Evert Taube's Funeral Marcus Brandelius

Translators note: Evert Taube's Funeral, a classic of modern Swedish prose, is, needless to say, a work of fiction, yet the external dates and details that carry the story are, for the most part, accurate. Since much of our knowledge of history and world events comes to us not from academic texts and encyclopaedias, but from the background flavouring and incidental details embedded into “historical” novels and costume dramas, I thought it appropriate to point out the following errata uncovered in my preparative research for this English translation lest readers go about citing for friends and acquaintances facts and figures concerning the countries of Spain and Sweden that are misleading or simply not true. ●

The Quatre Gats Hotel in Málaga was built in 1937, making it quite impossible for

Pablo Picasso and Carlos Casagema to have stayed there in 1901. The inauspicious boarding house where they actually slept was destroyed in the great fire of '32. ●

April Fools is celebrated in Spain on the 28th of December not April 1st as Carlos

seems to imply. On the other hand the latter calendar day is officially recognized as the end of both the civil war and the reign of the Moors. ●

Francisco Franco did not plan his own funeral.

●

Sir Francis Drake died of dysentery – not diarrhoea (touristas).

●

Though Evert Taube (1890 – 1976) enjoyed considerable popularity as the national

bard of Sweden and was indeed given an auspicious farewell attended by many of the rich and famous of the land, I have found no records to substantiate the extraordinary funeral

proceedings that Brandelius has Lars relating in the story. Greg FitzPatrick, Patnem Beach, Goa, India 2005

'God Damn Dog! God, crazy, mad, idiot dog!' After a furious, frantic swirl of wheels and skyline accompanied by the screeching of brakes, cur, and the insuppressible Adela la Chaqueta, the Ford Fiesta came to a ludicrously precarious halt on the cusp of the Barranco de Basura Ravine, while an escorting flurry of rocks and pebbles careened and cavorted down the mountain through a churn of dust which in dissipation revealed the tranquil azure of the Costa del Viento Mediterranean many miles below. 'Phew!' Lars observed hands – his? Chalky white in a frozen cramp on the steering wheel. The smoke and odour of burnt tires topped with a fragrance reminiscent of the disinfectant excessively dispensed by the maid at his El Molinillo apartment house filled the interior of the car. 'OK, I am all right' ... pobre mi corazón ... 'Don't move! Don't laugh, don't cry' ... qué solo y triste está ... 'Damn Dog! Should have run him over. I'm OK. Is this car really still? I should get out of this car as soon as possible.' Adela la Chaqueta, now without competition from the stalled motor, intensified her bulería, defiantly mocking Miguel, the Lion of Cádiz – both pitilessly unstirred by Lars' predicament. ...y es tan firme el querer ... 'Hold on. Whoops!' Did he not just now feel a slight, creeping lurch, forward? Would the zapatears and palmas of Adela's flamenco be the straw that broke ... such an absurd thought' ... que no lo puedo encontrar... Yet, remember that electric fan aimed at the balance scales in the Seville jeweler's showroom? Yes, when he saved one of his hapless tourists from an airborne surcharge on their purchase of a silver

necklace. 'Thank you, Lars! I would have never spotted that. World's best guide you are!' He cautiously moved his right hand to the radio dial and transubstantiated Adela into earringing silence, releasing phantasmal jaleos and desplantes into the cloudless lacuna sky save for one lone kestrel sailing 30 feet off-cliff, falco tinnitus. Apparently: He sat chill-still as thoughts of peril and death ran laps in his head. But the Fiesta was apparently not falling over the edge just now. He was apparently uninjured. Apparently all he had to do was open the door and step out and walk – or crawl, whatever, back up to the road which was apparently (don't look now) just behind him. Definitely: The door? Definitely hinged in the wrong direction. Definitely can't risk opening it. Wait for help? Hadn't seen a car for the last 30 miles. Definitely got to get out of this thing. If not the door then the window? Awkward – definitely too small. Lars searched his memory for an appropriate movie scenario – a fortuitous Saint or 007 outcome from a similar situation – found only Chaplin's tipsy-topsy Yukon Gold Rush cabin. Scant comfort there. With his left hand he pulled on his seat recliner and slowly tilted back his seat as far as it would go. From this position, by extending himself even further, he imagined he could reach between the rear seats and open the hatch door from the inside. He removed the parcel shelf, found the inside safety lock and released it. As the hatch-back opened he heard the sound of – not rock or gravel, but something softer – rolling lubriciously down the mountain. His windshield view-frame of the horizon seemed to drop a degree – or had the kestrel merely elevated her aerial watch? Twisting himself over the rear seat backs he pressed the hatch open with his head and shoulders until he was able to put his hand on the ground and support it on ... something plastic? An empty container of some sort. He continued this awkward exit until he was strewn out flat on his back outside the car – now with only his calves and heels resting on the floor of the car's trunk. He laughed loudly in spite of himself. He had landed in a foul bed of plastic, tin and glass: a river of receptacle refuse that splayed out over the ravine edge and washed down into the valley below. He felt trickles of garbage juice seeping through his shirt. A waterfall of waste it was.

'Lars? How come they are so trashy? How can they treat their beautiful scenery like this?' Their bus had stopped at one of the more famous views in the Sierra de Ronda mountains. The area around them was strewn with litter and his charges were more occupied with this man-made sacrilege than the enjoyment of God's original creation. 'You have to remember, that up until a few years ago, things people no longer needed naturally decomposed when discarded or got reused as containers or the raw materials for tools or toys.' He spoke into his microphone without turning to face his concerned countrymen. 'Prosperity has made what was once valuable now worthless, and, things are thrown out that no longer disappear of themselves.' 'But why here, Lars? Why at this beautiful place?' 'It has always been the custom to throw refuse over cliffs. Even the slain bulls at La Maestranza were thus disposed of, to have their bones picked clean by the Egyptian vultures in the Tajo Gorge 100 meters below. Before, everything was absorbed by nature, but modern materials are not, and it is going to take some time before the culture will adapt to this. Technology, commerce – the economy; these things change faster than custom and habit.' 'Well it's a crying shame,' said a shopkeeper from Gothenburg 'It's disgusting,' added a chemist from Uppsala. 'Don't worry, when you come back and visit us next time – this will all be cleared up. For now, try to imagine the rubbish as exotic shrubbery and don't let it spoil your appreciation of these magnificent mountains.' Dutifully, his charges restrained their Lutheran sensibilities and Nordic indignation and took another look at the view. 'We will be stopping in Gaucín for dinner in 45 minutes. If anyone would like to get out now and take pictures, you have 5 minutes to do so.'

