Welcome to Rainbow Man, a serialized novel about a grieving widower who travels to Spain to find solace and restart a life only to find himself entangled in the counterculture past of a younger woman.
Summary of Chapter 2: Robert meets a man on the plane flight to Madrid who insists that the European adventure Robert is embarking on is about to change his life. Spain, he says, has a way of doing just that.
Rainbow Man, Chapter 3
The door to the hotel was made of heavy wood, thick and deep brown, and recessed in the building’s white sandstone. It was late when Robert arrived, sometime after 10 p.m. His attempt at Spanish had sent the cab driver from the bus station to the wrong hotel. The driver threw his hands in the air in frustration when Robert realized the first hotel wasn’t the right one. There are two, he learned. Isabella and Isabel. One is a queen, one a saint. Robert’s rough Spanish had navigated the cabbie to the “queen” in the busy part of the city. He wanted the “saint” up the narrow streets to the hills of Albaicín.
Centuries ago, the Hotel Santa Isabel la Real had been someone’s home. A few small rooms surrounded a tiled courtyard. Robert’s room was on the first of two floors. The caretaker, an older woman, nodded as Robert greeted her in English. She gave him his key and showed him his room of white linens and mahogany furniture.
Robert placed his bag on the bed.
“Tapas?” he asked.
“Sí, señor. San Miguel, the plaza,” the woman said.
“Can I walk?”
“Sí.”
The woman motioned for Robert to follow, walked him out the main door, and pointed down the dark cobblestone road.
“Dos minutos,” she said.
Robert changed his shirt, brushed his teeth, and threw water on his face. He was tired but hungry and wondered what might be available to eat at such a late hour, on such a hot night, in a plaza near a church in a quiet neighborhood overlooking the city.
Robert had read about the late diners in Spain, but he never expected the tiny restaurants in the Plaza de San Miguel to be so busy, many of the patrons were regulars, it seemed, with a few scattered tourists. He heard a smattering of French and German, but most were fast-talking Spaniards who seemed to know each other. He took an outside table at Bar Lara with a view of the church and its grand wooden double-doors at the top of the stone steps, a few feet from the large public crucifix.
“Hola,” the waitress said. “Algo para beber?”
The phrase was not familiar, not anything Robert had read in his little book on the bus. A bit confused, but understanding the usual ritual, he assumed the waitress was asking what he might wish to drink.
“Sí. Ah, roja?”
“Red wine?” The waitress had learned to spot an American. “I speak English,” she said.
Robert was surprised by her accent. Maybe a hint of the American South. She was an unremarkable woman, the kind that would not necessarily attract attention. Robert guessed she was in her early 40s. Thin with ballerina shoulders. Her hair was short like a boy’s, dark, nearly black and delicately flecked with gray. She wore silver earrings that dangled to her cheekbones. No noticeable make-up. Large eyes that lingered on their target a moment longer than most.
“Oh, that’s good. I just got here. Not sure I’m ready to try to tackle the language full on. I have this.” Robert produced the translation book.
“You’re in luck,” she said. “Will you be eating?”
“Sí.”
“Aquí está el menu de tapas. Tome su tiempo.”
Robert shrugged.
“I’m just playing with you. I’ll bring a menu and that red wine. Grenache okay?”
It was still warm under the stars after a day of near 37-degree temperatures, 100-degrees Fahrenheit, by Robert’s calculation. He was proud that he was at least thinking in Celsius. Meters and kilometers would come later. He leaned back in his chair and breathed deeply, trying to settle in after the long travel. He swallowed one antacid tablet and remembered he had promised to phone Debbie, tell her he had made it safe and sound.
“Here you are,” the waitress said, placing the stemmed glass and a menu on the table.
“Do you know what time it is in the U.S?” Robert asked.
“They are six to seven hours behind. What city?”
“Eastern time zone there. Pittsburgh?”
“Six. I knew some people in Georgia.”
Robert now understood the accent.
“So, then, it’s what?” He studied his wristwatch.
“Five in the afternoon,” she said.
“I need to call my daughter. Got the international plan while I’m here,” Robert said, removing his cellphone from the front pocket of his pants.
“Good idea,” she said. “I’ll give you some time with the menu and bring some tapas in a moment. You know it’s free, right?”
“I heard that. But I have to keep drinking.”
