Granada Page 2

  But that futile shenanigan came later. That first day with Trinidad, we learned the house had been in the same family for most of a century. We went slowly around. Up the stairs, we found a room of Arabic design, with windows of colored glass, soft green with stars of cobalt, that filled the space at morning with blue and verdant light. Nearby was a tiny room that had small, beautiful wall paintings of children playing with toys from early in the 1900s. One story above, we found a tower with a tilting outdoor terrace, looking straight at the Alhambra. We gazed from there down into the garden. Curious barbed-wire designs swathed the garden walls, and a wooden dovecote hunkered down in a corner of the garden near a room where some brother, decades ago, had been locked up for insanity, with the murmuring doves for comfort.

  Fate, in a good mood, was by now holding us in a muscular embrace. The price, in euros, seemed fair to us, since at the time the dollar was worth more than a gnat’s eye. So the negotiation began, with the help of a magisterial notary who had, from sheer generosity, befriended us. Notaries have, in Spain, a distinguished position, and part of their traditional work is to join in with negotiations to help both sides understand the issues and the law. I was used to American lawyers, whose job is often to snarl, at great expense, and hurl thick documents at their adversaries, or even at their clients. Now I was confronted by a new, disorienting Spanish custom of helpful and honest lawyers who bring goodwill and clarity to business. I felt we had been transported to some odd and distant planet. But I liked the planet, and soon we were signing papers—all four pages of them—to buy the house from the family who had owned it for generations. Closing would be in three months. Since we were headed back to the United States, we proposed in the spirit of efficiency to conclude the transaction through the mail. This innocent idea appalled the family, for it lacked in ceremony, offended tradition, failed in courtesy, and marked us as brutish foreigners. The way you buy a house, we learned, was to hand over a cashier’s check, receive the keys into your hand directly, and then go out for a sherry together. Not wanting to give mortal offense, and hoping to earn a glance of affection from Nuestra Señora de la Purificación, we of course caved in and agreed straightaway to return to Spain in a few months with money, and thirsty for sherry.

  In the meantime, we learned more about the Albayzín, with a view to having some renovation done before we arrived in the next year. We discovered that the whole barrio, from the church of San Cristobal at the top of the hill to the River Darro at the foot of the hill, had since 1570 been crumbling away, an abused and, in some centuries, a despised ruin. No one loved it, unless they lived there. It was too poor and dusty, strange and ancient, even to bother with flattening it. Then in 1994, after much work on the part of its brilliant Spanish advocates, UNESCO declared the whole neighborhood a World Heritage Site, part of what they call the Patrimony of Humankind. This rotund phrase, now affixed to the Albayzín, came with Spain having thrown off just two decades earlier the fascist dictatorship of Francisco Franco. The country had written a constitution, begun a democracy with an independent judiciary, joined the European Union and NATO, and in general, with genius, worked a national miracle. Suddenly, visitors turned up in the forgotten Albayzín, the European Union sent money to help with repairs of the streets and houses, histories of the neighborhood were written, traditions of painting and poetry rediscovered, and Granada recognized publicly what some citizens had said for decades: that it had a jewel in its hand.

  We began to feel a wee bit less absurd. And when in June Lucy and I returned with our cashier’s check, we came with a coffee pot and some ideas. We camped out like teenagers on a single mattress on the floor of our bedroom, rose with the sun, scratched our heads and looked around. What had we done? There were modern tiles to remove, the garden cement sported fissures, the kitchen held a darkness a tomb would envy. And the property came wrapped in metal: because the selling family had not lived here, the house had been empty except for holidays, and it had been robbed. The young burglars, finding the house to their taste, had after the robbery decided to stay on. They frolicked by candlelight through the warm nights, in all the rooms, with invited and consensual friends. Guitars sounded. Aromatic smoke swirled. These high times lasted for days. When their revels were finally discovered, they unanimously wanted their derring-do to be admired, and their stay extended; but alas, even in courteous Spain, uninvited thieves must eventually go.

