|
|
- 14 Aug.
Sevilla
-
- Dearest,
-
- This place is a dump and I'm trying to move on as
quickly as possible but I need to pause and write you
anyway. I'm sitting with my feet up on the balcony
railing and all the old women across the way are peeking
at me from behind the blinds and probably clicking their
tongues in disapproval. One doesn't put one's feet up on
the balcony railing. "Tch! That crazy American girl!
Loca! Doesn't she know about the heat?"
-
- Ah yes, the heat. It's goddamnawful sweltering here -
maybe 95 degrees and humid too. There's a river running
through the middle of the city - thick slow water, green.
All I can think of when I look at it is malaria, but
there are actually kids who swim in it. All the sensible
people have left the city for breezier climes. August is
vacation month. About half of everything is closed and no
one is around - except the hordes of tourists, and the
old women across the way.
-
- I didn't write you to talk about Sevilla - not much
else to say about it except that there's a fine
amphitheatre, bright, many arches, harmonious uplift, and
in it they kill bulls for fun and then write about the
killing in the arts section of the newspaper. There are
some parks and remnants of Moorish castles and mosques -
the Christians came along, cleaned out the Moors, and
carved up everything so the Virgin Marys would fit:
presto! New churches. Long live love and charity! The
cathedral is more like it - gloomy and utterly bereft of
concern for the human scale. I have met no one here who
interests me with the possible exception of a lad who was
sitting on the edge of the river quai at 2 in the
morning, singing. He explained it was a seguidillas (sp?)
which is some sort of flamenco death lament, at which
point I asked if the tourist commission paid him to sit
on the quai and sing. We had a fine but brief
conversation which ended in him telling me to go back to
my American whorehouse. Ah, the friendly natives!
-
- Let's talk about someone more interesting. Yes, on to
the point. As you have by now divined, I departed from
Northern Africa some time ago. I did so by boat, from
Tangier - an even more wretched place than this one, if
you can imagine it - and landed at Algeciras, which was
not picturesque, but fascinating, a real crossroads -
many ferries to Morocco coming and going. I decided to
hang out for a few days and maybe see about a job. I
guess it was my second night that I found myself in a bar
gorging myself on olives (free!), nursing a manzanilla,
and watching a man talking on the telephone. He was
speaking in English which is what caught my attention. An
American! But he didn't look American. Skin like a latte
and sleek black hair: the Moroccan serving boy of our
dreams.
-
- When he got off the phone I made sure he came over
and sat with me for a while - I was just curious, honest,
but listen - don't roll your eyes -- it turned out to be
the most amazing night. First, he's from near Oxford of
all places - on his way to Tangier to see relatives.
Second, we had about six hours of conversation. It was
instant understanding. Immediately we began talking about
death (because of Oxford --> Val) and the first thing
he said was there's a strange attraction to it we all
feel - attraction and repulsion, an obsession. I told him
everything I had gone through and how I felt I was stuck
in exactly that - an obsession. And about religion and
how I could see its failure, which he agreed with. He
told me about the death of his mother (car crash) and how
he's learned to cope with it. Something about talking to
him - he was one of those people who really listens - it
was probably the most fulfilling conversation I've had in
months. When he talked, he spoke very gently, but with
some kind of deep power. I felt like he was totally at
peace and you know how much I've been after that. Not
unemotional but beyond emotion, or maybe pure emotion
uncomplicated by misgivings and anxiety. We talked about
everything, and then it was dawn and the bar was shutting
so we left. He caught a boat the next day and I didn't
want to stay in Algeciras after that. I have his number
and address - I am going to write him just after I finish
with you and have a drink of water. Talking with him was
like having the weight lifted away and I want that back,
I want to learn what it is and foster it inside me so I
can end this wretched existence - death shadowing me
everywhere like in an old spy movie. Those poor goddamn
bulls. His name is Aaron.
-
- I see I'm rattling on -
- Still your Purity
|
