Notes from an Ibiza Journal, 1963

 

By Bernard Weiner

Copyright 1963 by the author

 

[Note: This long short story, or short novella, is the only major literary piece of mine that has never been professionally published. I can invent all sorts of practical reasons for why editors turned it down, but it's also possible that I'm blind to its major flaws because of my emotional connections to the tale and the characters in it. Anyway, here 'tis.]

 

 

 

The train shivered as it rounded a curve; Joyce's head slid onto my

shoulder, her hair brushing my cheek. I looked at her body curled  next to

me and smiled, remembering how we mutually had picked each other up in that

Russell Square student hostel. Now we were separating -- after London,

Paris, Pamplona. I knew Joyce felt strange about it; I did. Still, we both

wanted it this way: We were students, we wanted to see more of the world.

 

As we approached Zaragoza, about 3 a.m., Joyce and I went out into the

corridor at the end of the car to say our goodbyes. I told her how much I

had enjoyed being with her this past month, and told her to look me up if

and when she and her friends ever made it to Ibiza; I said I'd leave my

address at the tourist office. The train pulled into Zaragoza, I kissed her

goodbye, she cried, the train pulled out, I went back to my seat, I fell

asleep.

 

*****

 

I located my wooden deck chair, parked my bag and portable typewriter, and

went to survey the boat and its temporary inhabitants. I had expected to

hear many American accents on the boat, for the island was supposed to be

peppered with my countrymen, but there were only Germans, more Germans, some

French, a few Spaniards, fewer Brits, and more Germans: ugly Americans all.

I went back to the top-deck to watch our night-exit from the beautifully-lit

Barcelona harbor.  

 

She was dressed in black slacks and a black shirt, short and trim,

struggling with a large blue wooden box. She set her bags and the box on a

bench, then went over to the rail and watched our slide into the

Mediterranean. I stood looking at her for some minutes before venturing

over.

 

"Vous etes francaise?" I asked.

 

"No, I am not," she replied curtly in accented English. "But I work and

study in Paris."

 

"Ah, you speak English," I said perceptively.

 

"A little."

 

"You're going to Ibiza?" I asked, mentally kicking myself for another stupid

question: The boat's name was Ciudad de Ibiza and it stopped only there.

 

"Yes."

 

"I don't know much about the island," I said, "other than what little my

friends told me. Is it expensive there?"

 

"It is arriving more expensive from all the time," she said. "This is my

fourth summer there -- there are many tourists now."

 

There was a long silence. The lights on the hills of Barcelona grew more

faint. 

 

"How about cheap places to stay?" I asked. "I'm kind of broke."

 

"The hotels and pensions are expensive for me now -- and there are many

tourists," she answered, pausing for a moment, thinking. "I cannot work. I

will try inland this year and see if I can arrive at something more 'cheap',

and quiet."

 

I paused. "Listen,"  I said, "would you mind if I went with you when you go

inland. I'd sort of like to get away from the tourist areas too, and--"

 

"I do not think that is a good idea," she interrupted coldly, turning away

from me.

 

"No, I didn't mean that I wanted-- I meant may I go around with you when

you're looking for these cheap places?"

 

She thought for a moment. "Yes, I suppose it would be 'okay'," she said,

with just a hint of a grin.

 

We stared out at the water, the full Mediterranean moon tipping the waves

with flakes of fluorescent foam.

 

Later, she suggested that it might be better if she went alone into the

interior to inquire about cheap rooms, since the peasants there might be

scared off by too many foreigners all at once. I didn't think two was too

many, but my aversion to arguing kicked in and I just nodded my assent.

 

Eva was German, 25, born in Munich. She was a painter, and the large blue

box contained her materials. She told me she was working on frescoes in

Paris, but did other kinds of painting also, in addition to work on silk and

ceramics. I told her my vocation and she seemed pleased.

 

She was not pretty. Her face resembled that of a neglected bird, and her

short, cropped hair only accented her stark features. She was not ugly

either. The first impression I can remember is that of Piaf, a frail, tough

sparrow banged about by life. Eva could handle herself, of that much I was

sure.

 

She said she'd been invited  by a member of the ship's crew down to his

cabin for some cheese and wine. I thought about that after she left, and

even though it didn't make any sense, I felt a bit concerned and anxious

about her. 

 

Several hours later, as I was wandering the deck, I spotted her behind some

rigging, her face cupped in her hands, staring out at the water. I

considered going over to ask if everything was all right, but decided

against it. I watched her like that for about ten minutes. She didn't move;

I left.  

 

I slept on the deck that night, using my portable typewriter as a pillow.

When I awoke in the morning, with my ear frozen asleep where it had been

smashed by the edge of the typewriter case, Eva was sleeping several feet

from me.

 

We had coffee in the ship's bar, our big splurge, while we drew closer to

Ibiza. We didn't talk much that morning, just rested in those soft

comfortable chairs, both of us dead from too much travel and not enough

sleep.

 

Ibiza is but a dot on the map, a pin-prick in the Mediterranean universe. A

bit later than Majorca, it had been "discovered" by European artists, and

the yachting set, some five or so years before, and now had become a Place

to Go: great light, lovely, isolated, still cheap in places. As the ship

passed along the coast, circling in towards Ibiza harbor, the island

appeared much bigger and more mountainous than I had imagined.

 

As we steamed into the wide channel, the sun-starched houses of the Old City

rose in a wonderfully-confused white-and-shadow pattern above the sea,

pointing toward the fort and church high above. The boat drew nearer the

docking area, and we could make out hundreds of people lining the side of

the wharf, waving. The hotel buses were parked, porters anxiously

anticipating their tips, cafe waiters wiping their tables and glasses in

readiness -- the ship was in.

 

I helped Eva with her bags and box and grabbed a table at the dock cafe.

Since we had agreed that I was to stay in Ibiza that night and meet her in

Santa Eulalia the next day, she scurried off to locate a room for me at a

third-class pension she knew of. She came back with the word that there were

almost no vacancies to be had anywhere, but she was able to hold a

double-room for me at the pension if I wanted it; it would be 40 pesetas. It

was more than I had wanted to pay for a night's lodging, and what the hell

did I need a double-room for? But I was too tired to go searching elsewhere.

 

I helped Eva carry her belongings to the cafe from where the inland bus

departed, then walked back, picked up my stuff from the little baggage shack

on the dock, moved into my room, changed into a bathing suit, caught the

next boat to Talamanca beach, stayed there for several hours, came back

burnt, and sank into the most glorious sleep my tired cells could imagine.

