visits when they had a snack. Monica admitted that she had fallen madly in love. Alicia encouraged her and denied the importance of anything which Monica thought might be an obstacle in her relation with the seaman. They discussed this endlessly, and when they weren’t preparing for their studies, they would go to the cinema, to the then-famous double sessions, especially on Ladies’ Day, when they only had to pay half-price.
The most popular cinema houses for high school students were the Pabellón Santa Catalina and the Pabellón Recreativo, not only for the good films, but also for the price. During the week they went to those nearby cinemas, but on Sundays and holidays they would go to any one of the grand cinema theatres the city had in those days. Their favourite was the Triana, because of the good selection of films that theatre had. They also liked it because Triana Street would be full of life during the afternoon stroll; that was where all the teenagers in Las Palmas would go to meet each other.
Her friendship with Alicia was a refuge for her; they had known each other since they were little girls and their affection had grown with the years. They loved each other like sisters and had no secrets from each other. Alicia was the depositary for Monica’s confidential conversation because at home it wasn’t possible to speak about many things. Her father had given her a choice when the first suitor had appeared on the horizon: “Studies or boyfriends.” At a time when few women had access to university studies, Monica hadn’t thought about it twice and answered him in a self-assured way: “Studies.”
When Anastasio returned, the gathering at the beach revived. They took up their underwater exploration again and several members of the group took their first steps as skin-divers. One afternoon, when Monica had one hour left to stay on the beach, Alicia appeared, showing off a splendid new bathing costume. Although she wasn’t what would have been called beautiful according to the models of that time, she had attractive features and an engaging personality; she was also very popular and had many admirers whom she used to disregard according to her mood, or following her mother’s advice.
It wasn’t that Alicia was a frivolous girl, but rather that all this formed part of the social game where relations between boys and girls didn’t become more serious than a sweet smile or, in an extreme case, holding hands at the cinema, while these boys and girls were waiting for their appropriate mates.
Luisa, as usual, made the introductions and after five minutes Alicia had taken over the conversation. Then it was three o’clock. Monica had to leave. She gathered up her things and outlined a smile as she waved a hand in farewell. She went up the stairs to the promenade and was home in a few minutes.
Monica waited anxiously for the hour of the afternoon snack with her friend so that she could find out what impression Anastasio had made on Alicia. The minutes slowly ticked away. The clock struck five. The hands of the clock appeared to be moving in reverse. The clock struck six. Monica rushed out of the house and hurried around the corner and two blocks over to her friend’s house. Mrs. Alvárez, Alicia’s mother, came to the door and informed Monica that her daughter had not arrived from the beach yet.
“Please, Mrs. Alvárez, ask her to telephone me when she arrives,” Monica pleaded.
“Don’t you worry, I shall tell her.”
The clock struck eight and Alicia still hadn’t telephoned. Monica became more and more impatient. She thought that perhaps Mrs. Alvárez might have forgotten to give Alicia her message. She also thought that since it was still daylight Alicia might have gone shopping before going home. Monica waited one hour more, then called her friend. No one answered. That really didn’t surprise Monica because Mrs. Alvárez went to the cinema almost every night and her daughter often accompanied her.
Monica went to bed feeling restless and confused, not knowing what to think. She couldn’t come up with any sweet thoughts to think on before going to sleep. She slept badly, tossing and turning.
Alicia telephoned the next morning just to tell her quickly that she had arrived home just in time to accompany her mother to the cinema. That afternoon on the beach, everything seemed the same as always. That put her mind at ease. Then she asked Alicia what she thought of Anastasio:
“There’s no doubt that he’s very handsome and charming;” she replied, “but there’s also no doubt that he’s too tall for you.”
Alicia’s words—which felt like a pitcher of cold water thrown at her face—didn’t take Monica by surprise. Nevertheless, she resisted accepting her friend’s judgement as final. She just couldn’t now…
* * *
The sound of a distant buzzer interrupted the flow of her gloomy thoughts. Monica was happy to hear it because somehow, this took her mind off the stab of bitter pain she felt in the pit of her stomach. The concert was about to begin; she was one of the last to go up to the hall after she cast another lingering look at the lovely beach. This pleasing image remained in her mind’s eye long after the first part of the programme began. Her spirits picked up when she heard the oboe of the Andante, which provoked an outpouring of images seen as through a polyhedral sphere composed of multiple mirrors. Without doubt, these images were inspired by that last look at the lovely beach nestled in the bay.
