Barbara Tregonning sets her story in Spain's most exotic city, Seville.
S.E.Ñ.O.R.I.T.A.
I first saw her as I arrived at the top of the Giralda: the famous bell tower of the cathedral
at Seville. It was midsummer, just past noon. At that altitude, high above the city, a small
breeze made it possible to breathe deeply again after the long climb. There she was, at
the parapet, leaning out with a half smile on her face, slender and feminine in her full
skirted dress and elegant sandals, so different from the back-packing tourists, and the
determined knots of Japanese in their little round white linen hats and loose fitting
trousers, camera-clicking their way around Europe.
I looked again. A tall, lithe young Spaniard was inching his way towards her side. Over
her shoulder her eye caught mine, briefly, as she turned to speak to him. I took the only
vacant place at the railing further around and tried to concentrate on my photography.
But I was more than a little conscious of her presence as I peered down at the
grotesque, medieval gargoyles on the top of the cathedral roof below me. Further away,
in the distance the telltale circle of the Plaza del Torreros, the Seville bullring, proclaimed
that this was indeed Spain.
I lingered a while longer, then with a slight feeling of regret I retraced my way to ground
level again. The city gasped in the heat, only the huge white awnings, like snowy sails
above the fashionable shopping streets, providing shelter from the sun. “Time for tapas
and an ice-cold beer,” I told myself. In a side street I found a small taverna and a friendly
barman, immaculate in his white shirt and black bow tie. As I was his sole customer, he
was ready for a chat under the array of smoked hams above the bar. Deftly he reached
up, carved several tiny pieces of ham and presented them to me on a small plate, with
black olives. My tall tubular glass seemed to take a long time to empty, so unobtrusive
were his ministrations.
After a pleasant hour, the barman discreetly showed me to the door. Time to put up his
shutters for the afternoon siesta. I wandered out into the now deserted street, as all
doors were closing, seeking further diversion. A low archway looked inviting. It was the
entrance to the old Jewish quarter, with its maze of narrow white stone walled alleys
every so often broadening out to inviting cul-de-sacs with check-clothed tables
abandoned at this sleepy hour. Then I heard voices around the next turn, and a low,
husky laugh. I could not believe it. Here was my senorita of the cathedral bell tower,
seated at a small table. And with her - was it? No, it was another man, older; before him
on the table, was an array of empty glasses and olive pips, the leftovers of a tray of
tapas. He was pontificating - there was no other word for it - in a voice a little too loud
and resonant, very pleased with himself as he warmly clutched the hand of the lady. I
wondered where his companions of the used glasses had gone. Withdrawn discreetly
maybe. The beautiful young woman held his gaze, nodding gently.
He looked up. "Sit, do sit. Join us." He fumbled in his shirt pocket and handed me a
business card. I saw the address was Barcelona. Clearly he shared her Spanish
inheritance. "You see, I am a Mediation Lawyer." He pointed to the discreet printing
below his name. "Pardon me?" I said. I felt the term needed clarifying. I knew of litigation
Lawyers of course - that rapidly expanding breed in the Western world. But Mediation?
"Yes, conciliation, you would say. I reconcile people." He leaned closer across the small
table to his lady. Over went a glass. Without losing her composure she stood it upright
again, but declined his offer of refilling her own. He did not extend me the same
courtesy, but immediately began a monologue, not pausing for breath, on the joys and
challenges of his profession.
"What is she - this exquisite creature, doing with a boor like this?" I asked myself. But it
was impossible to engage her in conversation. He made sure of that. I cast my mind
back to her young Spanish escort at the Giralda. There was no comparison.
"We must go now," said the Lawyer abruptly, as soon as he had finished his dissertation.
I took my cue, rose and left before they did, feeling a vague unease. The quaint, mellow
beauty of the Old Quarter and what lay beyond lured me on again. After all, this was why
I had come to Seville; for the colour, the ambience, and the sense of history.
Fingers of shadow were already creeping across the city when I suddenly remembered
Christopher Columbus. The old jingle, learned at school: "Fourteen hundred and ninety-
two, Columbus sailed the waters blue," had always intrigued me. His sarcophagus was
in the cathedral adjoining the Giralda, and I had quite forgotten it, preoccupied at that
time with other thoughts. I walked fast, before the cathedral closed its vast doors for the
night. I was fortunate. “La tombe – Christophe…” I said politely to a uniformed attendant.
It had to pass for Spanish. He waved me in the right direction across the black and white
tiled floor.
On a marble platform four stone figures in heraldic robes, larger than life size, paced
gravely two by two, bearing on their shoulders the sarcophagus of the famed navigator.
It was a tableau of stately beauty, frozen in time. As I stood, paying my respects, a last
diminutive Japanese tourist clicked her camera. Its flash broke the moment. And it was
then I saw her, my senorita, for the last time. She was hurrying towards the great door,
on the arm of her escort. I looked discreetly, to discern if it was the boorish lawyer of the
Jewish Quarter. But it was not. Neither was it the lithe young Spaniard of the bell tower. I
was embarrassed. It was another. She saw the look in my eyes. Raising one eyebrow
she murmured over her shoulder in a voice that was scarcely audible, as she went by:
"You see I, too, am in the business of conciliation." Her stylish high-heeled sandals
made a small tapping sound. Then she was gone.
Inside it was so dim. The last tourists were already straggling out. Only the huge golden
grille that encompassed the sanctuary gave faint gleams from hidden lighting. The floor
space was as vast as the question left hanging in my mind.