“And the problem with that is?” The waitress laughed and touched Robert’s shoulder. “The menu, it has a lot of choices. I can help if you need it.”
“Gracias, senora.”
“Nice. So far so good on the Spanish.” The waitress winked and turned toward the door to the small kitchen.
There was a particular way he was to dial his phone to make a call back home. The number 1 first? No. There’s some country code, right? Zero, 1. No. Zero, zero 1? For several minutes Robert dialed one combination and another. He heard only a fast busy each time.
The waitress placed a small plate in front of Robert. Green olives around tiny pieces of bread with thinly sliced cured ham on top, and a cut of cheese.
“This is manchego. You get a lot of that while you’re here. I assume you haven’t been in Spain before.”
“Looks wonderful,” Robert said, moving his wine closer to the plate.
“I can always tell the first timers,” she said.
Robert continued to fiddle with his phone. “I’m sure you have called someone back in Georgia.”
“Not really.”
“I can’t get through,” he said.
“Not sure there’s anyone that wants to hear from me as much as your daughter wants to hear from you,” she said. The waitress gestured toward Robert’s phone. “Can I help?” she asked.
Robert watched as she typed in numbers. He noticed a bright silver ring on her index finger, her nails plain and unpainted.
“And your daughter’s number?”
Robert offered it. He had kept it on a small piece of paper in his wallet. Not that he couldn’t remember his own daughter’s number. He just didn’t want to forget it.
The waitress dialed, dialed again, and listened. “It’s going through,” she said. “I’ve learned a bit about international calling working here, helping tourists like you.”
Several rings and Debbie answered.
“Dad? Hello?”
“Hold on for your father,” the waitress said. She smiled and handed the phone to Robert.
Robert said he was sorry it took so long to call. There were some problems with the cab ride, he told Debbie, and he had forgotten the codes for dialing, and he was only now settling in. Debbie asked about the woman on the phone. A nice waitress who had helped, Robert told her.
“She’s from Georgia, I think,” Robert said.
Robert looked up from his phone, but the waitress had walked away to another table where a young couple sat with two wine bottles on the table.
“The first waitress I get in Spain and she’s from America. Small world, huh?”
Robert took a sip of his wine.
Debbie questioned why his father had allowed a stranger to handle and dial his phone.
“Oh, honey, she’s nice. And trying to help. She got me through to you. I was doing a bad job of it.”
“You need to be careful, Dad.”
Robert swallowed another sip of wine.
“I will,” he said. “Promise. I just wanted you to know I was here and safe.” Robert liked hearing his daughter’s voice, as if she were only a short drive away.
“I love you too, sweetheart,” he said.
It was close to midnight in a lovely Spanish neighborhood on a hill, but Robert wasn’t quite in the swing of it yet—this vacation, this adventure. Long travel, time changes, and the misdirected cab had tempered his arrival. And although the waitress was sweet and welcoming, and the wine and food were much needed, there was a long way to go before he would and could let Spain sink in. It was thousands of miles from Pittsburgh, and far too early to expect much. Still, he believed it was, all-in-all, a good start, and his American encounter had made him feel less alone in a big world.
“Have you decided?” the waitress said, returning to his table.
“Your name,” Robert said. “May I ask?”
“Chloe.”
“I’m Robert.” He offered his hand. “Hola, Chloe. Chloe from Georgia.”
Robert had come to Spain for reasons he had not yet completely calculated—to revitalize something, to renew something, to forget something, to find one last adventure, to discover a new sensation for long lingering emotions. Maybe it was a little of everything. Granada was a beautiful city in one of the most vibrant countries in Europe, and there he was, enlivened yet tentative.
“Another glass of wine?” Chloe asked.
Robert thought for a moment and smiled. “Sí, mi amiga.”
Spain might lead him to both the places he wanted and needed to go, he thought, but it would take space and time to acclimate to its ways, including its long days of sun and its measured pace. Spain might make him stronger than he had been in a long while, since happier days, since Emma. It would ease him into a new life or throw him. Either way, he was going to find out and he had convinced himself that he was ready for it. Is there nothing to lose? He tried not to think about that.
Coming: Chapter 4: Robert walks the streets of Granada and discovers a nun at the cathedral who seems to know more about him than he knows about himself. The mystery of what his new life may become and the mystery of how Chloe and her secret past might change it begin to unfold.
Artwork: Melanie at Indalo Art