Too Many Sparrows in Zaragoza

By Justin Fenech

How far can the good life go before it turns bad? This is the moral issue Nadi, the young psychologist from Malta, is made to face when she visits her old friend in Zaragoza. What starts off as a relaxing holiday soon becomes a revelation. The charismatic Maltese ex-pat Luis, her host in Zaragoza, has stumbled upon a lifestyle replete with eccentricities and the imagination. He is living a hedonistic, aesthetic, liberal life with a group of like-minded Spaniards. A group of young people rebelling against life's boring routine. They want to enrich their lives with constant beauty, inspired by Romans, Greeks, nature, al-Andalus, theatre and everything else life has to offer. Nadi is instantly taken in. She adopts Luis' lifestyle. But at what cost? In a time when traditional values and modern principles are colliding more and more, this is a relevant examination of moral values in the 21st century. All in the backdrop of rich, charming and regal Zaragoza.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481742962

Justin Fenech

Justin Fenech is a young Maltese writer, who is here releasing his first novel. A burgeoning poet in the local scene, with poetry known for its modern verse and naturalistic themes, here takes his next logical literary step. He has given talks about the role of science in art, has had poems published on various online journals and books, and was one of the winners of the 2010 IEMed Sea of Waves contest. He has also written several essays on the merit of the imagination in art, always with the aspiration to inspire new genres in literature. Among the styles he conceived are Imaginationism (a lot of these ideas feature heavily in this book), Chessboard Poetry, and the eclectic Muralism.

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© 2013 by Justin Fenech. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/18/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4295-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4294-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4296-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013907246

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

DAY 1

DAY 2

DAY 3

DAY 4

DAY 5

DAY 6

DAY 7

DAY 8

DAY 9

DAY 10

To Chloe

I became a fabulous opera: I saw that everyone in the world was doomed to happiness. Action isn’t life: it’s merely a way of ruining a kind of strength, a means of destroying nerves. Morality is water on the brain.

Arthur Rimbaud

DAY 1

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W hat are we?

That was the first thing I asked myself when I got off the train. The Delicias train station felt to me as vast as the universe. If man could create something so grand, so incredible, then what was he not capable of?

I felt physically exhausted: I had been travelling since seven o’clock that morning. I had to be at the airport early, to catch my Madrid flight at half past nine which landed at around half past twelve. After which I had to catch a train to my final destination, Zaragoza. The train journey took about an hour and a half, and I was completely drained. All I had eaten was a baguette on the plane.

Yet despite the physical fatigue, my mind felt as if it had just been born. Arriving at a new destination, to me, could only be described with a metaphor: a virgin gazing upon a nude body.

Marco was meant to be meeting me at the station, and then we were to walk it to his place as he told me it was literally around the corner. Ah but of course I had to stop calling him Marco! That was the only condition he stipulated for me if I wanted to stay with him for those two weeks: I must call him by his new, ‘Spanish’ name: Luis Ramon y Ortega Hernandez. To me of course he was simply Luis. He gave himself the name to help integrate himself into his new Spanish identity. He did not wish to live in Spain as a Maltese man living in Spain, but he wanted to live as the most ardent Spaniard.

Before I knew it he came running. Upon seeing me he stopped. Nadia! He shouted and grabbed me in both his arms, lifted me off the ground and twirled me around like a merry-go-round in a skirt.

"Madre de Dios it’s so amazing to see you again! Look at you, just look at you, you haven’t changed an atom!"

I wish I could say the same to you! My God you have a beard! And you’re wearing trousers… in October, what’s the matter with you?

And he really had changed. The way I remembered him was a nervous, unmade-bed kind of guy; unsure of himself, always smiling and laughing, who went along with everything and always dressed as if he was on holiday. But now, his shaved-hair had grown into a gelled crew cut; a black whirlpool ending in a subtle quiff. His clean-shaven face was completely covered in a smooth, thick black beard. He was dressed in a white t-shirt, a very summery pair of jeans and white trainers. It was all very summery and it was offset by a very expensive looking silver watch. He was something else. More importantly, he was someone else, entirely.

Give me the luggage, I’ll carry it. Let’s go lets go! I only live a few paces away from here. Let’s get you settled in then we’ll go to get you something to eat; you must be starving.

You have no idea!

He took my luggage and we were walking through the train station. Spain had a very distinctive feel to it, I could already tell. The wind was crisp, like the kind you felt near mountains. The people walking past us in the busy station were like guerrillas. The echo of Spanish words was very poetic, a cliché wonderfully fulfilled.

We came up to the surface and I saw the main doorways leading outside. Luis came up from behind me and covered my eyes with both his hands.

What are you doing?

You have to see it this way. It adds anticipation. Like this you’ll feel like you’re going to cast your eyes on heaven.

I don’t think Zaragoza needs much help in looking heavenly.

No, but it doesn’t hurt, trust me.

We walked a few paces forward, Luis started a drum roll and voila! I saw the wide open space in front of me like a sea of images that I couldn’t wait to dive into. It felt grander than the view from the plane because it was more tangible, more real. Across the train station I saw a lovely park and I could see the wide skyline behind it. Around us there were dancing fountains—they gave me the sensation of being small waiters serving me the starters: a taste of what was to come.