 

--------

 

I arrived in Santa Eulalia a bit earlier than we had arranged to meet. I

ordered a horchata at a cafe, then left my bags and walked around the town

and down to the beach. This was German and English tourist territory and,

though I really didn't know  why I had come to Ibiza, I was certain it

wasn't for that. I hurried back to the plaza and sat underneath the

pink-blossoming trees waiting for Eva to arrive.

 

She had changed her slacks -- these were tan -- and was wearing a wide straw

hat. She glanced over to the cafe where I was supposed to meet her, and

seemed upset not to find me there. I yelled out.

 

Her eyes lit up. "Ah, so you are here after all," she said, grabbing the

hand I offerred. "Come, we shall get something to drink."

 

We sat outside the cafe where I had left my bags and, in true Spanish style,

exchanged meaningless chit-chat for many minutes while we drank. Suddenly,

with a strange look, she said: "I find a place." I didn't ask for more

information, since I knew she would tell me anyway.

 

"I know you will not like it," she said, watching for my reaction.

 

"What makes you say that?" I asked, playing my part.

 

"It is a very old house -- it has at least 400 years, they say." I nodded.

"There is no electricity." I nodded. "And no toilet." I nodded. "And no beds

and very few furniture." I nodded. "And water must be drawn with a rope and

bucket from a cisterno." I nodded. "There are pigs and goats all  around." I

nodded. "There are many flies."

 

------

 

As we rode in the taxi (in honor of the occasion), she told me that the

house was located in an area called Balafi in the pueblo of San Lorenzo,

which, it turned out, consisted of two tiendas, a taberna and some scattered

farm houses. She had rented half the house,  and thought I could probably

get the other half for the same price, about 25 cents per day.

 

We gave the driver a 100-peseta note and he wished us well. "It's up there,"

she said proudly, pointing to a high stone tower far off the road. On the

tower, painted with whitewash, was a lopsided cross. I put my bag on

my head, Eva carried my typewriter, and, like a truncated desert caravan,

we headed up the twisting, rocky path to the house next to the tower.

 

Those first few nights, I slept in a hammock we rigged up in the main room

downstairs; Eva slept on some sheepskins in her room above. About my third

day there, we decided to go into Ibiza to buy cloth for a sack. Antonio, who

ran the big tienda, said he'd donate the straw for my bed.

 

The next morning, Eva and I sleepily made our way down to the small tienda,

where there were about 15 people waiting for the bus. They greeted us and

gave us chairs, and we talked while waiting. Finally, we heard the short

beep-beep that signaled the bus was approaching from around the bend. The

bus slowed down, but it was full. The driver, a hard-looking, white-haired

fellow, said gruffly that he'd return in an hour from Ibiza to pick us all

up.

 

Most of the men and women were content to sit and wait for the returning bus

-- more time to chat in the morning shade. But a few men were anxious to get

to town and they flagged down the next car. We got in, too. When we left San

Lorenzo, there were still about ten people waiting for the bus.

 

In Ibiza, we had breakfast in a side-street cafe, then wandered through the

market, buying fruit for lunch. While Eva checked for mail at the correo, I

dropped off my note at the tourist office.

 

We bought the cloth for my sack, then went to Talamanca for a swim. We had

an early dinner at Antonio's third-class restaurant, then went to catch the

bus back to San Lorenzo. When we tried to get on the bus, the driver refused

to sell us the tickets. We argued and pleaded, to no avail; the bastard was

going to leave us there. "Andale," he said with a cruel grin -- go, walk!

"Why? Why won't you sell us tickets?" He closed the door and took off.

 

We found out from some nearby cafe-sitters that when Ramon, the bus-driver,

had returned to San Lorenzo later that morning to pick up those left behind,

only two passengers were waiting. Everyone else had either hitched or been

given a ride, or couldn't wait any longer. Naturally, since Eva and I stood

out as foreigners, he had blamed us for getting the others to leave. Ramon

was not to be our friend.

 

-----

 

Every morning, around 9:30, Eva would knock on my door and announce that

coffee was almost ready. I'd go downstairs, grab some newspaper, retreat

behind the house to fertilize the cactus, draw some water from the cisterno,

wash my face and brush my teeth, take out two large bowls for the coffee,

spread marmelade on the galetas, and we'd have our morning meal. Breakfast

was always my favorite: It was cool in the house from the night; the coffee,

hand-ground and made over the wood fire in the kitchen, was delicious. And

the flies were still sleepy. It was a new day.

 

After breakfast, we'd wash the bowls and rest: me in the hammock, Eva in her

favorite straight-back chair, tipped against the wall. It would be getting

hotter outside. To keep out the flies, we had hung a huge flap of white

material outside the large front door, but the flies seemed to interpret our

cloth as a sign of surrender. There was no stopping them. It was as if the

house were a rotting corpse and we the carrion. I'd try to hide my face

beneath Eva's yellow silk scarf as I lay on the hammock, but I could feel

their sticky feet walking across my lips, my forehead, my cheeks. I would

have to retreat upstairs if I wanted to escape them, and then only for a

short time: they always tracked me down. The Eumenidies, Eva called them.

 

Sometimes, I wouldn't be able to take it any more, and I'd go berserk. Using

my notepad, I'd spend hours hunting them down, smashing their bloody bodies

on the table, the walls, the chairs, until they lay there in heaps on the

floor for the night-bugs to carry away for feast. The walls would resemble a

blood-spatter crime scene. But it was no use; the depopulation, the Final

Solution to the fly problem, lasted only briefly. The reserves always were

flown in. 

 

After our morning rest, we'd put on our alparagatas, those wonderfully

utilitarian cactus-fiber sandals we'd bought in Ibiza, and head down the

path to Antonio's tienda to buy food for the day. We lived and ate cheaply:

invariably, tomatoes, onions, garlic, bread and white. Tomatoes were seven

pesetas a kilo, wine seven pesatas a liter, bread eleven pesetas. Sometimes

we spurged and bought some goat's-milk cheese, or two eggs for an omelette.

But mostly it was tomatoes and bread.

 

The walk down the rock-path to Antonio's and back, in that stifling heat,

meant an obligatory rest-period when we returned. It was a high, slicing

heat, which seemed to cut not only at the outside of our bodies but

internally as well, tapping the juices of energy. Purgatory must seem

air-conditioned compared to this, I told Eva, but she maintained that Ibiza

was Purgatory and that's why she kept returning to it.

 

We became deeply tanned, even though we stayed inside most of the time. When

we'd hang our clothes out to dry, the job was done in 10 or 15 minutes at

most.

