An Energetic Morning

Lethe Bashar woke up the next morning feeling . . . marvelous!

He got out of bed and looked at the wall, the same wall he looked at every morning when he woke up. Except today the poster of the clown with the funny-shoes on and blousy shirt made complete sense to him:

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

Well, of course, it does, Lethe thought. If you expect things to change then they most definitely will not!

But if, on the other hand, you sink yourself into gloomy despair and tell yourself how you’ll always be stuck in this ugly place, then you might have a chance at seeing miracles.

It’s all a matter of perspective. (And here Lethe truly felt as though he were getting at the core of life’s mystery.) Last night, I hardly expected to meet a group of friends. I carried out my usual routine of wandering the streets and looking for a dark alley to smoke hashish. The hashish does nothing for me, you see, it gives me no real pleasure, but plunges me deeper into whorls of dull sensation and confused torpor.

His face brightened as he remembered the the din on the hill.

They called me “El Americano,” my new Spanish friends. They respected me and even showed signs of admiration toward me. Well, then, for three long months I have been brooding here in Spain, locking myself in my room and writing this Novel of Life. I needed to find somebody, I needed an escape. Then they appeared like magic helpers, my Spaniards, Javier, Ricky, Alejandro, Damian, and all the others. They surrounded me with their cups of whiskey and cheered to our new friendship. My God, I would have never expected this to happen to me. At last, I am loved by the Spanish.

Thus ran Lethe’s exuberant thoughts. The mere anticipation of meeting his friends for a second time sent shivers down his legs. He would meet them again tonight on top of the hill. They told him to be there, they repeated themselves in order to make sure he heard them. Yes, yes, of course he would be there tonight. But first he had to buy an outfit to wear. He would buy a pair of black shoes and black pants, just like them.

But wait, he was getting ahead of himself. It was only (he looked at the clock on his nightstand) 10:06 am. He still had to drink his coffee in the kitchen and greet the Senora before he left the apartment.

The Senora worked silently, alone with her thoughts, preparing the meals for the day. She sliced vegetables, organized the spice cabinet, and cut up the chorizo for soup. The maid ironed clothing next to the pantry. It was crowded having the three of them in one space but Lethe hardly noticed this fact. Every morning, waking up late, he strolled into the kitchen and poured the remaining coffee. The Senora secretly despised him for coming into the kitchen so late. They were busy now, couldn’t he see that? But Lethe had a certain unconscious attitude about things, aloofness prevailed. It was very difficult to get Lethe to imagine that there were other people in this world who might have feelings and objectives of their own.

The Senora grew talented at hiding her agitation with Lethe. This morning she saw that he was brimming with confidence and she responded to his contentment with a sort of restrained pleasure.

“And what’s the occasion for your merriment?” She asked.

“If I seem cheerful this morning Maria Angeles, it’s because I am cheerful. Last night I met a group of Spaniards my age. At first they saw me walking along the sidewalk by myself and then they called me over to have a drink with them. Before I knew it we were all partying on the hill at the end of your street, you know, where the wall is . . .”

“Yes, I know where you’re talking about. Those boys who live up on that hill are the sons of doctors and lawyers and politicians. Be careful what you say to them. Remember you don’t live in this country.”

Lethe barely paid any attention to what the Senora was saying. Instead he poured out his grief to her, “I’ve been alone for three months. I quit school because of anxiety attacks. Up until a week ago, I was practically living in my room. You always wanted me to go out and meet new people. Here’s my chance.”

The Senora turned to the spice cabinet and whiffed a half-empty bottle. “Six months old,” she muttered, tossing the bottle into the trash.

“I’m going out this morning to buy a new outfit,” Lethe said.

“Now that you’ve meet these lads, you have to keep up an appearance.”

“That’s right, I’ve got to look my best.”

The Senora chuckled to herself. There were certain things her boarder would never understand.

“Don’t forget you have an appointment with your psychiatrist today. El Retiro Park.”

“I completely forgot. What time was it again?”

“3:30.”

In two gulps Lethe downed his coffee and ran into the bathroom to get his towel. Then he rushed to his bedroom, peeled off his night clothes, and ran back to the bathroom. He jumped into the shower and squirted some of Dante’s strawberry shampoo on his head. Lethe’s showers could take as long as twenty five minutes, another habit that secretly enraged the Senora. But today Lethe was in such a hurry that he showered in less than fifteen.

As he scurried out the door, the Senora flashed a knowing smile to the maid.

The Spaniards: Part Two

Their festive exuberance struck him as odd. He’d never seen university students so open, loving, and free. They embraced like brothers and kissed on the cheeks; they cavorted around the cul de sac, chasing one another. They had fiery, engaging conversations.

Lethe approached them without freezing up or running off. The hashish he smoked earlier removed his inhibitions and he walked right up to them and said, “Hello. I have some hashish here. Care for any?”

The Spaniards were surprised by his obvious American accent. Soon smiles appeared on their faces. One of the Spaniards answered cheerfully, “Let’s see what you got.” Another stepped forward to introduce himself. The glimmer in his eye persuaded Lethe that he was interested in making friends.

“Have a drink,” Ricardo said, while reaching for the whiskey and Coke.

Ricardo was a tall fellow with wire-rim glasses and a narrow face. “How are you enjoying Spain,” he asked.

