The Senora

Although the Senora tried to conceal her emotions, she was a nervous woman who thought a great deal about her responsibilities. Her biggest responsibility was to the study abroad program that paid her a monthly income. For the most part, the students who stayed in her apartment could take care of themselves. In the first couple weeks of having a new boarder the Senora was always a little nervous. Then she got to know the college kids and there were fewer and fewer concerns. Generally speaking she found that American students were well-behaved and self-sufficient. In the last ten years, only two or three students were totally incapable of adapting to the Spanish culture. Typically these students went home.

She could remember a Chinese girl one summer who after the first week began to have nightmares. The incident passed over rather quietly, but the Senora understood that living in a foreign country could produce great strain on an adolescent.

The fact that Lethe did not want to return home made his situation all the more complicated. On the one hand, the Senora wanted to accommodate him. He repeatedly declared that he loved living with her, and he loved Spain. So why should he have to go home? On the other hand, she was not exactly enthusiastic about him staying home from school. When Lethe first came to her about his problems she told him a story about her childhood. Now she regretted it. With a teenager sitting around her house, doing nothing all day, she was tense.

Although her initial reaction to Lethe’s suffering was one of empathy, now she was having some reservations. She disliked how he woke up late every morning, waited until four o’clock to take a shower, and never left the apartment. She disliked how he flirted with Catalin and tried to make conversation with the young maid, even when the Senora expressed her disapproval of their relations. To counteract her anxiety, she busied herself with the housecleaning.

Lethe saw her in the hallways pushing dust into piles. The same patch of floor again and again. She pushed the mop with a cigarette hanging from her mouth. There was no more dust, but she kept dragging the mop. This was the Senora’s form of meditation. Was she thinking? No, she was trying not to think.

She needed to clean the ash trays. He smoked just as much as she did and it annoyed her. He reminded her of herself, his compulsiveness, his nervousness.

Catalin was a good maid. She wouldn’t let Lethe bother her. The Senora watched Catalin turn a cold shoulder to Lethe. Even though the Senora didn’t want Lethe’s feelings hurt, there were some things he just didn’t understand. Such as work. Lethe was incapable of understanding the concept of “work”. All he wanted to do was lounge around her apartment and read Don Quixote. Fine if that was his choice, but then he shouldn’t disturb the others. And about his illness, maybe he really was sick. But in Spain, a person attempts to get well. Lethe, on the other hand, showed pleasure in being sick. Sickness was a vacation for him.

If the youth hadn’t doted on her so much, then it would have been easier to kick him out of her apartment. But no, she couldn’t be so severe with him. His favorite tactic was to ask if she wanted to have a cigarette and a cup of coffee. How could she say no to that? So they would sit down on the couch together and he’d begin to ask her all these questions about her sons and daughters in Portugal or her late husband. He seemed genuinely interested in knowing about her life. He was a curious young man, and sweet too, but she always felt herself being sucked into his gloomy, lethargic world. And she fought against it. She tried to sympathize–but never too much.

He flattered her with his blind attachment. It was like he needed an old woman to comfort him. She tried to resist giving too much of herself, but she enjoyed the attention, it was true. So they both helped each other in unhealthy ways, and thus became entangled.

Lethe’s Happiness

During the week the Senora was busy cleaning the apartment and preparing meals. She had a maid come in the mornings to help out. Usually, at about nine o’clock, when Lethe was having his coffee, he saw Catalin and engaged her in a conversation she didn’t quite feel comfortable having. For example, Lethe wanted to know whether she had a boyfriend or not.

“No, I’m single.”

“Good, then you’ll come with me to el museo del Prado tomorrow.”

“El museo. Oh no, I can’t. I have an appointment with my girlfriend.”

“An appointment. That sounds so formal. Why don’t you bring your girlfriend along? We’ll all go together.”

The maid smiled under her green eyes. She had a fresh, young-looking face with auburn hair. Lethe had always been attracted to her, but now he felt confident to talk and ask her questions.

The Senora however was not happy with their intermingling, and she sought to separate them by asking Lethe to leave the apartment during the day.

People had jobs to do and schedules to keep. Lethe would never understand this. The Senora worried about what would happen to the student with too much time on his hands. Now Catalin shied away from Lethe in the mornings and applied blank concentration to the task at hand. She feared losing her job.

Lethe waited for the maid and her girlfriend, Rosa, to show up at el Plaza del Sol. He waited for a half an hour and then went into a sandwich shop to sit down. He blamed the Senora for making it hard for him to get to know Catalin. Maybe Catalin didn’t like him after all. Maybe it had nothing to do with the Senora. Maybe it was his acne.

After these events, Lethe returned to the Senora’s apartment and kept himself in his room. The view from his balcony was magnificent, the rooftops, the church spires, the mountains in the background, but all he could think about was how he was alone here in Spain. He smoked nearly a pack of cigarettes thinking of Catalin. She had already left for the day, and he pictured her meeting another guy and going with him to el museo del Prado.

The balcony was his only refuge, the sharp, cool air and the mountains in the distance.

He looked into people’s apartments as he was sitting on the balcony. In one apartment, a little boy was practicing piano. Lethe was reminded of himself as a child, reading from the Classics with his father. The blond curls of the little boy bounced up and down as he violently struck the keys.

On the balcony, there was no sense of time. Or endless reams of it, so endless time had no meaning. Lethe was living in Spain without a job, without a social life, without a girlfriend. He hated living in this vacuum and yet he couldn’t escape it. He didn’t have the motivation to escape it. He tried talking to Catalin but she rejected him, and so meeting new people, he figured, wasn’t worth the effort. He had always been left on his own, to play by himself, as it were.

