the first part of a three part love story
By M.A.Meddings
Janine was weeping. I think more from exhaustion than anything, as we waited for the Gendarme to return. It was surprising, given her youth, but the strain was showing. The loss of both parents before she was Nineteen troubled her deeply, especially as she had always been his favourite, and he hers. They had that special bond, that exists between a father and daughter born in the latter years of marriage. It was a bond he and I never shared, though I know he loved us all dearly.
He was in his early forties, and mother just short of thirty five when she came along unexpectedly, yet not unwanted. And, from the outset, my father doted on her. Janine had the best of everything, and if I claim for my self the accolade of second best, it is with the clear knowledge that as his first borne, elder daughter, I at least had inherited, his no nonsense approach to life. Janine on the other hand, his perceived choice, had not. She was more like mother. A gentle caring person, prepared to give the benefit of doubt to the most unworthy of lost causes.
It should have been all the more natural therefore, that when mother was killed, in the prime of life, victim of a hit and run accident, that Janine would be the one father would turn to for comfort. It was with me however, that he sought direction.
He mourned mother desperately for what seemed like an eternity, completely lost without her, a shadow of the self assured parent we had both known. Thus, It was with a great deal of relief, that we greeted his timely pronouncement some eighteen months ago, that at last he might begin to live again.
He was going to take a full month off and go to Spain. Follow the footsteps of Hemingway. Visit the real Spain! Take in the sights, see a few Bull fights, and learn to play the Flamenco guitar correctly!
He had always tinkered a little with the classical guitar, became proficient enough at chord changes to busk at family gatherings, and had later on, when he had a quiet moment, mastered the basic techniques of what is loosely known as the Latin sound.
He could read a little tablature, was able to create mood with a mean 'hemiola' strum, had a run of the Maleguena, that started promisingly enough, but degenerated in the middle as he made a mess of the legato scale and little else.
Janine, myself and Aunt Rose, bless her, treated with an amused silence, and a degree of,
'Thank the lord, he's finally coming from within himself',
His profound assurance, that he would be doing it with the gypsies come this time next year.
He had to be dreaming, but still, if it kept his mind focused on something, a goal to aim at, it would certainly keep him from pining for my mother.
It was Aunt Rose, who finally alerted Janine and I to the fact, that something was definitely not right.
'Sally!
I tell you! He was due back a week on Sunday! It's not like him, to deviate from a plan. You know what a stickler he was for being on time. Never gave your mother a second if it meant they were going to be late for anything'. Miss his plane? Never'!
'But Aunt',
said Janine,
'Perhaps he decided to stay on for an extra week, after all, he is his own man now, and besides, maybe he met someone, someone his own age, you know what I mean, things like that happen. I'm sure mommy wouldn't want him to be on his own forever. He's still a relatively good looking man. You never know, maybe he's met a rich widow or something. Or!
She paused mischievously for a second, gave a wry little smile,
'Maybe, he's gone off with the gypsies just like he always said he would'.
Janine was being flippant, her usual, irresponsible; teenage self, at a time, when flippancy was at it's most inappropriate. How dare she suggest, that he'd found another woman! Father would never do that! As for going off with the gypsies, that was Father just messing about when we teased him about his guitar playing.
He must have decided to stay on for another week. We could call round on Monday just to make sure. After all, if he had decided to take some extra time, there was nothing lost. He was, as Janine said, his own man since retiring early from the Bank some two years ago.
He and mother, had such plans to enjoy the latter years of their life especially now that we had left home. All the more heart wrenching for us all then, was Mother's untimely death.
By the end of October, we knew something was wrong! Father had for all intents and purposes gone missing! We needed the help of professionals.
The help, for what it was worth, came courtesy of both Spanish and British embassies. Yet as might be expected, with matters such as Sovereignty claims, the crisis in Iraq, and a host of more pressing political minefields, missing persons, were definitely low priority.
After eight weeks of little progress, it was clear that whatever help might come our way, it was definitely not through the embassies of either country. They advised what we did not want to hear.
