City of Sorrows by S.L. Nadathur

Author:S.L. Nadathur
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: indian culture, outcasts, outsiders, mahatma gandhi, spanish culture, multicultural literature, latino literature, novels set in seville, novels set in spain, spanish gypsies, spanish gypsy culture
Publisher: S.L. Nadathur

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Diego

Diego stole a glance at the man keeping pace beside him. What strange affinity had drawn him to this foreigner? Identity? Compassion? With his dark complexion and sharp features, the man did look like one of them. But he wore foreign clothes, and spoke English with an accent neither British nor American. Diego had learned fairly good English through his years on the streets, but this man spoke differently, with an unfamiliar lilt. No, he determined, they definitely did not share a common identity.

Was it compassion, then? Maybe. The man was all alone. Diego pondered this. The thought of being alone was incomprehensible to him. No matter how deep a Gypsy’s pain, he would never be cursed with the sadness of solitude. A cup of coffee seemed the appropriate gesture. What harm could come of that?

Diego yanked open the door to a bar that was unfamiliar to him. The sound of raucous laughter bounced off the walls, and he noticed that a few of the patrons had turned around in their chairs. He excused himself and headed toward the bathroom.

Opening the tap, he splashed cold water on his face and washed the dried blood from his hair. With the edge of his shirt, he wiped his face dry. Then he looked at himself in the mirror.

His thick hair provided sufficient cover for the wound on his forehead and he had washed off most of the blood. Only his red-stained shirt could give him away for what he truly was.

Diego pushed open the bathroom door and joined Rajiv at a table near the bar. He slipped off his jacket. Then, motioning to the next waiter that passed by, he ordered two cups of coffee.

The waiter glanced his way, but did not acknowledge the order.

A group of four men, Madrileños by their accents, sat down at the adjoining table. They ordered a round of beers from the same server, and within minutes, the waiter returned with four glasses of Cruzcampo and placed them on the neighboring table. His tray now empty, he headed back toward the bar.

“Oye.” Diego raised his hand to call the waiter. Still willing to believe he had not been intentionally snubbed, he would ask, politely, why they had not yet been served their coffee.

Before he had the chance, Rajiv called out, “Perdóneme, ¿Qué pasa con nosotros café?”

Diego cringed. Rajiv’s grammatically incorrect Spanish sounded unintentionally rude.

The waiter halted in mid-stride. An arrogant look of defiance soured his face.

“¿Qué pasa?” the waiter sneered. “You Gypsies can’t even speak Spanish anymore?”

A man seated at the table beside them looked up from his beer.

Diego met the man’s eyes, and then returned his gaze to the waiter. “He’s not a Gypsy.”

The waiter took one step back. But he did not let go of the menace in his eyes. He stared at Diego, and then shifted his gaze to Diego’s bloodstained shirt.

“Aquí no se sirven ni gitanos ni moros,” the waiter said, his voice low, threatening. He spat out the words “gitanos” and “moros” from the left side of his mouth.

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