Lethe Bashar is on study abroad. He moves into an apartment with a sixty-five year old Senora. Within two weeks, he undergoes an extreme form of culture shock. Between quitting classes, falling in love with his Senora’s maid, smoking hashish, and meeting a group of native Spaniards, an innocent study abroad program turns to living dangerously.

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You might think that Lethe grieved over the news that he would have to leave the Senora’s apartment, but he didn’t grieve at all. Their relationship had become strained over the last couple weeks. Lethe continued to come home late on the weekends and it was still not clear whether the Senora heard him enter her apartment at night. Sometimes he stayed up nearly an hour afterward with the lights burning in his smoky room. Noises rattled from underneath his door. The sound of his chair moving back and forth on its wobbly legs and the grating of his mother’s credit card probably aroused some suspicion. A VISA card with silver lacquer shimmered, cutting into the night.

On these horrible nights, one part of him was drunk and hungry to commit small crimes. He didn’t care if she found out or not. The Spaniards had introduced him to a beautiful thing. And slowly the abundance of moments he was sharing with this substance gave him the sweet, solitary pleasure of a hobbyist absorbed in his craft. He loved cutting it, pressing it, and staring at it under the desk lamp.

The other side of him had a full memory of his interactions with the Senora. It seemed like they had shared a special bond together and he owed her respect. After all, the Senora brought Lethe out of his misery with her suggestion that he quit school. From the beginning, she passionately protected him and never denied him anything. If she was skeptical toward his recovery, she never showed it.

But the strain was there and it was hard to ignore, especially when Lethe was committing these petty crimes in the night.

On the last day, they exchanged gifts. Lethe had gone to the commercial center, el Corte Ingles, earlier in the afternoon. He wanted to buy the Senora a cordless phone; she’d complained so many times about tripping on the long wire that extended between the rooms. The idea to buy her a cordless phone was magnificent and he knew that whatever strain may have existed between them in those last couple months, the new telephone would erase everything.

But he didn’t expect to receive a gift from her. The Senora’s face was livelier that day, as if she had been outside getting some exercise. There was a flush of pink above her eyelids and her normally coarse expression blossomed into sudden happiness.

The color of her eyes remained the same, however, bluish green, like the glass in an aquarium. She handed him a long, flat box. “She bought me a tie,” he thought. But then, upon opening the box, he discovered it was a scarf. He ran his fingers over the gauzy fabric and lifted it to his face. Autumn-colored, the most beautiful scarf he’d ever seen.

The door opened abruptly and Donte appeared with his hemp purse hung around his shoulder.

“Are you leaving today?” Donte asked, interrupting their gift exchange.

“Yes, after dinner I’ll go.”

“Have you found a place to live?”

“I found a pensione in el Plaza del Sol. A small, one bedroom for under a thousand pesetas a night.”

“Plaza del Sol, that’s where all the parties are, right?”

“I guess so. Most hotels are in that district.”

“It’s a good place, he’ll like it there.” The Senora said.

“Well, don’t have too much fun,” Donte added, walking toward his bedroom.

The Senora let out a shriek. “Ah caramba, nino, you shouldn’t have!”

It was a generous gift, but he felt it was necessary. He felt he had to make up for something. Like he was in debt.

“Do you like it?”

“I love it. And now I can get rid of that wretched cord. I was so worried I was going to inadvertently strangle myself one of these days. But now you’ve bought me a cordless. How thoughtful of you, nino!”

She held the box in the air, turning each side and studying the glossy pictures. “Let’s set it up!”

The Senora seemed tired from cooking and cleaning, as if her obligations to these young men were wearing her down. Right when she took her seat for dinner, however, she grew lively again, and said a small prayer, which she never did. Lethe and Donte knew her to be an agnostic. But tonight she prayed.

“Dios, please take care of Lethe while he’s living here in Spain, not under this roof but protected in an apartment in plaza del Sol. Watch over him Lord, and keep him safe.”