  This bizarre incident made the owners swoon from distress. They trussed the house in barbed wire, locked up the windows in iron bars, installed bolts, fixed metal doors in place. The keys that we were handed with great courtesy came in a weighty bundle that, put in a pocket, would break a femur.

  What to do? We did what we would do so often in our time in Spain: we counted on our Spanish friends. The wonderful notary and his wife, who had been of inestimable help during our house-hunting, now named a contractor who came to see us. José Antonio de la Torre was his name, and he spoke a Spanish so clear that a rock would understand it. We walked about, dreamed, pondered, declared that the barbed wire must all go, marveled at the azure radiance in the Arab bedroom. We sought a way for the house to exhale, for dark rooms to open to the light and the garden. We thought it would be nice to have heat in the winter. We gathered ideas from books on the houses of southern Spain and Morocco, from our visits to carmenes in the Albayzín, and our look into the Moorish traditions of design in Granada that have fascinated so many for centuries. All in all, our idea was simple: we wanted a house and garden respectful of the traditions of Andalusia, and we wanted a place where our daughter could rumpus safely with other children.

  The Carmen de Nuestra Señora de la Purificación had an older section with beautiful old tiles in the entryway—blue and gold and bone-white. Stairs led above to the child’s room with the lovely paintings, the Arab room, and then up to the tower. Downstairs, off the garden, there were the two storage rooms we would make into bedrooms, with orange and lemon trees outside their windows.

  Soon, we had a plan and a contract. We left on the idea that the work would start in the fall. The main house, except for the kitchen, would be finished in January, when we would arrive in Granada to begin a life here. We’d move in, get settled, take stock; then we’d do the garden rooms and whatever else made sense, on the ground, as we looked around and learned more.

  The months whirled by, our little girl learned to walk, we wrapped up sundry labors, and soon autumn was upon us. We sold our cars. Off went our boxes of books on a slow boat from San Francisco. We went on a last camping trip in Nevada, in our wild, beloved Great Basin, where we were challenged in the middle of the night by a big, snorting, white mustang stallion. We saw bighorn sheep, walked among the aspen going gold, rubbed our hands and faces with sagebrush, and knew what a sorrow it would be not to have this blessed country to explore. The light in the Great Basin is more than light. It’s a kind of intelligence and will lead anyone in that desert wilderness over ridges and into hidden canyons, where coyotes will come to your side and propose curious theological speculations. And these are the ordinary things of the wilderness of the Basin.

  Winter wheeled round. We had a last Christmas stateside, said our goodbyes, put our golden lab in her crate for the long flight, kissed and murmured to the now 18-month-old Gabriella about our daft adventure, and we were off.

  We arrived in Granada late at night, in a thick, freezing rain. Of course, this being the Albayzín, there was no way to get anywhere near our house in the rented car. In addition, both Lucy and I were wondering, given the tangle of the streets, if we could even find our house. This doubt made us laugh, and so we parked at the side of a cobblestone street and sat there musing and joking, with little thought that, in such a fix, we would see our Spanish cohorts of months before. Of course, the notary and his wife just then drove by and leapt from their car to shelter us with their friendship. They promised to fetch umbrellas and meet us down by our house. We set off through the narrow streets of the Albayzín,
hauling our belongings through the tempestuous night, with a soaked dog by our side and tired infant in our arms. The rain was merciless, the sky was black. “Gabriella!” we exclaimed to our dubious baby, “we’re moving into our house in Granada!”

  Anyone could have predicted what happened next. We threw open the door to the house, and it was dark as a grave, dusty, frozen, and full of rubble. We were wet, exhausted, and cold. I think, but could not swear, that Gabriella winked at us.

