Bona Taula by Bob Sawatzki

“What do you suppose that means?”

inner courtyard, motion-detectors lighting up wall sconces behind them.

said Jordan, studying the tiled face of the

Gleaming bamboo floor, French doors, and a balcony over the swimming

sundial mounted over the entrance, two

pool, dappled with dead leaves and debris, swallows swooping and

mermaids holding up a plaque with a

calling. There was a white and black tiled bathroom with a proper Britsh

message in Catalunyan.

bathtub and bidet and a view, out a tiny casement window, of a castle on

“Maybe it means affordable, chic hotel,” said Diane. “Anyway, let’s hope so.” The desk clerk, a well dressed and meticulously groomed young man, welcomed them with an appraising glance. “Mr. and Mrs. Farmar?” he said. “Of your arrival we have heard.” “Si,” said Jordan, “A reservation for two, por favor.” Jordan

a hill. Except that none of the lights seemed to be working, the room was perfect. Diane crashed on her bed. Jordan unpacked his bag, carefully hanging all his clothes in the closet. Changing into shorts and sandals, they packed a bag for the beach and set out on foot. Down the worn marble staircase to the lobby where the desk clerk sat reading the paper.

signed the guest register and passed it to Diane. She signed her full,

“Good day,” he said. “All is well with the room?”

three-decker name, which was not Farmar. Keeping her own name was

“We have a problem with the lights,” said Diane. “They don’t

the rock upon which their marriage was based. “Cash or carte?” said the desk clerk “Cash,” said Jordan, “I’ve got euros.” He unbuttoned his shirt,

seem to work.” “Ah, the lights! Of course, I should have told you. The room card goes into, how you say, the sloot? You know? Just by the door and the

unzipped the moneybelt, and pulled out some colorful bills, something he

light switch,” he said, feeding an invisible card into an imaginary wall.

would never get used to, just like, a moment later, the intimacy of the lift.

“When you return I will show.”

There was barely room for two, with two backpacks and two roller bags. Forced to stand face to face for the long slow ride to the second floor, Jordan and Diane had to laugh, have a sloppy kiss, and make up. Released from the box, down the hall they rolled around a tiny

Diane led the way back to the highway and another pedestrian overpass. Arcing up over cars and diesel fumes, they caught glimpses of dunes and blue water. They desended into a neighborhood of cobblestone streets, grand old homes. There was a green space, and a boardwalk with

joggers, walkers, and moms rolling strollers. Now it was Jordan who was

York Times Sunday magazine? I’ve been saving it to read on the beach.”

Jonesing for coffee, but now was not the season and the tourist shops

“I thought you had it,” said Jordan.

were boarded up, all the way out to the beach. Sun-dazzled in salt sea air,

“It was in your pack when we got on the plane in New York.”

barefooting across hot sand, they chose a spot to call their own, spreading

“Oh crap, that’s right. Last I saw it was in the overhead bin. There

out Diane’s blue nylon poncho like a map of their desire. They picnicked

was a really good article in it too, about that guy. You know, that guy

on cheese, crackers, and fruit. Jordan had packed an oxidant-rich mix of

with the book about that school in Nepal?”

dried apricots, cranberries, blueberries, and raspberries that would sustain them for days. “Where are the almonds?” said Jordan. “It says you can have twenty-eight.” “I put the almonds in your bag,” said Diane. “Where’s the New

“Oh well,” said Diane. “I was going to write a letter to Estrella, so I might as well get going on that. I’m going to write every day and mail it to her when we get back.” “Mmmmhhh,” said Jordan. He was intent on taking a picture. Now was the time. This is the picture:

Jordan put the camera back in it’s case and laid down on his half of the

spot where a few hours before they had sat down on the curb in despair

poncho, pulling his baseball cap over his eyes. He could hear waves

during their search for a hotel.

plashing, seagulls squawking, voices calling in Catalunyan. He dreamed he was floating in a night sky. An hour later he woke up feeling much

“There’s got to be someplace open further on,” said Jordan. “It looks like there’s traffic up ahead and maybe hotels on the beach.”

improved, but the left side of his body was burned bright red. Packing up their gear, Diane and Jordan wandered back over the dunes to the boardwalk, looking for coffee or even anyplace that was open. They soon reached an intersection that looked familiar, the very

“It’s an eight-mile long beach, Jordan,” said Diane. “You can get coffee at the Petrocat, At least we know they’re open.” “We didn’t come all the way to Spain to drink gas station coffee.”