As the music moved through its progressions, images of the beaches she had known and which then acquired special significance for her paraded before her mind’s eye. One of the beaches which had had the most impact on her was the beach at Dingle, located on the Dingle Peninsula along Ireland’s southwest coast. It had first enchanted her when she saw it in the film Ryan’s Daughter. Monica had promised herself that one day she would put her footprints on that beach. The opportunity came when her brother decided to send his son Ignacio to study English in Ireland. Monica volunteered to be travelling companion for her young nephew on his trip to the Emerald Isle; at the same time she could enjoy a brief vacation with her Irish friend, Pat.
After arriving at Dublin, they went south to her friend’s home. When they had rested from the flight, she rented a car and the three of them drove west to see the now legendary beach. They took a long walk on its pristine golden sands, where they found a multitude of shells in a myriad of shapes and sizes. Monica tried to capture some vestige of the passions portrayed by the characters in the film. The absence of footprints left her quite surprised, for it was summer; the water was chilling, as it is wont to be on the beaches of the British Isles.
That thought transported her to Swanage in Wales, where the water was just as chilling. She saw swimmers and sunbathers strolling about in overcoats, carrying mugs of hot tea instead of cans of cold Coca Cola. Nevertheless, the breathtaking beauty of the surroundings was indisputable. Green meadows extended all along the shore, growing almost into the water; at various points, the profile of the coastline looked like delicate rocky lace. Cosy little tourist bungalows had been constructed in compatible conjunction with the surroundings, forming a harmonious array which blended into the beauty of the landscape without distorting it.
The notion of landscape beauty carried her thoughts across the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean, where she saw the indescribable beauty of the beach at Carmel, on the California coast. Monica saw its snow-white sands and the great strands of seaweed swaying in the azure water. She saw the surrounding white rocks crowned with deep green grass fleeing from the lawns of the adjacent mansions to embrace the swaying seaweed in the welcoming waters of the bay.
From Carmel, Monica took imaginary wing south along the coast where she could see the famous long beaches which Hollywood has immortalized in so many films. The low-lying cover of Pacific Ocean fog and smog, their particular type of panza de burro, cooled the water which washed the gold-coloured sands of these beaches. Looking for warmer waters, her thoughts turned to Miami, where the beaches are also quite long, but the water is a tepid soup with little contrast from the temperature of the air. But here it was not the beaches themselves which impressed her so much: it was the aerial views of the seabed, which looked as if it had been paved with great green emeralds.
The sound of the second piece on the program, Exultate, Jubilate, brought her flight of fancy to an abrupt landing on the south coast of Grand Canary Island, when in relatively more recent times, together with a group of friends from work, she took part in an excursion to the beach at Güigüí. Fernando, the only man in the group, owner of a Zodiac inflatable boat, expert navigator and fisherman, organized this excursion.
They boarded the Zodiac at the port of Mogán, after Fernando had asked them:
“Do you all know how to swim?”
“Yes!” they all replied enthusiastically,
“Well, off we go,” said Fernando, starting up the outboard motor.
They motored slowly out to the entrance of the harbour. Elisa and Monica were on either side of the bow, holding on to the boarding rope; Ana and Mary were doing the same in the middle of the boat and Reme was at the stern, near Fernando. When they had gone out through the harbour entrance into the open sea, “the captain” revved up the motor to maximum and the Zodiac literally flew over the intensely dark blue waves. Seawater sprayed their faces while they laughed and shouted with joy. As the Zodiac flashed along the coast the lava cliffs reflected the morning sunlight in brilliant beams, as though the cliff faces were facets which had been cut by a jeweller.
During all the laughing and shouting, no one noticed that Reme was curled up on the bottom of the boat, looking quite pale. When Fernando happened to look at her and saw her condition, she told him not to worry, she only felt a bit seasick. By that time, they were nearing the hidden cove at Güigüí, that gift of the gods.