'Matters were being dealt with'!
As soon as they knew something, they would be in touch.!'
'In the mean time, if we could be patient'!
They were sure all would be resolved.
Another month passed, and it was evident, self help, was our only course. A long visit to Spain was inevitable!. We feared the worst, but at least, if we went , we could attempt to retrace his footsteps, and the Spanish authorities might at least realise we meant business, but where the devil would we start!
Aunt Rose, was quite sure he had flown down to Madrid and gone South from there. He would have hired a car of course, used his bankers card naturally. We could try his bank, see if they could throw any light on the situation.
They were even less helpful than the embassy.
'Naturally, if we could have your Fathers written permission, we would be only too willing to divulge transaction details of his account',
was all they would say.
No amount of explaining, that the obtaining of his written permission , was central to our dilemma, helped persuade them. They had rules to follow, and by god they would follow them! The only access to his account, would be through channels and only if we could prove he was probably dead.
We were, a long way from declaring Father dead!
We had to fly out, and trust the judgement of Aunt Rose. Copies of his latest photograph would help, perhaps someone somewhere, might recognise him. At least we would have something positive to show the Spanish Police. If we could get them to treat Father as a missing person, then at last we would be getting somewhere.
Janine's tears really did the trick. The officer on the desk had returned with a woman who snapped a crisp command to the gendarme in charge of the reception, and we were taken through to the main suite of offices where we were served coffee and a snack, before being interviewed by the same police woman.
She had a kindly face, spoke excellent English, and outwardly exhibited a degree of sympathy for our plight. She re-examined the photograph of my Father several times, pacing up and down the office, pausing occasionally to console Janine, who by now, had stopped crying, as she sensed we had finally found someone who would take us seriously.
Ultimately, addressing me, she spoke in the crisp rolling lilt of the Aragon tongue.
'I suppose miss Tamason , you have considered the possibility that your father is not lost at all'.
And, before I could interject, seeing the flash of panic in my eyes, as I appreciated the enormity of what she suggested, she continued.
'You see Sally, no one is ever lost in my experience, unless they really want to be found. It may be that your father purposefully does not want that, and has covered his trail. No! no!, I am not suggesting he is dead, please do not jump to that conclusion, at this stage. I'm sure, he is still alive. How long did you say it's been since you heard from him?. Well, six months, is really not that long in cases, like these. We will check the obvious, through National records of course, but it really is too soon to assume the worst.
If you could come back in say twenty four hours, we may have the results of enquiries with the data bank. In the meantime, I will arrange for our people to check Airline passenger lists. You never know, if we could establish what flight he took into Madrid, we might be getting somewhere. It may be that he even hired a car at the airport. Please leave it with me, I know it must be difficult, but try not to worry too much at this stage'.
When we returned the next day, the Spanish police had indeed been busy. They had found the start of the trail.
'Your father flew into Madrid on flight BA 274 on September 21st. He hired a car at the Airport for a month, and returned the car to the Avis depot in Cordoba on October 19th. From there, the trail goes cold. It may be that he stayed in Cordoba, for a while. We are about to check hotel records in the city, but you understand, Cordoba is a big place, we have no way of knowing which Hotel, he would have plumbed for. Our resources for this kind of thing are, as I'm sure you understand, not infinite. In these sort of cases, we can only proceed at the best very slowly! If you can help yourselves to an extent, do some leg work, in Cordoba, It may be we will find out what has happened'.
Only too pleased to help ourselves, I thanked her for her consideration this far, and buoyed by her assurance, that if he liked Flamenco, then Cordoba was the place to find it, we took leave of Madrid and drove south into the real Spain my father had spoken of . In Cordoba, we reported to the local police as agreed with the inspector in Madrid, and found them sympathetic to our plight, but with limited resource.
They had been unable to find him, and to be truthful, Janine and I felt their help would be, if not grudgingly given, at least on low priority. There was nothing for it! We had some leg work to do for ourselves.
