Page 37 of Sombra
“Things are that old here?”
I nod. “They are. Older.” We walk to the beginning of the rolling hills of olives.
She claps her hands in delight, then grabs my hand again. She lives on an inhalation. Like she’s been waiting for an adventure, and now it’shere, and she can’t wait. She’s been a glass bottle of Coca Cola with the cap on, and now she’s fizzing, ready to explode. She gestures to the castle on the hill. “What’s that?”
“An old ruin.” I shrug. “It’s been there for centuries.”
“Is that on your property?”
“Yes. Our property goes to the stream down there,” my arms go wide to the side, “and off over there.”
“Canyou take me there sometime?”
The clear interest on her face makes me want to keep talking, to do anything she wants. “I promise, guapa.”
“Have you been to it all?”
“At harvest time, I touch every single one of these trees.”
Just like I want to touch her.
As we walk in the early morning light, her shoulders straighten, and she walks erect, taking in the property.The sunny ochre colors of the stones radiate in the sun, and our trees in the distances are shimmery, almost platinum-colored, laden with olives. The trees are getting full of fruit, but it’s not yet ripe. At least two months to harvest.
“It’s so beautiful,” she whispers, as we stand and take in the view. “I want to learn about olive oil. I don’t know anything about it. What I tasted backthere is nothing like what I’m used to.”
“You don’t have olive oil?”
“We do, but it’s been processed so much it’s flavorless like cardboard. Oily, but no soul. No character.” Her eyes scan the horizon. “Here, it’s closer to the land. It tastes different. Better.”
I agree. “There is nothing better for you than olive oil.”
“What’s over there?”
She points to theneighbor’s property. I cringe, not wanting to tell her too much. “They grow grapes and have the olive press. We have the trees. A partnership that has been in place for a hundred years.”
A partnership that drives me berserk. I don’t tell her about the daughter next door. Because I don’t want to think about her.
I kick at a rock and say under my breath, “Once I’m done with my studies,I’m going to leave and never come back.”
I hope.
“Really? Why would you ever want to leave a place as amazing as this?”
“I don’t want to recreate the life of my ancestors. I want my own.”
Those eyes of hers catch mine, and my body temperature rises. “We’re a lot alike.”
“We are.”
Under the dappled shade of an olive tree, she picks at her lip. I’m obsessedwith those lips, and I need to change the subject before I make a fool of myself. “When do you want to drive into Granada? I’ll be your tour guide.”
“The sooner the better. I can’t wait to go!” And she’s bouncing on her feet, her eyes alight again.
As I’ve watched her since yesterday, with her enthusiasm, she is a picnic on a red-checkered blanket in summer. Turquoise convertiblesand hamburgers on a barbecue. Big smiles and pink lipstick and lemonade. Elvis Presley and pinup girls and Niagara Falls and Death Valley and Las Vegas.
Everything I’ve always wanted. If I’d used my imagination for a very long time, I would have created her.
A change of subject doesn’t help, because no matter what she does, she’s anything but indifferent, which makes her irresistible.