"How cliché to be welcomed by music! Luis exclaimed. Don’t worry you’ll have plenty of time to enjoy that park. But for now let’s hurry on home so you can get settled in. You can’t enjoy the life of a traveller when carrying so much luggage!"

The walk to Luis’ flat was a walk in a dream! We went through the Avenue of Navarra, past the Plaza de Ciudadania, turned left into Calle del Castillo and finally right into Calle Aljaferia where Luis lived. My head spiralled around me—so many new sites. The open space was breath-taking. I had missed it. He explained to me that the street was named for the palace of the Aljaferia which was a Mudejar palace just down the road. Again, he assured me, Don’t worry, plenty of time to see everything.

His flat was on the second floor of an understated, grey-looking building. It was a small two-bedroom apartment, nothing impressive as far as flats went, but I was taken aback by his sense of interior decorating. The flat had a medium sized open-plan room containing living room, kitchen and dining room, with two doors on either side of the room where the bedrooms were and a small bathroom near the entrance. At the far end of the room there was a balcony which overlooked the street. The street was narrow, with cars parked on either side, and at the end I could see the thighs of the Aljaferia palace that gave the street its name. So many starters!

I never would have thought Luis would be so house-proud! He spoke of his flat as if he were a painter speaking of his masterpiece:

"This is the main room, which I call ‘Black And White: Zaragoza’. Yes I title my rooms, it’s a very in thing to do. Well, I’m hoping it will be, anyway. This room is designed to capture the feeling of old Zaragoza, from its Roman days up to the 1930’s. I myself took these photographs of Zaragoza’s Roman ruins and put them up above the television to give a sense of Zaragozan theatre. In the kitchen and dining room I put up a lot of black and white photos, to give the feeling of being in a café. It’s a very trendy thing to do in a café, surrounding it with old photos of the area. I remember they did it in Malta as well, didn’t they? Do they still do it? I remember seeing that in some kazin. Then again, you’re a woman why would you go into a kazin? Anyway, I painted the room a mustard yellow hue to make the most of the sunlight that comes in. Also I think it is a very Spanish colour wouldn’t you say?" He spoke almost without breath, rushing through the ends of his words.

He also had dolls lying everywhere. All manner of Spanish dolls, from stern-looking flamenco dancers, in polka dot costumes, to proud peasants in frills. What most caught my attention was that over each door in the room he had put up street signs with the names of streets in Zaragoza. The bathroom was ‘Calle de Agustina de Aragon’, the guest bedroom was ‘Calle de las Armas’ and his bedroom was ‘Calle Milagro de Calanda’. On the main door there was the sign ‘Plaza de Aragon’ proudly announcing the theme of the whole room.

Why did you put up that sign over your bedroom, anyway?

Well, Calanda is a unique little village in Aragon. A very special miracle took place there in the 17th century. A young farmer, around twenty years old, who had his leg amputated during a war used to go into the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Pilar in Calanda every so often to rub his leg with holy oil. One night a soldier slept over at the farmer’s house. His parents went into their son’s room and saw two legs under the cloak. They thought that their guest had taken their son’s bed by mistake, yet when they went to wake him they saw that it was actually their son! It was a miracle, a divine intercession by Our Lady of Pilar! What better sign to have up on my bedroom door?

I didn’t know you had become so religious! I remember you couldn’t be bothered about it.

I still can’t, believe me. But I love these fantastic stories; it helps remind us that we are living surrounded by myths. I’m not religious, but if I were to convert to anything I would convert to Catholicism; no other religion is more poetic, more colourful. To convert to Catholicism is to become a poet.

Ah but you forget, you’re already Catholic! You were baptised, weren’t you? I know your mother, she is not the kind of woman to not baptise her only son.

That must explain why I’m so poetic then. Anyway, enough chit-chat for now, go to your room and unpack, make the Armas your home.

Anything I need to know about the ‘Calle de las Armas?

Not really. It’s just an insignificant street in a beautiful city. That’s what the guest room is here.

Charming! It was indeed a tiny room: just one bed, a small desk and a wardrobe. The grey walls were decorated with posters of plays and here and there were framed black and white photos of Spanish actors and actresses. Strangely, on the walls Luis had actually written quotes with a beige-like colour, from what must have been his favourite Spanish plays.

Sleep carnation, the horse does not want to drink.—Blood Wedding; Federico Garcia Lorca

Money makes everything possible—The House Of Bernarda Alba; Federico Garcia Lorca

Do you hear the bells ring over our head?—Don Juan Tenorio; Jose Zorrilla

Imagination, once lit up within and unconditional of time and space, can pour infinities.—Life Is A Dream; Pedro Calderon de la Barca.

It was extremely surreal looking around and reading all of those magical lines. It almost made me feel dizzy. I always knew Luis was different—he always had strange tastes—but his flat and the ideas behind it were something I’d never heard of before. What had he found in Zaragoza to make him so in touch with himself, and so proud to be himself, even if it was not his real self? In that flat I had found travel within travel.

