in the afternoon.
They told us that, she says, but I haven’t seen a bullfighter yet. At least I don’t think so. What does a bullfighter look like?
Think Pedro Romero in The Sun Also Rises. Remember the film? Tyrone Power. Ava Gardner. And the young torero, an unknown actor with patent leather hair, a beak for a nose, intense brown eyes, slender as a sapling.
I never saw it, but the film sounds sexy.
Isn’t it pretty to think so.
During our twenty minute walk I desperately dredge from the depths of my memory every fact or rumor I have ever heard about Islamic Spain. Belatedly I bless Dolores for dragging me to Granada a decade ago. That trip allows me to dwell on the beauties of the Alhambra, the honeycomb ceilings of the women’s quarters, the courtyard with its lion fountain, copied from one in the home of a famed Twelfth Century Jewish physician, the lush gardens and reflecting pools of the summer villa, the Generalife. Moving on to a description of Sevilla proves to be more problematic, for I only spent three days there during a conference on the topic, Andalucia, Quiepo de Llano, y la Destina Sevillana Antes y Despues la Geurra Civil. It was held in the main building of the university, which in the eighteenth century housed the cigar factory where the legendary Carmen worked. Pleading off the tours arranged for the visiting scholars, I spent my late afternoons vainly trying to hook up with some of her spiritual descendants. To Aisha I mention the factory, not the girls, then go on to the charming whitewashed houses of the Barrio Santa Cruz and the elegance of the Torre de Plata, the octagonal Silver Tower which looms over the Guadalquivir canal not far from the bull ring.
That pretty much does it. Nine sojourns in Spain, almost two full years in all, and I have never given any sustained thought to the seven centuries of Muslim rule. A sense of shame should make me blush to admit that on two occasions I had driven past Cordoba without bothering to stop and tour the former capital of a rich Islamic country with its world famous mosque (at least I know it’s famous!) dating from the eighth century. That I have never visited it doesn’t for one moment keep from describing the mosque at great length, waxing on about its heavenly architecture (I have looked at plenty of photos), explaining how its thousands of columns and striped arches are meant to recall the palm groves of the Middle East and create a feeling of the infinite.
We’ll be at the Filmoteca in Cordoba next week, Aisha says. I can hardly wait. The masjid there is one of the wonders of our world. So’s the Alhambra, but we’re not showing in Granada. Another place I want to visit is Medina al Zahara. Have you ever been there?
My mind is a huge blank.
I’ve heard the name, I say, but . . . I don’t quite . . .
It’s an ancient city somewhere near Cordoba, full of palaces and gardens. Now it’s mostly ruins, an archeological site, but once it was full of gold and silver and precious jewels and wonderful gardens and fountains. It was built by a Khalifa and named for his favorite mistress. The one he loved until the day she died. Isn’t that romantic? Poets have written about Medina al Zahara for centuries.
We reach the Plaza Santa Ana and stop in front of the hotel. No longer willing to restrain myself, I say that there’s something strange and unusual about meeting you today. At the very least, it’s a wonderful coincidence. For I’m here with a film, too, a very different kind of film, one that’s not really mine but based on a book I wrote. It’s being directed by TJ, I say. His first. You know who TJ is, don’t you?
Her smile is full of mischief.
You must think we Afghans are a very primitive people. Is there anyone in the universe who doesn’t know TJ? Tribesmen living in the remote Hindu Kush think of him as The Most Beautiful Man in the World. That’s what all the magazines say, that’s what’s on TV. But you can tell me firsthand: is it true?
I’m not the right person to ask. These days he wants to be more than just a pretty face. That’s why he’s making the film. It’s about the Americans who fought in the Spanish Civil War. Guys who had a sense of duty, who thought the world was one. They wanted to stop Hitler in his tracks. People don’t remember it much these days, but it was a kind of dress rehearsal for World War Two. The left against the right, democrats and radicals against fascists. I was one of the screen writers.
I want her to ask me about the book. I want her to ask me about the war. I want her to ask me about the screenplay. I want her to ask about commitment, sacrifice, martyrdom. I want her to ask why I wrote about people who volunteer for a foreign war, what’s my interest in those who put their lives on the line for a cause.
Hollywood! says Aisha. All that glamour, excitement, money. It must be wonderful to work on a Hollywood film. What’s the name?
Red Star Over Madrid.
I don’t tell her that I can’t stand the title. A decade later I still can’t stand it even if the film did win me an Oscar. Early on in the endless years of preproduction I asked TJ: Why not use the same title as my book, Crusade in Spain. Don’t be ridiculous, he replied. We’d destroy what little revenue we get out of the Arab world.
The Red Star, asks Aisha. Is that a character? Is that TJ?
You got it. He’s always the star. The film’s about a bunch of Americans who fought for the Spanish Republic. Lots of them were Communists. TJ plays the commander.
We had Communists in Afghanistan. Too many of them. They ran the country for a while and pretty much destroyed it. That’s why we’re scattered all over Europe and the States. I’d love to hear more about your film but I don’t have time. The opening reception is in half an hour.
How about tomorrow? We could get together after your screening.
Let’s wait and see, she says. Who knows what will happen? Inshallah.
The lobby of the hotel is crowded with gilt edged furniture that would fit in a high class Victorian brothel. Photos of Manolete, Dominguin and other legendary toreros of the Thirties and Forties crowd one section of the wall, but don’t bother to go looking for them today. The Reina Victoria was renovated for the new century, and while its clock tower and Victorian facade remain, the lobby is now full of angular leather couches and chrome tables which exude all the warmth of a corporate headquarters, and the wall features photos of recent rock stars whose names I for one don’t know.
We shake hands. When Aisha repeats her invitation, I feel a need to reciprocate. Might she be interested, I wonder, in visiting our company on location? We’re just a forty-five minute ride from Madrid. What I hope is that she’ll answer No, not really. Commercial film doesn’t much interest her. Hollywood is too vulgar, too empty, too formulaic for her taste. She prefers independent films, works of cinematic art that stretch the eye and the mind. She likes writers who used to be historians.
Wonderful, she says. That would be such a treat. Thanks so much. I’ve been working with film for over a decade and have never seen a real feature in production. Would I get to meet TJ? It would be such a thrill for my Mom and my sisters and all my relatives and friends.
A twinge tugs my heart. TJ’s fame, as everyone in the world must know, stems less from any acting talent than from his remarkably good looks and much publicized ability to get women—young, old, famous, beautiful, infamous it doesn’t much matter—into his bed and onto the front page of the National Inquirer. In theory his mating habits should be of no concern to me. I have just finished going through a divorce prolonged for more than two years by a struggle over what little property we owned, and my attorney has warned me that when it comes to women I should keep a low profile. In California a property settlement is never
