Joan and Margaret, best friends in high school and out of touch since, live on opposite sides of the world. Joan belongs to an esoteric sect of fundamentalist Christians; Margaret is an easygoing Buddhist. Joan lives with her husband, Phil, a plumber, and their seven children near Westphalia, Kansas. Margaret, a journalist and photographer, lives in Stuttgart, Germany, with her only child Anais.
At their thirtieth high school reunion in Belmont, California, Margaret won the Came Farthest To Attend award and Joan won Parent of the Youngest Child award—her seventh child born twenty years after her sixth.
“Not really an accident,” said Joan as she accepted the award, rosy-cheeked in front of her applauding, laughing classmates, “but certainly a blessed surprise.”
Joan and Margaret were drawn to each other after thirty years apart just as they were drawn to each other in high school. None of their external differences could hold a candle to the warmth they felt inside when they were with each other.
They exchanged addresses, wrote frequently, and now—two years after their reunion—Joan and her daughter, Paula, are spending a week in Barcelona with Margaret and Anais. Joan and Margaret have both just turned fifty. Anais is eighteen, Paula twenty-two.
Anais, her father Algerian, is a brown-skinned beauty with startling green eyes and curly black hair. She is fluent in five languages and conversant in three others. According to her mother, “Anais was born a full-blown adult.”
Paula is a big-boned blond with pale blue eyes, voluptuous lips, and a lifelong tendency to daydream. She is soon to be married to a hog farmer chosen for her by the elders of their tiny congregation. She expressed no interest in accompanying her mother to Spain, and only agreed to make the trip after her father commanded her to go.
ON THEIR THIRD day in Barcelona, Margaret and Joan leave their suite an hour before dawn to take pictures of the waking city. Anais, having stayed out late at a dance club, rises at nine, showers, and is on her way out the door as Paula emerges from the bathroom.
“Um,” says Paula, waving to Anais as if from a great distance, “are you going for coffee?”
Anais nods, hoping her dour expression will dissuade Paula from coming with her.
“Um . . . could I tag along?”
“If you want,” says Anais, forcing a smile. “Or I could bring something back for you.”
“I’d like to get out,” says Paula, her tone beseeching. “I’ll be ready in a second.”
IN A CAFÉ with high ceilings and colorful abstract paintings on brick walls, Anais orders their omelets and coffee drinks in flawless Spanish, then banters in rapid-fire French with an amorous young man from Mali.
Anais tells Paula in unadorned California English, “He says he’s got a friend for you, too.”
“Not me,” says Paula, glancing up from a fashion magazine. “I’m engaged.”
Anais lights a cigarette and opens her notebook to draw a picture of Paula. Anais has been sketching people and writing about them since she was five years old. What began as an imitation of her mother’s work has become the foundation of her budding career as an artist and writer.
“Can I have one?” asks Paula, nodding wide-eyed at Anais’s cigarette. “Might be my last chance before I get married.”
Anais gives her cigarette to Paula and lights another for herself. Paula blushes as she takes her first puff, never having experienced such casual intimacy with anyone.
“I took Spanish for a year in high school,” says Paula, shaking her head. “But I only remember quiero and gracias.”
“That’s all you need,” says Anais, warming to Paula for the first time. “I want and thank you.”
“You rattle it off like you were born here.” Paula laughs self-consciously. “Heck, I have trouble with English.”
“You’d be fluent in a month if you lived here,” says Anais, beginning her sketch. “You have fabulous eyes and a very sexy mouth.”
“Who?” says Paula, shocked. “Me?”
“Sí señorita.” Anais smiles at the nascent drawing. “Muy bonita.”
“Yes, girl, very pretty,” says Paula, looking up at the ceiling and nodding. “I guess I know more words than I thought.”
“May I ask you something?” says Anais, glancing back and forth from Paula to the page of her notebook—rapid strokes coalescing into a pleasing likeness of a lovely young woman just opening her eyes to the world.
“Sure, if I can ask you something.” Paula smiles shyly at their handsome waiter as he places the latte—a big green bowl brimming with steamed milk—before her.
“Un doble,” he murmurs, searching her eyes with his.
“Gracias,” says Paula, breathless in her first exchange with a Spaniard.
He nods ever so slightly to acknowledge Paula’s thanks and places a double espresso—dense black coffee in a miniature white cup on a red saucer—in front of Anais.
“Puedo ver?” he asks softly.
Anais nods, keeping her focus on Paula and the emerging image.
He steps around behind her and gazes down at her drawing. “De veras.” He looks from the drawing to Paula. “De veras.”
“What’s that mean?” asks Paula, watching him walk away.
“It’s true.” Anais nods. “Or . . . it’s truthful.”
“Um . . . Anais?”
“What?”
“How come they gave me a bowl?” She frowns at her latte. “You think maybe they ran out of mugs?”
“That’s how they serve lattes here.” She adds a few strokes to the sturdy chin. “So, do you want to get married?”
“Of course.” Paula drops her voice to a whisper. “It’s what God made me for. To, you know, be a helpmate to my husband and bear his children.”
Anais stops drawing. “You really believe that?”
“Never believed anything else.” Paula shrugs. “You think it’s stupid?”
“No,” says Anais, resuming her sketching. “I’d like to get married and be a help to my husband. I don’t know if I want to have children, but I’d like to be married someday.”
The omelets arrive. They each make silent prayers over their food before eating.
“So, what I wanted to ask you,” says Paula, waving to their waiter, “is about Buddhism. You and your mom are Buddhists, right?”
“De veras,” says Anais, curious to hear what Paula wants from their waiter.
“Sí señorita?” asks the handsome man, his gaze lingering on Paula’s lips. “Que se quiere?”
“Could I get a mug for this?” She taps her latte bowl. “I can’t get a good grip.”
“Pichel,” says Anais, translating. “Ella no puede agarrar el tazón.”
“Gracias.” Paula nods enthusiastically as the waiter carries her latte away.
“So what do you want to know about Buddhism?” asks Anais, resuming her drawing of Paula.
“Do you, like, believe in God?” asks Paula, her pronunciation of God imbued with reverence.
“In a way.” Anais adds the last few lines to Paula’s face. “Only I don’t believe God is some huge all-powerful guy living in some heavenly kingdom in the sky.”
“Well, then, what do you believe he is?” asks Paula, her eyes fixed on the approaching mug in the beautiful hands of their handsome waiter.
“I believe God is everything there’s ever been and everything that is and everything that ever will be.” Anais holds out her notebook to Paula. “The essential ground of being.”
“Wow,” says Paula, awestruck by her portrait. “This is amazing, Anais. It’s incredible. I look so . . . I don’t know. Pretty?”
“You’re beautiful,” says Anais, tapping her tiny cup to indicate she wants another espresso.
Their waiter stands behind Paula looking at the portrait of her, his voice sweet music in her ears—two words repeated. “De veras. De veras.”