In the late afternoon of the second day, having tried most of the smaller tourist hotels in the city, we decided, on Janine's insistence, to try the more upmarket hotels. Father only sought the best for himself. Hotels designated at least five crown were his styles. Expensive we knew, but that was him, no expense spared at this stage.
The Hotel Melia Don Pedro, on the Avenue Du Prix had a record of a Signor Tomasin, staying there until the afternoon of 18th October, when he checked out accompanied by friends. One in particular, Signora Maria Capedia of Malaga. a regular guest at the Don Pedro, seemed to be enjoying father's, company most of the time they were there. Naturally they could not confirm her home address, against company policy.
We had no alternative therefore, but to report our findings to the police. They were reluctant, to treat our fathers disappearance as that of a missing person. given the circumstances. We had to agree with them.
Our father it seemed was anything but a missing person and we faced the prospect , that the police inspector in Madrid had touched the essence of the matter. Father did not want to be found!
Reluctantly, we decided, to cut short our stay for the time being, and, encouraged by the fact, that at least we knew he was still alive, possibly living in Malaga, we arranged for the services of a private investigator. He would continue where we left off, and by arrangement, Janine and I went home.
Twenty five thousand Pesetas a day seemed expensive, but Signor Morales, proved true to his word.
'If your father is in Malaga, then I will find him Signorita, it is impossible to hide too long in that city, leave it to me, I will call you within the week.'
It took him ten days, but he was true to form. Father was indeed in Malaga, well almost! Signor Morales seemed somewhat evasive as to the exact details.
' The matter of your fathers whereabouts Signorita Tomasin, is somewhat of a delicate matter. Are you sure, you want me to continue' ?
Janine and I could not wait. We hadn't been through all we had, to be thwarted by a hired sleuth wishing to spare our blushes.
Signor Morales, took us both into the confidence we had so richly provided for, and in a voice, reminiscent of my grandmother when she was about to impart news of a local scandal, he divulged all.
Father was not domiciled in Malaga! He lived in the hill town of Mijas, just North West of the City,. and, to all intents and purposes appeared happy with the 'arrangements'! Signor Morales seemed evasive again, but on my insistence that nothing would surprise or shock us at this stage, he decided to tell us the rest.
'Your father has, for some time, been living with a lady! Signora Maria Capeda, a widow, of impeccable reputation! It seems, she enjoys Signor Tomasin's company immensely!
The relationship as far as I can ascertain, is a perfectly respectable one! And might I add, there is no hint of impropriety. Maria Capeda, is extremely well thought of, has many influential friends, and has been instrumental in your father's rehabilitation'!
'I bet she has'!
was my immediate thought.
'The old dog'! And mother barely cold in her grave! I will show him rehabilitation, when I get my hands on him'!
Morales, sensed my anger.
'Please Signorita, it might not be what it seems. Signora Capeda, has her own reputation to consider. She comes from a very old and well regarded Andalucian family. Do not judge, lest you yourself be judged too harshly'.
We trusted his word. Janine, more easily consoled than I, laughed and told me to be more sanguine about the whole affair.
'Oh for gods sake Sally, lighten up she said, after all this is the 20th Century. Besides he is a free agent now, and as Aunt Rose said, mummy wouldn't want him to be on his own forever, so what if he's taken to another woman. He'll be less trouble for us! And ! '
She paused, for a second, her eyes mischievously twinkling in the late afternoon sunshine,
'Just think Sal, we will be able to come and visit if he does settle down. Think of the glorious sunbathing we might enjoy, and Sally there are other things, of course, more interesting than sunbathing!'
She paused to flash a less than discreet smile at the young waiter who brought our coffee, and continued in the buoyant exuberance of youth.
'See what I mean? We might even fix you up if you'd smile a little more, where's your sense of romance'?
My sense of romance, had been squashed; trampled on the alter of middle class values. The shocking revelation, that our father, had willingly taken to another, only two years after my mothers death, without a second thought for our feelings hurt. He had forgotten us, and the happy marriage he shared with mother.
