“Joaquín,” he said with a sincere smile as he unfolded the towel rolled under his arm and sat next to me.
The sloping grassy incline I’d selected was serene in the cool shade of the trees protecting us from the insistent sun on that early summer day. From that vantage point, one could easily see and hear the crowd enjoying themselves around the municipal pool.
“Martín,” I replied. He said, “Madrileño.” Without thinking, I said, “Habanero,” as if we both had tapped into some familiar and equally inherited cultural decree driving us to search for a common place for the conversation to start.
He was slight and shorter than me, no more than five-foot-five. Looking directly at him, I noticed first the long dark lashes surrounding brilliantly blue eyes. Then I noticed his gentle black curls. Seeing that I was staring at him, he lifted the arch of his brows and mischievously laughed, almost as if fully conscious that this action would make his eyes appear bigger still. He smiled at me with his eyes, and I found myself feeling self-conscious as I brought down my own gaze.
His face had a certain familiarity that I wasn’t able to place. It was a handsome face. His jaw was strong but without the exaggerated lines of a Hapsburg. His lips were full, and his smile was honest and bright. He had an average straight nose with lion nostrils flanked by widespread cheekbones. I thought that his curls perfectly framed the face. His skin was smooth, unsoiled, and it glowed in the summer’s daylight. The cadence in his voice spoke of his education and echoed the music in his eyes. He wore brown leather sandals displaying beautiful feet, tan pants, and a light cotton shirt.
We spoke of nothing significant for a brief time, but then the conversation continued at an increasingly relaxing stride. I told him about me, where I was from, how long I had been living in Spain. I told him that I worked since that spring at a hotel, catering to well-traveled tourists near Paseo de la Castellana, and heard about the pool from some of the people at work. It had been a long ride from the hotel to an unknown part of the city, and I had no idea where I was. I knew that the bus drove around the popular bull fighting arena just before I got off and walked to the municipal park, and I figured I could easily trace my way back.
“Un camarero,” I said in an almost inaudible voice, as to hide my embarrassment. But his response was positive, and he joked about the tourists’ willingness to give generous tips to the serving staff. “Entonces buenas propinas ¿No? Si, buenísimas,” I replied, proudly accepting his sympathetic remarks.
He told me that his family was from Segovia, but that both he and his sister were born and raised in Madrid. When he asked how old I was, I hesitated, not knowing what answer to give. He replied by telling me he was nineteen. I didn’t lie, and told him I was sixteen. He then signaled his desire to run into the pool, and I was glad that he’d asked.
Undressing came fast, given that we were both wearing our bathing suits under our pants. He placed the folded clothes under his towel and looked over to a grandmother watching two toddlers, and asked if she could keep an eye on them for him. She agreed, and I then asked the same with the shortest of smiles, worried about the few pesetas in my pocket, which was all the money I had with me that day. Noticing my apprehension, he placed his hand on my shoulder and told me not to worry. “No te preocupes.” His action bringing some unexpected relief. I let him walk ahead of me, happy for the opportunity to observe his physique.
I first noticed his solid Spanish legs—those legs that some Cubans called patas gallegas to describe men’s legs that are shapely from their knees down to their ankles. They were the same legs that I had always lusted after during my childhood trips to the beach, and were quite a contrast from my thin ankles and laborer calves. Our chests and body hair were proportionally matched.
Joaquín found an open spot and quickly jumped in the pool. In an unplanned urge to show off, I ran up the tall ladder to bounce off the diving board. We tried to swim, but the pool was crowded, so we soon decided to leave.
With late afternoon approaching, we looked at each other without speaking a word, and in synchrony got dressed, folded our towels, and started to walk.
He said he had his car with him, and asked if I wanted a ride. I said yes, but feeling ashamed of letting him see me get out in front of the prostitute’s door, I told him to drop me off at Puerta del Sol.
d
The ride down the beautiful broad and unfamiliar avenues felt like a perfect ending to a perfect afternoon. Joaquín seemed quite content to drive in silence as I looked out of my window, leaning forward to better see what was ahead, or turned back to catch one last glance of the scenery. Riding in his car felt as magical as my first guaguita ride had felt. Every time he smiled at me, the child in me rejoiced, and I felt as if my spirit was free.
As we approached the Cibeles fountain, the jubilant pleasure of being in recognized territory made me feel safe, and I gazed at him with enormous eyes. He grinned and gently mussed my hair between gear shifts.
The tiny black sedan continued down El Paseo del Prado and past the Neptuno fountain before turning. Unexpectedly, he asked if I wanted to meet him at El Retiro park the next day. Elated, I agreed, and I could see he was pleased that I had.
d
We were near the busy square of Puerta del Sol, in the heart of the city, when he quickly pulled over to drop me off. Leaning near, he gently kissed my cheek and reminded me that we were meeting the next day. Puzzled as to how I should respond, I held his hand for an instant, before quickly getting out of the car. For that brief lightheaded moment, my life once again had become a joyful whisper in time.
d
I stood on the sidewalk and waved as he drove away, overcome by the same freedom and contentment that I had only felt on my own at the farm. I just stood there inhaling my delight at the dawning realization that such emotion could be experienced with someone of my own age at my side.
d
Deliberately, I slowed my pace as I walked across the square and down the crowded streets. I was in no hurry to get home. What was waiting there for me? I didn’t want to walk down Mesón de Paredes, only to lock myself inside my windowless pantry bedroom.
In a haze, I had lost track of where I was and stopped to gain my bearing, only to see that Tirso de Molina was across the street.
With my heart filled with joy, I darted through the traffic to walk into the small triangular park, and sat under a tree to watch the people around me.
The cloudless day had turned into a starry night above. I made no effort to get up and go.