Now he pictured his hero, Don Quixote, the gangly, emaciated body, the tattered clothing, the smell of antique books in his ramshackle house, and friends who complained that he spent too much time reading.

His bed slipped forward and his butt fell into the gap between the wall and the bed. Pulling himself up, he noticed the poster on the wall:

To wish for too big of a happiness makes it difficult for that same happiness.

A Pastry Shop and a Bookstore

“Perdon,” she said abruptly.

“Lo siento. I was only looking–”

She gave him a snooty expression and moved away from the display case.

Chocolate pies were laid out on a silver platter. Bemused salesgirls in white aprons walked around offering samples of miniature pastries. And the older Spanish wives mostly cheating on their husbands this afternoon watched the shiny casements with a kind of inappropriate quiver. The pastries looked more like works of art than edible foodstuffs. The women had bronze highlights in their hair and deep red lipstick, lipstick they never wore for their husbands. Colorful jellies oozed out of puffy morsels and rich glazes dripped onto white doilies. And how many of these women really had lovers? Maybe three or four. The rest preferred almond cake, brandy truffles, flan, tiramisu, and crème-filled rolls.

Lethe meandered from the pastry shop to a bookstore down the lane.

Lemon-scented air. Lethe awoke from his dreams of seducing the women in the pastry shop. The bookstore was like the den where his father retreated to; it was cloistered and dry, it smelled of leather and wood. Lethe felt a nostalgia for home even though home was the last place he wanted to be.

He climbed a small ladder to get to the top where he contorted his body and balanced on a plank of wood. It was a challenging position. Scanning the titles from Dickens to Dostoevsky, Lethe realized that most of the books were in Spanish. The Senora had recommended Don Quixote a couple weeks ago and had told him to read it in Spanish. Now was his chance. He reached for the holy grail of literature . . .

The fall caused a great clap on the floor and to top it all off, the book whacked our hero good, drawing attention from the entire room, the shopkeeper included. Words were shouted and exchanged; words meant to be compassionate.

A hoard of beguiling faces peered into his eyes, studying him, asking all sorts of questions in Spanish. Next to the crowd, the shopkeeper cradled the enormous tome, Don Quixote. With a sullen and aggrieved expression, it looked like he wanted to charge Lethe for damaging the corners of the book. That’s why he had put it on the top level, to keep it from the hands of dangerous American tourists.

Returning to the Clinic

Instead of taking a cab, Lethe decided to take the metro. The metro was an underground subway system with echoing platforms and moist tunnels. Crowds plodded through the cavernous walkways as street performers shouted and played their rickety instruments. Mostly, the flowing masses ignored the animated faces of vendors and winos. Gypsies vied for the attention of the commuters as well, crouched against walls, begging for change, but nobody noticed them.

The Senora was surprised that morning when Lethe told her he wanted to take the metro. It was a bold move for Lethe to re-enter the city, and he felt proud of himself as he sat in the waiting room and looked at the faces of the patients in the British American clinic. They didn’t seem as hopeless anymore, or perhaps it was Lethe who felt more confident.

During Lethe’s session with the psychiatrist, Senorita Lorenzo told him that she had spoken to his father over the weekend. “I was able to convince your father that you’re better off in Spain.”

Lethe was beginning to notice Senorita Lorenzo’s good looks. She had a chin that tapered off into a perfect ball, and eyes that glowed fiercely when she communicated “important matters”. Beyond that her tannish skin and dark eyeliner combined to put a sort of spell on him. To him, she was adult, exotic, and intelligent. He pictured what was underneath that olive suit she wore. He pictured her without her gold jewelry, without her ornaments and earrings.

“Your father and I have come up with a contract. This is so we all agree on the same thing. All the contract says is that you will come to see me twice a week. In exchange you will receive five-hundred dollars as an allowance.”

“My father?” Lethe said.

“Yes, your father. We need his permission to do this. You know Lethe you’re only nineteen years old. You can’t just decide to live in Spain and forget about everything else. You’re going to need me to help you work out the details. And the good news is you father has agreed. He says he actually preferred if you lived her for awhile.”

“Divorce. I almost forgot.”

Senorita Lorenzo ran her long finger down the contract. “Here it says, ‘each month you will receive an allowance’. In addition, your father wants me to send him monthly reports on your improvement.”

I wonder what it would be like taking a shower with Senorita Lorenzo.

“You don’t have to stay here, Lethe. It’s just easier on your family if you do. They love you, but they need this time to figure things out.”

She probably has a C-cup–no B, no definitely C.

“Lethe, it’s okay. You can stay here. I can contact the director of the study abroad program if you want. Do you want me to tell him that you’re staying here in Spain?”

“No, I’ll talk to him myself. It’s not necessary.”

“Are you sure?”

Her breasts are so perfect.

After their session, Lethe decided to walk to the end of the block. Once he got to the corner, he turned down another street and once he got to that corner, he turned down another. These Spanish streets were infinite; and Senorita Lorenzo was beautiful.

Lethe talks to his mother

That night Lethe called his parents to tell them what was going on. He went into the Senora’s bedroom because it was the only place where he could have any privacy on the phone.

“Mom?”

He heard his mother’s wail on the other end. She always had to breathe deeply before mustering the energy to speak. Her sighs were pained and lugubrious. She sounded like a muffled, bleating lamb.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Lethe said. “I’ve been having panic attacks. I don’t think I can go to class anymore.”

As he waited for his mother to form a response, he looked around the Senora’s bedroom. There was a bag of eucalyptus leaves on the floor near the dresser. The whole room reeked of the invigorating plant. He pictured the Senora falling asleep each night in a cloud of eucalyptus.