In many ways, he was always a bit of a selfish devil when it suited him. Hardly surprising I suppose, given that. Mother always intimated, there was a selfish streak running through the whole family.
'Just look at your grandmother'
She would say, when I was being particularly difficult.
'She thinks the whole world revolves around her every wish, and you're the same my girl! A typical Tomasin'!
Janine brought me to my senses again.
'Come on Sal, don't assume the worst , it might be a perfectly innocent friendship, let's not judge the woman until we've met her. Drink your coffee, I'm sure things are not so bad as your thinking. At least we've found him, that must count for something'.
I had to agree, we had found him again! That's what we came for! Might as well go and see him now we had come this far. Janine, was right, only a meeting with our father, would dispel the deep sense of loss.
As we stood before the gates of the immense villa, set into the hillside above Mijas, both my sister and I were overwhelmed by the splendour of Maria Capadia's house. It was like one of those opulent Moorish style residences, one sees in the glossy brochures of travel agents, who cater for the more exclusive clientelle. It was a palace, fit for a film star, or a princess. Maria Capadia fitted both roles admirably.
Our appointment, was at four -o- clock. She sent her maid to greet us , with the request, that we make ourselves comfortable. Then, she kept us waiting just long enough for us to appreciate and wonder at the grandeur of her magnificent home. The maidservant led us to an opulent courtyard hacienda, so cool in the afternoon, that one felt refreshed and protected from the searing heat.
In the centre of the courtyard, there was a pool and central fountain set into the mosaic floor, so that the plume of water, sent skyward from the forcet, cascaded gently; in soporific splendour into the limpid depths, it's rippling enchantment designed to relax visitors afforded the grandeur of the house.
Around the edge of the courtyard, in huge pots of highly decorated terracotta, resplendent Hibiscus, wildly flowering in Carmine glory, flashed their blaze of colour before the bemused observer and added to an abiding sense of sanctuary.
From somewhere within the portal confines of the house, the sounds of guitar music echoed lightly through a series of speakers set at the side of the courtyard, and the muted beauty of the piece served to pacify all but the most ardent adversary.
We listened contentedly Janine and I as the rippling cadenza's hung on the evening air, eyes closed so that we might the more appreciate the passion and tragedgy of the gypsy tune. Then, we heard the click of a door opening off to our left, followed by the sound of a series of lightly clipped footsteps coming across the courtyard floor and our host presented herself to us, politely apologising for keeping us waiting.
We had entered there, Janine and I, with the determined stride of wronged siblings, on a mission to discover, the exact relationship between Maria Capadia and our father, but our youthful bravura was gently dashed from our grasp, by the shear grace and beauty of the lady who stood before us.
I watched the expression of awe on Janine's face and realised then , I had lost an ally! Maria Capadia was as charming as she was beautiful, and despite an initial reticence to give this woman the benefit of any doubt, I too was smitten by her disarming manner.
She was in my estimation something a little short of Fifty, with a texture of the skin, that women years her junior might only dream of. Her eyes were of the deepest green, with tiny flecks of fire, that flashed as they caught the light, and they seemed to sparkle as she took my hand , and then Janine's to welcome us to her home.
Her dress, of the finest brushed silk, was exactly right for her, having that touch of panache one might expect from one so obviously elegant in all she did. It was designed to perfection. Shirt wasted, with a wide dusky blue belt that matched the rest of the material. She wore it with an understated yet definite sex appeal, that enthralled.
Cut slightly above the knee,the shimmering flowing drape of the skirt,accentuated her long legs, so that as she walked, it moved alluringly with the accustomed swing of her hips. The neck line, was deeply cut in a long plunging loosely fitting vee shape, that she wore open, just suggestively enough, to allow the male voyeur, the element of suppressed excitement, that two buttons down might suggest.
That any man, would find her attractive I had no doubt, and I began to suspect , as she led us through to her pool side patio, that my father would have found her irresistible, given his zest for life.