“When did you get so choosy about coffee? I thought you’d drink anything.”

Jordan promised to return “in an hour or so” and set off at a fast clip, almost immediately veering off the pavement, stepping over a

“I thought you liked traveling.”

wire fence and onto a dirt path. It led through a gap in the hedgerow to

“There’s nothing open here but taverns,” said Diane. “Now

a rutted dirt road next to an irrigation canal. Following the canal road,

is not the time of being open because now is not tourist season. Why

Jordan arrived at a tiled pedestrian walkway: Parc Mediterranean and the

don’t you go into town by yourself? I just want to lay down and take

campus of Escuela de Technica de Castelldefels. A broad, trellised bridge

a nap. That’s what they do here in the afternoon when it gets hot like

arched over the main canal. Stabilizing his camera on a bridge beam,

this. They siesta.”

Jordan got a shot at the castle.

It was the smallest castle he’d ever heard of, not much bigger than your average American McMansion, and not in great shape. Vandals had left their marks over the centuries, along with wind, rain, and gravity. Walls were in dis-repair, entrances blocked and barricaded, chain-link fencing with razor wire on top closed off the whole rear quarter. Diane didn’t believe in taking pictures. She would rather be in

the train tracks. Upstairs was a tiny train station made of brick and a

a moment than make a moment. Jordan’s belief was that Diane didn’t

public square with pergola and pigeons. He was back at the place where

have the patience to stabilize her camera, try another angle, or come back

the bus had dropped them off. What had seemed like chaos on their

when the light was right. She wasn’t willing to take the time to crop and

arrival now reavealed meaning and order.

edit, punch-up the contrast, or tone it down. The winding path soon brought Jordan to an underpass beneath

Crossing the street, he started up the rambla. Most of the stores were closed, except a bocateria on the square, opposite the church. For

one euro and 60 centavos, Jordan bought a café au lait and croissant. He carried them outside on a tray and sat down at a table under a tree. He ate and drank as slowly as he could. The two bells on the church tolled three o’clock and Jordan, recalling Communions past, wondered if he should turn around now or press on to the castle. Diane would never make it up there. Not for such a funky little castle, I mean really, why bother? There was nothing historic or significant about it, let’s be clear about that. Jordan made a complete circuit, snapping pictures all the way, coming around to the main extrance at last. Thirty minutes had passed since the coffee and Jordan realized he would be late but he couldn’t stop—each photo seemed closer to capturing the castle. Well past time to return, Jordan was zig-zagging down the path, framing views of construction cranes towering over the city.

“No, I don’t really get that, Jordan. What I got was the part “Where the fuck have you been?” said Diane. “Having sex with Spanish transvestites?”

about wait a year and see what happens. If we even survive this vacation together.”

“I’m half an hour late. Jesus. I got pictures of the castle.” They squared off like boxers in the middle of the room, circling,

Kneebraces and a white tennis visor for Diane. Jordan put on his

hands clenching involuntarily. The room was so elegant, it seemed to

yellow Tour de France cap that Estrella had brought back for him from

Jordan inelegant of them to have a fight in it. Typically rude American

her semester abroad. Down the worn marble stairs to the lobby where the

turistas, not up to snuff and behaving badly.

desk clerk sat reading the paper.

“I’ve been sitting in this room for an hour waiting for you.”

“Dias,” he said. “The lights, they are okay?”

“Forty minutes, max. I thought you were having a nice nap.”

“Yes,” said Jordona. “But there is a problem with the bathtub.

“I couldn’t get to sleep. I’ve been sitting here wondering what

There doesn’t seem to be a plug for it.”

you’re up to. Ditching me the first opportunity you get. And it’s so

“The bathtub?” said the clerk. “Something is wrong?”

typical. You have no idea what it’s like living with you. Whether you’ve

“The tub, she is fine,” said Jordan, “but we need a plug for it. The

got Asperger’s or Selfish Gene Syndrome I don’t know, but you think

stopper, you know? To take of the bath?”

other women would put up with this behavior? Why don’t we just split

“Take of the bath?” said the clerk. “Not of the shower?”

up now and spare ourselves the grief? I can’t even take a bath. There’s no

“Si,” said Jordan, smiling with all his teeth. “To take of the bath

freakin’ plug.” Now she was crying and lamely trying to strike him with her bad arm.

we must have of the plug.” “I see,” the clerk, scrutinizing the couple as if for the first time. “I will see what is the problem. We will make it right.”