 

Around 2:30 usually, we'd eat our lunch: tomato salad mixed with onions and

the inevitable garlic, doused heavily with vinegar and oil, some bread and

wine. Until we picked it clean, our desert came from the plum tree in back

of the house, or from blackberries we'd find on the way to the well, or from

almonds we'd picked surreptitiously from the trees of our neighbors.

 

After lunch, Eva would do odd chores or would write letters in her gothic,

indecipherable printing. "When will you start to paint?" I asked, anxious to

see and give opinions of her work. (She had been reading some of my plays

and critiquing them.)

 

"It is not the time for painting now. I am not ready. I am not, how you say

in English, not 'at home' here yet. I must wait."

 

She did show me slides taken of her two latest frescoes in Paris. They were

wall-size, quite colorfully abstract, and excitingly good. She seemed quite

pleased by my opinion, though she tried to make light of the compliment and

her work.

 

While Eva worked inside the house, I would take my typewriter, my faithful

Olivetti, and head for the tower. To get inside -- since there was no tall

ladder or stairs -- I would have to climb up some ancient footholds carved

out of the side of the wall of the house. When I reached the roof of the

house, and was able to jump into the doorway of the tower, I would haul up

the typewriter with a rope.

 

I had brought up two chairs with my rope-technique. With the typewriter set

on one, and me sitting on the other, and with the wind and height of the

tower protecting me from the omnipresent flies, I was free to work. There,

within a short space of time, I completed a new play script, a pantomime for

two actors, several poems based on my Spanish travels, an article on

Pamplona for the newspaper I worked for, and was outlining several short

stories. I had found my incubator.

 

There was a square hole in the ceiling above my head, which led to the top

of the tower. There was no ladder, only a thick round staff leaning against

the wall under the hole. It was not long enough. I tried for three days to

get up that staff and failed. Finally, by hacking a rough notch high up the

staff, I was able to provide an extra foothold and struggled up, rocks and

rotted wood falling on my head and shoulders -- 700-year-old dandruff.

 

These towers of Balafi, the locals had told us, had been built about that

long ago by the Moors, when they were in occupation of Ibiza. From the

observation holes in the rocks, I could see a large portion of the island's

interior, all the way to the Mediterranean. The vista below me, spread out

for miles: dry, red, fertile earth, dotted with occasional white pueblo

homes, and gnarled olive trees, born before Jesus and still producing. It

was a rare view and often I sat there soaking up the Balafi sun, watching

the slow-paced life before me, feeling that energy fill my bones. And then I

would write again. 

 

Around 6 or 7, I would climb down from my creative silo, grab a short

hand-axe and forage for wood for the kitchen. Sometimes Eva would join me

and we'd walk up towards the Church of San Lorenzo where there was much tree

debris and brush for firewood. We'd talk of our day and what we hoped to

accomplish tomorrow.

 

When we returned, we'd dump the wood in the huge kitchen, then climb the

pueblo ladder to the front-roof terrace. The sun would be deep in the sky,

casting long tired shadows off the prickly choombas. Sometimes Eva would

read Lorca in Spanish to me -- poems of bullfighting and death a las cinca

de la tarde -- or those of Rilke and Goethe in German, translating for me.

We'd sit there in our tiny children's chairs, talking and reading -- and

then we would have to stop and look.

 

In silence, we would watch the changing colors of the earth: orange to red

to brighter red to brownish red to night. We would see the far-off farm

houses, smoke escaping from the kitchen roofholes, and we would see the

silence, calm and peaceful, enveloping Ibiza, enveloping us.

 

The sun would go down about 9 or so; soon we would have to prepare our

supper. Sometimes we would have potato or bean soup, sometimes the

ubiquitous tomato salad, on occasion pancakes or omelettes.

 

We knew gato would arrive soon, for it ate dinner with us nightly. Actually,

it was a gata but we still called it gato. It would climb the ladder to the

terrace and walk around nervously, trying to urge us down from the darkness

of the night to the candlelight of the kitchen. Its master, our landlord

Juan -- a likeable, limping guy, who carried himself as one of life's

passed-over losers -- had taught it to sit on its hind legs at the table; it

could sit like that for minutes on end, and I was always the softie who gave

in first and slipped a piece of oiled bread in its mouth.

 

We would eat, by the light of our damaged oil lamp, around 10:30 or 11.

Afterwards, we would put on light sweaters and return to the terrace to sit

and talk, to sit and look, to sit and listen.

 

The sky was always clear, the stars were always out -- within hand's reach.

Eva would point out the various constellations and tell me their stories.

Sometimes she would bring out her recorder and play, or I would sing ballads

and folk songs. Gato would sit in our laps, purring. Every so often, the

eyes of a car or a cycloptic motor scooter would be seen negotiating the

twisting narrow road that cut through the island. From behind the mountains

blocking our view, the lights of the "big city" of Ibiza could be seen in

the sky.

 

We would sit there, talking and singing and listening, until 2 or 3 in the

morning. Eva would roll her cigarettes -- Hebras were only five pesetas a

pack, but she was even poorer than I was -- or would smoke her small pipe.

 

The days, the nights, passed effortlessly, without my knowing or caring

where they went, or why. I was as happy as I could ever remember being. I

had found my Jordan.

 

Eva was a contributory cause to that contentment, and my mind sensed this.

Day by day, I found myself looking at her differently: the features I had

originally seen as stark, not all that attractive, I now began to treasure

as unique and fascinating. Her occasional strange choice of English words,

her talent for handicraft and cooking, her sensitive artist's personality,

her dedication, her recorder-playing, her laughing sad eyes, her small tough

fragile body, her short cropped hair, her independent streak -- all these

flowed through me and made me see her in a new and exciting way. This at the

same time there was something deep and dank about her -- maybe an aura of

the repulsive German penchant for dabbling with evil -- expressed most

openly  in her sometimes voiced racist bigotry.

 

When it came time to separate and go to bed, I could not stop myself from

staring at her, perhaps trying by the force of the blueness in my eyes to

convey to her my thoughts. Each night, she would grow more and more nervous

as I stared at her, more unsure of herself. She would take the candle up the

stairs and wish me a goodnight just before her door. I could not reply. She

would see my eyes in the dim light, catch herself, then disappear into her

room. Each night it grew worse.

 

It was 3 in the morning on one of those nights. We were sitting in the big

room downstairs, the flame from the oil lamp flickering as the wick began to

run dry. 