They began eating. The bread was passed and Donte broke off the first piece. Lethe carefully ladled the vegetables onto his plate and offered some to the Senora.

“I assume you finished the Spanish Bible while you were here,” she remarked peremptorily.

Lethe leaned back in his chair, so as to see the Senora’s full figure against the curio cabinet. Food stuck between his teeth and he pretended he was chewing. “No,” he said. “I stopped reading the book.”

“You stopped reading?”

“I made it to the second volume, but then . . .”

“I know, I know,” she lowered her eyes on her soup. “Let me tell you how the story ends. So you will know the message behind it.”

“I thought you said there is no single message to the book, that everyone comes to it from a different place and learns something different as a result.”

“I did say that, nino. But don’t be smart. I want you to know the message that is important to me.”

Donte and Lethe put aside their food for the moment. Both craned their necks over the table and hung their heads in curiosity.

“Volume 2, Chapter 74. Don Quixote comes down with a fever and he’s lying in his bed at his home in la Mancha. All the characters are there who were there from the beginning, the priest, Carrasco and Master Nicolás. Don Quixote tells them, ‘I am in my right mind, now, clear-headed and free of the murky darkness of ignorance, brought upon me by my continual, bitter reading of those abominable books of chivalry.’”

“We think he is saved. We think he is better now.”

“But Cervantes will not concede to our wish. We all want to see Don Quixote better. We all want to see him sane. We want him to recover from his madness, his addictions, his fantasies. If he dies in a state of ignorance, then it means . . . nothing was learned from all of these violent episodes, from all the death along the way.”

“So does he die?”

Donte smirked, as if holding back a secret.

The Senora fixed her gaze on the balcony door. It was the first time Lethe had ever seen her confused.

“What’s wrong, Senora?” Lethe asked.

“Nothing nino, nothing.”

All three of them glanced at each other, pretending to know what was going on.

“I forget, nino. That’s all. I forget how the story ends.”

End of Part One

The Director called the next morning when Lethe was still in bed. The Senora was slicing vegetables in the kitchen, full of anxious vigor. “Si . . . si . . . un momento.”

Lethe crawled out of bed and came into the kitchen. He looked like a ball of melted wax; expression hadn’t seeped into his face yet. He took the phone from the Senora’s hand and pressed his ear against the garlic-smelling receiver. The Director’s gruff, commanding voice greeted him: “Good morning, Lethe.”

“Good morning, Director.”

“Sleeping in again?”

“I had a late night last night. Hanging out with the Spaniards, you know.”

“The Spanish don’t take partying lightly, do they?”

“No sir, not at all. But you’ll be glad to know that I’ve mastered the Spanish language.”

“Is that true?”

“I’m perfectly fluent thanks to my native friends.”

The sparkling conversation was beginning to wake Lethe up. The Senora handed him a glass of orange juice.

Lethe continued, “It’s because I left the Institute, I know it is.”

“Of course, your wise decision to leave the Institute advanced your learning. School is backwards, after all. Why should anyone have to attend class?”

Lethe hesitated, unable to translate the Director’s last couple sentences. “Did you hear from my new Senora?”

The Director’s mustache scratched against the receiver. With a muffled sigh, he said, “Okay then. That’s why I’m calling. Senora Raquel de la Tristeza cannot be your senora.”

“What? Why not?”

“She says it’s too late in the year for her to take you in.”

“But I thought you said you were going to help me find a senora?”

“I said I would try . . .”

“You said she owed you a favor–”

“Yes, but that was many years ago and now it seems like she’s forgotten.”

The Senora’s kitchen suddenly became hot. The bubbling pots on the stove produced an unbearable, seething humidity; and the Senora’s flighty housekeeper, Catalin, kept rushing through the center of the room with her thousand and one tasks.

“I’m sorry Lethe, I tried.”

Lethe was sweating; he had to take a shower.

“Don’t forget what we talked about.”

“I’ve already forgotten.”

“You have to leave the Senora’s apartment by tomorrow.”