“So your life is ruined because I was out taking pictures?”

“Bueno,” said Jordan. “Muchas gracias.”

“Your new obsession now that it’s not sex.” “That happened nine months ago, isn’t it about time you let go of it? That’s not me anymore. That’s why we’re here, don’t you get that?”

They set out again, away from the sea this time, passing the sleepy tennis academy—one court occupied by a man laconically

bouncing balls off the wall—down the tiled walk to the school, still in

have to do is get oriented. What’s not to understand?” She stopped,

session, kids playing in the yard behind high slatted fences.

striking a pose. “If you know that the hotel is back that way,” she

“The English School,” said Jordan, reading the sign. “Right next

said, pointing without looking, extending arms and wrists, two fingers

to the tennis academy and the hotel. Rick Steve’s says this place is rotten

swirling. “And if you know that the castle is that way,” she said, pointing

with British come August.”

at it right up there on the hill, “then you are Here.” Diane brought her

“The English School is its name?” said Diane, standing on her toes to to peer through the windows. “Maybe I could get a job. I almost

arms down, pirouetting as if modeling a new fall coat. “It’s all about staying oriented, Jordan, don’t you see that?”

brought my resume with me, too, but decided that is just what you don’t

All that dancing around made Jordan’s neck hurt.

want on vacation.”

“I’m just naturally dis-oriented,” he said. “It’s my special talent.

“You could teach English here,” said Jordan. “Maybe drop by tomorrow and have a chat?” “Bright and early tomorrow morning? How likely is that? I think not. Today we’re here, tomorrow we’re gone. And when we get to Barcelona I’m buying a walking stick.” She was clutching his arm, leaning her weight. “You’re really going to need it when we get to the muntanyas.” He led the way off the tiled walk, helping her over the low fence and through the gap in the bushes. “I can’t believe the shortcuts you find sometimes,” Diane nattered. “No wonder you get lost so much.” “Getting lost is what I’m best at,” said Jordan. “How else do you discover anything new?” “Well I don’t find it necessary to get lost,” said Diane. “All you

But being lost doesn’t bother me. Solvitur ambulando.” “What?” “It’s Latin. Solvitur ambulando. The problem is solved by walking around.”

She took his arm again and they pressed onward, through the Parc Mediterranean, past people walking dogs speaking their universal language, past squadrons of ducks scooting out of bullrushes in the canal. Over the footbridge and past patchwork gardens.

it. Church bells were ringing as they entered the plaza, sounding just like church bells of his youth. Santa Maria’s bell tower was no larger than the one he had served in as an altar boy, swinging on rough, braided ropes, competing with other boys in making joyful noise. Lighting candles. Donning garments in the quiet backstage calm of the sacristy. On cue from the choir, joining the processional, following the priest, sometimes several priests, in addition to Monsenior Pautler on High Holy Days. The scent of frankincense and myrhh and knowing when to ring the bells as the priest lifted the ciborium: Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. All is holy. Jordan corrected his posture, stiffened his arm, and they proceeded down the tiled walk, into the heart of town. Siesta was over, stores were opening, school was out, and They arrived at the concrete wall and the gravel parking lot of the train station. Picking up their pace in the crowd, they passed through the echoing underpass beneath the railroad. Upstairs then, Diane leaning on his arm, they crossed the street and entered the rambla. “See how they walk together?” said Diane, nodding toward another couple, carefully dressed, out for a stroll. “They promenade.” Jordan saw that it was a processional and they were part of

the plaza was filling up with people, alone and in families of parents, grandparents, and kids. Tiny shops that had been closed an hour ago were now busy with customers. Jordan was afraid of breaking merchandise in the jammed little rooms so he waited outside while Diane poked around inside, but never for very long. The good restaurants weren’t yet open; all the window signs said come back at eight o’clock.

a bar, faces blinded by the bright sun, startled to see a woman entering their domain. Diane stopped at the threshold and started backing out, bumping into Jordan. “I guess not,” said Diane, pushing Jordan outside. “This is not the place of women. This is the place of the men-only bar. If looks could kill I would have been dead in the doorway. Although they might have let you in.” “Bummer,” said Jordan. “That looked like the best place.” They had rambled all the way around a block and were back at the plaza, the kids playing games, and supplicants quietly stepping into the church. “Was there anything good down that way?” said Diane, pointing “Now is not the time of dinner,” said Diane. “That’s what Maggie was saying. Now is the time of going to the tappas bars.” Menus were posted outside most of the taverns and sandwich shops, with faded pictures of what was available to eat. “What’s panella and boccadillas?” said Jordan. “Everyone seems to have them.” “Boccadillas are like a roll with ham and tomato paste,” said Diane. “Paella is Spanish rice and it looks like you can get it with anything.” “Pescadillo?” said Jordan. “If that’s fish, let’s check this out.” He pulled open the heavy wooden door and Diane walked inside. A narrow, smoky, dimly lighted room and a row of men stationed along

across the square to an opening between old brick buildings.