 

"Eva," I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact, "don't you think there's

something strange about our relationship?"

 

She had a curious look on her face. "How do you mean 'strange'?"

 

"I mean, we've been living here together for quite awhile now, and yet there

has been no sort of, well, physical involvement at all."

 

She thought long and her brow creased. She got up and began to walk around

the room, flitting in and out of the flickering light. Her voice was very

low, and her delivery halting: "Yes, perhaps it is strange...but I am tired

of those kind...I know everyone in San Lorenzo thinks we sleep together --

it is good for them to think so -- but it pleases me better this way...I am

tired of the other kind." She stopped, in the dark, waiting for my reply.

 

My voice was calm, aggravatingly calm; I cursed myself for my calmness, for

saying what I was about to say, even though it was what my mind and heart,

if not my body, really wanted to say.

 

"I understand, and agree. You know, I like what we -- what you and I -- have

here, Eva. There's no forcing, no pressure. When I accidentally catch you

bathing in the courtyard, there is little embarrassment, and no overwhelming

passion. I like being here like this. It's more natural, more free."

 

I heard us both softly sigh. A weight had been lifted. We had brought it out

in the open. The growing-together we had both sensed was acknowledged, the

independence we both so craved and despised was recognized; our love, if you

will, was given form.

 

And, when she took the candle and started up the stairs that morning, and

paused and looked at me gazing at her, we knew that soon I would be sleeping

with her on the sheepskin.

 

-----

 

There was a wonderfully liberating air in the house in the morning. We ate

breakfast chatteringly, deciding to take the day off and hitch a ride to the

beach at Portinatx. As we were dressing, we heard a knock on the door. I

lifted the white canvas sheet. Joyce.

 

"Joyce!" I exclaimed in perceptive recognition, and blurted out the first

things I could think of. "Uh...it's been a long time...I didn't know you

were coming...Where are your friends?"

 

She hesitated. Apparently something had happened. She was nervous but trying

not to show it. "Oh, Suzanne decided to stay in Paris with her boyfriend

Terry, and I left Dave and Marty in Madrid...I picked up your note at the

tourist office...Ed, would you mind if I stayed with you here?"

 

By this time, Eva had dressed and come downstairs. I was still holding the

flap open, Eva was behind me, and Joyce was still outside in the sun. I

turned to Eva, trying to sound calm. "It's my friend Joyce; she would like

to stay here for awhile. Is that OK?"

 

Eva shrugged and grunted.

 

I made the introductions, then Joyce and I walked down the path to where the

taxi was parked at the road. We talked about her travels through southern

Spain, we talked about nothing. She paid the driver 200 pesetas. I flung her

bag on my head and we headed back up the path.

 

"I said in my note that there was an afternoon bus that comes this way; it's

only nine pesetas. Christ, Joyce, you didn't have to spend that fortune for

a taxi! Do you realize what 200 pesetas buys? That's almost half a month's

rent out here!"

 

"I didn't want to wait in town, I wanted to get out here and see you," she

said, almost pouting. "Besides, I didn't know how much the cab would be when

I took it."

 

"Didn't know?" I exploded. "Joyce, you always ask the price first and then

bargain; we're not on Central Park West here."

 

We walked on in silence. I felt like I was going to start screaming again,

and I didn't like behaving that way -- but I couldn't seem to stop

myself.

 

"Ed," she said hestitatingly as we panted up the path. "I'm

not...interfering in anything by coming here, am I? I mean...you and Eva?

Are you...living together? I mean I can go, you know, if I'm interrupting

anything."

 

"Eva and me?" I said, with a laugh. "Just good friends, Joyce, just good

friends."

 

We didn't have time for more talk as we had reached the house. Eva was

sitting inside smoking her pipe. While Joyce unpacked upstairs, I sat

outside on the steps, trying to make some sense of the situation.

 

I thought back to that first sight of Joyce outside the door as I lifted the

flap. My first reaction after shocked surprise, no use kidding myself, was

that I was excited. We had had some good times traveling together, and my

horny mind immediately sent me that message and told me it would be good

again. Then my rational mind broke in to remind me that things would be a

bit sticky with both Joyce and Eva in the same house: a kind of menage a

trois with two parts of the trois probably despising each other and me in

the middle. It was no good, I would have to talk to Eva about it -- and

Joyce. 

 

Later, while Joyce napped upstairs, Eva and I walked down to Antonio's to buy

food. Eva was silent.

 

"Her friends are in Madrid," I said, somehow trying to explain. "Something

must have happened, and now she's here. Joyce is very lonely, Eva; it's not

good for her to be alone. But she said this morning that if it was bad for

her to be here, she would go back to the mainland."

 

"She is your friend, Edward" Eva said curtly. "If she is to stay, she will

help pay for the food and Juan will want more money for the rent."

 

"Eva, you must understand that I didn't anticipate her showing up here and

wanting to stay. I figured that if she came at all, it would be with her

friends and only for a few days. I'm sorry if this is inconveniencing

everyone."

 

"She is your friend and she is welcome in the house," she said, not looking

at me as we approached the back of Antonio's tienda.

 

I stayed in the tower that afternoon. I couldn't write anything; I couldn't

even concentrate. But I hoped it might be better if I left the two of them

alone in the house. They were talking in the downstairs room, and the hum of

their voices filtered up the vent hole on the roof: girl-talk, talk about

nothing as they mentally circled each other.

 

As they talked, my mind roamed back to my last day in Miami, when I met the

postman delivering our mail. "Your mom tells me you're taking off for Europe

soon, Ed. So you're 'running away' to the Old World, huh?", he said

jokingly. "Can't take it here, that it?"

 

"That's right, I'm running away," I said softly, because that's what he

wanted to hear. 

 

"You going to become one of those ex-patriotic writers, or are you coming

back?"

 

"I don't know," I said quietly. "I don't know."

 

"You'll be back," he said, shaking my hand. "You'll be back."

 

I wanted to paste that postman in the mouth for saying that, for thinking

that he knew me, but I shook hands and told him I'd send interesting

postcards to my parents for him to check out.

 

I could vaguely hear Eva and Joyce  below downstairs, their voices now a low

buzz. The flies had returned.

 

 

Later that night, after supper, we sat on the terrace and talked and looked.

On the surface, everything was extraordinarily chummy. Gato sensed something

else and hurridly left. We talked of southern Spain, Joyce telling of the

sights she had seen during the past month, Eva telling of her life with the

Gypsies several summers previous in Andalusia. I didn't talk much at all.