His mother wailed deeper on the phone and he knew she was about to speak. At last she uttered, “I want you to come home Lethe–”

“But no, Mom, I’m alright here. I met the psychiatrist today and she said she can help me. Really, things might be better if I stay here in Spain. I can get some help.”

His mother sighed loudly into the receiver. “Your father wants a divorce.”

“What?”

“A divorce.” She sighed, and then her voice dropped off.

“How could he?”

Lethe felt a sting in his eyes. The eucalyptus thickened all around him. He felt as though he was suffocating in the rawness of its scent.

“I don’t understand. When did this happen?”

“Last night.” Her voice was barely audible. She couldn’t talk anymore.

“No, I’m not coming home. I’m definitely not coming home then.”

He sat on the edge of the Senora’s bed. The coolness of the eucalyptus was rising from the bag and dissolving all around. Images of his mother and her illness swam through his mind. But the aroma of the intoxicating plant was strong enough for him to relax forgetfully, obliviously. His father was not an evil man. He didn’t want to think about the kind of man his father was.

Hung over the Senora’s tall dressers, lace spread like tiny baby clothes. The comforter had the softness of an aged, worn blanket used for decades and the pillows were hand embroidered. She kept no religious imagery on the walls, but then again, she was not a religious woman. Only a stern woman who believed in herself, who believed in her decisions and did not complain about life.

After he had been sitting on the bed for some time, the Senora came into the room.

“I don’t know if I can go to class anymore.” He said.

The old woman rubbed her hands together. Her eyes were clear and moist.

“Do you mind if I live here with you?”

“You can stay here, nino. You can live with me.”

Lethe sees a psychiatrist

It was decided that Lethe would see a psychiatrist. The Senora recommended the British-American clinic in the historic district of Madrid.

As the cab sped around a circular street, Lethe looked out at the mist hanging over the fountains. Few people were in the streets. It felt strange not to be going to school this morning; he felt torn from his routine, alienated by this emergency. He stared at the moist, grey streets, thinking about his parents and their problems, and his false suicide attempt.

At last he was dropped off at a Gothic building on a narrow side street. He climbed the stone steps and entered a dark foyer. The door to the clinic was made of glass. A secretary directed him to a salon-like waiting room with a fireplace.

Patients, old and young, sat in chairs against the walls. Lethe picked up a magazine and retreated into a corner. With the magazine in his lap, he looked up at the patients’ faces, imagining their problems. A nurse appeared, holding a clipboard. She called his name.

She held his wrist loosely, counting to sixty.

“Do you smoke?”

“A pack a day.”

The nurse wrote down a couple numbers on the board and led Lethe out of the room.

A poised, elegant woman greeted Lethe at the door.  Hanging loosely around her neck was a red silk scarf.  A polished copper belt adorned her slender waist.

Lethe sat down in the armchair across from her desk.  He turned around to see the expanse of the office behind him; giant curtains folded against the back windows, and the carpet was emerald green.

“I spoke to your father on the phone.  I’m going to need your permission for a couple things.”

Lethe remained silent, holding his hands in his lap and looking around the room curiously.

“Your permission, Lethe.  Before I can tell your father any more information about our sessions.”

Lethe’s eyes lit up as if the psychiatrist had made some tantalizing remark.

“That’s fine.  Tell my father whatever.  I don’t care.”

“Are you sure now?”

“Oh yeah, I don’t care about that stuff.”

Senorita Lorenzo was a woman in her early thirties.  Her age beguiled Lethe because he couldn’t guess it right away.  Her intelligence, her quick alertness captured his attention, while the possibility of her being much older, gave him a sense of maternal comfort.  He settled into his chair.  Maybe she could help him.

“No, it’s okay, tell my Dad whatever he wants to know.”

“I’ll give your father a full report the next time I speak to him.”

“A full report?”  Lethe jumped up.

“That just means I report to your father about our conversations.”

“I think I’d prefer if you just told him I don’t want to go to school anymore.  That’s the main thing.”

“I see.”  The psychiatrist took out a pad of clinical stationary.

“So tell me about your situation here in Spain.”

“Can I have some of that water over there?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Lethe got up from the armchair and poured himself a class of water.  “Thanks”

The psychiatrist waited for him to finish drinking, but each time he seemed like he was done he would get up and fill himself another cup.

“I’m here because I’ve been having panic attacks in school.”

“Yes, tell me about these panic attacks.”

“They’re real–more real than anything you can imagine.  It just happens.  I’ll be sitting in class and bang!  I freak out.  I can’t look at anyone.  I have to leave the room.”

“You’re missing your classes then?”

“Some of them, yeah.  I’m late or I just don’t show up at all.”

He began to feel more comfortable.  He liked how serene she was when he told her about his problems.  It was reassuring to have someone as beautiful as Senorita Lorenzo listening with moist, full lips and perfect skin.  He projected many things onto her as he was telling her his stories.

“What about the Institute makes you nervous?”

“It’s the students. They’re everywhere.”

She arched her left eyebrow.  “Are you afraid of them?”

“No, well, not exactly.  I despise them.  They’re like herds of cattle or something.”

“I thought you didn’t want people looking at you. Because of your face.”

Lethe hesitated.

“I’m sorry. I don’t see any acne on your face.”

“You wouldn’t be able to see it in this office anyways.  It’s too dark.”

“But is your acne causing these panic attacks?”

“I’m not sure.”

Senorita Lorenzo glanced down at the clock on her desk. “I’m going to prescribe you some pills for anxiety.”