They disembarked in a sacred silence, overcome by the wild beauty of this little jewel of a beach. Its smooth sands and dark blue waters touched with turquoise invited one to relax and forget the rest of the world. A small cane thicket in one corner revealed the presence of fresh water in this desert-like beauty. They all agreed that if a fourth dimension did exist, they were now in it.
After an unforgettable day on the beach and in the water, they started the return voyage. Reme again took her position on the bottom at the stern; the rest of them held on tightly to the boarding rope for the sea was quite rough now. After they had returned to Mogán, they went to have a cup of coffee. As they sat down at the table, they saw that Reme was trembling and green at the gills. Fernando asked her if she felt as bad as she looked. Reme, with tear-filled eyes, blurted out her answer:
“Its just that—I can’t swim!”
Everyone stared at her in open-mouthed astonishment, imagining the terror that the miserable-looking Reme, recently arrived from land-bound Madrid, must have felt out there on the open ocean.
Due to the nearness of it, her thoughts now turned to the only beach she had known which possesses the elements necessary for it to be considered an ideal beach, such as being located in the extreme south of a miniature continent replete with lovely spots where the climate is benign and dry, and having golden sands washed by both cold and lukewarm currents which make bathing a truly delicious activity during the entire year.
Monica saw the beach at Maspalomas and the adjacent Playa del Inglés for the first time during an excursion organized by the headmaster of her high school to celebrate the feast day of St. Thomas Aquinas, patron saint of students. Father Manuel, the dean of fourth form, obtained permission to drive through the tomato fields which at that time were planted on the coastal tablelands at Playa del Inglés. In a wheezing bus, they had managed to cross the plantations and arrive at the point which today is the mirador.
That point is just above the beginning of the sand dunes where there used to be a freshwater spring. Monica had never forgotten, and would never forget as long as she lived, that first view of paradise when she saw that virgin beach extending as far as the eye could see, where there were no human beings other than twelve fourth form high school girls and Father Manuel. Her eyes were filled with the beauty of that scene in such an impressionable manner that she could conjure it up whenever she wanted. She felt like a privileged person for having had the opportunity to experience that vision.
Under a sparkling springtime sun, they walked along the entire length of that virgin beach, followed at a discrete distance by the priest in his black cassock. Monica took special note of the brushwood thickets which grew so close to the shoreline that they were watered by the waves at high tide. When they came near the headland called La Punta, they saw the majestic figure of a stone tower—the Maspalomas Lighthouse—rise up before their eyes. It gave the impression that the monolithic upright rock called Roque Nublo had come down from the central mountains to court that virgin beach.
The vision of the lagoon called La Charca, and the Oasis, both still unmarred by man-made construction in those days, gave her the sensation that they had encountered a tropical forest where streams of fresh water, which still flowed down from the central mountains at that time of the year, mixed with seawater at high tide. After a refreshing swim, they had a picnic under the palm trees, among clumps of bulrushes which had characteristic sharp-pointed spike-lets. These particular bulrushes grew in profusion between the streams of water—she had not seen them at this spot again—never.
One of the reasons for situating the lighthouse at that particular place was to make the life of the resident lighthouse keepers and their families less tedious by having the pleasure of living in surroundings of singular beauty. Monica asked herself if the resident lighthouse keepers and their families really found life less tedious there.
The magnificent tower measured fifty-eight metres in height and eight in diameter; it was built with solid basalt stone in clean soaring lines. This lighthouse was the only vestige of civilization which could be found in that area at that time.
Father Manuel had asked the lighthouse keeper for permission to climb the spiral stairs to look at the mechanism and the view. Some of the girls were quite tired after climbing these stairs, but Monica felt too exhilarated to feel fatigue. It wasn’t easy to climb all those stairs after a day of hiking all over the beach, but she managed to reach the top of the tower without feeling tired. After viewing the vast panorama of sea and sand she examined the lamp’s lenses, which resembled a recently cut gigantic sapphire.
When they returned to ground level they went out on the patio of the lighthouse keeper’s residence, which was so similar to the patio of the old Guayarmina Hotel that for a moment it gave her the impression that she was at the hotel. At that moment, due to her age she was only interested in the lighthouse, not bothering to look at the house.