 

It was 3 a.m. They both were tired and sleepy, but neither wanted to be the

first to suggest bed. This could go on all night, I thought, and finally

faked a yawn and said I was going in.

 

I lit one of the candled-bottles and proceded upstairs. It was Joyce who

came up the stairs a few minutes later. She got undressed and lay down

beside me on the long, but not wide, straw-filled sack. We were both hungry.

 

It was good again, like I thought it would be. 

 

She lit a cigarette. "Ed, you don't want me here, do you?"

 

It came out effortlessly: "Yes and no."

 

I took a long breath; I seemed to sense that what I was going to say was

much more important than just the words. "Let me try to explain. I don't

know if it'll make sense to you -- or even to me." I paused as the words

coagulated.

 

"When I came here, I found something, Joyce, something rare, maybe unique

for me, and beautiful. Yes, in this unnatural, hellishly hot paradise. I

don't know if I can explain it. I love this place. I love the quiet and

peacefulness of it, the timelessness, the beauty. I can work here. I have no

responsibilities, I am tied to nobody and nothing. I am not committed in any

way. That's why Eva and I get along so well: She asks and demands nothing;

we live and work together, and apart.

 

"Now you come. Even though you don't want me to feel some close connection

to you, I do, I am. Once again, I am being forced, by something and someone,

to care again, no matter how much I don't want to, to care about something

other than the days and nights here, something other than the heat and the

coolness, something other than my writing, something other than just being

here. Do you understand?

 

"It was different in London and Paris and Pamplona. We were in cities, doing

and seeing the tourist scene. It was a different life; we were both lonely

and had wonderful fun together. But here, on Ibiza, in San Lorenzo, it's

different, Joyce. I'm alone here, not lonely -- a creative kind of

aloneness. Now you've reminded  me of another part of me, a lonely part that

lives in another way.

 

"When I mentioned on the train about coming here, I didn't think in

long-range terms. I didn't know what I would find here. But I didn't think

you would show up to stay with me; I thought you'd be coming with Dave and

Marty and Suzanne.

 

"I like being with you. I love your body; you make me feel happy -- you know

that -- and it's good with us, and when I think of how good it is, I want

you to stay here with me and--

 

"But you really want me to go."

 

"I'm not sure, Joyce. I want my life to be like it was; I want to be able to

work, and spend my days doing what I want, completely free. I don't want to

feel pressed, by anything or anyone. And yet, I want you. I want our nights

to be like they used to be, like it was tonight." I let out a long breath; I

had said it.

 

She smoked the rest of her cigaretee in silence. When she was finished, she

said softly, "I'll try, Ed, I'll try. I'll stay away from you during the day

and let you alone."

 

I felt the tear when I kissed her, and it burned.

 

-----

 

The next day was the worst. After breakfast, Eva and I were tying on our

alparagatas for the walk to Antonio's. I yelled upstairs: "You ready,

Joyce?"

 

She came to the stairs and looked down. "Do you really want me to come?"

 

"Of course we do."

 

She looked at us standing at the front door. "That's all right, you two go

ahead without me; I'll wash the cups," and she ducked back into our room.

 

I looked at Eva, shrugged, and off we went.

 

The whole day went like that: Joyce looking hurt if I so much as batted an

eyelash the wrong way, or spoke to Eva too often. The tension was so thick,

my stomach was upset and I had a headache -- reminiscent of the constant

atmosphere in my family when I was growing up. I wasn't able to work that

day either, although I did mercilessly smash the most flies I had ever

killed in one day. 

 

That night, alone in our room, we had another try at it.

 

"Joyce, honey," I said, stroking her long black hair, "today was miserable.

You moped around like a little girl, sulking and pouting and terribly hurt.

It was awful for everybody. Nobody was happy, least of all you."

 

She was almost crying again. "I wanted to leave you alone like you wanted it

to be, Ed. I didn't know how to act. What am I supposed to do?"

 

I didn't have the answer either -- only the one that would send the flesh

away to nourish the spirit, and I couldn't handle that decision yet.

 

We talked some more, made love, and slept: me against the white wall (every

morning, my hair and side would be flaked with the plaster), and Joyce on

the rest of the mat.

 

-----

 

Things leveled-off after that first day: never really smooth but at least

the hours were bearable, sometimes even pleasant.

 

Eva and Joyce apparently had worked out their level of relationship. I

didn't know what it was, and was a bit suspicious of it.

 

Joyce and I had worked out some sort of arrangement. From the moment we woke

up, I was the cool day-man; there was no more early-morning lovemaking as

there had been on the mainland. At night, however, we were two delicious

animals  -- I perhaps attempting in my passion to apologize for the way I

acted during the day, she attempting to make our tie strong enough to pull

her through another day. She voiced no complaints, I offerred no

explanations.

 

The times when Eva and I were alone were less frequent but more meaningful.

We communicated mostly with our eyes, rarely in direct verbal expression.

She knew how it was, I knew how it was. But Eva was not going to make the

first overt move; she was too much ruled by the tradition of hospitality,

and I was too deeply wallowed in my stoical molasses.

 

I would climb up to the tower frequently, but these times it was more an

escape-route than a creative incubator. I tried some poems; my muse was

constipated, and I completed fragments rather than whole works. I tried

outlining my new play; it took three days rather than three hours. I didn't

even return to any of my short stories; I just put them aside. As I found my

writing more and more blocked, I grew more cool toward Joyce, even against

my will.

 

She was not cut out for the type of living necessitated by our environment.

Climbing over rocks, up and down hills, cooking for hours in the smoky, hot

kitchen, searching for wood, carrying water from the well, washing clothes

on the smooth rocks near the well -- these things were alien to her

personality, her experience, her class, her build. I was aware of this, yet

I drove her harder every day, accusing her of loafing, of taking it easy

while Eva and I did the hard labor. I justified my harshness by saying that

she needed the discipline, but even I didn't believe that reasoning.

 

Sometimes the pathos was almost too much. We were walking down the path, Eva

and I up front, Joyce about 20 feet behind. We passed some baby goats, cute

little brown things with their feet hobbled, like their parents', to keep

them from nibbling higher up on the trees. They "baaaaaaaa'd" and Joyce

"baaaaaaaa'd" back. We smiled and kept walking, thinking Joyce was still

behind us. 

 

But she had stayed behind with the small, hobbled goats, talking to them in

their language.

 

Everytime after that, whenever we'd pass the area where the baby goats

grazed, Joyce would stop to talk with her friends.

