Spanish Lessons by Derek Lambert

Author:Derek Lambert [Derek Lambert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ebury Publishing
Published: 2006-07-06T04:00:00+00:00

Breakfast. Pitchers of orange cordial, a buffet with fried eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, and baked beans on offer; toast, butter, and plum jam; urns of scalding tea, and sachets of instant coffee, sugar, and sweeteners.

I have a weakness for hotel breakfasts and helped myself to everything from the buffet. Diane took one egg and a slice of bacon.

We were joined at the plastic-topped table by a middle-aged American couple from the Midwest. He owned an agricultural machinery factory and they were spending the first three months of his retirement touring Europe. They had visited Britain and France, with Italy and Greece lying in wait, but so far Spain got their vote.

“The people are so friendly,” said Mary, small and quick with blue-rinse watch-spring curls.

“Great golf,” said her husband, Charlie, lanky with a wise face, not much hair, and cornflower-blue eyes.

“Charlie’s playing golf this morning,” Mary said. “I’m doing aerobics on the beach. Do you play golf?” she asked me, and when I shook my head: “So why don’t you both join me on the beach?”

Ever the party pooper, I shook my head.

Diane regarded me suspiciously. “So what are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m going dancing,” I said. “You have a workout.”

I checked out the two of them on the beach, dutifully following the commands of a blond Amazonian in a red track suit—Diane seemed to be one grunt behind pensioners twice her age—bought a newspaper, and headed for a seafront café that staged ballroom dancing from ten A.M. onward.

I didn’t intend to dance, just to make notes for a possible magazine feature. From the café I could see families with children staking claims on the beach beneath umbrellas with lethal spikes. A few women were topless, white breasts aimed at the sun.

I ordered a coffee and watched an elderly couple fox-trotting to the accompaniment of an electric organ played by a bored musician with extravagant sideburns. They looked hypnotically absorbed with each other, transported back to the soft-shoe rhythms of their youth.

The organist started to play a tango, “Jealousy” “Would you like to dance?” I looked up from my newspaper. A tall dark-haired woman in her forties with an arched back, wearing a blue polka-dot dress, smiled at me nervously.

“I’m sorry—”

“Please.” She leaned forward and whispered: “It’s a bet.” I gathered from her accent that she was from Birmingham in the Midlands of England.

“What sort of a bet?” I asked.

“That I wouldn’t have the nerve to ask you and even if I did you’d refuse. You won’t, will you?”

“How much did you bet?” I had never been much of a dancer—I was always apprehensive about going backward—but I did enjoy the occasional wager.

“A hundred pesetas,” she said. “Not much, I know, but—”

“Why me?”—fishing for a compliment.

“Well, you are the only man sitting by himself.”

She held out a slim hand heavy with rings and madness overtook me. I had never been able to master a basic quickstep let alone a tango, but the age of chivalry was not dead. I stood and followed her onto the floor.

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