“Is there a dermatologist at the clinic?  I would like to get a prescription for Accutane.”

“I can see what I can do.”

“Please don’t forget,” Lethe lowered his eyes.  “It’s very important.”

The Senora comforts Lethe

The next day Lethe stayed in bed. Every couple hours the Senora would come to his room with a glass of orange juice or a plate of crackers. In the evening, Lethe was feeling strong enough to get out of bed. Covered in a blanket, he sat in the kitchen as the Senora cooked dinner. He was like a frail cat that sits by the window of a well-lit home, waiting to be let inside. He gazed at the Senora in admiration.

She handled the cooking with a singular dexterity. Zipping from from one side of the kitchen to the other, slicing vegetables, opening cans, washing potatoes, she was immersed in an energetic flow and guided by purposefulness.  Her cigarettes were constantly burning which imbued her face with a glowing intensity. Either she had a cigarette between her lips, or one that was burning nearby, on the edge of the counter top as she rushed to empty the trash can.

Both of them smoked. Lethe watched her and wanted to smoke more himself. She chided him for smoking so much, especially when he wasn’t feeling well; but it was hard to lecture the adolescent for something she also indulged in. Smoking bonded them; they were both addicts. Due to the inordinate amount of smoking that went on in the Senora’s apartment, the rooms became hazy and she frequently complained about their nasty habit. But it was all for naught, because the next day the two of them would smoke just as much, which generally came out to a pack a day each.

Lethe regarded the Senora with a sort of divine authority. When she recommended Don Quixote to him for a second time, he vowed to read the book and “master every sentence”.

“If the Senora considers it to be the Spanish Bible,” he thought, “then this book should become my life.”

Meanwhile, the Senora told lots of stories to Lethe, some from the novels she had read, some from the tales of Don Quixote; but mostly it was her deep, gravely voice which moved Lethe. He admired her stern wisdom, her stoic sensibility, and equally, her light, frivolous chatter. After dinner she handed him the dishes to dry, and they did other household duties together, becoming like a pair.

One time Lethe blurted out some thoughts while they were cleaning. “I don’t want you to think I’m lazy,” he said.

“I don’t think you’re lazy,” the Senora replied.

“Donte seems to get more done than I do. I mean if I help you it’s not that big of a deal because I’m not going to class. But Donte is taking four classes, reading six books, and he still helps around the apartment.”

“Donte likes to help out. That’s his personality. Don’t begrudge yourself for another person’s character.”

“But I like to help too!”

“I know you do, nino. So if you want to help, then help. Nobody is stopping you. But don’t compare yourself to others. You have a different personality. Just be yourself.”

Lethe felt confused.

After dinner, she invited him to sit with her on the couch. Rain had just fallen on the tin gutters and with the balcony doors open, a sweet breeze was circulating inside the room. Both of them lit cigarettes.

“Are you afraid to go back to school?” The Senora asked.

“No, not really. I just don’t like the building.”

She could tell that he was lying to her. That was one of her abilities.

“I’m lost in the building. It’s cold inside and I don’t know where to go.”

“Don’t you know where your classes are?”

“I do, but . . . I’m in the bathroom a lot.”

“Why the bathroom?”

“That’s just where I go. I can’t think in class. It’s hard for me to sit still and listen to the professor. There are too many people I’ve never seen before.”

The Senora cupped her cigarette to her face. The ash accumulated loosely on the end.

Lethe continued to tell the story about the bathroom. He talked about it with mixed regard.  The bathroom itself was unsettling to him.  He looked down at his knees, averting the Senora’s eyes.  But he also wanted to be free from his compulsions and so he talked brazenly, blaming his attachment to the bathroom on his mother.

“My mother used to spend a lot of time in the bathroom,”  he said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She has some sort of problem.  She says she wants her privacy.”

“I’m sorry nino.”

“No, it’s fine.  I don’t even believe her when she says she’s sick.  Either does my father.”

The corners of the Senora’s mouth grew taut.  She was listening to Lethe while tilting her head, turning it slightly, as if she were thinking very hard about what Lethe was saying.  What was she thinking?  He wanted to know but he continued talking because he was nervous and afraid.  She said nothing, only listened and smoked.  She could be so secretive sometimes, the Senora.

“You’re sensitive, that’s all. Lots of people . . . are sensitive. I remember when I was a little girl my mother had to take me out of school. This was very traumatic for me. I remember feeling afraid, like I had done something wrong. If you showed me where the bathroom was I probably would have hid myself there. You have no reason to feel ashamed. Living in a foreign country is a great challenge not only for a young person, but for a person of any age. It forces you to look at yourself in ways you wouldn’t normally have to. I was lucky that my mother didn’t punish me for my fears; instead she whisked me out of the classroom and came up with a plan to teach me the lessons herself.”

Lethe paused, reflecting on her words.

“What if you had a broken leg? Would you go to school?”

“No Senora Angeles, I would stay home.”

The bedroom shrinks

“You’re home early.” The Senora said.

Lethe hung his head, looking sickly and pale.

“Nino, go lay down. I’ll make you some leche con mile.”

She brought the warm milk to his bedroom. He climbed into his bed with only a thin pair of underwear to cover him.

He sat up, drinking the milk. His head was still reeling from the scene in the classroom. The surrealist images repeated in his mind, and for a moment, the bedroom shrunk. Was he looking at the Senora or just an endless trace of images?

The Senora loomed over him–a halo of garlic radiating off her arms. She stood and watched him as he sipped the warm, sweet milk. Flecks of garlic seemed to tumble off her shoulders like rocks in an avalanche.

“I’ve prepared a meal,” she said. “Why don’t you eat something with us later?”