He removed his heels from the trunk, his final connection to the Fiesta's balancing act, turned over hesitantly and crawled through the rubbish back up to the road and, oh no, remembered his camera. Nix, he was not going to risk his life even for a Nikormat. Better to call someone and get the car towed back up onto the tarmac. He remembered vaguely that

there was a highway bar a few – 4 or 5 kilometers up the road? After ascertaining that the car was motionless, he decided to walk to the bar and work off some adrenalin in the process. The dog, the agent of his inconvenience and near-demise, showed herself from behind a barberry bush as Lars rounded the first curve up the mountain. Ah it's a bitch ... belongs perhaps to some shepherd – a bucolic bitch! She followed warily along side him briefly before disappearing back down the road. Damn her! The bar he had remembered as having done a lively business turned out to be, after more than two hour's rather exhausting uphill climb, shut and boarded. As he stood outside, musing over the posters and graffiti applied to the building's forfeited facade, trying to make up his mind what to do next, he heard a motor coming up the grind. Diesel. He stepped into the road, and when what turned out to be a small delivery van approached, he resolutely waved it down. 'Hola señor! I have had an accident and need to get to a phone.' 'Are you injured?' asked the driver, motioning for Lars to hop in. 'I'm OK, but I guess you saw my Ford Fiesta on the ravine edge a couple of kilometers back? I almost rode it over the cliff.' 'If you mean at the Barranco? No señor, there was no car there.' Lars protested. Perhaps the driver hadn't been looking out for a car. Perhaps he had been looking in the other direction when he passed the ravine? 'You see, I almost flew off that brim trying to avoid a dog. I left my car there. Right on the bloody edge of it.' 'On the contrary, señor, I stopped and had a cigarette. I often pause and look at the view. I imagine that I can see the home of my grandmother across the straits. There was a dog sniffing through the rubbish, but no car.' 'You don't think we could drive back and check do you? I'll gladly pay for the gas – I'll pay for your time.' 'Señor, there was no car, believe me, please. Maybe it's better you get to a phone and call the police. It is possible someone has stolen your Fiesta. Prado del Serrano is only a half an hour from here. I have deliveries there. If you wish you can make phone calls and then accompany me when I drive back down again.' He looked askance at his garbage-scented

passenger. 'From your accent I can tell you are Catalan. Here in Andalusia we are not in such a great rush as you people are.' Lars smiled, he was used to this sort of mistake, but it never failed to flatter him. He had worked long and hard at his Spanish. 'Actually, I am from Sweden. You know Sweden? Abba, polar bears, Laplanders...' 'Yes – and free love!' The driver smiled the smile of one being in the know. 'Sure – all you want', answered Lars laconically, looking out his window at the rocks.

'As we cross the southwest perimeter of the Serranía de Ronda, the highest peak of which is Torrecilla, 2000 metres above sea level, we find the most important peridot stone massif in the world, unrivalled in its geologic composition. Here amongst the rare and endangered Spanish Fir, is an abundance of richly varied wildlife. Here you will find otters, mongoose, roe deer and the Spanish Ibex, and no less than 220 species of birds.'

'There will be a festival here tonight. This is where I was heading,' said Lars as they descended into the Santa Albertine valley and the increasing frequency of white stucco fincas indicated the approach of Prado del Serrano. 'A festival? Oh no señor,' said the driver who had introduced himself as Kiko, 'not a festival. Just some local arrangements in a poor forgotten town – nothing of interest for a traveller from Sweden, I assure you. The Feria de Nerja will be on shortly up the coast – now that you would enjoy. That is a real show – a spectacular.' Lars was well aware of the backwater nature of Prado del Serrano's little celebration and that he would most surely be the only outsider present. As for that lamentable exercise in commercialism in Nerja, he would no doubt have to be there with a bus load if he couldn't get Lisa to trade shifts with him. Thinking about work made him remember his predicament. What would he say to the office about the car? He hadn't a clue what the insurance situation was. What if someone did steal it – he had not taken out the keys, had he? He checked his pockets. Hell, that voids the coverage – doesn't it? And what if it had plopped over the cliff? What could it cost to get it out

of that ravine? And how? And who would pay? He? 'By the way, señor, the place where I am taking these goods – it's run by a Swede. Not a real Swede, but a man who made his fortune in Sweden and bought himself a taverna. In town they call him El Sueco. He will be happy to see you. He can help you with your car problems, no doubt.' The taverna Kiko spoke of was located in Prado del Serrano's inauspicious town plaza, next to Prado del Serrano's inauspicious parish church. The town had opted for a dependable water supply and exemption from Mediterranean storms rather than stunning views and moormentos as its raison d'etre. Though its stucco walls were just as bleachy as those of the famous 'white villages', it was not a place Lars would ever take his tours. They parked the van outside the taverna and Lars helped Kiko with a carton of cleaning fluids in through an open front door. Lars appraised the interior critically: Lofty, grease-tinted plaster walls sporting a considerable collection of black and white bicycle heroes; a provocatively unprurient Pirelli pin-up girl sans her calendar, some other firm's calendar, a wall clock made out of Fanta bottle caps. 'Not bad.' There was a small Osborne bull at one end of a long dark-wooded bar and a large Osborne bull at the other. Between them sat a thin stooped woman in black crepe who choose not to look up from her silverware polishing as Kiko and Lars entered the taverna. Glimmers of afternoon sun seeping through high and narrow oblong windows were no match for the incongruous blaze of incandescent and fluorescent light bulbs. The latter, in chorus with a buzzing freeze box, flooded the room with a tingling electric sizzle. The dining tables topped with asymmetric arrangements of Patxaran Zoco coasters, and surrounded with tubed chairs strung with green and black plastic weaving, were all empty with the exception of a family of sleepy blue-bottle flies. 'Very nice,' thought Lars, but there were lo-lights as well. Purple neon piping on an unnecessarily modern jukebox, a general lack of dust or other traces of legitimate patina on the liquor bottles shelved behind the bar, pretentious pink tablecloths, oil & vinegar dispensers disguised as intertwisted dolphins, and of particular perturbation to Lars, as a centerpiece at the end of the room, a large blue yellow-crossed flag warding a collection of red wooden ponies grazing underneath framed photos of their royal majesties, the King and

