The view was laid out in stripes: the grey of the road, the yellow sand, a dull blue band of sea.
Hotels and resorts and golf courses stretched out endlessly along the beach road, with names that switched between Spanish and English. The Emperador. Hotel Atlántico. The London, with its banners of Union Jacks.
She returned to the village, found a café and ordered, by way of gestures, coffee and a pastry. The proprietor looked right through her and Rose felt her faint hostility. What was that about? Foreigners in general or her in particular?
Back at the residence she said hello to the gardener who was watering the orange trees, while a small dog looked on impassively. From Silvia’s speech, this was Carlos, who didn’t speak English, but was integral to the running of the place. He was one of those swarthy Spanish types, heavy-set and older than she’d thought a gardener might be. The light glinted on his glasses and he didn’t look at her, let alone reply.
Silvia came out of the front door to greet her, making a little tsking sound as she approached. ‘Rose, there’s been a mix-up with the studios. You’ve taken the one assigned to Marion. Yours is studio 2 at the other end of the driveway.’
Rose thought about studio 4: the garden and the view and the lack of noise. She thought about Silvia, who disapproved of her, and Marion, whose conversation served no point other than to fill the silence.
As far as she knew all the studios were the same and Marion could work in 2 just as easily as 4. Bugger Marion and bugger moving, even if it only meant shifting her case. She proceeded to dig in.
Alfredo took his chance to use his carefully transcribed question when he saw Rose sitting on the bench seat outside her studio, staring into space. She looked as if she was seeking inspiration. He knew about inspiration and the lack of it, as did every artist. He was pretty sure that interrupting her wouldn’t take her away from considerations of work.
Rose read his note, seemingly pleased he had sought her out and taken the trouble to find the English.
‘Walk Cabrera Old?’
‘Si.’ Alfredo pointed to the mountain and then his watch and held up three fingers.
‘Three o’clock?’
He nodded. ‘Si.’
Alfredo hesitated, wanting to say more, but he didn’t know how. He headed back to his studio to put his tools in order, his mind full of the sunlight on Rose’s hair.
In the afternoon, Mike spent a few hours exploring the village and ended up at a bar in the plaza, drinking beer. He wanted to listen to some Spanish and have a quiet think. He knew exactly what his work entailed for the month ahead. He’d dug out a half-completed manuscript he’d given away some time ago that had, this morning, assumed a few possibilities. Thin possibilities, admittedly, but there were moments where he’d glimpsed his through-line, moments where he’d forgotten to judge and got lost in his own story. His character, Percy Streeton, had never been to Spain and that was something he could bring in to reinforce the fish-out-of-water aspect of the novel.
That he, Mike Bailey, should be here in this high plaza, in southern Spain, looking out over the sunlit valley below and listening in to people’s conversations, felt amazing. On the wall near the travel agent, posters advertised music at a club called El Techo. If he’d translated correctly, El Techo was open every night of the week. The Spanish, the poster and the beer all added to his sense of wellbeing.
Wandering back to the residence in the late afternoon, he saw Jane in the lane ahead of him, walking slowly in the dark shadows of the orange trees. He hurried to catch her.
‘Been out walking?’ Mike asked, then felt a rush of self-loathing. Of course she’d been out walking.
‘Just getting a feel for the place.’
She talked about her day. Her marking out of certain places to return to at first light. The small carved figures she had seen in the gift shops, which held a rainbow and were meant to bring good luck to people’s houses.
‘Indalos,’ Mike said. He’d seen them too. They ranged from cheap plastic to delicate glass and heavy, carved stone.
‘The village is pretty but touristy,’ Jane said. ‘What did you make of it?
‘I liked it.’ He’d felt a tourist himself, basking in the sun of the plaza and a transitory feel of affluence. ‘Have you found the cemetery? That wasn’t touristy.’
He told her about the long rows of crypts along the outside wall and the inner blocks in their neat patterns. An orderly warehouse of the dead and so different to the cemeteries at home; he’d been fascinated. He didn’t know how Australia arranged such things, but to his mind the cemetery had been utterly Spanish. He paused. Did he sound macabre?
‘Go on.’
When he forgot to be self-conscious, Jane thought Mike described things well. The writer’s eye, she supposed, similar to the photographer’s, looking for patterns and things that stood out. He had a formal way of speaking, which was intriguing, and his voice was soft and pleasant to listen to. Both Jane and her daughter, Charlotte, were suckers for an English accent, and had, embarrassingly, swooned over Colin Firth in Pride and Prejudice countless times.
It was restful to listen to Mike and it left her free to study him.
He was tall and thin and slightly gangly. Beneath his dull green jumper she could make out pointy elbows and sharp shoulderblades. She guessed he was a few years younger than her. She would like to strip him down and capture the fine knotty bones of his collar and rib cage. He’d be winter-pale and against a sunlit ochre wall the image could be strong. She suppressed a smile at the thought of asking him to strip. He’d be shocked to the core.
‘I could show you if you like?’
She thought momentarily he’d read her mind, but of course he was still talking about the cemetery.
She gestured to the darkening sky, and they both laughed.
‘Stupid of me,’ he said, but without embarrassment.
‘Another day.’
‘Another day.’ He looked content.
Already she was enjoying this residency much more than the last. Ten days in America with travel time had meant a long absence from Charlotte. Two weeks of feeling pulled and torn. And then the love affair between two of the artists, which had been distracting and ridiculous. But Charlotte was older now and independent, and she could afford to relax.
Alfredo was dressed in a leather coat and solid boots that, to Rose’s mind, made him look like a bear. At the base of the mountain, there was a fine sprinkling of cactus and pale, tall grasses. They found the main path, picked out by other walkers, and some smaller tracks running here and there. Goats, perhaps, but if so there was no sign of them.
Every now and then Alfredo offered his hand and they would stop to catch their breath and look out over the landscape and each other. Was the language barrier a problem or a boon? After Steven, who didn’t know how to be quiet, the silence between them felt restful.
When they reached the top, half an hour later, there was only dust and shale and rocks and the crater they had heard about last night at dinner.
She