“Spain? Oh, I love Spain. I have a Senora who I live with . . . and another roommate but I don’t talk to him very much.”

“What about school?” Ricardo asked.

“I’ve just quit school.” Lethe laughed.

“You what?” Another Spaniard entered the conversation.

Lethe chuckled. “I don’t like your International Institute here; that’s where they send us foreigners. The funny thing about the International Institute is that’s it’s filled with Americans. I can’t stand Americans now. They drive me crazy.”

Lethe spoke fluent Spanish. How it happened was a mystery. Suddenly the words, the expressions, the phrases, were released from some deep place inside of him and once he began talking he couldn’t stop. The Spaniards stood amazed at his energy for talking and his manic enthusiasm and the constant flow of ideas brewing inside of him. Soon they had gathered around him and were asking all sorts of questions.

A beam of confidence shot through Lethe. Speaking Spanish was really a cinch. All you had to do was open your mouth and let the words carry themselves. He didn’t know if he was making sense or not, but the Spaniards were laughing and showing signs that they understood him. All Lethe needed was the confidence to say the next word and everything was fine. Suddenly he’d become popular. Suddenly he’d become the center of attention.

And then, wanting to wield his newly discovered gift, Lethe posed some questions of his own. “What’s it like to go to school in Spain? Is it anything like the International Institute? Do you have a lot of homework?”

“We don’t have any homework,” Javier answered, the round-faced, handsome Spaniard in the middle. “In three weeks we will have our final exam. That’s why everyone is out tonight. This is one of our last weekends to party.”

“How many tests have you had this semester?” Lethe asked.

“Tests?” They chuckled. “There’s only one test at the end of the semester. Most of us haven’t even opened our textbooks yet.”

“What about papers? Surely you’ve had some papers to write?”

“No papers, either.”

“But attendance is required of course. You have to go to class don’t you?”

This last question really cracked them up. “No,” a short, bald guy answered. “I haven’t been to class in eight weeks.”

“Either have I,” another Spaniard shouted. “We study the night before. That’s the best, proven technique.”

“You study the night before your final exam and it’s your only grade the entire semester?”

They found Lethe’s skepticism amusing. He seemed to take life so seriously.

Javier explained, “College is free in Spain, but you have to pass your tests or you can’t move on.”

“And doesn’t that worry you? Not passing my tests scares me to death. I quit school because I was afraid I wouldn’t get straight A’s. My language was never this good, I assure you. Just tonight it seems to have dramatically improved.”

“If we don’t pass our tests, we’ll all become plumbers!” The Spaniards cheered.

Lethe was still perplexed by how they managed to enjoy themselves and keep from worrying about the demands in life. But after awhile he simply went along with the festive spirit and drank more whiskey and Coke. They taught him some national songs and toward the end of the night Lethe walked home thinking maybe there was another way to look at reality.

The Spaniards: Part One

The Senora’s apartment building sat on a cobbled street with a couple boutique shops and an open plaza across the way. During the weeknights, it held a serene, moonlit absence of sound. On the weekends, one heard the youthful crowds stirring; friendly pairs flirting with each other on stone benches.

There was no need to buy any more hashish. Lethe’s regular visits to the other side of Madrid was creating an oversupply of the drug in his bedroom. Not only that but hashish didn’t appeal to him as much anymore; he was growing tired of it. He looked over his balcony and saw the bars opening at nine o’clock. There was some activity but he felt too shy to cross the Senora’s street and simply walk into a bar and introduce himself to a bunch of strangers.

Instead of crossing the Senora’s street, he walked down to the end of her block, passing clusters of Spanish teenagers. The attractive couples, the young, the fashionable were out tonight. He passed them with the weight of his longing to connect and yet his footsteps carried him farther out, away from them, because he was separated, by language, by culture, and as any two strangers are separated.

The city smelled like a tobacco pipe. He kept the hashish in his jacket pocket but what he smelled was the tobacco pipe of Madrid and the robust flavors of wine and love. The plazas were becoming more crowded. What began as a trickle after 9 o’clock had turned into a buzzing stream from all directions. But Lethe avoided the popular hangouts.

At the end of the Senora’s block, he noticed a crumbling wall he hadn’t seen before. The wall seemed out of place and presented an ugly contrast to the pretty boutique shops a couple feet away. As he came closer to the wall, he saw a little dirt trail that wrapped around it. He climbed the trail, ducking under some bushes and hoisting himself to the top.

Lethe liked exploring and tonight was no exception. Whereas some adolescents might back away from trespassing in a foreign city, Lethe went forward with feverish curiosity. Three and four story houses burrowed under massy branches and stood silent behind stucco walls. He glimpsed fancy driveways through wrought-iron gates but saw nothing more.

After walking up the hill for a while, Lethe sat down on the curb to smoke some more hashish. The houses behind the stucco wall now seemed to have a presence. He ignored the eyes in the darkness which were really lights on in the houses.

From another direction, a gaggle of voices became audible and Lethe hid his pipe in his pocket. Stepping away from the curb to see what was happening, he approached the voices until he was ten feet away. A gang of university students, all male, were gathered in a circle, telling stories. They had drinks in their hands and were smoking cigarettes under a glowing street lamp.

Lethe, the outsider, was touched by their genial spirits. The Spaniards seemed to have a unique and powerful bond to each other. Just by watching them, Lethe grew passionate and interested in their revels.