We left the flat at five o’clock after I had enjoyed a shower and a quick rest. Luis had said we would go out for a walk and catch in some sights to get me orientated, then at around ten he had arranged to meet some of his friends for dinner at one of their favourite restaurants. The streets around Luis’ flat were busy and central. Full of shops, churches, and trees. Everything felt so perfect. The tranquillity of travel was to be found in the magic of the first day.

We didn’t walk too far and Luis seemed to be more interested in shopping than catching in the sights. He was like a little girl whenever he saw a shop. ‘Let’s buy this, let’s try that, lets adopt that’ . . . He was more of a tourist than I. Luis brought some crisps he had lying around the flat to keep my energy levels afloat.

This wasn’t my first time abroad by a long stretch, but it was my first time in Spain. I never really had much of an interest in Spanish culture. When I was young I was always absorbed by Italy and its world, but this city was such an eye-opener for me. I was amazed by the greenery in the streets, from large avenues such as the oceanic Gran Via, to small little streets, everywhere were trees. The architecture also surprised me: how could something so uniform and organised be so daring and challenging? Buildings that seemed to verge on Art Nouveau, at least to my eyes, seemed to be much more contemporary. The balconies, some introverted some externalized, were like stars on a clear blue day. And they were so clean! I had never seen such pure white, it was as if I was caught up in a wedding of epic proportions: I wanted to kiss and hug all the lofty brides.

Luis took me to see the bullring, which I was quite averse to as I had a lot of reservations about that whole business, but I must say I had no such reservations for the architecture of the bullring itself. To my eyes it seemed like a Coliseum built by Moroccans. Swirling arches of bright red and white, a humble-grandiose entrance that seemed to mimic the grandeur of the Alhambra or some other masterpiece from the Arabic world. Luis took some photos of me with a bust of a bullfighter just outside, someone named Villalta from Zaragoza. Luis was determined to convert me to the spectacle of the matador. To this end he dragged me into a souvenir shop near the bullring and bought me one of those hats that matadors wore during the bullfight.

There, Zaragoza now has her first female matador. El Nadi! He was so excited. Yes that definitely suits you, don’t you dare take it off! Let me tell you, in the bullfight the matador does everything with and for style. He is the epitome of cool. As long as you wear that hat you will be literate, articulate, cult, elegant and the bearer of a dangerous will."

Who says I wasn’t like that anyway? I chuckled.

All the better then, tonight you are yourself, but ten times more.

I didn’t buy into all that at first. I was more interested in falling in love—with Zaragoza. He was just like a child getting carried away with a new toy. It was charming to see, however. It was also fascinating for me to witness as a psychologist. This child-like view of reality he held was beginning to intrigue me. Was Zaragoza that important to him, or did he cherish his image of Zaragoza more? I would have to pay more attention from now on.

After the bullring we walked for around twenty minutes and then made our way to the most impressive site in Zaragoza: the Basilica of Pilar. That Basilica was one of the most beautiful churches I had ever seen. Even grander than the Vatican! Its large skyscrapers doubled as towers dominated the sun and the moon and the domes seemed to be made from coloured bricks that looked more like something you’d see on Photoshop than on a church dome. The bricks were of a yellow, green and white hue and they zigzagged around the dome like a labyrinth of abstraction. Walking down that square was like walking through St. Peter’s backyard. I was in awe at the altar of man.

The Plaza del Pilar was the heart of Zaragoza. It was paved all the way through, with clear blue fountains on either end. At the far eastern end rose the spire of the Cathedral. The benches were modern, the architecture regal—it stunned me. I was also surprised by the lack of homeless people in the square, they were sights I had grown accustomed to in large European cities. Maybe they were doing something right? No, no politics, I thought to myself. I’m not in Malta anymore.

Beautiful isn’t it? I hope it’s not too touristy for you? Luis asked me serenely.

No, no not at all, it’s breath-taking. You are so lucky to live here, you know. I’m really starting to see that.

You’re right. But you’re lucky too, you know. I envy your virginal eyes, you who are seeing this majesty for the first time. It’s a feeling I miss.

You think you could get bored here?

I don’t think there’s any danger of that. I’m simple really; it doesn’t take much to keep me happy and excited. Even now, I am seeing it through your eyes and imagining I am seeing it for the very first time as well. That will keep me going for a while.

Well I’m glad to help. I said smiling.

We lingered in the square for quite some time. We got some ice-cream and sat on a very modern-looking bench. We chatted about old times, interrupted by his pointing out architectural features in the square. He was a confident tour guide if ever there was one. Before we knew it the clock on a dancing tower with a red spire said to us ‘9:45’. It was time to get a move on to go to dinner with his friends. And to be honest, I was still starving.

We didn’t have to go far for dinner. It was about a five-minute walk to a charming little square, Plaza de Santa Marta. The square was buzzing with youthful life, under the small trees and the orange streetlights life was on the go. Admittedly I was a little nervous about meeting his friends. I didn’t know what to expect. These were the first locals I was going to interact with, and I didn’t know if I would fit in, or what they would be like for that matter.

The place we were going to was a small ‘Cerveceria’—or beer house—all decked out in matador and bullfighting décor including black and white photos of matadors and the bullring we had just seen. I fit right in with my matador hat.