Short story by lastromantichero
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Written on 2006-05-01 at 08:06
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The last Soleares by M.A.Meddings part one
The Last Soleares.By M.A.Meddings
Janine was weeping. I think more from exhaustion than anything, as we waited for the Gendarme to return. It was surprising, given her youth, but the strain was showing. The loss of both parents before she was Nineteen troubled her deeply, especially as she had always been his favourite, and he hers. They had that special bond, that exists between a father and daughter born in the latter years of marriage. It was a bond he and I never shared, though I know he loved us all dearly.
He was in his early forties, and mother just short of thirty five when she came along unexpectedly, yet not unwanted. And, from the outset, my father doted on her. Janine had the best of everything, and if I claim for my self the accolade of second best, it is with the clear knowledge that as his first borne, elder daughter, I at least had inherited, his no nonsense approach to life. Janine on the other hand, his perceived choice, had not. She was more like mother. A gentle caring person, prepared to give the benefit of doubt to the most unworthy of lost causes.
It should have been all the more natural therefore, that when mother was killed, in the prime of life, victim of a hit and run accident, that Janine would be the one father would turn to for comfort. It was with me however, that he sought direction.
He mourned mother desperately for what seemed like an eternity, completely lost without her, a shadow of the self assured parent we had both known. Thus, It was with a great deal of relief, that we greeted his timely pronouncement some eighteen months ago, that at last he might begin to live again.
He was going to take a full month off and go to Spain. Follow the footsteps of Hemingway. Visit the real Spain! Take in the sights, see a few Bull fights, and learn to play the Flamenco guitar correctly!
He had always tinkered a little with the classical guitar, became proficient enough at chord changes to busk at family gatherings, and had later on, when he had a quiet moment, mastered the basic techniques of what is loosely known as the Latin sound.
He could read a little tablature, was able to create mood with a mean 'hemiola' strum, had a run of the Maleguena, that started promisingly enough, but degenerated in the middle as he made a mess of the legato scale and little else.
Janine, myself and Aunt Rose, bless her, treated with an amused silence, and a degree of,
'Thank the lord, he's finally coming from within himself',
His profound assurance, that he would be doing it with the gypsies come this time next year.
He had to be dreaming, but still, if it kept his mind focused on something, a goal to aim at, it would certainly keep him from pining for my mother.
It was Aunt Rose, who finally alerted Janine and I to the fact, that something was definitely not right.
'Sally!
I tell you! He was due back a week on Sunday! It's not like him, to deviate from a plan. You know what a stickler he was for being on time. Never gave your mother a second if it meant they were going to be late for anything'. Miss his plane? Never'!
'But Aunt',
said Janine,
'Perhaps he decided to stay on for an extra week, after all, he is his own man now, and besides, maybe he met someone, someone his own age, you know what I mean, things like that happen. I'm sure mommy wouldn't want him to be on his own forever. He's still a relatively good looking man. You never know, maybe he's met a rich widow or something. Or!
She paused mischievously for a second, gave a wry little smile,
'Maybe, he's gone off with the gypsies just like he always said he would'.
Janine was being flippant, her usual, irresponsible; teenage self, at a time, when flippancy was at it's most inappropriate. How dare she suggest, that he'd found another woman! Father would never do that! As for going off with the gypsies, that was Father just messing about when we teased him about his guitar playing.
He must have decided to stay on for another week. We could call round on Monday just to make sure. After all, if he had decided to take some extra time, there was nothing lost. He was, as Janine said, his own man since retiring early from the Bank some two years ago.
He and mother, had such plans to enjoy the latter years of their life especially now that we had left home. All the more heart wrenching for us all then, was Mother's untimely death.
By the end of October, we knew something was wrong! Father had for all intents and purposes gone missing! We needed the help of professionals.
The help, for what it was worth, came courtesy of both Spanish and British embassies. Yet as might be expected, with matters such as Sovereignty claims, the crisis in Iraq, and a host of more pressing political minefields, missing persons, were definitely low priority.
After eight weeks of little progress, it was clear that whatever help might come our way, it was definitely not through the embassies of either country. They advised what we did not want to hear.