Queen of Sweden. 'El Sueco!' Kiko called to a man entering the room from a door in the back, 'Come and meet a real El Sueco! He has misplaced his automobile and needs to borrow your phone.' The proprietor, a dark, short, but good looking man of perhaps 40, wiped his hand with a dish towel before offering it to Lars. 'Du är Svensk?' Lars introduced himself in Spanish – while the proprietor continued to speak in rusty Swedish, 'Välkommen till min taverna, Lars. I 'm Carlos. Who would you like to call?' 'The police I suppose. And then my office in Málaga. Is there a constable in Prado del Serrano?' 'The Guardia, yes, but now is siesta.' Carlos looked at his watch. 'In another hour you can walk over there in person. How on earth did you loose your car? Have something to drink. Relax. There is the phone – you may call anywhere you like. Let me just stow away these articles our friend has brought us and then I will join you for a chat. It is not everyday that one has the honour of greeting a Swede in this town.' Lars, after getting no answer from his office in Málaga, sat down at a table and drank a cold mosto served by the silent, thin woman. 'Kiko here says you came to Prado del Serrano for our festivities?' Carlos called out from the kitchen. 'I am afraid you will be disappointed. There is an Arab tivoli in town and there will be a procession and some dancing tonight, but all very unexciting, very provincial, I assure you. You should go to Jerez or Cádiz. 'Welcome to a night of authentic flamenco; the sounds, sights and scents that convey the passion and the romance of Andalusia. Tonight you will witness the greatest dancing in southern Spain, hear the most fabulous guitarists and be captivated by the fantastic singing of the renowned and legendary Adela La Chaqueta of the famous Chaqueta family of Cádiz. The bus will pick us up again at twelve. Don't miss it!' 'Kiko is leaving soon,' Carlos shouted. 'He will take you back down to the gorge if you wish, but then what would you do if the car was not there. I suggest you stay put and talk to the police. Kiko will call us from Estepona if he sees anything on the way down.' Lars agreed. He got up from the table to thank the driver for his help. 'And Carlos, I think I

will go out and wander around a bit before going over to the Guardia ... see the town before it gets dark. I'll come back afterwards and we can have a good chat.' 'Yes, do so by all means. But, I'm afraid the curiosities, antiquities, and highlights of our little metropolis can be all amply surveyed in less than10 minutes time. Would you like my assistance with the constable? He's a relative.' 'No, I'll be fine.' Lars walked out into the plaza and asked directions from an old man in a woolen suit and dark blue beret.

'Immediately to your left is the Church of Nuestra señora de la O. Why “O”? Because it is the first word spoken by Maria upon the birth of Jesus. Constructed by master builder Alonso Rodríguez, by order of The Count of Medinaceli in commemoration of the victory of Jean Belmonte de Sevilla over the Marmadukes. Though begun in 1486 in the rococo fashion predominant for that era and very much inspired by Flemish lace designs, the building was not completed until the eighteenth century, though the oldest of the church's embellishments, the so-called Gothic Façade, was raised in 1572 and is considered by experts to the first authentic example of neo-byzantin architecture still extant in Andalusia. Keep together please!' Lars found the tivoli, by fording upstream (albeit downhill) against a flow of spent children being herded home by big sisters and grandmothers. It was truly a modest affair: a half dozen mechanical divertimentos and a few vans, their sides propped open offering games of chance with stuffed animals and what-all for the lucky. At the La Gran Autopista, three dark men in smudgy green overalls sat smoking, complacently following the progress of a solitary little boy with unusually large ears looping car 13, a purple and white Maserati, around a creaking plywood track. Lars assumed the men were Moroccans. He wondered just how little money they must make. And how little money one would need to make if one worked in a travelling circus of sorts and slept six to a trailer and ate only bread, cheese, olives, and tuna fish out of the can, and smoked Bisontes. Hard life – bringing happiness to the the little ones: set up the attractions – man the tills – pull them down – drive it away – set it all up again. One would, of course, become numb to the joys and excitement of the wide-eyed children. Such a big deal for them – such tedious

repetition for yourself. One would, no doubt, become cynical. Sad. Sad too – in tears, the little girl in a blue school uniform and white shoes standing beside an 18 piece merry-go-round featuring a pink elephant with wings. Crying perhaps for the price of a ticket. Lars remembered his camera. And the car. Shit – the car. He mentally replayed his accident in front of the Heros del Universo, a sextet of tin-barrel rockets relentlessly chasing each other in circles from the ends of steel beams, Herstellung in Mannheim 1954. A (perhaps demented) youth frenetically fired his ray gun at the spacecraft in front of him which was piloted by a starchy, white-uniformed woman – she looking quite pale, while down below on mother earth, a bucket of water and a mop stood ready to swab away eventual gastric upsets. On the other end of the fair grounds, a stage with a canopy roof had been erected and a jolly-fat musician with an accordion hanging over his shoulder was uno, dos, tres-testing a sour microphone. Around him youths were putting up coloured lights. A girl, with long black hair and a scar on her cheek stood on her toes to attach a lolly of pink and green balloons to the top of a wooden stage post. She caught Lars' stare and returned it with a blush. On your right: the town hall built by Antón Manuel and Leonor Gil in 1786 on land donated to Fray Leopoldo de Alpanmdeire by Napoleon Bonaparte. The exuberant decorations of the portal, flanked by two valerian buttresses, extended by elaborate pinnacles, contrasts with the simple exterior. It was here that Joana Trastamara, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, spent her final days, a woman remembered in the history books as “Queen Juana the Mad", mad for sharing her bed with a dead man for 19 years – her beloved husband Philip I, The Handsome, she, never loosing faith that he would one miraculous night rise back to life and take her into his arms. I will remind you again to keep your bags, cameras and other personal belongings tightly about you and watch your wallets. Though it was twenty past five Lars found the police station locked and he sat outside on the last of a short flight of stairs. In the narrow street in front of him a dog, bearing a strong resemblance to the casus belli of his misfortune, scavenged about, taking her time, refusing to make way for the impatiently honking driver of a pick-up truck loaded down with folding chairs. He wondered if dogs were not more insolent in Spain than in Sweden. Across the street from the Constable's office was an appliance shop, its display window filled with a chorus line of paste-boarded, high-heeled, pugnacious housewives, smiling, pointing-

at and displaying the price of indispensable modernities. 375,000 pesetas for a washer-dryer combo, struck Lars as being rather pricey. The door behind him opened and a tall, sleepy looking man in a rumpled blue uniform beckoned for Lars to follow him in to the police station. It was cramped and dimly lit. There were stacks upon stacks of paper binders tied with strings on shelves and tables. A framed photo of the Generalissimo draped in black bunting occupied a central position over the lone desk where the Guardista took his seat in order to deal with Lars' 'predicament'. 'Well señor, if you were so precariously parked at the edge of the ravine, then it is very unlikely somebody would steal your car merely for the pleasure of accompanying it down the slope. Then again they might have had a rope and pulled it up to the road. Or … it has propelled its own self back down the mountain much quicker than it came up.' He smiled for the first time since Lars had entered the office. 'Señor Hilgado from the taverna has called to say that a man named Kiko reported from Estepona that your vehicle is nowhere to be seen. May I have your insurance papers, your passport and your driving license, please?' Lars had his license – but nothing else. He couldn't even remember the plate number on the car. 'It belongs to my company – a Ford Fiesta – it is practically brand new .' He suggested politely that perhaps they could drive to the ravine in the constable's car and survey the situation for themselves. Or if there was maybe a mechanic with a tow truck he could contract? 'I am afraid I don't have a vehicle available at the moment, señor. And though there is a garage in town, the mechanic who runs it is quite busy with tonight's celebrations. Soon it will be too dark to see anything anyway. The bottom of the ravine is the jurisdiction of the guardabosques as it is in the national park. I will make some phone calls and see what can be found out, I will leave word for you with señor Hilgado if you wish. Under the circumstances you might have been wiser not to have left the gorge.'

