The Village in Spain
The village, who’s name David has long since forgotten, was somewhere in Spain, not quite in the mountains but not very close to the Mediterranean. The girl, who’s name was Alessandra, was from Barcelona, and her hair was not quite blonde but not very close to brunette. The village, which looked out over a valley filled with olive groves, sat on the down slope of what residents insisted was a minor mountain but what David knew was most definitely a hill. The girl, who had wide set, deep brown eyes and a delicate, fearful smile, insisted she loved him but David knew she most definitely did not.
David Sanborn, twenty three years old and in a country not his own, sat on a small wooden bench which rested on the side of a road, even though it was more of an alley, at the top of a hill. The sun, which had not yet sunk beneath the café where David and Alessandra had eaten supper, was a rich golden color and bathed the village and its white washed houses in a surreal kind of glow.
The street, although David still insisted it was an alley, was narrow and snaked its way down the hill, although some would say it snaked its way down the mountain. It was lined, on both sides, by quaint, white washed homes, the windows arched and the doors set right on the street, missing the front porches and stairs so common in America. At the bottom of the hill, and the road had well since snaked its way out of sight, there was a lake, long and narrow and crystalline clear. A small dock made its way precariously out into the water, and two men sat on a row boat with fishing poles not far from this dock. Beyond the dock, were the olive groves, which David and Alessandra had visited the day before when the sun had been hidden by a humid haze, and past the olive fields were mountains. Real mountains, David insisted. Not hills.
About halfway down the narrow street, likely no more than one hundred yards, an old woman wearing a flowered apron swept the ground in front of her house, stopping only occasionally to wipe her tan bow. She seemed to move about with a permanent stoop, perhaps from a lifetime of sweeping this ground.
David, who’s gut was full and protruded slightly from beneath his white t-shirt, sat with his sun-browned, dark haired legs crossed, his right ankle resting on his left knee. Alessandra, her legs short but not stubby and deeply tanned, did not cross her legs but merely let her petite hands lay in the lap of her khaki shorts. She was erect, her posture perfect, whereas David was slouched, his head resting on the top of the bench. They sat close together, but not quite touching, in a way that implied the kind of awkward ease that comes from being, occasionally, romantic partners.
He had met her by chance, as is almost always the case. He was buying a coffee and a newspaper from a breakfast stand in Barcelona one morning before class, and she was in line behind him when he turned around and spilled his coffee on her white blouse. He bought her a bagel and an orange juice to make up for it, and asked her out to dinner. The first dates had been difficult; she kind of spoke English and he kind of spoke Spanish.
There were other problems. Every few weeks, she just seemed to disappear for days at a time and David could not reach her. She was not at home, nor was she at work. He asked her, once, where she went, but she just smiled, her cheeks looking frail and her dark eyes looking intently at him. She touched his cheek and kissed him. Then she said she loved him. Still, he wondered where she went. He wondered a lot about her.
Alessandra reached over and laced her fingers with David’s as the sun dipped behind the café, the alley quickly filling with shadows. She looked over and from his peripheral vision he could see her smile. Her hand felt cold compared to the warmth of the early summer evening. It had been her idea to come here, to this village, this street, this café. She had called him, after one of her periods of disappearance, and told him to meet her at the train station in two hours. He had class, he told her. She asked him to trust her, and he hung up and packed a bag.
On the train, she had slept for the first part of the trip, most of which ran along the coast where she had grown up. He read a book and wrote a letter to his father back in Philadelphia, telling him that he had to come out here, had to see the Mediterranean and the architecture. And the women. He implored him to buy a plane ticket now, to trust him, to pack his bags and fly over the ocean and come see him, knowing full well that his father wouldn’t come, knowing that he wouldn’t leave Philadelphia for anything. It was, his dad always said, his home. All you need is a home.
When Alessandra woke up, she moved over and sat next to David. She kissed his neck, and ran her hands up his legs, and down the front of his pants. He stopped her, kissed her, and then asked where they were going and when they would be coming back. Where they were going was a surprise, and when they were coming back she did not know, but he shouldn’t worry about class, school wasn’t important. This trip, this train, where they were going, all that was important. He laughed, uncomfortably, and tried to close his eyes and believe her.
They watched their first sunset in the village from the dock with the men from the row boat. They watched their second sunset, after the hazy day finally cleared around seven, from a blanket beneath a gnarled sturdy olive tree. Then they had made love. The third sunset, today’s, they watched from this bench outside the café, the red wine still thick in his head, his vision blurred slightly. David did not know when they were leaving and he did not care to ask anymore.
He realized that he did not want to leave.
He does not know yet that come next morning, they would be gone. And he does not know yet that he would only see Alessandra once more, that when they returned to Barcelona they would have one more dinner and then she would disappear and before she returned he would get a call, about his brother, and fly back to Philadelphia. He tried to call her, and even left her a note, but he will never hear from her again.