'Matters were being dealt with'!
As soon as they knew something, they would be in touch.!'
'In the mean time, if we could be patient'!
They were sure all would be resolved.
Another month passed, and it was evident, self help, was our only course. A long visit to Spain was inevitable!. We feared the worst, but at least, if we went , we could attempt to retrace his footsteps, and the Spanish authorities might at least realise we meant business, but where the devil would we start!
Aunt Rose, was quite sure he had flown down to Madrid and gone South from there. He would have hired a car of course, used his bankers card naturally. We could try his bank, see if they could throw any light on the situation.
They were even less helpful than the embassy.
'Naturally, if we could have your Fathers written permission, we would be only too willing to divulge transaction details of his account',
was all they would say.
No amount of explaining, that the obtaining of his written permission , was central to our dilemma, helped persuade them. They had rules to follow, and by god they would follow them! The only access to his account, would be through channels and only if we could prove he was probably dead.
We were, a long way from declaring Father dead!
We had to fly out, and trust the judgement of Aunt Rose. Copies of his latest photograph would help, perhaps someone somewhere, might recognise him. At least we would have something positive to show the Spanish Police. If we could get them to treat Father as a missing person, then at last we would be getting somewhere.
Janine's tears really did the trick. The officer on the desk had returned with a woman who snapped a crisp command to the gendarme in charge of the reception, and we were taken through to the main suite of offices where we were served coffee and a snack, before being interviewed by the same police woman.
She had a kindly face, spoke excellent English, and outwardly exhibited a degree of sympathy for our plight. She re-examined the photograph of my Father several times, pacing up and down the office, pausing occasionally to console Janine, who by now, had stopped crying, as she sensed we had finally found someone who would take us seriously.
Ultimately, addressing me, she spoke in the crisp rolling lilt of the Aragon tongue.
'I suppose miss Tamason , you have considered the possibility that your father is not lost at all'.
And, before I could interject, seeing the flash of panic in my eyes, as I appreciated the enormity of what she suggested, she continued.
'You see Sally, no one is ever lost in my experience, unless they really want to be found. It may be that your father purposefully does not want that, and has covered his trail. No! no!, I am not suggesting he is dead, please do not jump to that conclusion, at this stage. I'm sure, he is still alive. How long did you say it's been since you heard from him?. Well, six months, is really not that long in cases, like these. We will check the obvious, through National records of course, but it really is too soon to assume the worst.
If you could come back in say twenty four hours, we may have the results of enquiries with the data bank. In the meantime, I will arrange for our people to check Airline passenger lists. You never know, if we could establish what flight he took into Madrid, we might be getting somewhere. It may be that he even hired a car at the airport. Please leave it with me, I know it must be difficult, but try not to worry too much at this stage'.
When we returned the next day, the Spanish police had indeed been busy. They had found the start of the trail.
'Your father flew into Madrid on flight BA 274 on September 21st. He hired a car at the Airport for a month, and returned the car to the Avis depot in Cordoba on October 19th. From there, the trail goes cold. It may be that he stayed in Cordoba, for a while. We are about to check hotel records in the city, but you understand, Cordoba is a big place, we have no way of knowing which Hotel, he would have plumbed for. Our resources for this kind of thing are, as I'm sure you understand, not infinite. In these sort of cases, we can only proceed at the best very slowly! If you can help yourselves to an extent, do some leg work, in Cordoba, It may be we will find out what has happened'.
Only too pleased to help ourselves, I thanked her for her consideration this far, and buoyed by her assurance, that if he liked Flamenco, then Cordoba was the place to find it, we took leave of Madrid and drove south into the real Spain my father had spoken of . In Cordoba, we reported to the local police as agreed with the inspector in Madrid, and found them sympathetic to our plight, but with limited resource.
They had been unable to find him, and to be truthful, Janine and I felt their help would be, if not grudgingly given, at least on low priority. There was nothing for it! We had some leg work to do for ourselves.