'What is that pink building, Lars?' 'That is the world famous Morería prison, a jewel of neomeridian art, designed by the wife of Philip III, destroyed in the earthquake of 1783, and restored once again by Nicolás de

los Servitas. It harbours a sixteenth century Mudejar patio, lavishly decorated by Velazques and Ribera. Inside are the well preserved skulls of 7,000 heretics arranged in order of their heterodoxies. Evoking the reign of the House of Austria and constructed by Philip III in 1619, this magnificent structure has a baroque style tower which conjures up the days of the Arab occupation, but that was actually built after the death of the famous Cardinal Regent of Spain, Tomás de Torquemada. Philip V, Ferdinand VI and Charles IV all played here as young children. And Oscar Wilde wrote several of his most famous stories siting in that chair over there.'

Carlos was out when Lars returned to the taverna, but this time he succeeded in getting through to Lisa on the phone. 'Oh-oh, Lars,' Lisa's tone was not encouraging. 'That doesn't sound good. Björkman is going to flip his top.' 'Well, the car could be fine, Lisa – I am just having a little trouble getting back to it and it is pretty dark right now. I am going to spend the night here I suppose. Wait for a while before talking to Björkman, would you? I will keep you posted.' Carlos returned and offered Lars some wine. 'How did it go with Constable Méndez?' 'He is checking things out and will let us know here if anything turns up. Thanks for calling him, by the way. But now I regret not going back with Kiko.' 'Well, I have a room available here. And there is a bus that can return you to the coast tomorrow morning – so relax and take your mind off this business. Tonight I will concoct a nice dinner for you. Constable Méndez will be joining us as well.' 'That is most kind of you,' said Lars. 'So, now tell me, what were you doing in Sweden?' 'It was an account of a Swedish family, said Carlos, taking a seat at Lars' table. 'A family who stayed regularly at the hotel I worked at in Marbella. They “discovered” me and invited me to come and help them at their restaurant in Västervik. I was there about a half a year and then I moved to Stockholm.' 'Västervik didn't agree with you?' 'You know Västervik? Ingen trivsel utan ordning. that is the motto of that city.'

'I have seen that sign too, ' said Lars, 'but as I remember, it is written over a road leading to the municipal camping grounds? I don't think it is the city slogan.' 'Might as well have been. “No enjoyment without order.” Though of course it should have read “Welcome to Västervik: No enjoyment – despite plenty of order”.' They both laughed. 'Are you originally from Marbella, Carlos?' 'No, I am from Amargen – not that far from here. My mother worked in the olive cannery there. Did you ever wonder how the pimentos get into the olives? Well you could have asked my mother. Twelve hours a day she did that work. And I can thank my Grandmother for most of the upbringing I received. And yourself Lars, what brought you to Spain?' 'My father imported oranges to Sweden from Valencia. The 'Tutan Kaman' brand – prime quality.' Lars smiled at the thought of the label and the confusion it caused him as a schoolboy, situating the pyramids in Spain. 'I started coming to this country as a child accompanying him on business trips. I always felt at home here. I studied Spanish in school and got my first job as a tourist guide when I was only 19. Now I live in Málaga.' 'My father died in Málaga.' Carlos pointed to a framed photograph of a man in uniform on the nearest wall. An accident on the very last day of the war – April fools days it was. Tragically appropriate day. He was picked off a balcony by a celebrator aimlessly firing his gun into the air. We were very poor. I had 9 brothers and sisters.' 'I am sorry about your father but I am sure having so many siblings was a comfort. I was an only child,' said Lars. I always envied friends who came from large families. 'There is very little to be envious of, believe me,' said Carlos. 'Just a lot of competition and jealousy. Anyhow, after military service and a few odd jobs, an uncle got me work as a busboy at the El Fuerte hotel in Marbella. I am sure you know it. I worked hard – was a good learner, and I was eventually promoted to full-fledge waiter. Our guests were mostly English and German, but also Swedes.' 'Yes Swedish tourism is increasing rapidly there.' 'Well, this hotel world was quite a thing for a young man from the countryside. I was naïve and knew little about anything. I saw all those tourists with seemingly unlimited riches and

frightfully little cares. Of course, these people were on vacation, and I should have realized that they couldn't be expected to act like that at home, but I really had no idea of what a 'vacation' was, or what their “homes” could possibly be like. I couldn't dream that these people had ordinary, dreary lives like the rest of us. From this corner you will have the most advantageous view of the Al-Andalus Cathedral built on the site of the original Mendoubia Gardens. Remains of the fortified walls, extending over four kilometres, erected by the sultan of Almohades in the late twelfth century, are still visible in the streets. Notice the Greek inscriptions inlaid in the 24 carat gold that was originally collected by Francisco Pizarro as a ransom for the Inca King, Altahuapa. Beneath that are renderings of the 'Poema del Cante Jondo' and 13 other works of the great Federico García Lorca. Inside you may purchase curios, garments, articles of leather, silver, olive oils and local wines, plus various liturgical documents including replicas of a letter signed by St Teresa to the baby Jesus.' 'Are their bathrooms, Lars?' 'Yes, just beyond the Plaza, to the right of the Calle Mayor, you will find the oldest municipal servicios on the Iberian peninsula, designed by Alonso Quixano, constructed by Crescendi in 1634, it was here that the "autos de fe", the public punishments imposed by the Inquisition took place. As you exit into the square founded in 1307 by the Merinid sultan, Abou Thabit,, you will find the Café de Flores, where you will be served what are considered the most authentic sangrias in Spain.' It was at the El Fuerte that I met the Lundgrens, who came there regularly every year.' 'The family that owned the restaurant in Västervik?' 'Yes. I became good friends with them. They made sure that I was always the waiter at their table. I have a gift for language and they enjoyed teaching me theirs. Eventually they invited me on excursions in their rental car, though it was against the hotel policy and they had to pick me up in town. Their restaurant in Västervik had a Spanish theme. It was called, Viva la Spania and they would collect bric-à-brac to decorate it with. They said I could be their guide to Andalusia, but since I had been almost nowhere myself – in truth they were mine.' 'Senõra Lundgren would always do the driving. I remember how phenomenal she was at parking in tight spaces. I knew no woman who drove a car. The third year of my employment at the El Fuerte, señor Lundgren asked if I would like to come to Sweden and work for them.

What an opportunity. I of course accepted. They arranged all the details, advanced money for a ticket, and in September 1967 I flew in an aeroplane for the first time in my life.' 'Coincidence – that is the year and month I began to work full time in Málaga,' said Lars. A couple of men entered the taverna and Carlos got up to serve them. When he returned to the table he continued his story as if there had been no interruption. 'Señora Lundgren – Helena, she drove all the way down to Copenhagen to meet me at the airport. I was so grateful to them for everything. I was sure I had hooked up with the most sophisticated, exciting, kindest people in the most remarkable nation on earth.' 'But you hadn't?' 'Well at first I really thought I had come to Paradise. Everything was so perfect – so clean. “Where do the poor people live?” I asked señora Lundgren. “There are none”, she answered and laughed at these and my other silly questions.' 'Their restaurant was in the centre of Västervik, smaller than I had imagined, and crowded with all their collected souvenirs which they said would help to make me feel at home. I was impressed by the modern machinery in the kitchen, but, the food we served was bland, unexciting, even worse than that of the Marbella hotel factories.' 'They say the food in Sweden has gotten much better thanks to immigration,' said Lars. 'Perhaps, but what about the way it is eaten? You know how everybody rushes in at twelve sharp, gobbles their food like farm animals at the trough, slurp down a cup of coffee (Carlos put the word in quotes by holding up two fingers on each hand) and then by one o'clock a restaurant would be empty again – that's how it was at the Viva la Spania.' 'On Friday and Saturday we would serve dinners – trying to disguise the same dishes we offered at lunch with various garnishes, since we charged 3 times more for them in the evening. And the wine was so expensive, even those who could afford it would drink their own at home before coming – or outside in the parking lot – or even in the lavatory.' He shook his head. 'I had my own little apartment with a pantry in an extension to their house. I had expected to be introduced to their friends – to get to know people. Turns out the Lundgrens had no friends. They would work in the restaurant all the day and then go home and watch TV until it

was their bed time, which normally was very early.' Lars shook his head sympathetically. 'All the gaiety – the joyfulness of the Gunnar and Helena of Marbella was gone. We had nothing to talk about – we had nothing in common. They took me on a couple of car trips to some historical places – that was it. I was stranded in a town that was about as open-hearted, spontaneous and merry as an undertaker's office, in a country without soul – without duendo. Lars had heard similar tales from other foreign workers in Sweden, but seldom related with Carlos' intensity. 'It sounds as if you got off to an unlucky start. Sweden is really not all that bad.' 'I attempted to make friends with the young people who frequented the restaurant, and they would practice their phrasebook Spanish on me – it seems as if everyone in the town had either been to Mallorca or the Canary Islands, but no one ever invited me to their homes or to their parties. I ended up spending my evenings studying Swedish or reading in my room. And to make it worse – there were no mountains, often no sun, and an ocean with the charm of a Fuengirola hotel swimming pool.' A short, chubby man entered the taverna shouting excitedly. 'Carlos! Have you heard? Somebody has thrown away their car – like an old shoe. A Ford Fiesta: I wish that somebody have given it to me.' 'Well, you might be in luck Benito, because here is that somebody himself, a very nice chap from Sweden. Present yourself to him. If you ask politely, maybe he will give it to you.' 'You mean what is left of it by tomorrow', answered Benito. ' I hear the wheels are already in some farmer's garage and the gitanos are having a party down there right now with their torches, their wrenches and their hacksaws. Happy to meet you señor Lars. I hope you have good insurance.' Lars felt his stomach muscles tighten. 'How do you know all this?' 'Everybody knows,' said Benito with a shrug. Sporadic fireworks were heard through the taverna door together with the cacophonous stutter of a brass band warming up in the square. 'Nice to meet you Benito. I'm sorry, but I don't have any more vehicles to give away at

the moment. If you gentlemen don't mind, I think I will go out and see how the festivities are coming along.' 'Sure Lars, just be back in time for dinner,' said Carlos, 'Benito will be joining us as well.' Outside the taverna, eight men shouldering a float with statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary prostrated before him, emerged from the church. A crowd had assembled and Lars joined their ranks behind a band of youngsters playing tubas, trombones and trumpets. From open windows and balconies, villagers held burning torches to light the way for the procession through the streets. Long before they reached the fairgrounds, Lars caught the whiff of candied almonds and roasting chestnuts. The grounds adjacent to the stage were now filled with townspeople. Small children escaping their duennas darted in and out of various constellations of families and friends – allegiances of blood and obligation. The black winter night was playing host to a masquerade; the faces and forms of whose guests were disguised in masks of shadows projected by charcoal fires, refreshment stand lanterns, and a yellow three quarter moon that haunted the peaks of the Seirra Burmeja mountains. Here there were mysteries.. And watchful eyes sought out the clues. Who spoke, avoided, danced, drank, laughed with whom? Emblematic hints of impending arrangements and change. Family affairs, business affairs, affairs of romance. Lars stood with a group of young men clustered about a fellow who he assumed must be some sort of local hero. This man could point here and there in the crowd and make comments and jokes with guaranteed laughter and acclaim from his friends. He had power – but on what grounds, Lars wondered? Was he strong or brave, or was he just a bully. Hardly bright judging from the dullness in his eyes. The man caught sight of Lars and offered him a glass of wine drawn from a huge cask mounted on a wagon to which a patient mule stood hitched. Lars accepted graciously but avoided conversation with the men. On the stage, a band had begun to play and a few girls were dancing together. Their clothing was varied, some in jeans – some in resplendent heirloom dresses, hand-medowns from their mother's conquests of their fathers. There had apparently been some speeches earlier. A row of chairs were lined up on the stage and in the crowd could be seen distinguished greybeards with sashes and medals. He strolled about enjoying his anonymity; tasted lupin seeds and fresh coconut, doing his best to forget the accident. In one corner of the grounds he saw what appeared to be

a husband and wife with two teenage girls. The man, about the height of a kitchen chair, supported his distorted stance of legs with crutches – his face dignified but defiant. The woman and children who were of average length, stood close by his side. There were no smiles amongst them. He caught sight of the girl with the balloons from earlier in the day. She was undeniably beautiful – the thin red cicatrice on her cheek gave her an aura of courage and he considered for a moment asking her to dance. But she seemed well occupied with her friends. He chuckled thinking what Björkman would say if he could see his employee cavorting about at a Feria while the company car was being ransacked in a ravine. Could he loose his job? Possibly. After an hour or so he made his way back to the taverna. Perhaps Constable Méndez would have some news. 'Where will we eat?' 'In the Historical Museum itself, constructed on the site of the ancient Roman city of Lixus. That column commemorates the first voyage of Christopher Columbus in 1427. In the adjoining square, bulls were fought on horseback with javelins, a tradition introduced by Ibn Rushd, or Avorroes as we call him. On this spot five saints (St. Dulcinea del Toboso, St. Ignatius, St. Clavdia Chauchat, St. Francis Xavier, and St. Miguel Furey de Irlanda) were canonized.' 'After dinner coffee will be served in the fifteenth century Torre de los Lujanes, in the Plaza de la Villa, formerly known as the Plaza de la Plaza. The nine arched gateways, dating from the Middle Ages, are the work of Gómez de la Mora and celebrate the decisive Spanish victory over the English fleet under the command of Sir Francis Drake, who incidentally was to die in 1596 of an acute case of 'touristas' – a reminder to all of you to watch what you eat and drink.' The taverna was empty with the exception of Carlos, Benito, and the guardista Méndez. They welcomed him heartily. 'Are you ready for dinner Lars?' 'Yes Carlos, I am, thank you.' He turned to Méndez. 'Have you heard anything more about my car?' 'The guardabosques will make an excursion to the bottom of the ravine tomorrow. If you

take the morning bus they will meet you in Casaras. For now there is nothing more to do, but to try to think of happier things – like our local beauties for example. Come on, now that you have been out there – what do you say?' 'Exceptional,' replied Lars with a flourish. 'The most exquisite females in Spain.' 'I hope you saw Beatrisa Flores dance a fandango verdiale,' exclaimed Méndez. 'You would have recognized her by the swarm of young men buzzing about her.' 'But in Sweden, right Lars? In Sweden there are more beautiful women than anywhere else in the world,' said Benito. 'Is that not so, Carlos?' 'Pretty, oh yes,' answered Carlos, 'but cold as snow and soulless as store window dummies.' Lars offered the men a cigarette. 'That is a rather sweeping statement, Carlos, beauty is relative to the fancies of the beholder or so it has always seemed to me and...' 'Celtas! My gosh. Don't they pay you a decent salary, these travel agency people? Here, have a real cigarette,' said Carlos taking a pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket. 'Actually, I prefer black tobacco, but thank you anyway,' said Lars. 'I'll have one of yours, Lars, if you don't mind,' said Benito. 'Do they smoke Ducados and Celtas in Sweden?' 'I'll tell you how they smoke in Sweden, Benito,' said Carlos. 'First you must have your fags hidden in a trouser pocket. Never in your shirt where they can be seen. Then you open your package under the table and take out a cigarette like this.' Carlos demonstrated with his Marlboros. 'When the attention of your friends is averted, you quickly pop the cig into your mouth, light it, and pretend it came to you from outer space.' Benito looked to Lars for conformation. 'That may be so, Carlos', said Lars, 'but cigarettes cost 5 times as much in Sweden. If the prices were as high here I am not so sure how far Spanish generosity would stretch.' 'Before you came in, Carlos was just telling us about the generosity of señora Lundgren,' said Méndez. 'Apparently Swedes are not that stingy with everything. You must continue your story, Carlos.' 'First we will eat and then I will tell you the rest.'

Carlos – or perhaps it was the thin woman – had prepared a white gazpacho and a thick lamb stew with lentils and chicpeas which the four men now ate. 'What is a typical Swedish meal, Lars?' asked Benito. Carlos pointed out that Lars was in no way a typical Swede – a typical Swede, in Carlos' opinion, was a hypocrite, morose when sober, and beyond self control when not. 'Leave Lars alone,' said Benito. 'He has enough problems with his car. We want to hear more about señora Lundgren. Right Lars?' 'Well, Lars, as I told you earlier, I was living in a wing of the Lundgren's house. One night when I was reading in my bed, I heard a knock on the door. It was Helena. She had come to discuss some details about the next week's menu, but she was wearing only a night gown, which seemed very improper. It was rather transparent and beneath it I could clearly see her bra and her panties, which were red. She was much older than I, but nevertheless pleasant to look at.' 'You don't say,' said Benito, grinning. 'She came and sat by the side of my bed. I was very uncomfortable about this as you can imagine. I had never noticed the slightest impropriety on her part towards me. She had the notes for the menu in her hand and as she leaned over to show them to me, I could see all the nuances of her body through her negligée. “We are going to have raise the price of the paella,” she said and laid her hand ...' Carlos made a circuitous movement of his index finger in the general direction of his dick, as if pointing directly at that organ would exceed the limits of decent conversation. 'I tried to turn to the side but she held on.' '“Carlos,” she said to me, “I want you to know that we are very happy with you. Both Gunnar and I. You have done so well working here and the customers all think you are marvellous. You have made our restaurant something special. Tell me: Are you happy with us?” ' 'Yes, I told her, but I think this is terribly wrong. Please, Gunnar is my friend. You are my friend.' 'And she said, “This is about friendship. I want to do something for you, Carlos. Just relax...

we are all friends.”' 'She lifted my covers.' 'I protested: This is wrong Helena. Please!' '“Carlos. Lie still!”, she said. 'And I did as she had told me.' 'What a good boy you were Carlos – well mannered indeed,' said Méndez gaily. 'I forgot myself I suppose and I stopped thinking about señor Lundgren. And I...' At this, he looked around as if someone in the taverna other than those seated at the table might overhear this delicate conversation, but with the exception of the thin, stooped woman who was now somewhere in the kitchen, they were still the only people in the room. '... and I let her do with me as she wished. And she took me into her mouth and she sucked on me.' Carlos' narrative talents increased with the intensity of his story and his cronies listened eagerly, though Lars imagined it wasn't the first time they had heard the story. 'And after I released myself into her mouth,' Carlos declaimed artfully, 'she laughed and said: “that's a good boy”.' 'What did you say to that, Carlos?' asked Benito. 'I said ... thank you! I had no idea what to say, so I said “thank you”.' The men laughed heartily at this. 'You are such a polite gentleman, Carlos.' 'And then as if nothing had happened she picked up the menu again and asked what I thought about the new layout and I, like an idiot, continued the conversation and said I would rather we put this item here and that item there and we talked about what to call this and what to call that and then she pulled off my comforter once more and this time she sat upon me and we f - o - l - l - a - m - o - s !' Carlos spelled out the verb with due poignancy. 'And when we were done, she gave me a kiss on my forehead and without another word walked out of the room and back to her husband with the sweat of my thighs glistening on her buns and my sperm dripping from between her legs. Just like that, she returned to their bed.' 'My God!' said Méndez. 'I was of course shocked. I got up and began packing my bags. I knew I couldn't stay in

that home another minute. But there was no way to leave town in the middle of night – and nowhere to go.' 'For sure señor Lundgren knew what she was up to. And I assume he accepted it – condoned it, and perhaps... ' Carlos paused dramatically, '...even encouraged it. I could no longer look that man in the face.' 'After that night she would come to me 2 or 3 times a week. I had gotten to know a girl from town and I would have liked to have brought her home, but the possibility of señora Lundgren slipping into my room at any time of day prevented me from doing so.' 'Wait a second ... we just heard you say you couldn't stay another minute?' said Méndez. 'Sounds like you learned to live with this torture.' Carlos shrugged: 'It took time to arrange a job in Stockholm – at the restaurant Catalan in the Old town. I'm sure Lars knows it. Once I had a new job and a place to stay – only then could I leave. They didn't put up much of a protest when I said I was moving on. We just said goodbye: handshakes at the bus station, that was it. No one ever mentioned the night-time episodes.' 'To make a long story short, I worked in Stockholm for over three years. But my goal from then on was to make as much money as I could and then get the hell out of the country – to come back home and buy my own restaurant. I worked hard and I was good – they made me the head waiter of the Catalan in a matter of months.' 'You broke off all contact with the Lundgrens?' asked Lars. 'Of course! I never spoke with them again. But about a year after I had left, I ran into an acquaintance from Västervik and he told me that one morning the cook found señor Lundgren hanging from a roof beam in the Viva la Spania kitchen with a rope around his neck.' 'Oh, ghastly!' said the policeman. 'but it just goes to show...you know Sweden with only a few million inhabitants has more suicides than all of Spain and Portugal put together.' 'Yes horrible,' added Benito. 'Why is that, Lars?' 'Because Catholics can't count,' said Lars dryly. Cutting off the protests of Benito and Méndez to Lars' remark, Carlos continued on with his story.

'Yes, its a northern thing,' he said, 'and it can run in the family: señor Lundgren's father had emptied a shotgun down his own throat. And get this, my friend also told me that two weeks later señora Lundgren won a huge prize in the national lottery – millions! Now that is fate for you. I returned to Spain in April of that year. On the same day Pablo Picasso died.' 'Good riddance with that chap,' said Méndez. 'A trade-off in the whereabouts of ladies men,' said Benito. 'But surely Carlos, there must be some things about Sweden you miss? And why all these decorations on the wall over there if you detest the place so?' He pointed to the flag, horses and monarchs. 'I'm a good judge of character,' said Carlos, ignoring Benito's question and turning to Lars. 'I see right away that you are a decent man. You are certainly not a typical Swede; after all you have more or less made our country your home. So when I talk about Sweden and the inhabitants of Sweden, I know you do not take it personally. I am sure your views coincide well with my own.' 'Actually, I'm not sure that people are really that different,' said Lars. 'There are all sorts of people everywhere. I am sorry you found things so miserable.' 'I don't mean to say that Sweden is a nation of virtueless women, hypocrites, dullards and drunks, but...' said Carlos. 'Olé!' exclaimed Benito, amused with the innkeeper's diatribe and looking to Lars for some entertaining resistance. 'Well I can't tell you that you didn't experience what you did in Sweden, Carlos,' said Lars, 'but I don't think you should put down a whole nation – an entire people – based on your limited time there. After all, you only saw a small part of the country? And as for señora Lundgren, well, she was obviously lonely – she needed something. As you tell it, she had no intention to hurt you – only to make you happy. To give. Her sex was her voice – a window she opened for you. And it seems to me that, in a sense, she was quite brave doing what she did – she adventured your friendship and she risked your contempt.' 'Helena Lundgren was a whore, Lars, and if señor Lundgren had been a man he would have first cut my throat and then hers and fed us both to the Egyptian Vultures, as Pedro Romero threw his Elena off the Rondo cliffs into the void of the Tajo gorge.' 'That true story is the inspiration for the opera Carmen, Lars' added Benito.

'Thank you, Benito, I know the legend,' said Lars. 'Oh no, I travelled about,' said Carlos: 'Dalarna, Norrland, Västkusten. And as a waiter you meet an awful lot of people, you do.' 'But Sweden gave us Abba, Carlos.' Benito was disappointed by Lars' reluctance to take up the challenge. 'You're forgetting Abba? And that boxer who beat the black Americano. And the downhill skier. And what if the girls are like shop-front dummies? – all the easier to seduce them – right? Come on Lars, don't let Carlos push you around, man. What about free medicine and that tennis player with the figure-eight eyes?' '...and the chocolate and the watches,' added Méndez. 'OK, I'll tell you something about Sweden, said Lars, 'if you are willing to listen.' 'We are willing,' said Benito, 'if señor innkeeper is willing to fill our glasses.' Fresh wine was poured and the men leaned back to hear Lars' story. 'Do you know who Evert Taube is?' asked Lars. The men drew blank faces with the exception of Carlos. 'I would have thought you might have heard of him,' Lars continued. 'He is famous even in this country. One can see his music in stores down on the coast.' Méndez and Benito still shook their heads negatively. 'I have heard of him señor, and not only that – I have met him as well,' said Carlos. 'He came to our restaurant in the Old Town in Stockholm, where he would eat and drink like a prince, only he seldom had money to pay for himself. Someone else would always have to foot the bill – sometimes even guests from other tables.' 'It would have been an honor for them. He was a great Swedish artist...' 'He was also a scoundrel who stole the songs of Latin America and published them in Sweden in his own name,' said Carlos. 'What were you going to tell us about this rogue?' 'Well, I don't know whether he stole songs or not,' said Lars. 'That is not what I wanted to say – and maybe if he did, well that doesn't matter here... and, by the way, your famous Málaguéno painter boasted that he stole anything that could be stolen. What I wanted to tell you is that there is a side of Sweden that you never saw, Carlos. One that we Swedes hardly

see ourselves most of the time. A spirit that we are all blind to because it is hiding beneath the surface of our everyday lives– only popping up occasionally. That is what I wanted to say about Evert Taube – he helped us to bring out that spirit. In a sense he sought to liberate us – to save us. That was his mission. He was in some way, I guess … our Jesus...' At this the Spaniards laughed resoundingly. 'Why can't you Swedes have the same Jesus as the rest of the world?' asked Méndez. 'Because they've given up their religion as not suitable to their practical nature,' said Carlos. 'They've got more churches than bars up there, but there all empty.' 'Maybe so, I don't know. Perhaps we are religious in a more personal, informal matter than you Spaniards and that is why I can say that Taube is our Jesus.' 'And Helena Lundgren your Mary Magdalena I suppose', said Benito to more laughter. Lars continued undeterred: 'Evert Taube was an adventurer. He roamed the world on schooners and steamships, found romance, braved danger. He danced and sang and lived in a generally glorious manner; the Americas, Australia, France, Spain – those were the places of his odyssey and when he would return to Sweden and tell his stories, preach his gospel – so to speak, and well, we listened, we opened our hearts and though we could not all live like him, we could at least dream with him.' For the first time that evening Lars became animated. 'He didn't have much of a voice and he played his guitar or his lute, or whatever you call it, not that well, but he brought us out of the loneliness of our dark cold woods and woke us up to the sunrises and sunsets of our own shimmering archipelagos, which by the way,' Lars turned to Carlos, 'have nothing in common with Fuengirola swimming pools. He let us breath in the warm moonlit nights of the socolos of Central America, the pampas of Argentina, the ramblas of Barcelona. And it was not foreign to us. We understood because we had it inside of all of us to start with. We too had duendo' 'Salud for Evert Taube,' said Benito, crossing himself with his wineglass. Lars hardly noticed. 'He was not always practical. Though he was immensely popular and must have made tons of money – he spent it like water. He was always broke. And yes, Carlos, perhaps he

had debts at every other restaurant and bar in Stockholm, but it wasn't because he was stingy or inconsiderate – money meant nothing, he was indifferent to it – and he showed that by treating it as nothing...' 'OK, quite the chap, but...' Carlos trying unsuccessfully to break into Lars' monologue. 'Well, anyhow he died last year...' 'You crucified him I suppose,' said Benito. The men all laughed, even Lars. '...and he had a last wish. He wanted to throw a party – the greatest party the country had ever seen – his wake. He had planned every detail and written it down in his testimony. 'Like Al Caudillo,' said the policeman and the other Spaniards nodded. 'Evert Taube was 85 years old when he died – no longer an artist with records on hit lists or standing-room-only performances, but his aura – his mission, had touched every Swede. His body was placed in a specially built glass mausoleum with his vacarro hat and his lute – or whatever you call it, and pictures of his beloved wife– smack in the middle of town, and the crowds stood in line for hours to file past him – so many flowers you have never seen.' 'On the day of the funeral, the factories, schools, shops and offices of Stockholm were closed at noon. His songs were played, and poems and stories read, on radio and television. The international press spoke of a nation in mourning, but in truth we were a nation in celebration. We celebrated what he had given us. The curtain was not coming down – no one lives for ever. There is nothing to mourn when an 85 year old man's life comes to an end. The curtain was rising. We knew that. We were thankful for that.' 'The cortège ran through the streets of the city. Taube lay in in a casket fashioned out of rosewood by the country's greatest guitar makers, placed on a catafalque decked out in roses on a wagon drawn by a team of 14 horses, accompanied by a band of Gauchos, flown in especially from Rio de la Plata for the occasion, courtesy of the Argentina government...' 'Hmm, they could have saved some money and brought in those fellows from Seville instead,' said the policeman. 'They could have visited the insides of enough Swedish pockets to pay their own way and then some.' Lars went on resolutely. '...followed by over thirty thousand revilers, all dressed in bright colours – as Taube had

requested that no one should wear black. This parade was witnessed on its journey through the city by an estimated crowd of 450,000, lining every inch of sidewalk. It is said that no inhabitant of Stockholm stayed indoors that evening. There were bands and orchestras on every street corner. Everyone danced. Everyone sang. There was that feeling of freedom – even love – I don't have the words to describe it.' 'Everyone was drunk, you mean,' said Carlos, tipping his glass to the others with a wink, but Lars took the comment seriously. 'Well, many people drank, and the authorities had made special exceptions with the laws to allow restaurateurs and bartenders to move out their tables and sell their fare on the sidewalks and streets, but very few people were actually drunk, at least what I could see. Not with the liquor, anyway: perhaps drunk with the occasion – with the spirit of that night itself.' 'I have never heard of this celebration, Lars' , said Carlos, ' and it certainly does not sound like the Sweden I knew.' 'The Sweden you never allowed yourself to know, Carlos. Do you know how it feels to sense that no one around you wishes you anything else but happiness and that their happiness depends on yours. That happens for lovers, sometimes for families – sometimes amongst friends, but, of course, it is not supposed to happen for cities or nations.' 'It can happen if you have a common enemy,' said Méndez. It can happen in a struggle: You can share love with those who share your hate for others. But you need an enemy. And you can kill that enemy and love each other ever the more for doing so. It happened in Rondo in '36 when the bocarones from Málaga drove 300 innocent men, women and children over the cliff in Ronda. The very same cliff used by don Emillio.' 'Yes,' said Lars, 'and that enemy showed their love for each other with reprisals long afterwards, and the killing went on and on all over Spain – an eye for an eye – blood for blood ... but on the night of Evert Taube's funeral there was no enemy – unless you wish to consider conformity and fear of living as our common enemy. You can “kill” such things with little harm done I suppose. But watch them, nevertheless, for they will fight back. They will always do their best to choke us.' 'Men are not made to live in such a happy state – men are fragile and full of fault. We will always succumb to the temptation to profit from our neighbors weaknesses,' said Carlos.

'In the long run, perhaps,' said Lars, 'but for some limited period of time – a day, a night, a few appointed hours – we can do so much better and that is what happened on the night of Evert Taube's funeral. And it happened for a whole city and in extension an entire country. And I am sorry you missed that Carlos – I am sorry you all missed that, because it doesn't happen very often. And the wonderful thing is that it made a lasting impact on our lives. No, you can't live like that always, but little moments can endure as sparks, we can carry them with us and we can light fires with them – at times.' The Spaniards were put back by the intensity of Lars' narrative. He was beyond their jibes ... beyond self-deprecation. He was preaching – and thus had become boring to them. The men sat in silence letting the music from the Feria be heard through the doors and windows of the taverna. They stared into their glasses. 'Bingo Crosby!' said Mendéz. 'What?' said Lars. 'Bingo Crosby,' repeated the policeman. 'The singer, you know ... “Navidad Blanca”. Perhaps he is the Evert Taube of Hollywood, the Jesus of the estados unidos. He just died in Madrid the other day – you must have seen that in the papers. He had just finished a sharp game of golf: they say he beat two Spanish professionals. They say he sang a bit for the spectators who had gathered to see him on the fairways ... and when the game was over he put his golf ball in his pocket, walked off the course, fell down and died. I don't know anything about his funeral, but, who knows, it might be such a great party like that of your Swedish Jesus. Lars looked at Méndez, unsure if he was mocking him or not. Was this fellow seriously comparing Bing Crosby to Evert Taube? Had these men understood anything of what he was trying to tell them? 'And where will we sleep tonight, Lars?' 'Well after such a hard days work steeping yourselves in the history and culture of this amazing land, you certainly deserve to rest at one of the most famous hotels in Andalusia, the exquisitely charming Quatre Gats in the Plaza Merced. And, surprise!, the luckiest of you will actually sleep in the very same bed as Pablo Picasso did in 1901. It was while staying in this hotel that he made a last ditch effort to save his closest friend, the brilliant but impotent artist,

Carlos Casagema, from the lethal side effects of his unrequited love for the beautiful Parisian courtesan, Germain. Picasso thought that by treating his companion to the beneficial joys of wine, women and song in the gypsy quarters of this city a cure might come about. But alas this effort had no lasting effect on his young companion's deteriorating mental health.' 'Thanks Lars, we sure need a rest.' Bingo Crosby! That was it – there was nothing more to say. The conversation ran down hill from there with some small talk and trivialities. The party was over. Benito wished Lars luck with his car, Méndez reminded him where to meet the guardabosques in Casaras, and when they had both left, Carlos showed him to his room. At first he thought of going out again – the music from the fairgrounds and the gay shouts of people in the street beneath his window indicated that the celebrations were still in full swing. He was tempted – maybe a dance with the girl with the scar on her cheek, but he thought better of it and fell into an uneasy sleep dreaming of himself, the dog, and Björkman's Ford Fiesta sunken in a bed of blue, yellow, red and green plastic.