After hanging up the phone, Lethe ran into his bedroom. The tiny, besmirched room with the wrought-iron balcony and the stupid poster of the clown on the wall was his. The room felt more his own than the sanitized, anonymous bedroom he’d grown up in.

He fell down to his knees and began crying. He never cried, not even when he was trying to kill himself. It was all because of his new Senora. She inspired these tears in him, a woman he would never meet, a woman he would never know. He would never know if she looked the way he imagined her to look, with nut-brown skin, a buxom chest and flowing black hair that covered her shoulders and back. The visions came to a halt before him. She was supposed to be young and beautiful. She was supposed to coddle him and have sex with him. She was supposed to cook for him. Now what was he going to do?

He could call Ricky or Alejandro and ask if he could sleep over at one of their apartments. But that might jeopardize his friendship with them. He didn’t want to ask too many favors.

Standing on his balcony, he lit a cigarette and stared down into the alleyway where the old men sat in the cool shadows protected from the heat. This was the last time he would see those old men lingering there, and it was also the last time he would look across the street to the apartment building with colorful bricks that faced his own. The flower-filled patios, the uniformed maids working in the windows, the junior piano player; he would miss life here.

Oh, goddamnit, it was good to be leaving this place. He loved the little ledge but he also despised himself for sucking up the Senora’s last remaining spirit with his needy, greedy habits. Who was he kidding? The old Senora was no more his mother than the new Senora was his sex-goddess. He got carried away with his fantasies and now all he wanted was a room of his own where he could conduct his business of reading and writing, and maybe socializing on the weekends, perhaps having visitors during the week days, but only on occasion. He remembered Veronica from the International Institute and then searched for her number. It was hiding somewhere among the school books he never opened.

His thoughts were racing as he puffed his cigarette to the very end. It was already noon. He had to look for a place to live. The Senora once told him about the pensiones in el Plaza del Sol, a district of shops, restaurants, movie theaters, hotels and apartments for rent. Quickly, he rushed to the bathroom and drenched his face in hot water–but he did not take another shower. There was no time. He had to find a place to live. He was being kicked out of the Senora’s apartment by tomorrow.

When Lethe arrived back at the Senora’s apartment it was 2:30 in the morning. The residential street resembled nothing like the rest of Madrid on a Friday night. Whereas other sections of Madrid were clamorously alive, the Senora’s street went to bed before twelve o’clock.

The irritable doorman in blue overalls was standing in the corridor. “Why do you come home so late?” He pierced Lethe with one of his angry smirks. “Don’t you know the Senora’s sound asleep? You’re going to wake up my building. Estupido!”

Lethe shook his head and passed the angry doorman’s first floor apartment. He quietly climbed the stairs.

At the Senora’s door, he turned the brass knob and leaned his weight forward just as a thief would before breaking into some old rich lady’s apartment. The nick knacks and antique book shelves, the embroidered furniture and wall-hangings projected an ambient aura, a ghostliness over the room. The Senora’s presence lodged inside these shrunken objects; she was watching him from their various locations.

If only he could be quiet . . . Every wooden beam in the apartment creaked, the door knobs whined, and a single light illuminated the whole floor. He was afraid to make any noise, and he tried to suppress his fears, but it was like being in the classroom of the International Institute. He couldn’t help himself.

He had to wash his face. Every night he washed his face.

The faucet stayed on for an extra five minutes. He was drunk. He loved the feeling of water, the inexplicable wetness of water, the incessant renewal of the ritual. He bathed in the sink, soaking his eyelashes, running the soap wildly over his neck. The shower beckoned him, but he told it “no”. It was too late for a shower. A shower would definitely wake up the Senora.

He clamored down the narrow hallway and stumbled into his bedroom. His breathing was loud. His footsteps were shameful. The wooden beams creaked and cawed underneath him, telling rascally jokes; the springs under his bed squeaked obnoxiously like a thousand mice.

He moved to his desk, an old desk from a children’s library, the Senora once told him. Out of his disheveled jacket, he removed the gift that Ricky had given him tonight and he held it in his hand for a long time. Then he unfolded the paper corner by corner.