 

-----

 

We hitched to Portinatx beach one day. Joyce was out swimming in the cold,

clear, blue-green water. On a hill, I was reading a book of cummings'

poetry. Eva was starting at me.

 

"You are not good to Joyce. I see it. Why must you treat her so badly?"

 

"Are you kidding, Eva? You must know the reason as well as I. I don't really

want her here. She's disturbed something very important to me. As a result,

even though I don't consciously set about to hurt her, to hurt anyone, I

can't seem to help myself, and so it comes out like that. But I'm not a

complete ogre, Eva. We made sort of an agreement, Joyce and I, when she said

she wanted to stay, and that was that the days were mine and--"

 

"Yes, but you are, how you say, vicious. Why can you not be more nice to

her? She is a good person."

 

She walked away and I made my way to the beach. What Eva had said, of

course, was largely true, but why had she said it? I dived in and swam out

to the cave where Joyce was. As we frolicked in the water, Eva watched from

the hill.

 

It was later that afternoon that Eva cursed me and almost cried when she

thought I was laughing at her inability to figure out the check for our

lunch. She was livid with rage and it wasn't until just before we were ready

to leave Portinatx that she calmed down and we could talk about the

misunderstanding. I had guessed correctly: being nicer to Joyce wasn't to

mean being too nice.

 

-----

 

Some times were fun. The day before the national holiday -- the day of San

Jaime, the patron saint of Spain -- while I was sunbathing on the roof of

the house, I  came across a dead baby-bird. It couldn't have been alive for

more than a day or so before it had died: the elementary organs and veins

were quite visible. I placed it on a cardboard bier and carried it down to

where Joyce and Eva were sitting in the shade behind the house. They were

equally fascinated by my discovery, and we decided that a bird so young

should have a decent burial. While they searched for a proper gravesite, I

was to compose the funereal poem. I climbed up to the tower and finished my

first "creative work" in many days.

 

"I hope you realize that this is a serious poem," I said, as we stood

reverently by the grave. "This is a most solemn ceremony, frought with

tragic implications of momentous import. If you will please lower the

deceased into the grave, I shall now recite the funereal poem."

 

The bird, in a cigar-box coffin, was gently lowered with string into an

immense hole, several times larger than would have held us all.

 

"My poem is entitled: 'Ode to a Bird: Elegy in a Spainish Graveyard', and I

read:

 

Little birdie in the sky,

Now it's time for beddie-bye.

So young,

So fair, 

So future-born,

Now you have the past tense on.

 

In your grave you shall lie

Unfamiliar with the sky,

Unfamiliar with the cats,

Hawks, bees, assorted rats;

Unfamiliar with the sun,

Now, poor bird, you'll never run.

 

From the egg, through the shell,

You don't even have a smell.

'Tis a pity, to be sure,

Yet again, you still are pure.

 

                               Rest in peace. Amen.

 

We all sobbed. 

 

----

 

The day after the funeral ceremony, we dressed up and joined the rest of the

local population for a High Mass in honor of San Jaime. The church, a simple

structure, was almost empty when we entered. We took small chairs from along

the wall, and sat in the rear behind the wooden pews, hoping thus to remain

relatively inconspicuous. Soon the church filled, with the women -- in their

long black, heavy skirts, intricately-stiched blouses, with their long

braids hanging down the back -- sitting along the sides in tiny chairs, the

men in the pews.

 

Everyone was staring at us. We should have figured out by the initials

scratched on the backs that we were sitting in the centuries-old chairs of

certain families, but we had to be told. Like embarrassed hicks, we

apologized to the shy, polite women and went to sit in the rear pew. Joyce,

who was Catholic, explained the Mass to us. Eva tried to decipher the sermon

but it was delivered in the strong Ibizenca dialect and she couldn't. After

the Mass came the procession, with the girls of the pueblo -- wearing

make-up, heels, modern skirts and fancy hairdoes -- carrying the sacred

figures twice around the church, as been done for centuries. Nowhere had I

experienced the contrast between Old and New more than in watching these

teenage girls performing the ancient rites, followed by their

traditionally-dressed mothers and older sisters. The world, even San

Lorenzo, was cracking, and in the middle of the fissure (with the

black-hatted men staring intently at us) sat I, Eva on one side, Joyce on

the other.

 

Throughout Spain that evening, there were festivals. In Ibiza City, there

would be fireworks and a huge blowout. In San Lorenzo, fiesta meant an

accordion and some dancing. Across the street from the taberna, a space had

been converted into a small dance floor, illuminated by a gasoline lamp. In

the position of honor, atop a heavy wooden table, sat the accordionist in a

beautifully carved straight-backed chair.

 

In a festival spirit, perhaps expecting something to happen, we had bought

some lemons, oranges and bananas, and extra wine, and Eva had brewed up some

homemade sangria. Two bowls each, and we were well on our way when we got to

the taberna. 

 

Eva, Joyce, I and our landlord Juan sat at a table across the street from

the dancing space. The stag-line was immense, as all the young men from the

island's interior had congregated in San Lorenzo. They all wanted to dance

with Eva and Joyce; Eva told them later and later never came; Joyce danced

with them all. She was very happy, and my mind registered goats. Finally Eva

and I danced while Juan limped around with Joyce. We held each other tighter

than was necessary as we moved, taking care not to look into each others'

eyes to acknowledge the fact. The older people along the sides smiled at us

and clapped in time to the accordionist's rhythms; the younger ones wanted

to cut-in or do The Twist. It was like old home week at the Police Athletic

League ballroom.

 

Joyce was flushed and tired from all the dancing and begged off from any

more. Eva and Juan were arguing Spanish and German declension. I asked Joyce

if she wanted to cool off and take a walk. We headed down the road and soon

were in the darkness, although we could still see the dancing lights of the

fiesta and hear the Ibizenca songs on the accordion. The scene was a

painting I didn't want to buy, so I snapped it in my soul.

 

"Boy, those young Spanish guys are fast, let me tell you," Joyce said,

squeezing my hand. "I think I've been propositioned more times in the past

two hours that in my whole life. They didn't even wait -- on the first turn,

they ask me to sleep with them, I am so beautiful and they are so lonely."

 

"Well, I did notice the paucity of available female flesh around here. I

wouldn't doubt the lonely part -- or the part about you being beautiful. How

did you deal with their amorous entreaties?"

 

"I pretended I didn't understand. Senor, yo no comprendo, yo no comprendo.

After awhile, they'd give up or someone would cut in."

 

I kissed her then, and sucked in by her warmth and by the tableau of the

cool fiesta lights against the darkness, we lay down beneath an olive tree

in the field.  