When later came, Donte was setting the table like a Christian saint.  He lived in his own perfect world, giving emphatic attention to the household chores, his homework, his incessant reading of the Spanish classics.

Lethe went out onto the balcony to have a cigarette.  He smoked two puffs when the Senora called him back inside.

Donte carried the creamy garlic potatoes to the table and the Senora followed closely behind with a bowl of spicy gazpacho.

“I made your favorite soup,” she said to Lethe.

“I can’t eat anything.”

“What about bread? You love bread.”

She was right. Bread was the only thing that Lethe ate in Spain. Such a basic food and yet one that has nourished civilizations for centuries. Bread was Lethe’s sole salvation.

“I’m going to Valencia this weekend,” Donte announced.

“And with whom would this be?” The Senora replied.

“Some friends of mine.”

It was miraculous how it happened, but once Donte uttered this news, Lethe felt better.  Donte would be gone for a whole weekend.  Lethe felt a tinge of pleasure and suddenly desired some soup to go with his bread.

Un Chien Andalou

One minute after six o’clock, he stepped into his classroom on the eighth floor. “Sit down,” the professora ordered him, “We’re about to begin.”

An old film projector was perched on a wooden stand in front of the room. Students were whispering to each other and sharing cell phone numbers. Someone had pulled down the window shades and a darkness settled over the plastic chairs and desks. There was a hushed silence and the students glanced at each other mischievously, expecting the machine in the front of the class to break down. But the machine began clicking and grainy images sputtered onto the white screen. It was a relief for Lethe to be submerged in darkness. He knew that if the lights were off, nobody was looking at him. The credits ran for a short time and then the title, “Un Chien Andalou” appeared on the screen.

Nobody in the room knew what to expect. Of course they’d heard the name “Salvador Dali” before and most of them had seen his surrealist paintings. But this movie they were watching seemed more like a crappy home video. And some of them jeered at the film, as if to say “What’s this old-fashioned crap you’re showing us?” The professora told these students to be quiet. She said the movie was made in 1929.

The first scene showed a man sharpening a blade in hotel room.

He walks out onto the balcony, smoke from his cigarette pouring from his nostrils.  He walks back inside the hotel room. There is a woman sitting in a chair. He lifts the razor blade up to the woman’s eyeball and slices. Tango music is playing the background.

It turned out that the “old-fashioned” film was powerfully disturbing, and those students who had been mocking it were now watching with rapt attention. The short film caused a riot of emotion in the class. The scenes didn’t connect. Why were ants are crawling out of a human hand?

And then, presumably the same hand rests in the middle of a city street. Nothing happens; the hand is just sitting there as if it has a mind of its own. Out of nowhere, an old woman comes across the street with her cane and pokes at the severed hand, attempting to move it. Another second goes by and she is hit by an oncoming car.

He could hear his professora saying that this short surrealist film was a piece of “historia cultural”. But the movie made him angry and he didn’t want to look at it anymore.  Meaningless absurdity.

“Lethe, what’s wrong? Where are you going?”

“I’m going to the bathroom to sit in the stall and stare at the tiles until I’m ready to vomit.”  But he stopped himself from saying this.

“What’s the reason for this unusual behavior?” The professora asked him in the hallway.

Lethe could hear the students murmuring on the other side of the door.

“You also haven’t handed in any of your assignments?  Is there some sort of private revolt I don’t know about? ”

Revolt.  What was she talking about?

He looked to the end of the hall.  There was nobody around.  “I don’t feel well, that’s all.”

Lethe meets Veronica before class

Once a week, in the evenings, Lethe saw a friend at the Institute. Her name was Veronica and they’d met during the first week of the foreign exchange program when their college sponsored a ten-day excursion through the Pyrenees Mountains. The idea of the trip was to do a little sight-seeing before the students came to Madrid. A group of over fifty students stayed in small hotels and inns along the way. They visited picturesque villages and hiked through green mountains. They relaxed on beaches and saw old churches.

Veronica was a short brunette with a puckered mouth.  Lethe had slept with her in that first week of the study abroad program.  He captured her with his silliness and outgoing personality and she seemed to grow attached to him in a short amount of time.  She had a cutesy aspect about her and he teased her a lot in a playful and exuberant manner.  But something about Lethe didn’t sit well with Veronica.  She sometimes acted stern and stoic towards him.

At the old rural Inn, in the village of St. Jean Pied de Port, their playfulness resulted in her coming up to his room one night and them having sex.  Lethe buttered her up and their kisses had a fierce, wild intensity which made everything seem worth it.  The room was small and had a low ceiling; the wooden floor had a hump.  This quaint setting stoked their animal affection and the young, exuberant Lethe caressed Veronica’s pot-belly with the charm of a great lover. While the other students were downstairs, drinking from a punch bowl filled with sangria, Lethe and Veronica were having their little fun.  Nobody knew and that’s what made it so exciting.

Veronica understood implicitly that Lethe didn’t really want anything more than this.  He was practically manic when they were together and seemed to only enjoy a good rush.  He played his part in a very juvenile way, and with a sort of cockiness too; in retrospect, she regretted falling for him at the Inn.

After not having spoken to each other for two weeks, they met again at the International Institute.  The basement level had a cafe where students went to buy pastries, drink coffee, and hang out.  Students sat in chairs around a table and talked about the weekend.  Lethe never talked to anyone, however, not since his episodes in the classroom.  Down in the cafe, he found a place in the semi-darkness where he waited for the five minutes before class started.

