Tom Foran Clark

Half the people in the town of Benalúa de Guadix in the eastern part of the Province of Granada lived under the ground. In the Barrio Santiago region of the Sierra Nevada were over two thousand Guadixian-style cave homes. In downtown Guadix, signs pointed to the "Barrio Troglodyte" -- the cave district. The region was famous, not surprisingly, for its hand-crafted earthenware, sold roadside for miles around.

In the morning, in an underground room of the Bed and Breakfast cavern where they stayed, Rita told Emery the tale of how Lazarillo of Tormes broke away from his cruel master, the blind old man.

"Lazarillo, furious with his master, came up with a simple, brutal scheme for getting free," Rita said. "One fine day, in the morning, when the two came to a stream, Lazarillo advised his master of the best way to cross over. The old man listened carefully, took one step back to get a running start, then hurled himself forward with all his might -- right into a tree. He fell over backward, half dead, his head split open. Lazarillo ran for his life, and was in the next village by nightfall.”

On departing Gaudix, Emery and Rita passed through Baza and by Castril and Benamaurel to the dam of Negratín, then on to Puerto Lumbreras and Lorca in the region of Murcia, famed for its almond trees and marble quarries, Rita regaling Emery all the while with stories of poor Lazarillo and Benedict, the treasure digger.

"Benedict was high in the mountains now, surviving on corn, grapes, and berries. One day he slaughtered a goat and devoured it raw. As a result, he lay half dead for two days. Feeling sure he'd be eaten by wolves if he remained where he was, he pulled himself together and made his way to Oviedo. There he called on a sorciere, a sorceress, who warned him that, although he would indeed possess the treasure, he would have to first cross water. She also sternly warned him he would meet a dangerous new enemy. When Borrow learned of this, he warned Benedict to give up his pursuit. The treasure hunter assured Borrow that he would -- he would leave Spain -- he would leave the schatz behind him in the land of the Gallegans. 'Good,' Borrow said, and he gave Benedict some money and sallied forth himself from Oviedo. Benedict promptly got lost somewhere in Aragon.

"Later, while Borrow sat reading in a room in the village of Villa Seca, the treasure hunter again simply showed up. 'I'm back!' he announced. To Borrow’s amazement, the man’s clothes were now respectable and clean. On his head was a big new Andalusian hat. Instead of a crooked walking stick, he now carried a bamboo rattan topped with a pewter lion’s head. 'You did not listen to me,' Borrow scolded. 'But you have had success!' he had to suppose. 'No -- not yet,' Benedict admitted. 'But I have better hope than ever -- and friends -- and money'."

Rita and Emery, still in the province of Murcia, had now reached Cartagena, on the Costa Calida. Here were Spain's Naval Headquarters, Artillery Headquarters, and a Midshipman School. There were parks all over -- plenty of benches in the squares. Sailors walked in and out of parks and up and down the beaches in their starched white suits, admiring the seaside girls.

The two went out for a paseo, a stroll, on the beachfront promenade. Barefoot Rita, in her sparest, brightest red bikini, walked along at her leisure telling Emery, in flip-flops, floral-patterned shirt, blue jeans, about Lazarillo of Tormes who, here in Cartagena, had sailed forth on the pretext of joining the Christians in fighting the Moors in Algiers. "But, in fact," Rita said, "Lazarillo was only scheming to get rich -- to find his fortune, live off the interest, buy a house, and even get a second, summer home in Toledo. However, no sooner had they embarked from Cartagena, than the boat...."

Rita hesitated. "Sank?" Emery filled in.

"Emery, I'm getting way ahead of myself in this story. I'm skipping too much. I have to back up." So Rita went back in her story to when Lazarillo had come into a regular government job and had decided it was time to get himself a woman, and so on. Then Rita suddenly was talking not of Lazarillo or his woman, but of her own mother and her mother's influence on her. Supposing Rita would be casting further light on the principle of the eternal feminine, Emery tried hard to find the connection, to follow the thread.

Rita had not appreciated her mother's having sternly warned her against men -- students, politicians, clerks, generals, speculators, treasure hunters, pirates, picaros, swindlers, sailors -- all men. She'd insisted all were alike -- all approached women as if they were but precious objects in a collection, Chinese porcelain, pretty specimens to be touched and handled and returned to their places. "But I believe," Rita told Emery, "it's not from malevolence or ill will but for lack of skills and opportunities for them -- and the absence of authentic, strong women -- that men sink into their fantasies, and violence."

As if on cue, a wayward sailor staggered toward them, perhaps on a bet from his pals, and stood between Rita and Emery. He put his hands on her breasts. Emery thought she'd grab the sailor's ears and raise a knee into his nuts, but she didn't. She lifted the bikini cups over her head and tenderly handed him the tiny rag of red cloth. The sailor flung himself upon the ground and, writhing, pressed sand into his eyes and mouth. Emery gave Rita his shirt. They walked on, peaceably and, in silence, returned to the car.

Whatever else she was or wasn’t, Rita was deeply enigmatic. She was like the Sphinx, above being catalogued or analyzed. Emery kept turning to look into her eyes. He was drawn irresistibly to those eyes.

In silence, the two drove through Torrevieja. At the periphery of Torrevieja were two saltwater lagoons, the "Salterns of Torrevieja," Europe's largest salt flats, where flamingoes roamed freely.

They continued to the Roman city of Lucentum, present day Alicante which, according to Juan Armando Cabrera in his book Rambling in Spain, had the distinction of having become, in 1851, "the first coastal village linked by train to Madrid." They parked at the train station, where Emery bought a little brochure titled Cartagena, Sagunto and Environs written by none other than Juan Armando Cabrera. They walked to the Paseo de la Explanada, the seafront promenade, lined in palms and cafes tiled in red, cream and black colors. Sitting under a similarly colored canvas umbrella out front of a cafe, Emery finally dared ask Rita why she'd given the drunken sailor her bikini top. He said he felt she really didn't have to demonstrate her truth to every ribald person that came along.

“How am I to tell you of my instincts?" she said. "I think you can't live if you....”

She stopped mid-sentence. She was silent a long time. After about twenty minutes, she finally came back from the remoteness of her meditation. She suggested they walk on. Side by side on the promenade, the two walked a long way without speaking. With other persons such a silence would have been unsettling, an annoying vacuum, a downright disturbing absence. But with Rita the silence was itself a felt presence. Emery felt, in the company of this particular human female person, the presence of the feminine divine. He was happy just to hold her hand and walk ahead and turn to look, from time to time, into her eyes. Finally, she spoke. “You're not dead yet," she said. "There is something in you that can catch fire -- something fine. I hope I can be there for that.”

Maybe Emery would catch fire in Valencia, he contemplated -- the city of Spain's national hero, El Cid. When the two arrived, Emery had to doubt it would be so. Valencia was a mess -- a polluted, overpopulated nightmare of congestion, crowded with soot-brown apartment high-rises, crumbling tenements, peeling billboards, squalor, filth. It seemed unlikely the surrounding rugged, sparse terrain -- the low mountains and rolling plains leading to the lands of Aragon and Castile-La Mancha -- was perfect for growing the oranges and citrus that gave this place its reputation as "the agricultural center of Spain" (-- Juan Armando Cabrera, Rambling in Spain).

Around them were the mountain ranges of Mustalla, Safor, Grossa anf Aguilles. They opted not to stay, though they'd heard so much (at least from Juan Armando Cabrera) about Valencia's "revelry, night life, and good food." Rita already knew this place to be "the homeplace of Paella." Still, for all that, they just passed through.