Open Writing

Many years ago in the depth of winter I asked my employer for a week’s holiday.
He grudgingly agreed and I went down to the Travel Agents and asked for
a holiday, “Anywhere as long as I could be guaranteed some sunshine.’’

I told the young girl behind the desk I just wanted to escape for one week
and leave the dreadful English winter behind.

“ Better go to the Canaries, Sir,’’ she said. “At least you’ve got guaranteed sunshine
there.’’

How was I to know Tenerife would have the worst January weather for over
twenty years? It could have been Leeds or Sheffield on one of their good
winter days.

My vision of sitting in the open air looking at the sun reflecting off the
Atlantic Ocean while sipping an ice-cold lager was gone.

I left my shorts and sunglasses in the case and donned my jeans and leather jacket instead.

I caught the first bus to anywhere and got off at the first village
I fancied, Guía de Isora.

There may be a market, I thought. Some interesting little shops and bars…

It must have been half-day closing or maybe a public holiday. The place was deserted, and still the drizzle and fog persisted. I walked into the first bar. It seemed to be the only bar open.

The village was dead. Not a soul!

It was there that I saw the old man. He was sat at the far corner of the
bar drinking a rough red wine in a single gulp and when the glass hit the
stainless bar top the barman refilled it.

There was only one other person in the bar besides the old man and myself and he sat on a bar stool drinking what looked like a strong continental lager out of a bottle. He looked to be German.. Blond hair, blue eyes and a tanned skin.

I asked for a glass of the local beer and sat next to this man. Across the bar the old man was still drinking red wine as if it would shortly go out of fashion.

Suddenly. the German jumped from his bar stool, threw a 1000 peseta note
on the bar and walked quickly through the wooden swing doors. The bus must
have turned around in the village square and pulled up at the bus stop before heading back to civilisation.

When it had left I pointed to my watch and said to the barman “The next
bus? What time?’’

He pointed at the large old nicotine stained clock above the bar and said in slow but good English, “Four Clock.’’

It was then one o’clock. I had hit the village during siesta time.

I looked across the room at the old man who did the remarkable trick of knocking
back a glass of red wine while he had a cigarette between his lips.

I noticed that in his haste the German had left a full packet of Peter Stuyvesant
cigarettes and a gas lighter on the bar. I doubted if he would ever return
to retrieve them so I picked them up and shouted across the bar to the old
man, “Cigarette?’’

His eyes widened and his mouth opened to reveal two nicotine-stained
teeth. A wonderful smile lit up his face. Tossing the remains of his
cigarette butt onto the floor he came around the bar towards me.

He took a cigarette out of the pack with great care, caressing its length and
long filter. He placed it in his mouth with pride.

I sparked the lighter and the flame torched the end of the cigarette.

He inhaled deeply with rasping lungs, held the smoke deep inside and then exhaled through his nostrils.

“Amigo,’’ he said and slapped me hard on the back. “Hombre. Bueno.’’

He prattled away in Spanish as though I understood every word.

I looked at his leathery features, smelt his nicotine-laden breath, and in that
moment saw happiness on his face.

I pushed the packet of cigarettes and the lighter towards him. “Yours. Good cigarettes? Bueno?’’

He looked at the cigarettes, then at me, and pointed a finger at himself. “Sí,
por favor?’’

“Yes,’’ I said. “Sí. For you.’’

He picked up the cigarettes and the lighter, lovingly turning the packet
over and over, eyeing the product of Virginia.

His face was serious now and I detected wetness around the eyes. The old
man was crying inside. I felt embarrassed.

I heard him mumbling. “Americano? Inglés? Con filtro?’’

He suddenly shouted at the barman, startling me.

“La cerveza, vino tinto por este hombre. Bueno.’’ He smashed his
fist on to the bar top.

We drank for three hours non-stop. I forgot about the rain and drizzle.

We clinked glasses and shouted: “Salud.’’ “Bueno.’’ “Gracias.’’

“No, I pay’’ I shouted shoving notes back towards him.

They were shoved firmly back towards me.

“He paid now,’’ the barman said, pointing at the till.

My jumbled brain was saying, “How can he pay? Surely he can’t have much money?’’

My bus!

The doors were closing; I grabbed my money and went for the door.
The old man followed me.

We were outside. Too late. The bus moved on.

When the fresh air hit the old man he fell on the floor.

Events were moving too fast and I was in slow motion. I could see
the barman talking into the telephone and within a few minutes of getting
the old man back on to his feet we were being bundled into a taxi.

The old man was mumbling incoherently, “Amigo. Hombre. Cigarette. Bueno.’’ were the only words I understood.

The taxi stopped and the driver helped the old man out . I opened my wallet
and gave him some notes.

“No, No! He pay.’’ said the driver, pointing at the old man.

I did not understand. My mind was befuddled. The wine and beer had killed comprehension.

We were dropped off outside a huge white villa that resembled a ranch house. La Castilla Juan Guía de Isora it said in gold lettering over the large
black wrought iron gates.

These were shoved open by a strong severe middle-aged woman who grabbed the
old man and pulled him inside.

I followed, halting in the courtyard while the woman scolded and beat the old man, pulling him indoors.

I sat on a round stone seat beneath a large olive tree and tried to make
some sense of what was happening. This place must be worth billions and
billions of pesetas.

Presently a door opened and a young woman of great beauty approached me
and held out her hand.

“My name is Elenora,’’ she said in perfect English. “Would you like some tea?’’

We sat and talked for what seemed an age. The tea and fresh air gradually cleared my head but I felt desperately tired.

Elenora had studied European Civilisation at Cambridge. She explained that the old man was her grandfather, and it was his daughter who had roughly pulled him inside the house. He had once upon a time been a farmer, scratching a living off the land.

Elenora said her grandfather owned all the land thereabouts. It had been
handed down from generation to generation. When mass tourism hit the island he sold the land for billions of pesetas.

Gradually people who had toiled the land left for the resorts of Los
Cristianos and Las Americas. They opened bars and restaurants and no one
worked the land anymore.

After her grandmother had died her grandfather was left on his own.. He had plenty of money but no work and few friends. His daughter looked after the villa, cleaning and cooking.

Grandfather spends his days drinking in the bar but he is very lonely. My mother looks after the money and gives him a daily allowance.

My grandfather has lived here all his life. He is too old to live anywhere else.

You are a stranger to our country and do not understand. You come for the sunshine but we live here.

When I left that place the rain and drizzle stopped and the sunshine shone
again but I will never forget the sunshine in the smile on my friend’s face
when he smoked that Peter Stuyvesant cigarette.

(Wakefield University of theThird Age)