“Is that a street?” said Jordan. “It looks like an alley.” “That’s a street here,” said Diane. The narrow cobblestone lane was more residential than commercial. Families were sitting out on balconies among the trees branches, calling across to neighbors and down to friends passing by in the street, their repartee mixing with the calling of birds and the echoing roar of a motor scooter zig-zagging past, then darting into another alley. Midway down the block was a tiny storefront with a sign that said: Bocadillas y Café.

a bank of flourescent lights. One of the tables was occupied by a man Drink Coca-Cola

In the window were fly-specked pictures of sandwiches, crossiants, and cups that might once have been steaming full of cappucino but had faded to ghosts of coffees past. Three tables, a counter with two stools, and an ancient, black ceiling fan slowly turning beneath

reading a newspaper. The table by the door was taken by a tiny, ancient couple sitting over coffee. The table by the window was theirs for the taking. “Fabulous,” said Diane, reading the menu. “They have ensalada

esparagaso. What do you suppose that could mean in a place like this?” She pulled open the door and stepped inside. The man reading the paper looked up, smiled, and rose to greet them. He was nattily dressed in a black shirt and pants and white apron. “Taulas por dos?” said the man, gesturing toward the window

Spanish fields, in the distance, maybe, the Pyrhenees. “What else is in the salad?” said Diane. “Ensalada?” said the cook, looking at Diane like she must be retarded while counting off the ingredients on his fingers. “Ensalada a los lettucio, y los tomat, y el pepper verde, y olivios, y dhuna.” “Letucio, y tomat, y pepper verde, y olivios,” said Diane. “Bueno.

seats. “Si,” said Diane. “Taulos por dos. Taulos means table?” “Si, taulos means table,” said the man, leading them to the table and pulling out a chair for Diane.

These things I know. Perfecto. But what is dhuna?” “Dhuna?” said the cook. “Dhuna es un pescadillo.” “Pescadillo?” said Diane. “Pescadillo is fish?”

“You have ensalada?” said Diane. “Asparagasa ensalada?”

“Si,” said the man. “Dhuna es fish. Si.”

“Si,” the man nodded happily, bringing out menus and pointing at

“Fish in the salad?” said Diane. “How can that be? Ensalada

the words. “Asparagasa ensalada?” said Diane. “The long, thin ones, you

asparagas with fish? Is it fried fish? Frito el pescadillo?” “No frito,” said the cook, clearly dismayed at the thought. “Es

know?” She pinched her fingers together, then drew her hands apart,

dhuna! You know, dhuna!” He turned abruptly away, dashing behind the

drawing a line in the air.

counter and into the kitchen again. There was the sound of heavy objects

“Si,” he said, repeating her gesture with his hands. “Asparagasa.”

sliding around on the floor and a sudden, heavy, thud. The curtains parted

“Fresh asparagas?” said Diane. “Now is not the time of fresh

and the cook came out with another commercial-size can in his hands,

asparagas. How can this be asparagasa ensalada?” The cook was struck dumb for a moment. “Una momenta,” he said, stepping behind the counter and passing through the curtain into the kitchen. In a moment he emerged with a commercial-size can and

and on the can a picture of a blue fin tuna. “Tuna!” said Diane. “Oh. I see. Yes. Tuna. That will be fine. Thank you.” With a smile of relief, the cook said, “Ensalada asparagas con

presented it, label-side up, like a bottle of wine, for Diane’s inspection.

dhuna,” and wrote it down on his pad. “And for you?” he said, looking at

On the can a picture of rows of green asparagus growing in sunny

Jordan with some apprehension.

“Boccadillo con jambon,” said Jordan.

“Not really, without staring, and that would be pretty rude.”

“Ensalada ou patatas bravas?” said the cook.