Startled by a random noise in the street, he threw a nervous glance to the door. He glimpsed the Senora standing there. But he was only dreaming.

Once he could relax, it was beautiful, the light streaming from the sky at this hour. He threw his face back into the moonlight coming from the balcony. He looked out of his room up-side-down, with all the blood rushing to the crown of his head and the starry sky falling just below his chin.

The happiest he’d ever been in his life was when he was eleven years old. His parents sent him to an arts camp in Michigan for the summer. He went there every year after his tenth birthday, but this was the first year living some place besides home. He’d been at the camp for two weeks and this morning he was walking to the bookstore, on the other side of camp, the ‘light side’ they called it, where the girls’ division was located. On his little escape from the boys’ side, he was enjoying the freedom of being ten and a half.

Big maple trees lined the campus roads and tall concrete buildings rose up everywhere. Mr. Love said campers could expect a tornado soon, and these buildings supposedly protected the campers. The basements were sturdy and secure, but Lethe hadn’t seen the insides yet. As he moved away from the buildings and stretched his gaze to the center of campus, the people looked like dots on the horizon.

He came to an old-fashioned lamppost. The campus had these lampposts scattered throughout. He stood by the lamppost in a sort of dazed dreaminess. He turned 180 degrees and surveyed the woodsy area and the nature trails winding off toward the auditoriums.

As he was moving, everything slowed down and a ray of sunlight broke out from a cluster of leaves, almost blinding him.

With his mother’s VISA, he pushed together a second pile. Then he peeled off his smoky shirt and laid in bed. His heart was beating; he could hear it. He looked up at the ceiling and thought, “I can’t stay here any longer.”

On Friday night Lethe met his Spanish friends at the end of the cul de sac. All the group was there, Carlos, Ricky, Javier, Damien and the others; but they seemed to be waiting for Lethe to arrive so they could take him off somewhere.

Javier, the fat-cheeked, jovial Spaniard, approached Lethe with open arms and ushered him toward the group . . . “My parents are gone for the weekend,” he said. “We’re celebrating at their condo. Will you come?”

Anxiously Lethe crawled into the back of Javier’s small European car and wedged himself between two new friends. The car peeled around the circular drive, gained a steady momentum on a residential street and then plunged into the night traffic.

With the windows down, the wind kept blowing into Lethe’s face and making his eyes water. Loud Spanish music, a mix of Samba, techno and rap trumpeted behind their heads. Soon everyone was talking over everyone else, sharing their favorite music styles and bands. By no means was Javier an experienced driver. He jolted the car nearly a dozen times in a seven mile radius. The five of them flew off every road bump and sunk into every dip, which further provoked their frenzied excitement. Cruising Madrid with a bunch of Spaniards, what could be better than this, what could be more exhilarating? At last Lethe seemed to have found his niche.

Javier’s family must be loaded, because the building was New York City-modern, made of concrete and glass. There was no doorman in the lobby–unusual for upper-class residences in Madrid. Polished stainless steel elevators took them up to the 24th floor and Javier opened the door to a spacious apartment with an eat-in kitchen and an open view of the city. No furniture, however; just an empty condo.

The Spaniards funneled into the loft-like apartment with their whiskey bottles and Coca Cola, their cigarettes dangling from their mouths. They kept their jackets on, surveying the stark environment. Then they dispersed into the various corners of the condo and struck up conversations. Lethe expected to see some women trickle in, but Javier informed him later that his parents wouldn’t allow co-ed parties in their “espacio vivo”.

It seemed strange that women were restricted from this party because the next thing that Lethe noticed was cocaine on the granite kitchen table. The Spaniards gaily incorporated the white powder into their celebration. They did not hide it from the rest of the group or abuse the drug in private. Rather they treated it as a novelty, a mere toy, a party favor.

The fervid animation among the Spaniards increased Lethe’s curiosity. They hunched like merry pranksters around the guy in the center who separated the substance into neat, manageable piles for his friends.