  The rain, of course, did not notice a thing. We advanced a foot into the house, enough to see that going further meant a fall over bricks and a tumble face forward into a mound of plaster. Not wanting to add fractured skulls to the curiosities of the night, we backed into the street, where we found our notary, by now a candidate for sainthood, standing with open umbrellas and ready to help. Together we toted our bags to a nearby carmen that had been made into a little hotel, and we burst into the lobby like a late-night edition of the grapes of wrath. The desk clerk looked us over. We dripped upon the carpet. Our bags were blotched and askew. Our dog shivered and mewed. I asked, rather hysterically I think, for rooms for all of us, regaled him about our wrecked house, and threw ourselves on his mercy. I expected very little, since, standing there and panting from our exertions, we were so bedraggled a spectacle.

  “We have rooms for you,” he said immediately. “And your dog. We love dogs.”

  Maggie the Labrador, to show her gratitude, shook herself with vigor, casting a fine mist of rainwater to the far reaches of the lobby.

  THAT NIGHT, IT snowed—a rare event in Granada. The Alhambra, the Albayzín, and all the city came whitened and startled to morning. It seemed that half the neighborhood ventured onto the streets, marveling at the stuff, as though the heavens had visited upon them some rare alchemical mixture. We ventured out to join them, homeless but game, with our tiny, happy daughter and the baffled Maggie.

  So began, with mishaps and amusement, our years in Granada. Those first weeks held a pattern that would come round again in our time living here. First, the sainted notary and his equally blessed wife put us up in a house they owned in the upper Albayzín: the kindness of neighbors. Next, we went in search of cafés where we could sweep in and stay awhile, eating and musing over our next moves. As soon as we walked in anywhere, we enjoyed courteous and gentle service, for a reason we did not anticipate—the helpless love of the people of Granada for children. They love them unreservedly. They know that children have been recently formed in heaven, and so on earth need special devotions. And so the blond 1-year-old Gabriella was praised, whispered to, winked at, teased; she was given ripe oranges, warm bread and honey, fresh juice and gentle encouragement. We began going to the same café every morning for breakfast, and our daughter developed a small fan club among the other regulars, who greeted her in the morning with a sweetness I found astounding. It made one think the world has a goodness at the heart of it. Sometimes one even thought that humankind might have a future, after all. Such is the naïveté that rose in our thoughts, our first mornings in Granada, wholly dependent on strangers.

  One morning, a man passing by in the street saw Gabriella through the window, entered the café, came straight to our table, took our little girl’s hand, and kissed it gently. Then he turned and walked back onto the street and went his way, all without a word.

  Meanwhile, we awaited our chance to learn about our newly ruined house. The story took shape charmingly, with many shoulder shrugs, arched eyebrows of surprise at plain bad luck, sweeping gestures toward the inscrutable sky, pained references to the hardships of working in a rainy winter, not to mention the many and solemn ceremonies of Christmas and New Year’s, the Day of the Magi, etc., all of which came with vacation days. What was more, everybody had been busy working on another job—it could not be helped!—until really rather late in the autumn. And in any case, all was well. Our house had a heart, liver, stomach, blood, all in place and working. It merely lacked a few cosmetic details.

  We looked around skeptically. The dust over everything was impenetrable. The pile of rubble in the patio rivaled Annapurna. Half-rolled and still-twanging rolls of barbed wire sat in the garden. Boards lay over the floor for the passage of wheelbarrows. Everywhere we found cans of paint, tools, cigarette butts, electric saws, and the occasional jackhammer. We were intrigued with the idea of cosmetic touches applied with a jackhammer. This was a new country. We were here to learn. All the same, we did live in Spain now, and it would have been helpful if we could have lived in our own house. And to set aside for a moment the cosmetics, what about the vital organs? Heat, hot water, electricity? And could we, in this historical epoch, look forward to a kitchen? We saw how our many years of experience camping in the backcountry might come in handy right here in Granada.

  Brows were furrowed, lickety-split conversations ensued, chins were stroked. Perhaps in three weeks we would be able to begin camping out on the second floor. A room for us, a room for Gabriella, a bathroom with occasional hot water. And then of course construction would continue right under our noses. How did that sound?

  It sounded better than living in the streets.