We went over to the table where Luis’ friends were waiting for us. They were huddled around the table by the bar, some standing with one leg on a chair, others sitting close together. At first glance they sure did seem like a lively bunch, and I felt a little intimidated. We sat down with them and Luis introduced me one by one. He introduced me to everyone as El Nadi, of course.

There were five of them there, three boys and two girls. Two of them were a couple: he was Jaime, a local working off his parents’ money according to Luis. His girlfriend was from Bilbao: Elizabeth or Elixabeta as it translated into Basque. She was a writer, although she writes just for the money, which is easier than you might think.

The other two boys, the youngest ones, were university students at Zaragoza, they were both from Huelva, which I was informed was a small village in Aragon. Pablo was studying philosophy; he was one of the quietest among the lot. The other was introduced as Fra Ramon. He was studying tourism. Apparently Fra Ramon had this little experiment going; he was trying to be as Catholic as is heavenly possible, without actually being Catholic.

I couldn’t help but laugh when he said that, he had a very particular charm about him, almost like that of an Evangelical preacher, which I’m sure was intentional. Lastly there was the overt bisexual Jasmina from Madrid. She owned a little boutique store in the old quarter of Zaragoza. I was glad Luis introduced me as El Nadi, otherwise my introduction would have been much too dull: Nadia from Malta, she works as a psychiatrist in a small clinic. Not exactly matadorean.

I didn’t know what flowed more freely that night, conversation or wine. I suppose the two complimented each other. Everyone seemed interested in me, scrutinising me with probing questions, their words probing like tentacles from War of the Worlds. But I didn’t mind, I didn’t mind talking about myself.

So what is Malta like then? Luis says it’s not very modern. Jaime asked me with his arms confidently around Elixabeta.

It depends if you’re an optimist or a pessimist. If you’re an optimist I’d say it is pleasant. If you were a pessimist I’d say pleasantly dull.

Everyone found it funny and started applauding. One always felt as if they were acting on stage. They put a premium on originality, imagination and wit. But they weren’t false, simply because that was their personality.

"What’s so great about reality, bambina. what’s real is passé. It’s all so… how you say… lived." Fra Ramon retorted to my comment, in a very Italian, priestly accent.

Let’s not talk about our usual jibber jabber; I’m sure it would bore our guest immensely. The bisexual Jasmina jumped in.

Give her some credit won’t you, Luis added. She’s not a grumpy old fart. Besides what’s boring about fantasy, am I right Nadi?

Absolutely. Then again I wouldn’t know much about that.

Surely you must have patients with all sorts of demented mental delirium? You must see it all; schizophrenics, delusions of grandeur… ? Pablo was very frank when he spoke.

You would think so, but all I get are patients in for anger management, which is usually court-ordered. Or worried parents complaining about their daughter’s lack of ambition. It’s all very pastoral.

Then make it un-pastoral! Tell me what is your greatest fantasy? I’m not talking sexual fantasy or anything perverted like that, not yet anyway, not until I know you a bit better. In a few minutes time. Jaime asked me as he was playfully slapped by Elixabeta for his openness.

Smiling, I said, I don’t know, really. Just then I heard myself say those words and I bored myself into shame.

That’s your first mistake then. You need to construct your own fantasies and live them more realistically than you live your lived life. Let me ask you this, then, what excites you?

This time Jasmina took her turn. I was determined to not come out sounding like a nun, whilst being genuine as against all odds and despite all their talk of fantasy they were some of the most sincere people I had ever met. Even the questions they asked me; what I liked, what excited me; they never made any suggestions of their own, for that would bias my replies.

Well I like history, you know Romans and Greeks that kind of thing. I know it’s not exactly that exciting.

"Of course it is! Excitement is all subjective querida, you could find a toilet seat exciting and I’d say bravo! It is the most personal thing we have. The beauty of it is that it varies from each individual." Jasmina assured me.

Sometimes it varies from hour to hour in the same individual. Luis jumped in.

"Alright then, so you like the Romans. You are drinking wine, which is muy Romano, no? That is your platform. Now just imagine you are in a taverna outside the Coliseum. We are aristocrats in our marvellous youth. And you, you are the young wife of a Senator. You are royalty, anything is possible for you! Remember there is no limit to life, especially the imagined life!" Fra Ramon sounded like a guide speaking of Rome in Roman times. He was clearly the master of fabrication and took it to heart.

"Let us have more wine, we cannot be Roman without wine; camarero, mas vino por favor!" Luis shouted in his best Spanish accent.

I was getting excited about the idea of pretending, and they really went all out, throwing out phrases in Latin, speaking of philosophy and Latin poetry. They were extremely knowledgeable. I understood that they had to be in order to be masters of their imagination. They were not children playing around, making animal noises of animals they had never heard of. There was something professional about their pretending; they backed it up with facts and knowledge, and it was hilarious to watch. They decreed that night the ‘Night Of Satyrs And Nymphs’. Ironically we ended up with a serious discussion on philosophy, instigated by Pablo, the Philosophy student of course.