Coke was taboo where Lethe came from, but here it seemed somewhat acceptable, moderately cool. So long as everyone was enjoying it, the drug didn’t arouse suspicion or incite hostility. Lethe watched Ricky, the master of ceremonies, as he expertly snorted the first bump, then casually swiped his nose clean and stepped away from the table. Carlos picked up the rolled Euro after him.

Later that evening Lethe stopped Ricky in the hallway and asked, “You wouldn’t be able to get any more of that would you?”

“Sure,” Ricky said. “Take this–” He handed Lethe a piece of folded-up paper.

“Whenever you want some more just ask.”

They sat at the table waiting for Lethe to arrive. The meal was Spanish rice and beans; a quick meal; the Senora was tired of cooking for absent people. Donte told a story about his classmates while the Senora drank from her glass of wine. Once she enjoyed listening to Donte speak his pretty fluent sentences but now they grated on her aged ears and the more embellishment he gave to the Spanish language the less she cared to listen to him. His head had an oily sheen that reminded her of a slippery eel. She dismissed these thoughts because they were irrelevant.

“Are we eating before Lethe arrives?” Donte asked innocently.

But the Senora was inwardly possessed and thinking of something far more important than when was the proper time to eat. Donte lifted his delicate shoulders and looked into the mirror to adjust his ball of hair.

Back at the International Institute, the Director pounded his hairy knuckles on the desk in front of him. He did this to make his point heard. He had several points and all of them he stated on the phone when he talked to Lethe earlier. His first point was that Lethe should return home immediately (pound).

His second point was that Lethe should see a psychiatrist (pound, pound).

These were issues that needed to be addressed by a professional (pound, pound, pound).

“I’m seeing a professional,” Lethe interjected. “I already have a psychiatrist. You can’t send me home for that.”

And the third? The stupid boy made him forget his third point.

Lethe angled for the Director’s sympathy by bellowing a defenseless cry. These were the emotional reactions he’d been practicing while walking to the International Institute. It was not beneath Lethe to prepare for a big moment.

“I can’t go back to living at home, my parents are getting a divorce and they’ll want to drag me into the whole sad affair. I beg you Director allow me to stay here in Spain. Let me live with the Senora. She’s my only hope.”

“I can’t let you live with her, it’s against the rules. I’ve told you that already. But I may be able to find you another senora.”

“Another senora?” Lethe asked naively.

“If you’re dead set on staying here in Spain,” the Director conceded, “then maybe we can arrange something with a woman I know.”

All the tortured sadness drained from Lethe’s face and he jumped out of his chair to embrace the Director.

“You don’t have to hug me. She’s an old acquaintance of mine and she owes me a favor.”

“I can’t wait to meet her.”

“Slow down, she’s not your Senora yet. We have to agree on a price.”

Linda tapped on the glass window to her husband’s office and pointed to her watch.

“Women can be so damn impatient sometimes,” the Director remarked. “I better get going.”

When Lethe returned to the Senora’s apartment, Donte had on his usual look of perplexed happiness. The balcony door was open and the curtains blew forward and back in the evening breeze. Lethe pushed his cigarettes down to the end of the table and took a seat.

“So how many more days will you be living with us?” Donte asked.

“You act like I’m some sort of a burden–”

“No, not at all. I just wanted to know when I can move my things into the room with the balcony.”

The Senora brought Lethe’s food to the table. The Spanish rice had been reheated and the pan was caked on the sides with burnt beans.

“It could be two days or ten days. I’m not sure. The Director is looking for another senora for me.”

“Another senora?” Donte said incredulously.

“In a rare change of heart, the Director has become sympathetic to my cause.”

The Senora held her cigarette in front of her face. Smoke poured out of her nostrils in small increments.

“So what’s your new Senora like?” Donte probed.

“All I know is that she’s a single mother with two kids. I may have to help out with the kids but I don’t mind.”

“You? Take care of children?” Donte laughed satirically.

“I wouldn’t be that bad, would I?”

