Our Alhambra

I sat in bed looking at the old Alhambra picture I found in a skip. ‘Help. Help. Help.’ A commotion
was going on next door. Some gypsy family had moved in. The Alhambra picture was somewhat faded, the sky was light green, the edges torn.

‘Help.’

I was boxed in this airless room of mine. On one side were the Argentines and their little boy wonder with the Harry Potter hair and glasses. Behind the back wall was a Galician volcanologist with her jazzy San Franny radio station on wifi. Below there were some mild banging noises. A Catalan couple.

‘Help.’

I wondered if someone was dying.
The front door growled open and the Alhambra wobbled. The door slammed.

‘Did you do it?’

I looked over my shoulder, upside down, and saw Grace's cowboy boots. Grace was stood there in her cowboy boots, fuming. ‘Did you even look around?’

‘It’s the start of the summer, baby. There’s no point.’

‘Right so,’ she said, baring her teeth. ‘I see you’re in exactly the same position as when I went to work. You haven’t even left the flat, so.’

‘All the boats are out in the water now. They’re all off to Antibes or the Caribbean.’
Aggrieved silence followed, punctuated by a ‘help!’ through the wall. Grace looked at the wall, then back at me.

‘You are so fucking LAME! I like a man who works. Do ye know that, allright?’

She was building it allright. She’d been building it all day, between classes. Hoping to find me at home doing nothing. A fly was buzzing around my bare legs. It landed. I reached for it. It moved. It landed again. I reached for it. It moved. It was one step ahead.

‘You don’t have any money left, do ya?’

‘Actually, I found a couple of Euros under the-‘

‘Under the cushions? You know, I can’t believe this shite. I teach all day, come home. And you haven’t even moved.’

‘Come here, baby.’

‘Will yer ever give it a rest? I’m not doing that damned teaching job to feed the both of us.’

Her tits looked rounder and fuller in her bra. Her chest was all pink and frustrated and her lips were moist with spit. The job on Il Cigno had paid out a 100 a day while I got high on toxic fumes. The boat, a thirty footer, was in a plastic tent in the yard. It was a case of rubbing away all day with sandpaper, smoothing the wood finishes on the handrails. Before that it was bits of chairs, tables, anything on board. After work I had muddled feelings. I wanted to sand Grace. Her legs, her arms, her shoulders. Her nose. I guess I was addicted to sanding. I also wanted to varnish her. And the Alhambra. I’d really like to take some sandpaper to that. Varnish the shit out of their arabesques to the pleasant sound of rushing fountains and birdsong and distant guitars. But that job was gone, and I was in no hurry to find another one.

‘I’m going out, Paul. You drive me nuts! NUTS!’

She threw some stuff around in the manner of Alan Partridge and his empty crisp packet. The door slammed, the Alhambra shook, a patter of hooves on tiles and the lift heaving into action. Some moans were coming through the floor. Grunts joined in. A bed began rocking in time. I lunged at the disc player and JJ Cale soon played over a shaking bed percussion.

The kitchen cupboard was encrusted in a layer of dried herbs and spilled condiments. A half-full packet of tortellini was embedded in it. I squeezed the tap into a pan, added oil and salt. Must I respond to her? Should I really be upbraided for not working? Perhaps I should be applauded. There, what about that! Was it necessary to take these things serious?

Cale stopped singing and the banging of the neighbours started up again. Bang. Bang. Bang. It sounded senseless, moronic. The water in the pan started fizzing and there was fizzing and banging and oil slick foaming on the surface. I poured out the tortellini and the little cheese-filled devils buoyed happily on the surface. I was crushing some garlic, when the telephone rang.

I picked up the receiver. A child’s voice spoke to me, ever so little.
‘You didn’t come after me.’
‘Darling.’
‘You never come looking for me.’

Grace burst into tears. The receiver had dust and grime in the bit you speak into. I tried to wipe it off, but couldn’t get my fingers deep enough. Something else was needed. Something pointier. Maybe a paper clip.

‘Where are you?’

‘Outside. On Meridiana.’

‘Oh baby. What are you doing there? I thought you were going out?’

‘Yes, but…’ She sounded sheepish. I could tell she was going to laugh. Crying always appeared to be some kind of groundwork for laughing. The tortellini was probably ready.

‘I love you baby,’ she said in the child’s voice.
‘Do you? Love me?’ I could tell she was smiling.
‘I love you too baby.’
‘Am I your favourite?’
‘Yes.’
‘Still?’ she mumbled.
‘My favourite,’ I said.
‘Even more than that one, whassername, off that programme?’
‘Well, maybe not as much.’
‘No!’ she protested in delight.
‘Are you going to come up?’ I said.
‘Why don't you come down and get me?' she said. 'Come down and get me.'
'Why don't you just come up? You know how to use the stairs.'
'Why don't you-' There was a plopping noise and the line went dead.

Out of the door and downstairs I went. I left the building and came to the road. There she was, standing at the telephone box in her blue puff coat, handbag hanging on her wrist, eyes bloated. She was pleased.

Come on. 'Come on…' I said.

'Wait. Do you remember when we stood here waiting for the bus and we had an argument and you got on and left me standing here? Why are you always doing that Paul. You know I hate to be left. You never follow me. I hate that.'

'Shall we get some wine?'

'Yes, but first come here and give me a little squeeze. Give me some lovesy. Do I not get any lovesy?'

Behind Grace walked a lady on high heels. She had a deeply lined face, fat lips and a muscular body. Grace turned and copped her. She turned back to me.

Her eyes began boiling. 'I saw that. You can STICK your BOTTLE OF VINO UP YOUR ARSE!'

She turned on her heels and started walking down the road.

'Where the hell are you… Grace… where the hell are you...' I ran after her. Then, she took a quick sideways glance and ran out into the road. A car came hurtling out of a side street.

I stopped dead in panic. 'GRAACE!' It looked as if the car was going to hit her. She didn't turn round, but kept on running. 'BEEEEEEP!' went the car. Grace disappeared. ‘BEEEEP!’ thundered the death-machine. And she reappeared on the side. 'YOU STUPID BITCH!' I shouted. I ran across the road and pulled her into my arms. She moistened my neck. Then there was a bubbling noise and I realised she was laughing sheepishly.

We brought some wine, went home and while she showered I ate tortellini at last. The Alhambra stared down at me from the wall, majestic on its hilltop with the snow-capped peaks peering from behind it.