Epicurus was a sad little man. No one can be happy with the bare minimum in life. It’s just wrong I tell you. Luis argued on the subject of wealth.

Everything is made up of atoms: this is a fact. What’s more, this is the only fact that is also a mystery, and it is a mystery because it is a fact. It is open to fantasy even if it is scientifically proven. Pablo added eloquently on the essence of life.

"Women produce children, men produce beauty. Everything is essential. Life is divided into the feminine and the masculine. The stars are feminine the universe is macho. To find the right balance within ourselves we must explore both elements." The oracle Jasmina added on love.

Luis abruptly ended the discussions. It is time now for Theatre!

He said it was the ‘Roman’ thing to do, that after a night in the taverna we must watch a play somewhere. A play, That will take us away, he declared. It was well gone midnight by then and I protested that we would be hard pressed to find a theatre open at such a late hour.

"This is Spain Nadi! The nightlife begins in the morning. Come to the Estacion! Vamos!"

The Estacion was a theatre in Luis’ street. It was mainly a drama school but the students regularly put up plays. It was a long walk back, or at least it felt like one. I was extremely tired. It had been a long day and the wine was working its magic. The walk was made much more bearable by our company; the boys were clowning around all the way, walking like Romans, shouting battle-cries and singing Italian songs.

Jasmina and Elixabeta walked arm in arm the whole way. They wrote ‘Sappho’ on their foreheads with eye-liner and walked with that elegant Spanish pride. I pitched in by pretending to be a Roman gladiator, though ironically still wearing my matador hat.

It really was great fun. We got so many dirty looks, but no one really seemed to mind us. Above all, Zaragoza looked so beautiful in the night! The air was a bit chilly, I could feel the dew dangle from my eye-brows. The street lights were like fireflies in El Dorado. There only seemed to be two colours around us, that hazy reddish orange and the black night sky. Laughing in its midst, I felt like it was mine. I could see why Luis was intoxicated with it.

It’s not about Zaragoza, it’s about having fun in Zaragoza. He pulled me aside and whispered in my ear as if I were being imparted with divine words.

When we arrived the play being put up was near its end. On the night the students were doing Shakespeare as part of their studies on the famous playwright. I was worried because I didn’t really know much about Shakespeare, I had never really got round to reading anything of his. I found the language too off-putting. I did not want to seem like I was some Philistine in front of Luis’ well-read friends.

There didn’t seem to be any fear of that happening, though. When we were sat down watching the play, all they spoke about was how rubbish it was, Not the acting but the play as Elixabeta said. I’d love it if it were in Basque; now that would be chic. She whispered to me. I merely nodded in agreement as I didn’t really know much about Basque culture either. I knew that Bilbao, the only Basque city I was familiar with by name, was a city in the Northern part of Spain.

When the play finished and the actors had left the stage our fun continued. Luis and his friends jumped onto the stage romping like buffaloes. They started acting in a play of their own. It was Oedipus! The story of the young man who slept with his mother and killed his father! I studied it well for psychology through Freud’s Oedipus Complex. The audience was bewildered but not surprised. Clearly this wasn’t the first time they had done this and I thought Luis must have known the director of the school, so there was no harm in it. Seeing that, I couldn’t resist getting onto the stage and joining in. Of course I had never acted before in my life, but neither had they. It was all part of the fun of indulging in a fantasy, not merely of being Roman acting in a Roman play, but the fantasy of being an actor. I must admit thoughts of Broadway did slip in through the back of my mind. In that minute instant, I became an actress. I loved the feeling.

How strange we must have seemed, to that remaining audience of dishevelled Spanish thespians. Our voices were groggy and drunk, our lines spoken so loudly it sounded like some obnoxious song. Jasmina and Elixabeta were the faeries of the show, skipping around everyone, speaking their lines with robust eroticism. Luis fancied himself a philosopher. Yesterday my morning of light, now my night of endless darkness! What beautiful lines pronounced so stoically by Luis! I dare not see, I am hiding, my eyes, I cannot bear. What most I long to see… . Unspeakable to mortal ear, too terrible for eyes to see. They all said these last lines in harmony. A harmony of imperfect voices, it was a socialist drama at the end!

We had to stop our act half way because the director wanted to close up. We staggered off the stage and back out into the street and seeing as how we were right in front of Luis’ flat I decided to call it a night. My fatigue was drowning me into its abyss. I said my goodbyes to everyone and they were really so enthusiastic and nice towards me, I felt really flattered. They all told me we must do this again, and I said I wouldn’t miss it for the world. And I meant it!

As I finally stumbled into bed with a cup of tea I couldn’t take off my smile. It almost began to hurt. I had never had such a night, it was so different and yet so… me. Those people opened my eyes to a new way of looking at life. They made the most of everything; as long as their imagination was fertile they were content. They enjoyed small insignificant things like hats and words and God only knew what else. They used them as a child used toys; as a means to launch into fantasy. I was so many different things that night. I was a matador—El Nadi. I was a Roman senator’s wife. I was an actress! It was intoxicating because it made me feel like I could do anything. And it was only my first day in that magical city.

