Not exactly a bright morning, the sun choked by clouds, but standing at the bar and sipping a coffee strong enough to choke a Hyena brought its own brightness. A little dark in the café, with the weak lighting and a look that carried a dark, worn, turn of the century ambiance. Hard to tell which turn of which century.
A woman sauntered in, nicely dressed, beige suit, butter yellow blouse, light red scarf flavored with yellow flowers. She stood at the bar and ordered a coffee before looking around. Not either short, nor tall. Somewhere from the middle of American by the accent on top of the Spanish words. The voice had a rough edge of whiskey and cigarettes, and also a little too loud to please a man who was trying hard to concentrate on not concentrating.
She glanced his way and went back to sipping her small white ceramic cup of bitter espresso. Not bad looking. Her face had that look of indecision. With her mind made up, she turned. “You American? Canadian?”
“American,” he said before taking his own sip.
“Not sure what told me. Maybe the shoes and pants and shirt and haircut and that look that speaks of not belonging.”
“What kind of look is that?” he asked, in voice flat, not caring about the answer.
“From what I’ve seen, Spanish men have an air of owning the room and everyone one in it. At least the young ones do. Greased black hair, slacks, white shirts open at the collar, jackets carelessly stylish.”
“Sounds like you spend a lot of time checking out Madrilanos.”
“Are you married?” she asked.
“What have you got in mind?” His headache was not getting better.
“You know, we really should introduce ourselves.” She carried her cup and saucer and moved close, but not too close. “My name is Wilma Woodbine.”
“George Rudford.”
“THE Rudfords? Rhode Island Rudfords? Here on business? Buying a few hotels? Maybe a bank or two?”
“I’m a writer, photographer. Wrong side of the family.”
“And I’m a singer, or was. Sally Charles, much better than Wilma. Name ring a bell?”
“Rock and Roll, County and Western, Heavy Metal?”
The look on her face bared a strong resemblance to a dying cat who’d like to get it over with. “That’s what I carelessly call shit music. Two chords, loud drum, flashing lights, gusts of smoke, crowds in ripped jeans jumping up and down for only God knows why, and lyrics that would bore a scared squirrel. No.” She shook her head slightly, eyes blinked closed. “Big Band. Real music. Real musicians. Memorable lyrics.”
“You said former singer?”
“Marriage interfered.”
“Is your husband close at hand?”
“Today, Brussels, tomorrow London, the next day, who knows?”
“Industrialist?”
“Gives Rolls Royces away as party favors.” The sour look said the rest of it.
“And he left you here in Madrid. Speak Spanish?”
“Sure. Un café por favor. No estoy borracho, estoy feliz,. I’m not drunk, I’m happy. Speaking of which, can I get a brandy to help washdown this coffee?”
He looked at the barkeeper and lightly raised two fingers. “Normally not for me, but it’s one of those mornings when I’ll make an exception. Senor, dos brandy por favor.”
“Surprised they serve brandy in a café,” she said.
“In Spain a café is a bar as well.”
“Something America should latch on to.”
“Too many laws to control our needs.”
“Yeah.” She took another sip of coffee and followed with a dainty sip from her brandy snifter. “Rioting in the streets is approved of, but a brandy for breakfast is out of the question.”
“I think it’s allowed during a riot.”
“So, is your wife close at hand. But, before that, tell me what you write and what you photograph.”
“No. And anything I please and anything that jumps in front of my camera.”
“So, are you married? You never answered. Something to hide.”
“Yes, I hide the part about divorce.”
“Not a pleasant one?”
He let the question slide. “With your husband traveling, how did you end up in Madrid?”
“Divorce isn’t complete.”
“Still the question. Madrid?”
“Hoping to find a matador with a long sword.”
“You get right to the point.”
“Hahaha..good one.”
“In fact, I’m looking for another American who knows Madrid and can show me around.”
The afternoon took its time wandering through the Prado, discussions centering on Velázquez and Las Meninas. “A bit distracting,” she said. “Who am I supposed to look at? The kids? The dwarfs? The men? The women?”
“Goya?”
“Too dark. A nightmare on canvas!”
“Picasso?”
“Wantabees that had too much to drink and suddenly think they’re artists. I do like Hieronymus Bosch,” she continued, “Looks like a happy bunch in The Garden of Earthly Delights,” she said, still fixated on the triptych. “I like happy.”
“Well, Meneer Bosch thought he was painting sin and going to hell.”
“Maybe we got it backwards, with Hell and Heaven. Sin more, have more fun. Sin less, the rocky road to no fun.”
He shrugged. “I’m not a fan of depravation either.”
“So, what shall we do now?” she asked, with a soothing smile.
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
“I am,” she said and slipped her arm through his. “Let’s start with another brandy and see what other sins await us.”