The couple at the table by the door were weathered, wrinkled,

“Patatas bravas?” said Jordan. “Is that french fries? Pommes frites?”

hammered by time, and intensely groomed. Hair slicked back, carefully dressed, looking almost alike. Had they always been so? Or did it happen

“Si,” said the cook, smiling at Jordan’s asperity. “Patatas bravas es pommes frites.”

gradually after half a century of living together? “Well, do you think they’re gay?”

“Bueno,” said Jordan. “Bocadillo, patatas bravas, and cerveza.”

“Of course they’re not gay,” said Diane. “That’s a man and wife.”

“Cervaza por dos?” said the cook, looking from Jordan to Diane.

“Which is which?” said Jordan.

“No,” said Diane, “no cervaza for me. For me, aqua.”

“The one on the other side is the lady, can’t you see her skirt?”

“Agua,” said the cook. “Agua fresca or aqua carbonera?”

“I can’t see her skirt from where I’m sitting. What I’m wondering is…is that how we’re going to end up?”

The cook returned with two bottles; sparkling water for Diane,

“If we’re lucky. If we live that long.”

and a red can of beer for Jordan, opening them both and pouring. Ducking behind the curtain again, he was not to be seen again for rather a long time.

Jordan and Diane sat at their table watching the street like watching a neighborhood soap opera with a storyline developing over

“Cheers,” said Jordan, lifting his glass.

centuries. The police car slowly trawling the narrow lane, pausing often

“Le chaim,” said Diane.

for the officers to stop and chat with people on their porches and leaning

They drank and then Jordan closely examined the logo printed

over their balconies. There was a young man going door to door with a

on the can. “Estrella is a beer? We should bring home a six pack for

shoulder bag and he appeared to be selling something, exchanging cash

Estralla.”

for receipts. He came into the restaurant and when the cook appeared,

“She’ll love it,” said Diane, “when she finds out there’s a beer named after her in Spain.” “Can you see those guys at the next table?” Jordan whispered.

greeted him warmly, handing him a newsletter from his bag. The cook flipped through the pages, voicing his approval. There was some negotiation, the cook asking questions, the young man having all the

right answers. They soon came to an agreement and the cook, taking

are talismans. Where the money comes from is another story. Put it

money out of the till, paid the fellow, received a receipt, and returned to

together and what you get is a story of love and travel in an age of terror.

the kitchen. Jordan and Diane could hear the sound of patatas bravas dropped

In the morning, they discovered there were wheels on their beds.

into a fryer and then more of the chopping sounds, and small appliances

Wheeling them together was easy, the only problem was being careful

whirring.

not to fall through the crack.

“How can it take so long to make a sandwich and salad?” said Jordan. “Does he have to send out for lettuce from the escuela agricolca?” “He’s back there right now making that salad for me,” said Diane.

Diane was putting on her face and having issues with her hair. Jordan went downstairs with the camera. A group of about half a dozen men, sharply dressed, some in dark business suits, some in more casual

“None of this is prepared ahead of time. This is his business and I bet he

professional shirts and slacks, stood just outside the entrance, speaking

lives upstairs. This is what we’re here for Jordan.”

easily, most of them smoking cigarettes.

And when at last their meal arrived it was bueno. Jordan over-

“Scuze,” said Jordan, passing through them. He nodded, smiled,

tipped, as usual. When Jordan and Diane left the bocateria the old couple

crossed the street to take a picture. Carefully keeping the men’s group out

were still at their table by the door, quietly talking over cups emptied

of his view finder, Jordan took one picture of the hotel, scuze-ed his way

long ago.

through the men, and went back upstairs to the room. “Time for a Safety Break?” said Diane. There was a thin baggy of

After dinner, Jordan and Diane returned to the hotel and were

fuzzy green stuff and tiny buds spread out on the dresser.

both asleep by 8:30. Jet lage hit Jordan just after midnight. He was wide

“Oh man,” said Jordan. “Do you think we need that?”

awake in the bathroom, sitting on a towel on the toilet lid, writing in his

“It’s not a need,” said Diane, “it’s a want. Why not now? I don’t

journal. Living in hotels for two weeks—is that where this story is going? Traveling is all about spending and what money will get you. Receipts

think Barcelona’s going to be any better place to indulge.” “Better here than there, better now than later.” “That’s what you always say.”

Boats were scattered about like toys. A mobile crane on caterpillar tracks labored to launch a jet ski while another rough beast came rearing up out of the water. Too cold for swimming, but some few were in there anyway, splashing and shouting about it.