DAY 2

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T he next morning I awoke in my comfortable Spanish bed, still smiling, even as I dribbled over my new pillow. I looked at my watch and saw it was 12:15! I had slept straight through! Slowly getting up from my bed I looked up and saw those quotes on the ceiling. I looked at them as I got up and I nodded like one does when one understands something someone tells you before they even say it. It must have been the actress in me! I could feel myself becoming more and more inclined towards theatre. The room was having its veiled influence on me.

Going out of my room I saw Luis on the sofa watching television. There seemed to be some Spanish documentary on, Luis was quite engrossed in it.

Morning, sleepy-head! He shouted to me coming out of his trance.

I can’t believe I slept that long, I never do that when I’m on holiday!

Well it was a late one yesterday, he said confidently. Today it will be more sedate I promise.

Believe me I didn’t mind it, it was fantastic! I couldn’t have asked for a better first night in Spain!

You can never go wrong with that lot. He walked to the kitchen to make me some tea. I was thinking, about yesterday, you enjoyed fantasising didn’t you, being someone else, somewhere else?

You have no idea, it was so refreshing! I sat down on the kitchen table.

It showed. So I’ve come to a decision: I’m going to turn this two week holiday of yours into a school of life. He sounded very excited. I was intrigued. I am going to give you so many platforms that life will never seem the same again.

What do you mean by platforms?

Platform is the word we use for things that you can base fantasies on.

Oh I see, I was beginning to see where he was going. So yesterday’s platform was my liking of Roman history.

Exactly. But you can’t be Roman all the time can you? So I am going to give you as many platforms as I can. Ranging from vast worlds like theatre, to small daydreams such as souvenirs. I noticed he still retained his Maltese gestures. The way he spoke took me back to the Luis I used to know, Marco.

Luis went on, Take today for example. Today I am going to indulge you in the fantastic, mesmerising world of the Middle-East! And I use ‘Middle-East’ as an umbrella term, believe me. After you get ready, we will go to the Aljaferia Palace, and then we will have lunch in Al-Andalus!

What’s Al-Andalus? I interrupted.

I’m glad you asked. Al-Andalus is the name Spain was known by during the Moorish occupation. You will come to learn it is a very mystical and evocative name. He sounded like a child lecturing his mother about his favourite cartoon show.

Anyway, then in the afternoon we will go see the Jewish baths. The tour operator went on.

Sounds exciting to me. I had to ask: Are we meeting your friends again tonight, perhaps having a ‘Middle-Eastern Night’?

I’m afraid not, they’re all busy. But I like how you’re starting to appreciate the fun of titling. He said laughing.

I was rather disappointed that we weren’t meeting his friends that night; I was looking forward to a repeat of the previous night. But then again, as Luis pointed out Friends are more enjoyable in small doses, otherwise it gets routine and too political.

That was a strange word to use: ‘political’.

Well you see, Luis explained. If you spend too much time with a group, favouritism will inevitably arise and before you know it everyone will be taking sides and nights out will become rife with snickering gossip.

He was right there. It had happened to me way too many times. It was especially true with a group of women, I’m afraid to say.

Someone’s thought-provoking this morning. I said jokingly.

"Querida, only you think its morning." He said grinning cockily as he pointed to his watch.

After I took a shower and got changed we were ready to go out. I noticed that, like me, Luis didn’t have any breakfast. It seemed too insignificant to bring up; maybe he just saw it as too dull or maybe it was the Maltese blood in him. He made sure I brought my camera with me, because from now on, he said, I would be photographing my future platforms.

Getting out of the flat we made the short walk to the Aljaferia Palace. When we got there I was amazed at the sheer size and space of the Palace. The façade had large bulky protrusions almost like towers that looked like the feet of elephants. Most of the façade was embellished with the unmistakable Arabic arch. The whole place seemed like something out of a Walt Disney fantasy. The veranda on the top with arched open windows seemed to be missing their princess. Luis duly pointed out to me that this Palace was the scene of Verdi’s Opera the ‘Troubadour’. It made me think of how fascinated Westerners were by the lure of the Oriental. That mysterious, colourful Arabic world seems to ignite our most fervent fantasies. It was certainly not the case in Malta, however. There, our bright Arabic heritage was seen as a black spot to be wiped clean, or at the very least hidden away.

Once inside Luis started explaining Zaragoza’s and the Palace’s history. I didn’t realise it had such a long history. It dated back to the times of the Iberian tribes truly but flourished when the Romans took over and founded the town proper with the name Caesaraugusta in honour of Emperor Augustus.

Luis called that period ‘the Imperial Roots’ and said that since then Zaragoza had always held a veiled attraction to the higher classes. Its peak was reached in the Middle-Ages when it was controlled by the Berbers and Arabs who gave it the name Saraqusta. Luis loved the name; he found in it a linguistic connection between his life in Zaragoza and his own Semitic roots.

That name is the bridge between my past and my present. He confided in me.

I really and truly entered another world when we went into the courtyard. It was so bright! Its colour was a living, breathing element of its architecture. The sun-lit citrus trees with the vibrant oranges, little stars in the trees, the blood red roses at their feet like wombs in the soil. The arches surrounding the courtyard were like marble sharks jutting out teeth of artisans, whilst others across from them could only be described as lace-work in stone.