The Senora kept silent and allowed her boarders to speak their inanities. Who knew whether Lethe would find a new senora or not; it was none of her business. She needed to focus on the apartment, the cleaning and the cooking. When he was gone, there would be more work to be done. She stood up from the table and carried the dishes to the sink. Donte and Lethe continued talking in a dreamy, hypothetical manner.

Lethe lie in bed that night, imagining his new senora. She was young and strong, but old enough to be his mother, with thick, black Spanish hair and muscular arms and shoulders. She had a buxom chest and strong hands. Her exact features dissolved and morphed into a number of different faces he had seen before in the streets of Madrid. She had some resemblance to the Senora’s maid, Catalin, but a more experienced, darkly erotic personality. These images of the mysterious senora tossed in his mind until the early hours of the morning when he work up confused and alarmed by his dreams.

The Director of the study abroad program had a shiny bald pate with a fluff of thin, gray hair around the back of his head. He smiled generously and spread his arms to welcome you into his office. Some of the younger women (his female students) stood back in terror, but the Director reassured them it was only his “personalidad espanol” coming out. When in his native land, he felt a change in himself, a return to his natural way of being.

The female students at Cranely College may have feared an older man’s release from his life-long inhibitions but he was not making advances toward them; he was merely showing them how passionate one can be about life. He was encouraging them to discover Madrid and to taste the Spanish culture.

“Pero, no habla engles.”

“But don’t speak English” he warned them. One could be deported for such a blatant disregard of the rules; Cranely College prided itself as the Harvard of foreign exchange programs and many students from the Ivy League choose Cranely College in Spain for its rigor and strong reputation.

The Director was not merely an enforcer of the rules; he was also a doting husband who gave his wife the position of secretary in the study abroad office. The Director was a family man. He had brought his family to Madrid thanks to the benevolence an institution, that being Cranely College, where he taught Spanish year round except when he took these trips to Spain. In short, the Director tapped the study abroad fund to pay for his wife and kids’ vacation.

He had vague plans to steal the money when he was only a professor in the Spanish Department. But now that Linda was helping in the office, he hardly thought of it as “stealing”. After all he was getting old and needed his youthful wife to keep him company. He loved her creamy legs, her outmoded, 50’s style skirts and her horrible pink lipstick.

Their offices were on the top floor of the International Institute. Linda sat at the secretary desk and played the designated role, shuffling papers, making appointments and organizing things. They worked in their separate rooms but it was futile to hide their affection for each other; Vidal and Linda were overtly sexual beings and had produced four bumptious children in a very short time. Students who came into the office to sign papers or to speak to the Director found their public displays of affection revolting.

At the height of Lethe’s ecstasy over meeting the group of Spaniards, he received a phone call from the Director. Lethe was not in his bedroom inhaling endless cigarettes and staring over the balcony in despair, but instead talking to the Senora in what he believed to be lucid, intelligent speech about his recent transformation. “And now I can speak Spanish fluently,” he blurted out a rapid string of vowels attempting to prove his point.

“Momento, momento.” the Senora stopped him so she could answer the phone.

Lethe lit a cigarette and looked at the Senora with wild, suspicious eyes. Then she handed him the phone.

“Ola.” Lethe muttered, losing his interest in the Spanish language.

“Hello, Lethe. You haven’t forgotten me I hope.”

“No sir, of course not. How’s life?”

“Life is fine, just fine. Are you enjoying your stay?”

“Yes sir, rather nice here in the Senora’s apartment.”

“I’m sure it is, I’m sure it is. I hear from your teachers that you have been taking it easy these days. You haven’t been to class in eight weeks, Lethe. What’s going on?”

“I’m bored.”

“You’re bored.”

“Yes, my classes are too easy for me. I wanted to really immerse myself in the Spanish culture.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

“I’m quitting school and I’ve joined a band of brothers, a group of Spaniards who want to be my friends.”

“How precocious of you Lethe, but don’t you think it would be better to go home, back to where you’re from. Is it Chicago?”