When Veronica saw Lethe in the cafe, she recognized instantly that he’d lost his mania, his exuberant self.  Now he almost appeared catatonic and forlorn, staring at the stone walls and nibbling absentmindedly on a chocolate bar.  She walked over to him, against her best judgment, and sat down.

Before they said anything, she smirked.  She was the type of woman who takes pleasure in watching ex-lovers suffer.  She wanted him to feel the pain that she had gone through in dealing with him.  But his pain seemed to come from somewhere else, having nothing to do with her.

“What are you smiling at?”  Lethe asked.

“You.  You’re pouting and I think it’s funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny and anyways you pout all the time.  You pucker your mouth.”

“Hey, that’s not nice.”

She was wearing a blue, second-hand sweater.  Lethe noticed this because she wore it all the time.

“I don’t have the energy to be nice.  This place is making me go insane.  I tried to kill myself last night.”

“You what?”

“Let’s not talk about it.  Tell me about your wonderful life here in Madrid.”

“Actually things have gotten much better since we stopped hanging out . . .”

“Oh yeah, that’s great.”

“It is great because now I don’t have to deal with your bullshit.”  She said this in a teasing manner.

“Listen I’m sorry if I ignored you after we slept together but I really hit a wall.  You don’t understand I’m frustrated here.  I hate this institute, or institution, whatever they call it.”

Lethe hung his head over the coffee table, and threw away his chocolate bar, half-eaten.

“The International Institute–”

“Yes, I hate it.”

“All these kids, these Americans.  Where do they come from?  This is supposed to be a ’study abroad’ not a ’study-at-home’.”

“What do you want to do Lethe?  Run the streets with the Spaniards?”

“Yes, actually that sounds like a good idea.  I’d learn more from them.  Americans suck.  I’m so self-conscious here.  And I can’t stand my roommate.  I’m pretty sure he’s gay.”

“Okay, that’s enough Lethe.  I’ve got to go to class and so do you.  Do you want to see me again?”

“Maybe.”

A noise from Lethe’s bedroom

Donte sat in the living room with the Senora. They were watching NASCAR on television. The Senora deeply enjoyed motorcar racing and she chain-smoked whenever a big race was on.

The engines revved in the TV speakers.  The living room was full of these sounds and the Senora and Donte sat at the edge of the couch.

“Where’s Lethe?”  The Senora asked.

“Not sure, I think he’s in his bedroom.”  Donte answered.

“Tell him he should come in here and watch the races with us.  This is the best series . . . he should watch it.”

“But I don’t think Lethe likes racing, Senora.”  Donte stood up, hesitantly.

“Please, go find Lethe and tell him to come.  It’s important.”

Donte walked to the end of the hallway.  He heard a noise like a thump.

Standing before the door, he listened for a moment and then knocked.

“I’m busy–”

“Maria Angeles wants you to watch motorcar racing.”  Donte leaned against the door.

“I hate NASCAR.  Leave me alone.”

Donte was taken aback by Lethe’s angry response.  “I don’t want to interrupt you or anything–”

“Then go away.”

Now the noises in Lethe’s bedroom were loud and clunky, like he was moving furniture.  Donte was about to give up when he heard another thump.

“What’s going on in there Lethe?  Are you moving your bed around?”

“Aggghhh . . . that’s none of your business, Donte.  Beat it.”

“I’m going to have to tell the Senora about this . . .”

“Go ahead tell the damn town.  See if I care.  Just leave me alone.”

“Lethe?”

“What!?!”

“Are you on drugs?”

“No, I’m not on drugs.” Then the door opened slightly and Lethe jammed his body in the crack.  “I tried to hang myself tonight. I hung the sheets on the ceiling fan and moved the desk to get up there.”

Donte looked at Lethe in disapproval.  “I don’t believe you.”  He stepped forward into Lethe’s room.  “What’s this?  Have you lost your mind?”

A bed sheet was tied loosely to the ceiling fan, hanging down to the floor.  There were some pieces of stucco from the ceiling scattered on the floor.

“Relax, it didn’t work anyways. The fan almost came out of the ceiling.  I’m worthless.  I can’t even kill myself properly.”

Juanita comes over for lunch

Around two o’clock Lethe and Donte came home from school and the Senora served lunch. Her sister, Juanita, lived on the floor above them. The two sisters were nothing alike. To begin with, Juanita was much older.  She had a small, elderly person’s body and a large, egg-shaped head with puffy gray hair. Her right eye had some sort of problem; it no longer opened.  For this reason, she squinted at everything with her left.  She was constantly squinting and leering.

From the moment that Lethe met Juanita, he could tell that she didn’t like him.  It was almost as if she had some information about him.  That was the way she looked at him.  Like “I know who you are.  I know what you’re up to.”  He tried to be friendly to her, many times he started conversations with her, but she kept looking at him askance with her ominous left eye.

Despite the fact that Juanita seemed to want nothing to do with Lethe, she insisted on sitting next to him at the table.  After deeply pondering the old woman’s strange motives, Lethe concluded that the only reason she would want to sit next to him was because of the break basket.

She guarded the bread basket with all her life.  The leering, one-eyed woman had lived through the dictatorship of Francisco Franco, and she cautiously watched over the bread supply as if they were living in 1938.  The Senora took amusement to her sister’s frugality, but did nothing to soften it.  And so, eating lunch with Juanita regularly felt like the four of them were prisoners sharing a meal.  All the meals were silent and Juanita was constantly looking over Lethe’s shoulder to see if he had finished everything on his plate.

“Nino, have some more food.” The Senora would say.

Lethe glanced at Juanita, who came embarrassingly close to his face.  “No, really, I’m fine. I’m not that hungry today.”