As I looked around Luis was explaining the Palace’s birth. The Taifa, a kingdom rich in scientists, polymaths, poets and devotion. A Medieval kingdom which was the envy of Europe, an envy which I then shared. I let myself indulge in its fantasy as I had done the previous night and I saw myself at a banquet in that very courtyard, listening to sensual poetry in lush Arabic tongue, to exotic music as I lay on my pillow of the finest weave, discussing the merits of the mind and the soul with my closest friends. It was intoxicating.

Are you listening, Nadi? Luis asked me, noticing my day-dreaming state.

Oh sorry, Luis. Yes, I’m listening, I was just thinking. I said apologetically.

About?

Well I was more imagining, really, imagining what it must have been like to live in those times.

And, what do you think? I know what he wanted to hear, and I couldn’t help indulging him.

It must have been magical. Don’t get me wrong it couldn’t have been all sugar and spice. But I don’t think I would have minded being restricted to a strict daily life and routine.

I hesitated to gather my thoughts from the depths of history. Being surrounded by this architecture, this beauty, this language, would make everything far more bearable.

Luis took his time to reply as if to take in my words. Congratulations Nadi. He finally said, smiling so contently. "You’ve just discovered the meaning of art. What’s more, you’ve done it through your imagination. Brava!"

How’d you mean exactly?

That’s what art’s meant to be. You couldn’t have explained it more purely. It is not meant to be a science or a craft, it is meant to be personal and life-affirming. When you said, ‘being surrounded by architecture, beauty, language’ . . . you wouldn’t mind anything. That can still be done today. You just surround yourself with paintings, poetry, architecture, music… everything. Then nothing would seem so difficult, somehow, you see what I mean?

I felt I did, but I wasn’t sure what it meant. I think I do, so it should be like a friend, always there for you to console you and cheer you up?

Exactly! I understood more than I thought, apparently. So is that why you fill your flat with all those photographs and dolls: for comfort? I asked like a child interviewing a thief.

Precisely. That’s why I do everything, to enrich my mental life. Our imagination is subject to our own will, the only thing in life which is. So to be constantly surrounded by it, is like being in the constant presence of your dreams. We started walking out of the courtyard into the next room.

As we walked into an impressive hallway, I asked: You think that can be done in Malta?

Of course! He answered quickly, as if he had already given the question some thought. The imagination knows no borders. There is beauty everywhere you just have to know how to look. And by beauty of course I mean, platforms. He ended sweetly.

Of course I said as it echoed into mutual laughter.

We ended up spending more than two hours in the Palace. On Luis’ insistence I took over two hundred photographs as well! He supervised me with what to photograph so as to get the best ‘platforms’. Whenever we entered a new area he insisted that I photographed the whole of the room first, from as many angles as possible and then he told me to focus on minute details of the room, like details of the stonework, windows, hanging lamps, tiles, all of it. He said that this way when I got home and looked at them, it would first put my mind into the particular room. Looking at all the details I could then imagine in more detail.

He then told me something I had already known from psychology: It is the smallest things that impact most on our subconscious.

It was the same for dreams, I pointed out to him. Whole dreams could be based on an ant you saw on the roof or a fallen leaf or anything that seemed insignificant to our waking state. I never thought it could work out in the same way for the imagination, although I shouldn’t have been so surprised, it made sense.

It was gone three o’clock when we finally left the Palace and by then we were both starving. Luis had earlier mentioned that we were going to lunch in Al-Andalus. I was curious as to what he meant—the more I understood him the harder he became to predict. You’ll see. Was his solitary response.

The place was a bit far from where we were, it took us around twenty minutes of walking to get there. On the way I kept up my trigger-happy attitude with my camera. We walked on pretty much one straight road. In it we saw colleges, churches, palaces, theatres and squares. Oh such lovely squares! The Plaza España was so beautiful! It was about halfway along our walk. There was nothing that stood out from it apart from a monumental fountain at its heart, but I just loved how in those squares one felt as if caught in the atoms of space. Stood there in the midst of the large circular Plaza, one felt at the centre of speed itself.

Finally, we arrived. We were in a narrow street a few blocks away from the Ebro River and the Basilica of Pilar. Instantly, then, I understood what Luis meant. It was called the ‘Al-Maghrebi’, and Luis told me that this was an excellent restaurant specialising in North African cuisine. It was so elaborate: that that little Moroccan restaurant was almost Baroque! Everywhere were colourful tiles, from the red brick walls down to the floor. All over were hung photographs of Moorish dancers, and sketches of the Aljaferia. Most of the tables in the main, central room were separated by exquisite arches decorated with arabesque plates. The other host of decorations that hung on the wall, from furniture pieces to mirrors, reminded me of Luis’ flat. No wonder he loved this place, it was perfect for exotic fantasies. Even the waiters were Moroccan!