In the late afternoon of the second day, having tried most of the smaller tourist hotels in the city, we decided, on Janine's insistence, to try the more upmarket hotels. Father only sought the best for himself. Hotels designated at least five crown were his styles. Expensive we knew, but that was him, no expense spared at this stage.
The Hotel Melia Don Pedro, on the Avenue Du Prix had a record of a Signor Tomasin, staying there until the afternoon of 18th October, when he checked out accompanied by friends. One in particular, Signora Maria Capedia of Malaga. a regular guest at the Don Pedro, seemed to be enjoying father's, company most of the time they were there. Naturally they could not confirm her home address, against company policy.
We had no alternative therefore, but to report our findings to the police. They were reluctant, to treat our fathers disappearance as that of a missing person. given the circumstances. We had to agree with them.
Our father it seemed was anything but a missing person and we faced the prospect , that the police inspector in Madrid had touched the essence of the matter. Father did not want to be found!
Reluctantly, we decided, to cut short our stay for the time being, and, encouraged by the fact, that at least we knew he was still alive, possibly living in Malaga, we arranged for the services of a private investigator. He would continue where we left off, and by arrangement, Janine and I went home.
Twenty five thousand Pesetas a day seemed expensive, but Signor Morales, proved true to his word.
'If your father is in Malaga, then I will find him Signorita, it is impossible to hide too long in that city, leave it to me, I will call you within the week.'
It took him ten days, but he was true to form. Father was indeed in Malaga, well almost! Signor Morales seemed somewhat evasive as to the exact details.
' The matter of your fathers whereabouts Signorita Tomasin, is somewhat of a delicate matter. Are you sure, you want me to continue' ?
Janine and I could not wait. We hadn't been through all we had, to be thwarted by a hired sleuth wishing to spare our blushes.
Signor Morales, took us both into the confidence we had so richly provided for, and in a voice, reminiscent of my grandmother when she was about to impart news of a local scandal, he divulged all.
Father was not domiciled in Malaga! He lived in the hill town of Mijas, just North West of the City,. and, to all intents and purposes appeared happy with the 'arrangements'! Signor Morales seemed evasive again, but on my insistence that nothing would surprise or shock us at this stage, he decided to tell us the rest.
'Your father has, for some time, been living with a lady! Signora Maria Capeda, a widow, of impeccable reputation! It seems, she enjoys Signor Tomasin's company immensely!
The relationship as far as I can ascertain, is a perfectly respectable one! And might I add, there is no hint of impropriety. Maria Capeda, is extremely well thought of, has many influential friends, and has been instrumental in your father's rehabilitation'!
'I bet she has'!
was my immediate thought.
'The old dog'! And mother barely cold in her grave! I will show him rehabilitation, when I get my hands on him'!
Morales, sensed my anger.
'Please Signorita, it might not be what it seems. Signora Capeda, has her own reputation to consider. She comes from a very old and well regarded Andalucian family. Do not judge, lest you yourself be judged too harshly'.
We trusted his word. Janine, more easily consoled than I, laughed and told me to be more sanguine about the whole affair.
'Oh for gods sake Sally, lighten up she said, after all this is the 20th Century. Besides he is a free agent now, and as Aunt Rose said, mummy wouldn't want him to be on his own forever, so what if he's taken to another woman. He'll be less trouble for us! And ! '
She paused, for a second, her eyes mischievously twinkling in the late afternoon sunshine,
'Just think Sal, we will be able to come and visit if he does settle down. Think of the glorious sunbathing we might enjoy, and Sally there are other things, of course, more interesting than sunbathing!'
She paused to flash a less than discreet smile at the young waiter who brought our coffee, and continued in the buoyant exuberance of youth.
'See what I mean? We might even fix you up if you'd smile a little more, where's your sense of romance'?
My sense of romance, had been squashed; trampled on the alter of middle class values. The shocking revelation, that our father, had willingly taken to another, only two years after my mothers death, without a second thought for our feelings hurt. He had forgotten us, and the happy marriage he shared with mother.
