By Kenneth M. Kapp
Tomorrow, Antonio’s head, with its thinning hair, would become red, his skin would dry and flake, and over the next several days he would question why he had gone to the square at noon to listen to the Flamenco music without his straw hat. But today he was determined to stick it out, to “show her” that he was undeterred by her actions, even if--and despite--the music having been her plan. He found the note on the nightstand when he woke up, one word: “Enough.” The note failed to contain any familiarity, not even her usual signature – a red kiss.
A month before, Serena had been adamant, “We need to go somewhere, anywhere, even for three days.” And he had agreed reluctantly, “A long drive for a short weekend, but we can spend quality time together, sì, sì, claro que sì.”
He had arranged work accordingly. Favio, his associate at work, had agreed to take all his calls. His manager and secretary were fully up to date on open business and accounts. And in emergencies, they had the phone numbers of where they were staying. Even their concierge was on board. He had done it all. And now, as he fought to stay awake, the sun growing ever hotter, he recalled Serena’s exact words, “You never do anything special to show me you love me. Always the same restaurants and movies, week after week, month after month.”
He could feel his sweat dampening the concrete surrounding the fountain where he was sitting. The heat was overwhelming and Antonio finally relented and walked across the square to stand in the shade of a building. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face and brought his attention back to the musicians. He was determined to enjoy this, even if he melted into a puddle, Serena or no Serena!
They were performing on a wooden platform, two towers of speakers in the front corners. The speakers faced across the square at different angles and he guessed they had tested for the best position for minimal echoes from the surrounding buildings, but it didn’t seem to work; the two guitars sounded tinny and not quite in sync. Why were they continuing to play under such conditions? The resulting effect was uncomfortable and upsetting. At this point he didn’t think that he could tolerate the acoustical defects even if Pavarotti was singing “Qui Dove il Mare Luccica,”--and his father was Italian.
Hoping to find relief, Antonio stepped back and leaned against the building; perhaps it still retained some coolness from the night. The band finished and he applauded politely, watching as a woman dressed in traditional flamenco costume came onto stage center. He pursed his lips and wanted to spit. Serena bitched she wanted to see Flamenco dancing and so where is she now?
The dancer opened a fan and stood in profile. The guitarists began to strum as she moved from pose to pose. Antonio dropped his gaze and stared at the cobblestones. He didn’t understand what she was doing and busied himself following a trail of glass fragments sparkling in the cracks between the cobblestones back to the fountain where he had been sitting. The fragments were a pale green. Someone probably dropped a bottle of white wine. I don’t know what she’s doing. I suppose Serena would have explained everything over a glass of wine later. It’s too much, really. And I don’t think the dancer’s very good. I’ll stay another night. Serena will probably go back to our apartment, clear out her stuff.
The next piece started and the woman stamped her feet, clicking the castanets that suddenly appeared in her hands. The fan had disappeared while he hadn’t been looking. The dancer demanded his attention now. Serena said something on the drive down about a Soleá and beats: 12 3 6 8 10; 12 3 6 8 10, but he was too exhausted to count the beats or find any pattern. The stamping and the clicking were giving him a headache.
Antonio closed his eyes and tried to fan himself with his hand, growing more resentful by the minute.
I bet she took the car.
If I’m too dependable, always doing the same thing, she’s the opposite. She does whatever comes to mind – devil take it all.
I really hate this music. I was an idiot to ever give in to her.
Antonio sighed and looked at his watch.
I bet she took the car and left me stranded. How the fuck am I going to get home?
The heat was jumbling his thoughts.
Who ever thought this dancer was any good?
Wasn’t there a train? I can’t remember.
Maybe it’s the heat.
Maybe it’s the dancer.
Maybe it’s Serena.
I don’t want to see her ever again, running off like this!
Monday morning. I’ll wait until Monday morning to leave.
Antonio was convinced the dancer’s gestures were forced and not connected with her other movements. Her hands were not in time with either her stamping or the clicking of the castanets. Like they were fighting for control of the rhythm.
Enough!
This woman sounds like horses struggling across the cobblestones.
And with that, he fled back to the hotel.
Antonio checked the parking lot as he came around the corner to the hotel. Their car was indeed gone. Waiting for his room key at the desk, he asked about his wife.
“She left earlier and left a note,” the concierge told him.
“Gracias. It was too hot to listen to the flamenco.”
The concierge seemed sad for him. “It will be cooler this evening, señor. The horses will be in square then.”
“The horses?”
“From Iberia, Andalusian horses– athletic and versatile, a Spanish horse. We are very proud of our horses.”
“Yes? Could you have someone call the room at 5:00? I’ll try going out then.”
Once in his room, Antonio undressed and showered, and then opened Serena’s note.
“I’m taking the car. Moving out Sunday. You keep the cat!”
He closed the shades and lay down on the bed, the count of a Soleá beating on his temples. A siesta and then the horses. Later I can walk around the square, find a small restaurant that serves paella. Roja. A good local red wine and I’ll sleep like a lamb. The concierge said there was a fast train on Monday leaving at 6:00. I’ll be back at work by noon. Favio will laugh when I tell him what happened. He never like Serena. I won’t forget my straw hat this time!
Kenneth M. Kapp was a Professor of Mathematics, a ceramicist, a welder, an IBMer, and yoga teacher. He lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night in his man-cave. He enjoys chamber music and mysteries. He was a homebrewer for more than 50 years and runs whitewater rivers on the foam that's left. His essays appear online in havokjournal.com and articles in shepherdexpress.com. Please visit www.kmkbooks.com.
