Page 3 of Sombra
As I draw, I think about the dead fish. I’ve fucked too many of them. Not literally. I mean, potential partners who just lie there, with no sparkle orpasión. It’s almost as bad as the jaded ones using you to maneuver out of their positions in life. I don’t blame them. I’mdoing it myself. But it doesn’t make for a deep connection.
I apologize for being callous.
But it’ll be a relief to go back to school for fall semester next week, because the less time I spend around here, the fewer chances I have at run-ins like today. And thankfully, I’m just about done until harvest.
While caring for olive trees most of the year is rather low maintenance—similarto the laid-back people ofAndalucía—I needed to get things prepped, so I’ve been spending hours and hours out among the wide-spaced trees in the blistering heat of summer, mowing weeds, clearing away dead branches, and irrigating. The manual labor in the early morning combined with the generous time I’ve frittered in the bars of Granada—some of which don’t open until two a.m.—mean I’m one tiredand querulous motherfucker.
I need some time off.
I need a fucking siesta.
I watch the record player spin.
Most of the time I stream music on my phone. But on days like today, I want—need—to zone out and play records. There’s something soothing aboutwatchingmusic playing. Watching sound. A contradiction.
And this song?Joder. One of the first English tunesI ever heard, it’s still one of the greatest. After listening to it hundreds of times and searching for the lyrics online, I know every word, like I know the Lord’s Prayer I repeat by rote at the cathedral of Granada. But unlike that prayer, every word of this song hits me behind my belt.
Maybe someday I’ll just find that I get what I need.
Unlikely.
There’s a knock on mydoor.
At least they know to knock now.
I haul myself off the bed and answer it. My older sister, Mari Carmen, holds her hand up to knock again, and before I can sayhola, she’s nattering away.
“¿Tavo, me haces un favor?”
What else is new? She’s twenty-four. I’m twenty-two. So it’s been roughly twenty years of her asking me for favors.
I yawn and scratch my belly.“¿Qué te hace falta?”
She eyes my bare sweaty chest with disgust, her long hair flouncing over her shoulder, and asks in Spanish, “Can you pick upla estadounidensefrom the airport?”
Mi madredecided that since I moved into thecasita, this little cabin, we have an empty room in the main house, so we might as well rent it out. Tomorrow, Kim Brown from Iowa,EE.UU.is coming to stay.
While I’m intrigued to meet someone from the United States, judging by my quick take of her Instagram, we have nothing in common. I’m not into oversize coffee drinks and fast food.
“Why can’t you get her?” I ask her in Spanish.
“Because Jorge and I have an appointment with the priest tomorrow.” Jorge’s her fiancé, a policeman. It’s at the point where we call himnovio, notamigo. That means it’s serious and exclusive, although even an amigo is a boyfriend. My mother approves.
It’s all right for Mari Carmen, but marriage isn’t for me, at least not now. There’s too much I want to do first.
Still, a drive to Madrid? That will take most of the day. Lately, I’ve found myself needing to get away more and more. A practice run for when I finally move to America.Maybe I can grill Kim Brown about what it’s really like.
Evaluating my sister’s pleading eyes, I nod. While I could give her a hard time, I won’t. “Sure. I’ll go. Give me her flight information.”
“I’ll text it to you.” Mari Carmen pauses, finger on her lip. “Can you make sure to set her up on the Wi-Fi once she gets here?”
Farmhand, chauffeur, and now, information technologyspecialist.
At your service.
She looks behind me and gestures at my sketchpad. “Did you draw that bird just now?”
Most of my family thinks my creative work is a waste of time, so I’ve stopped showing them any of it. “Yeah.”