 

 

-----

 

In the morning, when we had slept off the effects of the sangria and dancing

and lovemaking, the fiesta was over and the world was once more too much

with us. My inability to work, my longing for the pre-Joyce past with

myself, with Eva, only made me more tense, more irritable, more unable to

connect with the muse. Somehow, the vicious cycle had to be broken. I had to

decide. 

 

As we came back from gathering wood, I told Eva that I was thinking of

leaving soon; she nodded wordlessly -- she understood. I told Joyce later

that night, after our quiet time on the terrace, watching the sky.

 

"Ed, if you want me to, I'll take the Saturday boat alone," she said, lying

beside me. "You don't have to leave if you're happy here on account of me."

Her awkward sentence structure was so ironic, I could feel my insides

grimacing.

 

"Do you want me to take the boat?" she asked, and I could feel her body's

slight shaking.

 

What could I say? Of course I wanted her to take the boat, to remove herself

(and what I vaguely sensed she represented) from my life, to disappear back

into the cultural maw from whence she had come, to vacate the premises, to

take her lovely body elsewhere. But when she had gone, my mind asked, was

there an assurance that I would be able to regain that lost "something" I

had found here? What was driving me? What was my fuel? How large was my gas

tank? And did I possess a reserve capacity to try again? What frightened me

about Eva? What drew me towards her? Did I have to "retreat" in order to

write? Was I a coward? A young, 23-year-old naif abroad caught up in a web

of relationships far beyond my experience? What is cowardice anyway? What's

pulling me?  

 

"Ed? What's wrong? Why are you staring out like that?"

 

"I'm sorry, Joyce, I was just thinking. No, of course not, honey, we'll both

leave together. We'll go into Ibiza tomorrow to buy the tickets for

Saturday."

 

She kissed me on the neck and snuggled into my armpit, and as much as I

tried to resist, I felt good about my decision.

 

-----

 

The three of us spent a fun day in Ibiza. After buying the tickets, we ate a

big lunch, then hopped the boat for Talamanca and soaked in the water and

sun. Later we had drinks near the correo while Eva played some flamenco

records she had brought with her to the bar. We joked and drinked and smoked

away, in high spirits. It would all be over soon. We hitched back when it

was dark, getting a ride to San Lorenzo with some Australian fellows in a

Willy's. That night, we stayed up until 4 in the morning, singing and

dancing and telling dirty jokes in various languages. It was all coming out

of us, I thought, in healthy fun-fashion.

 

The sun beat down mercilessly the next day, but somehow I didn't feel it.

Something had been burned out of me, I had bought the ticket. Perhaps one

could find air-conditioned calm on the mainland.

 

We splurged for our Last Supper and bought some fish for dinner, which, as

it turned out, was on a Friday night. We tried to get stinking drunk on the

last of the sangria -- but the only one who succeeded was gato. It whirled

around on its can, trying to sit on its hind legs as taught, with a puzzled,

doped look on its face, while Eva, an inebriated Pan, danced around it

playing German ragtime on her recorder. I suppose we all wanted to talk but

we avoided silent periods, trying to stuff them full of noise so that we

wouldn't have the opportunity to speak.

 

As we were supposed to get up early to catch the morning bus, we broke it up

around 3 a.m. and headed for bed. Later, when Joyce was asleep, I went out

to watch the sunrise. Far off, I could see Eva and gato walking among the

cactus. I stayed on the terrace for a long while, then went back to bed.

 

We woke up an hour after the bus had passed through San Lorenzo. For some

reason, or reasons, Joyce had set the alarm for the wrong time. But what

matter? The boat didn't leave until 11 that night and we could probably

catch a ride before then. We had a leisurely breakfast and smoked off our

hangovers around the table.

 

"Good, now I have time to give you a haircut," Eva said to me, grinning at

Joyce. It had been six months or so since my last cut, in the States, and

Joyce never stopped kidding me about my shaggy appearance. Truth was, I

could use one: it was too hot for long hair. So, while Joyce took a nap

upstairs, Eva turned barber.

 

We set up a chair in the courtyard. "Just trim the back of my neck, Eva, and

maybe a little off the sides -- you know, just enough to give me back my

good looks. But don't make it too short; I can't write when it's short,

honest." With that said, I sort of dozed in the hot, late-morning sun,

barely conscious of the click-click of the scissors as Eva worked away.

 

I awoke to Joyce's fanatic laughter. She was doubled-over in mirth, pointing

at me. "Get me a mirror!" I screamed angrily. It was brought and I'd been

scalped. My "light trim" had evolved into a Dalilah-like attack on my golden

locks -- almost all of them. I looked like an American Boy Scout, and Eva,

with a strange look in her eye, was grinning, proud of her handiwork. I was

mightily pissed off -- so, of course, I laughed. I did look ridiculous. We

collected the several pounds of shorn hair lying in the courtyard, put it in

a paper bag and threw it in the grave alongside our baby bird. This time I

composed no elegy.

 

-----

 

When we went down to Antonio's to buy tomatoes and bread for lunch, we

learned that there was an afternoon bus that appeared, usually, perhaps, if

Ramon felt like it, maybe, sometime around 3:30 -- or so. We ate, took a

nap, and got down to the tienda early just to be sure -- and to say our

goodbyes to our friends at the two tiendas and the taberna. The word had got

out that Joyce and I were leaving and many of the farmers we knew had come

to say goodbye. They seemed genuinely sorry to see us go; we were the only

foreigners in the region, and besides providing the community with a sort of

mysterious (and racy) prestige, they liked us -- maybe because we lived

simply like them -- and we liked them. The men enjoyed Joyce most of all,

particularly her long legs and striking figure.

 

They never seemed to know what to make of me, although they let it be known

that they greatly admired what was to them my obvious virility and success

with women. It must be so, they reasoned, since I lived with two in the same

can; and, while it was true that some of them slept with women other than

their wives, they did not do it so openly as did the young americano. The

advantages of being a foreigner. Of course, it was all much more complciated

than simply living with two women in the same house, but, since I didn't

understand it all myself, I didn't think it would have made much sense to

attempt to explain it to them. Besides, their version probably was better.

 

At 4:15, Ramon pulled up with an almost-empty bus. After telling him that we

were leaving Ibiza and that unless we could ride his bus we probably would

have to stay, he grumblingly agreed to accept us as passengers. I paid him

and in his undisguised anger and confusion, he gave me 25 pesetas too much

in change. We decided not to tell him about his mistake; God was just after

all.