  To make the three weeks, of course, some labor was required on our part. With bandannas on our faces, we cleaned and swept, and finished the day looking like coal miners. We went on hands and knees to scrape paint, wax, and odd deposits off the floors. We ruined socks and pants with the acid used to rid the floor tile of detritus. We wearied of seeing, indoors at noon, our breath frost in the winter air, and grew intensely curious about the startup date for the heat. The heaters were installed, but to fire them up we needed a technician to hook up cables that carried a special current, and only one man in all Granada could do it, and then with a muttering of incantations. It could not be known when he would come. But he would come. Periodically, we gazed into the heavens, thinking he might float down, tools in hand, with our electrical deliverance. Finally, our suave contractor turned up, in the nick of time, with small portable heaters that worked on standard current.

  So at the appointed three weeks, we trouped down through the Albayzín, spilling jokes as we went, and moved into our house. Gabriella was delighted, which proves that kids, with enough snuggles and kisses, will put up with anything. We slept with the portable heaters roaring and lamented not bringing our sleeping bags and camping stove. But we were in residence, as a family, with company: Pedro, Mario, and Rafael, the three workers—called albañiles—who carried on the labor on the house. An albañil, in southern Spain, can do anything except electrical work and finish carpentry. They combine various and exotic work experience with common sense close to genius. Now we got to know them better.

  They taught us the rhythm of life. Our first afternoon, when we returned to the house, an otherworldly silence reigned. No sound was heard, neither of voice nor of electric saw, nor of cement mixer nor hammer. Then, finally: their coordinated snores. It was siesta time. Every afternoon it was the same: at two o’clock, they stoked up a fire in the living room, heated up lunch—they did have stoves—and then leaned back in their chairs and fell thunderously asleep. At three o’clock they rose, rubbed their eyes, lit cigarettes, murmured, spat, pondered, then set to work with goodwill.

  So it was for five months. At eight every morning—you could set an atomic clock by it—they came to the door to begin. At ten in the morning, sandwiches and coffee. At two, lunch and siesta. At five, out the door. All day, they got things done, made things work, put up with our ideas and bewilderment, offered their smart suggestions—the three of them were aestheticians—and all of this, mind you, while smoking continuously. Pedro and Mario were brothers and sent thoughts telepathically to one another. Rafael was a young apprentice with the bearing of an Arab prince; Gabriella, though still an infant, was smitten with him. Lucy and I were very fond of them all.

  These men regarded brick as a plastic material. They could take down one wall, put up another one, and seal it and plaster it before the birds of first light w
ere done singing. Their wonderful phrase was “se puede quitar,” which means “it can be removed.” Their jackhammers were at the ready. If, looking at some wall or pavement you might want to remove, you nodded (or even if you twitched involuntarily), then it would vanish in a trice. One had to be careful, lest an innocent wall was jackhammered to bits in their enthusiasm and derring-do. I think the three of them should be sent up to the International Space Station to do an upgrade; the place would be more roomy, and everything would work up there.

  The winter continued cold. At five minutes after eight every morning, the cement mixer would start. Soon we would hear the electric saws and hammering, the clattering of the wheelbarrow, and the engine of the minute tractor used to deliver sand and bricks and appliances in the Albayzín. With shaking hands we’d make a bottle of milk for our daughter, huddle in bed, tell stories, then rise and head out though the narrow streets to our café, with our little girl toddling between us. Hand in hand, we found a way through the rainy, cold months. In the days, we figured out what to do with our new house, helped as we could, and then went out to study the streets of our adopted city. Needing to prospect for food, we went about to see who would have us. Nearby, a Moroccan family with a restaurant—the Mancha Chica in the heart of the Albayzín—virtually adopted us, and we ate their delicious food nights on end. Gabriella soon had friends all over town, from Maria José de la Miel to Adbul-Fatah the baker, from Dominique the French chef, our neighbor, to Miguel the vendor of jamon serrano. Once, buying a bottle of wine, I saw with delight that the storeowner had noted down our address in her little book under “G,” for “los padres de Gabriella”—the parents of Gabriella.