But watching this sunset, sitting close to her, David senses that he is at the culmination of something. As if in some way, sitting on this bench, in this villa, with this girl, is where he will die. That even if his death bed lay thousands of miles across an ocean, this place will be where he dies.
David Sanborn, twenty three years old and in a country not his own, sat on a small wooden bench which rested on the side of a road, even though it was more of an alley, at the top of a hill. The sun, which had not yet sunk beneath the café where David and Alessandra had eaten supper, was a rich golden color and bathed the village and its white washed houses in a surreal kind of glow.
The street, although David still insisted it was an alley, was narrow and snaked its way down the hill, although some would say it snaked its way down the mountain. It was lined, on both sides, by quaint, white washed homes, the windows arched and the doors set right on the street, missing the front porches and stairs so common in America. At the bottom of the hill, and the road had well since snaked its way out of sight, there was a lake, long and narrow and crystalline clear. A small dock made its way precariously out into the water, and two men sat on a row boat with fishing poles not far from this dock. Beyond the dock, were the olive groves, which David and Alessandra had visited the day before when the sun had been hidden by a humid haze, and past the olive fields were mountains. Real mountains, David insisted. Not hills.
About halfway down the narrow street, likely no more than one hundred yards, an old woman wearing a flowered apron swept the ground in front of her house, stopping only occasionally to wipe her tan bow. She seemed to move about with a permanent stoop, perhaps from a lifetime of sweeping this ground.
David, who’s gut was full and protruded slightly from beneath his white t-shirt, sat with his sun-browned, dark haired legs crossed, his right ankle resting on his left knee. Alessandra, her legs short but not stubby and deeply tanned, did not cross her legs but merely let her petite hands lay in the lap of her khaki shorts. She was erect, her posture perfect, whereas David was slouched, his head resting on the top of the bench. They sat close together, but not quite touching, in a way that implied the kind of awkward ease that comes from being, occasionally, romantic partners.
He had met her by chance, as is almost always the case. He was buying a coffee and a newspaper from a breakfast stand in Barcelona one morning before class, and she was in line behind him when he turned around and spilled his coffee on her white blouse. He bought her a bagel and an orange juice to make up for it, and asked her out to dinner. The first dates had been difficult; she kind of spoke English and he kind of spoke Spanish.
There were other problems. Every few weeks, she just seemed to disappear for days at a time and David could not reach her. She was not at home, nor was she at work. He asked her, once, where she went, but she just smiled, her cheeks looking frail and her dark eyes looking intently at him. She touched his cheek and kissed him. Then she said she loved him. Still, he wondered where she went. He wondered a lot about her.
Alessandra reached over and laced her fingers with David’s as the sun dipped behind the café, the alley quickly filling with shadows. She looked over and from his peripheral vision he could see her smile. Her hand felt cold compared to the warmth of the early summer evening. It had been her idea to come here, to this village, this street, this café. She had called him, after one of her periods of disappearance, and told him to meet her at the train station in two hours. He had class, he told her. She asked him to trust her, and he hung up and packed a bag.
On the train, she had slept for the first part of the trip, most of which ran along the coast where she had grown up. He read a book and wrote a letter to his father back in Philadelphia, telling him that he had to come out here, had to see the Mediterranean and the architecture. And the women. He implored him to buy a plane ticket now, to trust him, to pack his bags and fly over the ocean and come see him, knowing full well that his father wouldn’t come, knowing that he wouldn’t leave Philadelphia for anything. It was, his dad always said, his home. All you need is a home.
When Alessandra woke up, she moved over and sat next to David. She kissed his neck, and ran her hands up his legs, and down the front of his pants. He stopped her, kissed her, and then asked where they were going and when they would be coming back. Where they were going was a surprise, and when they were coming back she did not know, but he shouldn’t worry about class, school wasn’t important. This trip, this train, where they were going, all that was important. He laughed, uncomfortably, and tried to close his eyes and believe her.
They watched their first sunset in the village from the dock with the men from the row boat. They watched their second sunset, after the hazy day finally cleared around seven, from a blanket beneath a gnarled sturdy olive tree. Then they had made love. The third sunset, today’s, they watched from this bench outside the café, the red wine still thick in his head, his vision blurred slightly. David did not know when they were leaving and he did not care to ask anymore.
He realized that he did not want to leave.
He does not know yet that come next morning, they would be gone. And he does not know yet that he would only see Alessandra once more, that when they returned to Barcelona they would have one more dinner and then she would disappear and before she returned he would get a call, about his brother, and fly back to Philadelphia. He tried to call her, and even left her a note, but he will never hear from her again.
But watching this sunset, sitting close to her, David senses that he is at the culmination of something. As if in some way, sitting on this bench, in this villa, with this girl, is where he will die. That even if his death bed lay thousands of miles across an ocean, this place will be where he dies.
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