“No, I don’t live in Chicago any more.”

“Where do you live then?”

“I live at college in upstate New York. If I had to leave Spain, I’d go back there. But I don’t see any reason why I’d have to leave. I’m perfectly happy here and the Senora says . . .”

“It’s not up to your Senora. The rules say–and I’m reading off the page of the handbook right here in front of me–No student should be allowed to stay with his host family if he is not enrolled in classes at the International Institute. “

“But I hate the International Institute. I really dread it. I can’t go there anymore, I can’t.”

The pungent smell of the greasy chorizo rose into Lethe’s nostrils. The Senora was preparing sausage for tonight’s meal.

“You need to come to my office right away.” The Director continued.

“Where is your office?”

“The International Institute of course.”

Lethe sighed and held out the phone to the Senora as if they were done. For another minute, the Senora nodded her head and spoke to the Director in Spanish. Lethe tried to make out their words, but the Senora was speaking too fast.

“He wants me to leave, doesn’t he?” Lethe asked.

She reached for her cigarettes and an ashtray nearby. “Don’t worry nino I’m not going to kick you out.”

Lethe appeared much happier than Senorita Lorenzo recalled. The last time she saw him in her office, he was insecure and tense. There was also some awkwardness between them that caused her to consider finding him a new therapist.

Today Lethe was wearing brand new clothes and a confident grin. What caught the psychiatrist off guard was when he sat down next to her and immediately reached for her hand, as if to kiss it.

She recoiled from her patient while forcing a smile. “Is everything okay, Lethe?”

“Things couldn’t be better. I’ve met some new friends . . .”

The psychiatrist covered up her nervousness with, “Oh, I’m so happy for you. That’s wonderful.”

“Do you mind if I have a glass of your wine?” He asked boldly.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.” Then she looked at the half-empty bottle and said, “Fine, go ahead, but don’t drink too much.” She came to the park about twenty minutes ago and had been sitting here eating goat cheese on crackers before Lethe arrived.

Lethe drank at his psychiatrist’s approval. He loved the fact that she was so young and vibrant. “I think I got some of your lipstick on my mouth,” he said, chuckling to himself.

Senorita Lorenzo looked embarrassed. “Give me that,” she said, “You shouldn’t be drinking wine during the middle of the day. Now tell me about your new friends.”

“I was outside last Friday night taking one of my walks and lo and behold I met a group of Spaniards my age.” He reached for the wine glass again, but she held it away from him. Their bodies touched on the bench and the psychiatrist was starting to become visibly nervous. Lethe grew in confidence and felt like maybe his doctor was attracted to him.

Three pigeons plopped into the fountain across from their bench. Wings flapped merrily against the surface of the water. A busload of children was letting out by the entrance to the park.

“I don’t know what it is,” Lethe said, “But I’ve changed my perception of things.”

“How so?” The Senorita arched her shoulders and placed her hands on her lap.

“Well, for example, I don’t need to see a dermatologist anymore. You can cancel the appointment.”

“I can?” She’d never made an appointment in the first place.

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy, Senorita. But when I look in the mirror, my face looks fine. I don’t see any acne anymore.”

The psychiatrist smiled. Maybe he was getting better.

“You still need to find a job, don’t you? Otherwise your father won’t send your monthly allowance.”

“I found a job. My Spanish friends want me to help them run their mini bar at a local discotheque.”

The psychiatrist responded with a look of skepticism. “Do you think you’re father will go along with that?”

“You’re not going to tell him anything, right?”

“But that wasn’t the deal. The deal was, remember, that I would tell your father everything. I made this very clear at the beginning of our sessions.”

Lethe stared at his psychiatrist in juvenile irritation. Senorita Lorenzo cast a glance across the park and noticed one of her colleagues. Immediately she scooted away from Lethe and covered her legs. The colleague then looked in her direction and waved. She waved back.

“Who’s that?” Lethe asked.

“Just someone I know I from the clinic,” she said, watching the man disappear behind the parade of school children.

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.

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.