“Is that why you rummage through my refrigerator at night? You don’t think I can hear you. I hear your stomach growling too!”

Juanita squinted and leered, studying Lethe like a mysterious coin.

“I don’t rummage through the refrigerator at night, Senora.”

The Senora bowed her head; she knew there was no point in arguing, especially with her sister here.

Donte wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin.  “I’ll have another helping of the rice. Muchas gracias, por favor.”

In all her years of housing students, the Senora never had a boarder who refused to eat her meals.  But Lethe . . . Lethe was different.  He was picky like a girl and stubborn like a boy.  So he filled up on bread, what could you do?  That was his way.

In the classroom

The next day at the International Institute Lethe sat in the back of a classroom.  There were twenty four desks crammed into the room and the windows appeared to be stuck, or permanently closed.

The professora, a confident woman in a narrow cut black dress, seemed more like a lawyer than a teacher.  She spoke in crisp, declarative sentences about deadlines and duties and tasks and assignments.  The class could barely write everything down, they were writing furiously under the fire of her sharp Spanish declarations.  Point-by-point she gave the guidelines for the end-of-the-semester project.  Something about interviews.  Something about “the Spanish culture.”  Did the other students know what she was talking about?  Because none of it made any sense to Lethe.  And there was no sign that she would stop her constant fire of Spanish syllables.  The class took down notes obediently, like trained dogs.  But Lethe, well, Lethe was lost.

And then . . . his anxiety caused him to daydream.  He was swept away into the Spanish park with the old gentlemen.  He remembered how peaceful it was sitting there in the park and he remembered the dog that the Spanish gentlemen thought was funny because of the way it slept under one of the chairs with its maw on the brick pavement.  The old men laughed at the dog.  “What a life!  What a life!”  Then the professora’s crazy Spanish broke into his daydream.  Her loud, aggressive voice reminded him of all of the commotion in the city on his way to school.  The buzzing jackhammers, the bustling pedestrians, the swarming traffic, all of it was inside her voice.

The professora called out:  “Todo esta bien alli?”

Lethe looked down, pretending to take notes.

The native Spaniard looked mildly irritated.  She straightened her shoulders and carried on with her lecture, “La cultura Espanola tiene una riqueza de personalidades y tradiciones. No hay un trabajo a encontrarlos . . .”

Going to classes would become a real torture for him, he could see it already. He wanted the day to end before it had even begun. He dreamed of the lazy refuge of the Senora’s apartment.

Dinner with the Senora

The Senora cooked a delicious meal that night. The three of them sat down together at nine o’clock.

The basket of fresh bread went around the table. The bread in Spain was baked just right. Lethe lingered over the crust in his mouth as if he’d never tasted bread before. Steam rose from the soupy bowl of creamed broccoli. The thick potato-and-egg tortilla shimmered with blotches of oil. The Senora had left open the balcony door and cool air was coming in, mingling with the heat from the oven.

At an unexpected moment, the Senora projected her voice across the table. The great curio cabinet seemed to tremble nervously behind her.

“I’m reading a wonderful book right now.  It’s called The Alchemist.  A young man goes to seek a buried treasure in Egypt.  I would imagine he’s the same age as you two.”

The Senora and Donte exchanged quotations they had memorized from the book. The Senora chuckled while Donte’s eyes sparkled like polished gems.

“This stupid book is actually bonding them together,” Lethe thought.

And then Donte brought up that old book by Cervantes . . .

“The true Spanish bible!” The Senora exclaimed.

“My favorite part, Chapter 26, I’ve read it hundreds of times, when the Sorrowful Knight kills the puppets because he thinks they’re real people!”

“Master Peter’s Puppet Show. Master Peter’s Puppet Show . . .”

“Don Quixote wants to save the damsel, that’s why he destroys the puppet theater. He’s gone completely mad!”

Donte, the old professor, praised Cervantes to the heavens, and his perfect poof of hair bounced energetically.

“Ingenio, ingenio . . .”  Donte uttered.

Lethe observed them tensely, his hands balled into fists under his chair.  He couldn’t understand why the Senora had picked Donte as her favorite and not him.  That sounded so juvenile to think in terms of favorites, but it was true! Donte was the Senora’s favorite surrogate son.  And Lethe, well Lethe was just a boarder–

“I can tell you haven’t read it,” the Senora said to Lethe conspiratorially. “Here, use my copy.”  She shoved the big book in front of him.

Lethe shamefully thumbed through the dry, yellow pages. He glanced at the little black sketches at the beginning of each chapter.

“There’s a bookstore on la calle de Felipe. Go buy yourself a copy in English.  Nobody can figure out exactly what the novel is about and it deserves your attention. Maybe you’ll be the first one to decipher it, Lethe.”

She brushed some crumbs into her hand and smiled at her two boarders. “Now it’s time to go to bed.”

Donte

Lethe met Donte at the airport where they split a taxi to get into the city. They dragged their suitcases up eight flights of stairs. A masculine-looking older woman greeted them at the door.

Lethe scanned the floor of the entry hall. Where to put his suitcase? He held his luggage for a long time and felt the choke of not being able to express himself in Spanish.

Donte put his suitcase down and sized up the apartment. The Senora’s daughter, a woman in her early thirties, rushed over with a spasm of energy. She had a flighty voice that took off around the corners.

You had to follow her around when she was talking, and this was no easy task.  She said that while she didn’t live here anymore, she wanted to help her mother out with the new guests, it was in her nature to make sure things ran smoothly and now her mother was getting a bit older in years.   They followed her into the kitchen.  She’d just gotten married a few weeks ago, the wedding was beautiful, done with such taste!  Another burst of energy, more garrulous speech, she bustled between rooms.   She had to make sure there was clean linen on the beds and fresh towels on the racks . . .