In many ways, he was always a bit of a selfish devil when it suited him. Hardly surprising I suppose, given that. Mother always intimated, there was a selfish streak running through the whole family.
'Just look at your grandmother'
She would say, when I was being particularly difficult.
'She thinks the whole world revolves around her every wish, and you're the same my girl! A typical Tomasin'!
Janine brought me to my senses again.
'Come on Sal, don't assume the worst , it might be a perfectly innocent friendship, let's not judge the woman until we've met her. Drink your coffee, I'm sure things are not so bad as your thinking. At least we've found him, that must count for something'.
I had to agree, we had found him again! That's what we came for! Might as well go and see him now we had come this far. Janine, was right, only a meeting with our father, would dispel the deep sense of loss.
As we stood before the gates of the immense villa, set into the hillside above Mijas, both my sister and I were overwhelmed by the splendour of Maria Capadia's house. It was like one of those opulent Moorish style residences, one sees in the glossy brochures of travel agents, who cater for the more exclusive clientelle. It was a palace, fit for a film star, or a princess. Maria Capadia fitted both roles admirably.
Our appointment, was at four -o- clock. She sent her maid to greet us , with the request, that we make ourselves comfortable. Then, she kept us waiting just long enough for us to appreciate and wonder at the grandeur of her magnificent home. The maidservant led us to an opulent courtyard hacienda, so cool in the afternoon, that one felt refreshed and protected from the searing heat.
In the centre of the courtyard, there was a pool and central fountain set into the mosaic floor, so that the plume of water, sent skyward from the forcet, cascaded gently; in soporific splendour into the limpid depths, it's rippling enchantment designed to relax visitors afforded the grandeur of the house.
Around the edge of the courtyard, in huge pots of highly decorated terracotta, resplendent Hibiscus, wildly flowering in Carmine glory, flashed their blaze of colour before the bemused observer and added to an abiding sense of sanctuary.
From somewhere within the portal confines of the house, the sounds of guitar music echoed lightly through a series of speakers set at the side of the courtyard, and the muted beauty of the piece served to pacify all but the most ardent adversary.
We listened contentedly Janine and I as the rippling cadenza's hung on the evening air, eyes closed so that we might the more appreciate the passion and tragedgy of the gypsy tune. Then, we heard the click of a door opening off to our left, followed by the sound of a series of lightly clipped footsteps coming across the courtyard floor and our host presented herself to us, politely apologising for keeping us waiting.
We had entered there, Janine and I, with the determined stride of wronged siblings, on a mission to discover, the exact relationship between Maria Capadia and our father, but our youthful bravura was gently dashed from our grasp, by the shear grace and beauty of the lady who stood before us.
I watched the expression of awe on Janine's face and realised then , I had lost an ally! Maria Capadia was as charming as she was beautiful, and despite an initial reticence to give this woman the benefit of any doubt, I too was smitten by her disarming manner.
She was in my estimation something a little short of Fifty, with a texture of the skin, that women years her junior might only dream of. Her eyes were of the deepest green, with tiny flecks of fire, that flashed as they caught the light, and they seemed to sparkle as she took my hand , and then Janine's to welcome us to her home.
Her dress, of the finest brushed silk, was exactly right for her, having that touch of panache one might expect from one so obviously elegant in all she did. It was designed to perfection. Shirt wasted, with a wide dusky blue belt that matched the rest of the material. She wore it with an understated yet definite sex appeal, that enthralled.
Cut slightly above the knee,the shimmering flowing drape of the skirt,accentuated her long legs, so that as she walked, it moved alluringly with the accustomed swing of her hips. The neck line, was deeply cut in a long plunging loosely fitting vee shape, that she wore open, just suggestively enough, to allow the male voyeur, the element of suppressed excitement, that two buttons down might suggest.
That any man, would find her attractive I had no doubt, and I began to suspect , as she led us through to her pool side patio, that my father would have found her irresistible, given his zest for life.
Short story by lastromantichero
Read 698 times
Written on 2006-05-01 at 08:06
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