The menu was no less impressive and no less Moorish. I could not understand what most of the dishes were, but reading their titles was like reading Lawrence of Arabia: alberenjimiiel, berenjena morisca, cordero mudejar, pollo al estilo persa . . . Somehow, at that moment I felt proud to be Maltese. Our language and cuisine were always hinting towards the exotic, towards that obscure Muslim world. There I found it slapping me in the face wherever I looked, I had unearthed a piece of our past, and seeing there what wealth and luxury that lost world contained, it was definitely a noble past. Why did we forsake it? Why do we still forsake it? I didn’t really care about the history of religion, politics, conflict, but wasn’t being surrounded by splendour and richness of any kind our goal in life? We didn’t know how to enjoy anything in Malta because we were all so damn careful!

Luis suggested I order the cuscus siete verduras. Not due to any gastronomic superiority, but because it was the most genuine, thus the most fantastic! He said that it was a very common dish in North African villages. I had to ask Luis if he had ever been anywhere in North Africa and his answer was as banal as my question: Only through friends. Still, I trusted him and I got my cuscus. It was good but nothing particularly special. It wasn’t that much to my taste. Perhaps I was not as experimental with food as I had thought. Although; being conscious of the fact that I was eating a Moorish dish, in ultra-Moorish surroundings, did make me feel I was actually in Morocco or North Africa!

Our conversation at the Al-Maghrebi turned to Malta and our past. Luis had a sharper memory than I and he recounted funny stories from our time in college and even funnier stories from our nights out. Luis and I had met in college, where we both took our A-Levels. It was a very instant friendship. We didn’t have that much in common as Luis never really spoke about himself very much, but we always had a laugh together.

After college we both went to university, where I studied psychology and he studied journalism. I remembered we always stuck together almost intentionally not socialising with anyone else. Under protest of course: we were too working-class to mingle with the poshest of the posh.

The friends we hung out with were just like us: common people, with no pretences, no wealthy backgrounds and certainly no frills. Yet we always prided ourselves on our intelligence. In the presence of others, however, we intentionally dumbed ourselves down and even spoke with rural dialects that none of us truly had. It was our in-your-face attack. No one got it anyway, those spoilt, English-loving, crass Narcissists were too stuck up on themselves to notice. But we had our fun with them.

Luis was already indulging in fantasies, even then. He was set in his own world, which I loved to share with him whenever I could. He was the type that you would never see at a political mass-meeting, or at any of the multitude of student protests being held in and out of university. To join into anything social was a distraction. The only even slightly ‘social’ comment he ever passed was: If everyone was as disinterested as me, people would just leave everyone the hell alone. When I brought it up in our conversation he found it really amusing, like he had just seen an old childhood photograph of himself.

I still stick to that argument one-hundred percent! He laughed.

I bet you do! Although you weren’t that disinterested in that guy you punched in the face did you? I said like a charming mother poking fun at her son.

Who? That hippie cretin? He had it coming believe me. He said laughing into his wine glass. I don’t think you know the whole story, do you? There was some rally or other being held in the quad, I don’t remember what it was, probably for the human rights of cockroaches or something, I don’t know, He had retained his sneering attitude. And there was Sharon just minding her own business in the quad and a guy from the rally came up to her grabbed her by the arm and started pulling her to join in the rally. She was less than interested and was telling him to sod off. But that guy, I don’t know what he was on, just kept pulling and pulling her! So like a good citizen I pushed him away from her and floored him. He finished with an almost sadistic grin.

"Yeah I remember, you were almost expelled! Luckily he wasn’t that connected. I also remember how hot you were for Sharon as well." I continued to poke fun at him, not that it was untrue, of course.

Well yes, she was stunning. She even had the decency to go out with me soon after that. Cocky as ever.

Really? I didn’t know that! Well… what happened then?

Nothing really. She was as dim as granite. After some calculated hesitation: Or rather she found me as dim as granite.

Oh poor Luis!

Correction, poor Marco. He replied with his quick wit.

Oh of course, because that would never have happened to Luis would it? I said laughing, hand on my belly. He stuck to his guns. You know what: I’ve just realised something, you git. After university I fell ten steps backward! I suddenly exclaimed.

Why am I the git?

"Because, you’ve made me realise it, genius. Life at university was fun, we were enjoying ourselves. But after that I went and got me a very time-consuming, serious and more often than not dull job, whilst you left for bloody Zaragoza and amplified all the fun you were having at university." I said jokingly, but with a subtle touch of genuine regret.

Hold on a minute, I have a dull job as well! You’re not seeing it because I took a week off to be your guide. You think it’s fun interviewing Zaragoza’s oldest man and writing opinions I could never be bothered with? He sensed my disappointment and was trying to cheer me up.

Why’d you become a journalist then?

Same reason you became a psychologist: I thought it would be exciting. And it is at times, mind you. As I’m sure you’re job is.

Yes of course. But I got into my career path to fulfil my own personal desire of getting a better understanding of the human mind, and its complexities. All I’ve learned is how ungrateful children can be! It seemed like my role was reversed, I became the patient and Luis the psychiatrist.

Looking into his glass, he continued. "Unfortunately, with us, it boils down to this simple fact: we were never privileged, so we have to work and work hard to make a living. Then on the other hand, we were always privileged, we always knew how to enjoy life, so we have had to enjoy it and enjoy it hard. To do that you can’t let work get in the way. So you learn to look at