The Senora stood off to the side, watching her daughter with the silence of a statue. The old woman had a tentative glare that seemed to catch onto you with hooks.

“Would you like some coffee?” The Senora’s daughter called from the kitchen.

Side tables and chairs filled the Senora’s dim living room. Little metal ashtrays were scattered throughout and the residue of tobacco smoke lingered in the air. The nervous daughter rushed in with their cups of coffee.

“There are two bedrooms in my mother’s apartment.  One room has a balcony and the other . . . well, the other has a slightly longer bed.”

“You can have the room with the balcony.”  Donte said.

The old woman glared at Lethe.

“That’s fine.  I like balconies.”

The Senora lit a cigarette, which surprised Lethe.  He didn’t expect a woman her age to be smoking.  But she lit the cigarette without even appearing to do so.

Lethe was a smoker.  If the lady of the house was smoking, then obviously there could be no problem if he smoked.  So he lit up a cigarette with a foolish grin, like he had nothing to hide.

Donte talked to the Senora about a half-dozen things.  Listening to Donte talk was like listening to a professor give a lecture.  Lethe regretted that he’d been studying Spanish his entire life, now he was living in Spain, and still he couldn’t understand a single word.

Donte’s perfectly-molded jet black hair drew Lethe’s earnest attention.  The hair was a work of art worthy of display in a national museum if it could only be torn from his head.  It bounced, oh, how it bounced with a sort of dalliance over Donte’s remarkably high forehead.  From Donte’s superb hair, Lethe’s eyes wandered to his dark complexion.  Was Donte a Spaniard in disguise?

The Senora’s daughter took Lethe and Donte to their separate rooms. Small and square but clean. The Senora’s daughter walked away and Lethe stepped out onto the balcony.

Pastel-colored, stucco buildings leaned over narrow, brick alleyways, a very picturesque setting.  And directly across from his room were flower-filled patios with shiny white railings.

A couple pretty young maids danced in front of the windows.  Lethe laughed.

Donte appeared in the hallway, wearing a heavy serape sweater and a hemp purse slung around his right shoulder.  He looked like an Eskimo.  “Do you want to go for a walk?”  He asked.

“Sure.  Why not?”  Lethe joined him.

You should have seen the souvenir shops and the stony-eyed vendors.  Cross-legged gypsies on heaps of fabrics, and scrawny, emerald-eyed children.  The city itself was in a hurry.  Chic, well-dressed Spaniards were darting this way and that.

Grille windows, and narrow, labyrinthine streets.  The cloying smell of fried pastries and the occasional whiff of trash bags.

Sign, signs, signs.  You saw them in the States of course, but in a foreign language everything looked so cryptic.  National banks, telephone companies, fresh vegetables, cigarettes, it was all written in a cipher.

Lethe was smitten by the provocatively elegant clothing of the Spanish women.  They showed their naked asses in transparent summer dresses.

“I’m in love!” Lethe shouted.

“With who?” Donte replied, pulling his hemp purse closer to his chest.

“I’m in love with this fucking place and I’ve only been here two hours.”

“I think it’s kind of hot and sticky.”

“I’m just happy to be away from home .  . .” Lethe said, and they continued down the narrow, cobbled street.

Chapter One: At the International Institute

On the morning of September 5th, 2001, instead of going to class, a student panicked and ran into the bathroom on the first floor of the International Institute in Madrid, Spain. As the clock struck eight, a monastery silence reigned over the building.

Staring so deep and hard at his reflection drew an excessive amount of strength and soon the student was overwhelmed and needed to sit down. He pressed the stall door, which opened like a confession booth.

“What’s wrong with me?” He asked.

As he waited for an answer, he stared up at the birds walking along the parapet.

“I’m living in a city without a single person who speaks my language. I’m ignored by the world, overlooked by millions. I can’t change my appearance. I can’t miraculously communicate with these people. I don’t have one Spanish word I can whip off my tongue to convince these people I’m real, I exist.”

But it wasn’t true what he was saying. There were plenty of people in Madrid who spoke English. His roommate spoke English. The students in his classes spoke English. Even his Senora spoke English.

The walk from the Senora’s apartment to the International Institute took approximately thirty-five minutes. It was not uncommon for this walk to produce great strain on Lethe’s delicate emotions. A tide of anxiety swelled up inside him and threatened to drown his face in sweat. Obstacles grew out of the empty air. The large flank of a church nearly pushed him off the curb. A cavity in the road suddenly appeared underneath him.

Construction workers swarmed the sidewalk, suffocating him with their dusty looks and manly shoulders. Cigarettes burned in between their teeth as they shouted orders back and forth. Then came the jackhammers with the crescendo of shrill intensity.

Lethe followed a winding footpath into a wide-open plaza. Set apart from the whirlwind of city madness, a cluster of old men sat with their legs crossed, reading the morning newspaper under the blue fresco dome of the sky. A lazy dog slept underneath one of the chairs.

Lethe stood next to the fountain, debating whether he should go to class this morning. The taut underbelly of the lazy dog rose with each difficult breath.

“What’s wrong with me?” He repeated.

One of the Spanish gentlemen smiled wistfully, as if recalling his own foolish youth.

Lethe glanced at the dog and saw how perfectly content it was. Stupid dog. Lazy dog.

“Que Vida! Que Vida!” The old man proclaimed.

The other men in the plaza hardly moved; they were like figures in a block of marble.

“Que Vida! Que Vida!”

It was too late to make it to his next class. He decided to stay here until the dog woke up.