After many years, and a pleasant visit made possible by the congenial architect in charge of the present restoration project, Monica was able to appreciate, when she was on the grounds again, the noble lines of this emblematic building. During this later visit, she remembered Father Manuel with gratefulness, because that unforgettable excursion had been a priceless gift for her and her classmates.
This reminiscing was suddenly interrupted by the numerous ovations which now broke out around her. The Auditorium was full and everyone was clapping. Monica started to clap together with them; she was applauding the orchestra for their impeccable interpretation of the rhythmic succession of single tones which formed the melodic lines conducting her gratifying reminiscences back through time.
During the intermission Monica picked up a glass of orangeade at the bar and returned to the terrace. She sat on the same balustrade and saw that the tide was out now and that the moon had risen high overhead, while the wispy mists continued in the same place. However, it was not those wispy mists but the pungent intermingled odours of the bared boulders and shellfish and seaweed which sent her thoughts, for the second time that evening, back to the group of friends which gathered down there on the sand, on Las Canteras Beach…
* * *
There was Anastasio, as natural, as charming, and as attentive to her as he had always been. Her heart took wing again and she forgot what had happened the day before. When Alicia arrived, Monica put her best face on the situation, but her friend seemed to be somewhat uneasy and her eyes darted furtively here and there. Monica didn’t give it much importance because she well aware of her friend’s changing moods. It was time to leave so she said good-bye to the group, and, in an aside to her friend said:
“I’ll go over and see you later.”
“I won’t be home,” replied Alicia, “I have to go out.”
“Well…I’ll…see you sometime.”
The next day on the beach, Anastasio seemed to be preoccupied about something. He didn’t talk much, his eyes appeared clouded, he didn’t smile. He wasn’t interested in going diving. He spent most of the time talking with Enrique about the next ship they would be working on. Monica thought that he might be upset because he wanted to stay longer in Las Palmas. She was just about to ask him about this when he got up, saying that he had to leave early. It was as if the sun had suddenly hidden behind a cloud.
After listening to Luisa’s meaningless chatter about the latest gossip, she left at the usual time. She went home and spent all evening reading Jane Eyre, a novel which one the girls in the group had lent her. She became so engrossed in her reading that before she knew it, it was ten o’clock and she realized she had forgotten dinner. She vaguely remembered having heard her mother call her and having replied that she wasn’t hungry.
Her eyes felt fatigued; she got up and walked out to the balcony to rest and get some fresh air. She looked up the street. In the bright light of the nearby streetlamp, she could see people coming out of the cinema. They soon dispersed and the street was left empty. There was a long moment of utter silence, then, from up the street, she heard the clicking of high heels and the murmuring of voices. There was a couple walking from the direction of the cinema, engaged in lively conversation. Even at that distance, her fatigued eyes could see that the man was quite tall and the woman much shorter. Then she heard, with complete clarity, the sound of Alicia’s voice as the couple approached the street corner. Her heart skipped a beat.
When the couple reached the street corner, Monica could clearly see Anastasio’s attractive and expressive features under the shade made by his black hair. They couldn’t see her because there on the balcony, she was standing above and behind the bright light of the street lamp. The couple continued their lively conversation as they turned the corner and walked towards her friend’s house.
From that day on, Monica would not go to the beach, nor would she go to the cinema. For a long time, she retreated into the refuge of her books. Her parents became quite worried when they noticed that she had lost weight and that her bright smile had disappeared from her lips. So her mother entrusted Monica’s health and happiness to all the saints in heaven; for that purpose, she made a solemn promise to the miraculous image of the crucified Christ. When Monica finally came out of her state of melancholy, it was to go to England, with her sister, to improve her English. That was the best cure: put a lot of water between the patient and the problem.
When Monica returned two and half years later, she had matured in several aspects. She had become stronger in spirit and a bit wiser in judgement. She found out through Luisa that Anastasio had confessed to her, with much bitterness, that he felt quite frustrated because he hadn’t told Monica how much he was in love with her, and had foolishly lost her. She also found out about the tragic turn Alicia’s life had taken, which saddened Monica profoundly. Even the loquacious Luisa was stunned beyond words.
