Page 35 of Sol
“It can take at least two or three years living in a country to become fluent in another language. Here, we are trying to learn how to connect two languages together. You’re not going to know all of the vocabulary by the end of this week or the end of this class. Just do yourbest.”
Although she didn’t call on me, I wasn’t going anywhere because I was completely under her rule. I’d forgotten what that was like. I hadn’t been under submission like this since I was a new recruit inboot.
In the army, they told us when to eat peanut butter sandwiches, take a shit, and sleep. Of course in my unit, you’d sleep fitfully for three hours and then be roused at one in the morning to position a mortar to fire at a couple of members of the Taliban who had a homemade bomb. So there wasn’t much sleeping goingon.
But now I’d come full circle and was right back into being ordered around. A stupid fucking bastard ceding authority, again, voluntarily. I seemed to always let something be in control of me, whether it was the army, a teacher, or my dailyschedules.
I raised my hand. “Dani?”
“Professor,” she corrected with aglare.
Chastened, I said, “Professor Anderson. May we use Google translate to check ourwork?”
Her response came back snippy. “No. You can use a Spanish-English dictionary or yourpartner.”
I turned to Didi, who normally fared better than me. Time for me to focus on translation. I might as well learn something while I washere.
“Practice, practice, practice,” she said. “You need to practice your translation every chance youcan.”
I was gonna need that practice or my Spanish would stayawful.
That Latin lover came over to me during the mid-section break—a two-hour class was too long to go without one—and extended his hand, all formal andshit.
I stood too, and ended up being about a half a head taller than him. He made up for his typical-for-Spain height with a firm, macho grip. Mine was stronger,though.
“I am Gustavo,” he said, pronouncing each word importantly, as if it were an honor for me to meethim.
“Trent.” He bowed, a gracious movement. We sat and he gestured at me, his machismo giving in to his eager desire to practice his English. For once I was a fucking expert insomething.
But his next words made me laugh for real. “You look like James Dean. With theLeveesand your white T-shirt. You are Rebel Without a Cause.” He grinned like he had bestowed upon me a royalwhatever-it-isyou bestow on someone. A friend of his behind him bobbed his head inagreement.
And I had no clue what the hell he meant. Jesus, I even had trouble understandingEnglishin this country. “Levees?”
“Your blue jeans.” He achingly formed the words individually, like it pained him to say each one. Amazing how they just rattled off my tongue. I’d never thought about how hard it was to speak. He kept going. “They are very expensive here.” The h really seemed to give himtrouble.
And I finally got what he was talking about. My jeans. Funny how we say the same word two different ways. “Oh! Levi’s?” I, of course, pronounced it the rightway.
“Yes.Levees.”
Inodded.
Yeah, this class will be no problem for the next two months.Dani hates me. I don’t understand the way they speak English. Translating Spanish shit should be no bigdeal.
What the fuck was I doing here? I should justleave.
* * *
That evening,I went running. The long June days made it light late, although the Spaniards wouldn’t have dinner for a few morehours.
First, I passed by her place and pressed the buzzer. Her curtains moved, but no response. So I took off running on the sidewalk until my feet crunched the decomposed gravel of Parque Federico García Lorca at the edge of town, a huge park teeming withroses.
I needed the escape, the runner’s high. I also needed to get the fuck out of my Dani-obsessed brain and into mybody.
Fast, faster, fastest I went, my legs pistoning, the blood thundering in my veins. My ears wanted to pop, my side got a stitch, and I ran through it. I kept going, passing little old ladies and families sitting on benches. Everyone was out at this time, the first cool of the evening. Getting into the natural cycle of day and night would help the last vestiges of jetlag.
I wasn’t wearing a shirt, just cut-off sweats. I’d heard that very few people exercised in Spain, so I knew I stuck out, but I didn’t care. My brain needed to take out all the garbage of the day, of my life, and start over. I pounded the trails, the flat park dominated by the leafy, colorful roses, glowing in the orange-pink sunlight. Their fragrance infused theair.
After twenty minutes or so, I stopped and started doing burpees. Down into a push-up, jump up, and repeat. Fifty of them. Then I set off to run again, my heart rateelevated.