 

When we got to Ibiza, in a spirit of reconciliation (based on our knowlege

that we was a former alcoholic), we graciously invited Ramon to have a drink

with us at the bus cafe, but he seemed suspicious and declined. The other

cafe sitters laughed.

 

Eva had been acting strangely all day. She had tried to back off coming to

Ibiza to see us off at the boat, so that we had to beg her to come. Which is

exactly what she wanted, and needed. Now, when we reached Ibiza, she started

up again, saying that perhaps it would be better if she caught the

early-evening bus and didn't wait. So, although we meant every word of it --

at least I did -- we had to go through the begging script again, telling Eva

how much we wanted her to stay, at least to eat dinner with us. Feeling

better, she agreed, and we headed over to the restaurant.

 

It was a grand meal -- Joyce had liver, Eva paella, I squid -- with plenty

of white wine. We sat and ate and drank for several hours, until we were

bloated, then decided to walk it off. We wound up at the long wharf where

the yachts of the international set were tied up, and watched the native

boys diving and splashing in the cold water at the end of the pier. Then we

headed toward the small alleys of the Old City, up through the ancient

archway, toward the fort and church.

 

When we got to the first viewing-level, we could see our ship approaching

the island from the broad expanse of an infinite sea. For the first time in

a long time, I realized how cut off we were from the maintream of life; it

would be eleven hours before the ship reached the mainland. We watched the

ship steam into the harbor and slip next to the dock. Everything at this

height was tiny, as if seen through the large end of a telescope: little

people, toy boats, Monopoly-game houses. We walked higher, to the church,

and overlooked the side of the island, where centuries of sea continued

their battle with centuries of rock. I stared long at the water and rocks

and when I turned around, only Eva was near me. Joyce had disappeared.

 

We looked everywhere we could see, but she was nowhere to be found. My first

thought -- how could I deny it? -- was that she had jumped over the rock

wall on the cliff.  I looked down at the sea, half-expecting to see her

bright red dress at the bottom. My heart was pumping crazily.

 

Finally, Eva spotted her far away, at another viewing point on a lower

level. She had wanted to be alone with Ibiza, too. As we walked towards her,

I picked some passion-flowers growing by the wall, cutting my hand on some

sharp rocks in the process. Joyce seemed pleased by the present and wore

them in her hair; Eva carried her flowers, picking new ones and arranging

them as we wound our way down. I wrapped a handkerchief around my bloody

fingers, trying to stem the flow of drops that were following in my

footsteps as we descended.

 

It was dark now, and hotter, and as we made our way through the tiny

pseudo-streets of the Old City back towards the crowded tourist avenues with

their big cafes and souvenir shops, we were silent and sad. It seems the air

smells differently here than it did by the fort and church above, or in San

Lorenzo, Eva said. It's the smell of money and sweaty asses on chairs, I

said, and we laughed too loudly. The cafes were filling now as passengers

and their friends emerged from hotels and restaurants and headed down to the

dock area. Tired, we sat and ordered drinks and talked about what was

happening to Ibiza.

 

It was still relatively non-phony, we agreed, but becoming less so all the

time as a result of two types of non-Ibizans: the semi-retired businessmen

who yelled stock quotations across the cafe tables and slapped each other

with their latest Time magazines, International edition; and, the bearded

artists and their girlfriends -- escapees from Brandeis, Schwabbing, Soho,

Chelsea, Paris, Amsterdam -- who were more concerned with being artists than

in producing art. Both types had created an atmosphere in Ibiza that they

took to be Ibiza's charm. Sad and pathetic.

 

Soon, we agreed, perhaps within five years, Ibiza would be no good anymore,

and another creative oasis would have to be "discovered," where one could

work and live, in peace, in silence, in oneself, without alterin the

incubating culture that much. It was the way of the world: even the unmarred

freshness of Balafi and San Lorenzo was doomed.

 

It was getting late; if Eva wanted to hitch a ride back, she'd have to start

soon. We finished our last round and headed toward the road at the end of

the dock street that led to the island's interior. Eva said she didn't want

us to walk her to the lamppost down the road where she would stand and try

to "auto-stop."

 

Joyce took Eva's hand at the corner, kissed her lightly on both cheeks, and

said her thank-yous and goodbyes. As she finished, I told Joyce I wanted to

talk to Eva, would be back in a moment, took Eva's arm and started walking

toward the lamppost. Joyce waited on the corner.

 

We walked in silence, saying volumes. "Please, Edward, do not walk with me

further," and she turned toward me in the darkness.

 

"I'll miss you, Eva," I said, with a lump in my throat, and gently kissed

her on the lips.

 

"You must go now," she said, holding tightly to my hand. "Please go. And

please do not be angry at me for not being...the other way. It was maybe

better." She dropped my hand; the sparrow was crying.

 

"I don't think it was better, Eva," I said, and I had to turn and walk away.

Back to Joyce, back to the bright lights of the cafes, back to the ship for

the mainland, back to my life.

 

Joyce had moved several feet from the corner by the time I reached her. Her

back was turned and I could see that we was unsuccessfully trying to

suppress her crying.

 

"Joyce, please don't feel hurt," I said, placing my hand around her

shoulder. "There was something more between Eva and me than there was

between you and her, and I had to say a private goodbye to her."

 

She jerked her shoulder away and began walking, crying as I talked and tried

to catch up. "Are you really that upset about my saying goodbye to Eva?"

 

"I'm upset the way I've been treated ever since I got here, like a piece of

dirt," she sobbed. "You didn't want me here, with you and Eva, and you

didn't even have the decency, or guts, to tell me to get lost. You were like

an iceberg to me. You..."

 

As we walked back toward the ship, I heard Joyce talking to me, bawling me

out for all sorts of real and imagined crimes, but I didn't hear her at all.

My thoughts were concentrated on the night air, the colored neon, the Ibiza

magic, the cafe where I had been cheated once out of 30 pesetas, the fishy

smell of the water, the tourists at the cafes, the everpresent "artists" in

their jeans and sport shirts, the look on Eva's face as we said goodbye, the

taste of her lips, the house in San Lorenzo, the goats, gato, the

white-crossed tower, Ramon the bus-driver, Juan the landlord,  Antonio at

his tienda, the color of the water at Portinatx, our friends and neighbors,

the taberna, the accordionist, the choombas, the fiesta, the neon, the Old

City, the fort, the church, the ship, the flowers, the blood, Eva, gato...

 

We sat at the cafe. Did I defend myself? What does it matter? #

 

 

----------------------