Saturday, May 8, 2010

31 Flashers

There are thirty-one five ways the sun plays tricks.

Parched with thirst am I, and dying to know how many hours it's been since Huelva and her port melted away, a shimmering shadow cast by the gilded, omnipresent heat. Dimly I recall having crossed something, a crumbling patch of weathered cobblestones or the A-49, who knows. I know I'm tired. I know catching forty in this tumble of coriander sounds more lovely than whatever the sleeping chambers of my heart could ever hope to conjure. See, delirium is only the first stage. If I did shut my eyes in this salted burn, death.

Portugal lies just beyond this field. The Andalusian wilds lie just beyond this field. The coast, wherever she lie, and every cardinal point, oily pools leaking from the horizon.

Yes, I am lost.

Picking a batch of fruits? Spice isn't food, but my stomach and the rest of my body are in a civil war. I think I'll sit this one out. Viva neutrality. Switzerland's been a self-preservation success, why can't I, spinning unreasonable, unspoken intrigue as I sit, picking a nutritious batch of fresh lemon scent?

Huh? What's that rustle?

Falangists, they've found me! Carmen, save me!

Like I said, delirium.

I keep my wits about me enough to amble over the nearest ridge. Seated before one of those oily pools in supplication was a lone house, groves of stout olivos standing guard against the encroachment of time. I knocked on the door.

The sandy white rectangle curved open to reveal a surprisingly well-dressed man topped by a wavy dollop of slightly slicked-back black hair.

"Bienvenido, forastero! Entrar, por favor!"

Federico García Lorca, appearing as presumably did upon the day of his death nearly seventy-four years ago, closed the latch, eyeballing me with poetic intensity.

"Es esta Alfacar," I asked in the most pitiful New World accent, shocked that I was even able to spit out a question in the face of the impossibility spread out before me.

"¡Ah, usted es un americano, y te preguntas por qué no estoy muerto, ¿por qué estoy siendo tan jóvenes."

The thought had crossed my mind, crossed back, sitting defiantly.

"Yes, I'm an Amer -- dead, young, how the hell am I understanding you? I know five words of Spanish, and you've already heard three of them!"

"Porque este es un lugar mágico, mi amigo."

"And you understand me."


"But you were killed."

"No, yo era simplemente nunca se encontró."

"But -- well -- how?"

"Me escondí aquí y aquí he escondido todos estos años. Tiempo de vivir, de escribir. ¿Te gustaría ver?"

"I'd love to see what you've written! Of course, of course. Forgive me, señor, I have a thousand questions."

"Y yo les contestaré en el tiempo. Porque el tiempo es algo que todos los que encuentran su camino hasta aquí tiene. Como diría, you'll never catch me, fascists."


susan said...

If I could understand more than a few words of Spanish I'm sure Lorca's replies would perfectly fit the narrative. Just as it is it's one of your best and a beautifully described magical place as well.

TomCat said...

No hablo espanol. No lo entende.

Randal Graves said...

susan, thanks, but praise must go to Ted Stevens for inventing Google Translate. Uno dos tres is about the extent of my Espanol.

tomcat, exactamente.

Beach Bum said...

If I understand the story you mean we are now going to have to worry about Mexican Zombies? Damn, call Arizona, they will totally love this one.

Tom Harper said...

31 Flashers -- isn't that the name of an ice cream place?

TomCat said...

Feliz Dia de Madres!

okjimm said...

perder el habla ----- Move to Arizona, you Commie!!

Demeur said...

That's it! That's the last time you eat tacos before bed.

And just for that Boston has a large can of beans they want you to eat.

Holte Ender said...

Well, the Zombies are from Andalusia, near Granada to be precise, and was Dali hidden in there somewhere?

Randal Graves said...

BB, you were warned about Montezuma's revenge.

tom, they've got those coffee houses with the scantily-clad ladies, why not an ice cream parlor?

okjimm, but then I'd have to tell McCain to get off my lawn.

demeur, I'm hoping they'll choke on a basketball these next couple of games.

holte, if you turn your monitor upside down, you should be able to see him.

Flannery Alden said...

Lovely and just out of my grasp.

chad rohrbacher said...

Loved this one. The narrative threaded with the magical lyric of language. Nicely done

Joyce said...

Beautifully written. Glad I remember a lot of my Spanish. This has such a mystical quality about it.

David Barber said...

To quote Tengrain..." swine."

I loved the image you created but didn't understand the bloody Spanish. I will use a translater later. (Poetry)

" stomach and the rest of my body are in a civil war.." Great line, mate.

Randal Graves said...

flannery, out of grasp is just what I was going for.

chad, thanks, I just hope Google translated properly.

joyce, well hell, next time I use Spanish, I'm coming to you for help!

david, I originally had an appearance by Franco himself, but decided against going all comedy and went for this weirdo mellow thing instead.

Sue H said...

Hmmm - not so hot on Spanish. But reading the automated translation on Babelfish made me smile!

Thanks for the entertainment Randal! :-)

Anonymous said...