A couple of years later, a few days before her wedding, Monica was strolling along the promenade at Las Canteras Beach when she bumped into Anastasio. She noticed that her heart didn’t just faint away and accepted his invitation to have an aperitif. They sat at one of the cafés which had tables overlooking the beach. They had a long chat. He told her that he had kept up with all the news about her life through Luisa and Enrique, and he knew that she was about to be married to Francisco. In spite of this, he told her that if there was a possibility of a change in her circumstances, she should not forget that his heart had always belonged exclusively to her.
That was the last time they spoke. Several years passed, and then one day, when Monica ran into Luisa again, she said:
“Do you want to know something, Monica?”
“Go ahead—tell me.”
“Anastasio got married a month ago.”
“I’m happy for him.”
“But you don’t know the best part…”
“So what’s the best part?”
“His wife looks just like you…the same hair, the same eyes, the same height…”
* * *
Just then, somebody tapped her on the shoulder and she turned her head:
“Excuse me, the last buzzer just sounded,” said the waitress who was picking up the glasses which had been left on the terrace.
“Oh, thank you,” said Monica as she hurried away towards the stairs.
The Requiem started just as Monica reached her seat. Her mind remained alert during that musical monument, which received the longest standing ovation of any of the works performed during the Holy Week concerts. The choir had sung brilliantly and the conductor had directed the orchestra impeccably. When the applause faded away, she went slowly down the stairs, saying good-bye here and there as she left the hall.
The people who had come out of the Auditorium were milling about in small bunches on the entrance steps discussing the concert and waiting for those who were lagging behind, while Monica made her way out to the car with a bit of apprehension.
That late at night, the last thing she needed was to find that one of her tires had been slashed. She inspected the car all around and checked the four tires. Everything was in order: no scratches and no flat tires. She felt relieved when she sat down inside the car. She started the motor and the air came on fresh and the radio was tuned to her favourite station. She turned onto the street towards the expressway tunnel. While she waited for the traffic light to turn green Monica heard a strident voice behind her:
“Head straight out toward the airport, ma’am…”
For a moment she thought it was the radio, but a glance at the rear-view mirror showed her that the boy with the dirty rag was sitting in the back seat. Monica almost fainted away. She made an effort to keep calm.
“So…what’s the idea of this trick?”
“You can drive me home…seeing as how you couldn’t even give me something for bus fare…bitch.”
“Well, I’ve got some change I can give you now, and something more for your trouble,” she said, thinking of the risky situation she was in…wondering if the boy was carrying a knife.
“I don’t want it now! Now I want you to drive me home!”
The light turned green and she drove on, trembling with fear. Another glance in the rear-view mirror showed her that her passenger was stretched out, sitting with his head thrown back, as if he were dozing. After she had driven through the tunnel at La Laja, she heard his voice again:
“Go slower. Slower, I said! Whatsa matter, you deaf?”
“Just a little,” Monica replied, trying to humour him.
“Turn in there,” he said when they were opposite the ravine at Jinámar. “Then take the dirt road ’n’ go straight on down to the beach.”
“What beach?”
“That one right in front a’ya. Whatsa matter, you blind too?”
“But that dirt road looks too rough…”
“Don’ worry…’snot dangerous,” he said, sounding like he was drunk or on drugs.
Monica had noticed that his speech was getting more and more slurred.
“Stop… Stop… Whatsa matter…can’t ya stop?”
He opened the door brusquely and stumbled out of the car. She had stopped just above a sinister-looking little beach which was almost hidden in the darkness in spite of the moonlight…or maybe the pale moonlight made it look sinister.
He staggered towards the beach, wobbling on his way, bumping into boulders.
“Thash where I live…bitch…” he said, waving an arm towards a shack which looked like it was made of wooden crates and cardboard. “Ya like it?”
Monica didn’t answer. She had a lump in her throat—she didn’t know if it was from fear or pity. When he was standing unsteadily beside the shack, she called out:
“Take the money I offered you…”
“Don’ wan’ your money…bitch…tha scare was good enough for ya…goo’night and thanks for tha ride,” he said, sounding as ironic as he could in his condition.
As his words faded away, he lurched into the wooden crates. Shaking all over, she wrestled with the steering wheel in the rough dirt road. Manoeuvring back and forth with difficulty, she managed to hurry away, in case her impromptu passenger returned.
Then she was on a smooth asphalt road—crying with rage and fear and pain—speeding away from that sorrowful beach.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario