SPANISH LESSONS
Roger, Ben, Dave and I sit in a whitewashed room in a house in the backstreets of La Linea. The four of us, in a pathetic state, sit in a line on plastic bucket seats behind a table. Opposite us sits our teacher.
Ben, in a moment of sober and honest enthusiasm for 'getting on' down here in Spain has booked us all a Spanish lesson, and only he has bought an exercise book and a pen. The rest of us hunch forward, clasped hands in our laps, fighting the hangover, the parched throats, the numbed and desiccated brain. Our Spanish teacher, a pretty Andalusian (a glance at her hand) but married, smiles benignly at us.
'Buenos días,' she says, brightly.
'Buenos días,' we breathe out. I notice that Ben, the bastard, has also brought with him a half litre bottle of water. I wonder how long I can remain in this room, cramped behind this table, when my mouth is so dry, my brain so addled.
'Cómo estás?' says Ben, soberly.
'Good! Good!' encourages our teacher. 'So, you are not beginners?'
'Nnn… No,' manages Dave. 'But we live in Gibraltar.'
'Ah,' says our teacher.
'We can get by,' I say.
'But it's basic,' says Ben, 'Cerveza, café con leche, patatas fritas, el bus, estación…'
'Hamberguesa con queso con patatas fritas…,' says Roger with a glazed vacancy that I'm completely in sympathy with.
'That kind of thing,' says Dave.
I nod in agreement and my brain wobbles about in my skull. I get a splitting pain across my forehead. Wince and breathe out hard and loud. Too loud.
The pretty young Andalusian wife looks at me with concern and rattles off some Spanish. I look back at her, frowning, clearly in some pain. She tries again. In English.
'It's nothing,' I say. 'Too many cervezas last night. Sorry.'
Our teacher looks at the four of us. Levels a finger at us.
'All of you?'
This time I don't nod but blink.
'We have a holiday from working on the ships. So we celebrated,' says Ben.
'But maybe too much, I think,' says our teacher, and smiles, and I can only feel envy for the man who has this woman all to himself.
'Not so good for learning today,' she says. 'Okay. Something simple. I give you five minutes and you make up a sentence. In Espanish.'
'Any subject?' asks the eager Ben, far too brightly in my increasingly sickly and pale opinion.
'Si. Any subject. Como vosotros queráis.'
The translation mechanism in my mired brain takes time to process, equate and evaluate our teacher's words. Carefully I lean back in my chair. I notice my companions, apart from Ben, also leaning, sighing, looking up at the ceiling and around the room and towards the windows and the open street beyond where the air in the shade is cooling, and moving, where cold cold water and Coca-Cola and Fanta and COFFEE can be purchased, where the refreshing sea awaits, where freedom from confinement exists.
The pretty yet unobtainable, and completely out of my league anyway, female looks up from her notes, expectantly.
My mind remains a blank. I've even forgotten the Spanish word for water.
Ben rattles off a long paragraph and I wait for someone to translate. He comes from Sheffield in England, he is nineteen years old, he has one brother and one sister.
I think: Interesting. I can use some of those word…what did he say again?
Our teacher is encouraged and praises Ben. He smiles smugly and then sits back to take a glug of his water.
I hide, as far as it is possible to hide while sitting opposite an interrogator, and taste the too many cigarettes I smoked last night.
Roger comes up with a simple sentence about the sky being blue and the sun much hot.
Again our teacher is impressed.
Dave says that the chicas in Spain are very beautiful and that the beer is strong and the wine wonderful. And that he wants to marry a Spanish lady.
Our teacher nods and says 'Aha!' prettily and looks down for a moment and a strand of her jet black hair drops over one eye and I watch as this effortlessly beautiful woman sweeps up the strand with a finger and places it back behind her ear. I think how wonderful women can be as our teacher looks up at me and I look away but she says something to me and I look across at the others and they too are looking around at me and I look back at our teacher.
'Erm…,' I say, 'Errrr…mm.'
Ben, in a moment of sober and honest enthusiasm for 'getting on' down here in Spain has booked us all a Spanish lesson, and only he has bought an exercise book and a pen. The rest of us hunch forward, clasped hands in our laps, fighting the hangover, the parched throats, the numbed and desiccated brain. Our Spanish teacher, a pretty Andalusian (a glance at her hand) but married, smiles benignly at us.
'Buenos días,' she says, brightly.
'Buenos días,' we breathe out. I notice that Ben, the bastard, has also brought with him a half litre bottle of water. I wonder how long I can remain in this room, cramped behind this table, when my mouth is so dry, my brain so addled.
'Cómo estás?' says Ben, soberly.
'Good! Good!' encourages our teacher. 'So, you are not beginners?'
'Nnn… No,' manages Dave. 'But we live in Gibraltar.'
'Ah,' says our teacher.
'We can get by,' I say.
'But it's basic,' says Ben, 'Cerveza, café con leche, patatas fritas, el bus, estación…'
'Hamberguesa con queso con patatas fritas…,' says Roger with a glazed vacancy that I'm completely in sympathy with.
'That kind of thing,' says Dave.
I nod in agreement and my brain wobbles about in my skull. I get a splitting pain across my forehead. Wince and breathe out hard and loud. Too loud.
The pretty young Andalusian wife looks at me with concern and rattles off some Spanish. I look back at her, frowning, clearly in some pain. She tries again. In English.
'It's nothing,' I say. 'Too many cervezas last night. Sorry.'
Our teacher looks at the four of us. Levels a finger at us.
'All of you?'
This time I don't nod but blink.
'We have a holiday from working on the ships. So we celebrated,' says Ben.
'But maybe too much, I think,' says our teacher, and smiles, and I can only feel envy for the man who has this woman all to himself.
'Not so good for learning today,' she says. 'Okay. Something simple. I give you five minutes and you make up a sentence. In Espanish.'
'Any subject?' asks the eager Ben, far too brightly in my increasingly sickly and pale opinion.
'Si. Any subject. Como vosotros queráis.'
The translation mechanism in my mired brain takes time to process, equate and evaluate our teacher's words. Carefully I lean back in my chair. I notice my companions, apart from Ben, also leaning, sighing, looking up at the ceiling and around the room and towards the windows and the open street beyond where the air in the shade is cooling, and moving, where cold cold water and Coca-Cola and Fanta and COFFEE can be purchased, where the refreshing sea awaits, where freedom from confinement exists.
The pretty yet unobtainable, and completely out of my league anyway, female looks up from her notes, expectantly.
My mind remains a blank. I've even forgotten the Spanish word for water.
Ben rattles off a long paragraph and I wait for someone to translate. He comes from Sheffield in England, he is nineteen years old, he has one brother and one sister.
I think: Interesting. I can use some of those word…what did he say again?
Our teacher is encouraged and praises Ben. He smiles smugly and then sits back to take a glug of his water.
I hide, as far as it is possible to hide while sitting opposite an interrogator, and taste the too many cigarettes I smoked last night.
Roger comes up with a simple sentence about the sky being blue and the sun much hot.
Again our teacher is impressed.
Dave says that the chicas in Spain are very beautiful and that the beer is strong and the wine wonderful. And that he wants to marry a Spanish lady.
Our teacher nods and says 'Aha!' prettily and looks down for a moment and a strand of her jet black hair drops over one eye and I watch as this effortlessly beautiful woman sweeps up the strand with a finger and places it back behind her ear. I think how wonderful women can be as our teacher looks up at me and I look away but she says something to me and I look across at the others and they too are looking around at me and I look back at our teacher.
'Erm…,' I say, 'Errrr…mm.'