David E Balaam - Columbus Day

"Well done, son. Let’s go."

They drove out of the driveway into the narrow lane, then the fifty yards to the main road and turned left towards town. They drove in silence for a while.

George realised there was a lot to do at the house. He needed to get to know it for a start. He had had one social evening on his arrival, only yesterday, and now he was playing games and going drinking with his son. Why was he not feeling guilty? George was usually a methodical man. Methodical at home and at work. Was he slipping? Had the last couple of years taken away that sense of achievement and pride? No one who knew him, or knew what he had been through, would think any the less of him if it had.

Aimee’s death

The suspicion of a crime

Not working for a year

Enough to break any man. No, he was not feeling guilty. Why should he not take time out with his son? Precious few fathers do. Even less when the son is twenty-six years old.

He glanced over to Christopher.

"Dad. You OK. Why are you smiling?"

They parked the van in the town centre and stood at the edge of the square.

"OK, which way?" Christopher asked, looking up and down the street for signs of life.

"Is it always this quiet?"

"No idea son. I seem to remember some life last time I came here with Carlos. We found a Bar. On a corner. We sat outside and had a beer."

Christopher took the initiative. "Come on. Let’s take a chance and go right."

They walked down a road with a mix of typical Spanish terraced houses interspersed with a few shops. The walls of the houses were mainly white or pale cream, with dark wood or painted window ‘Louvre’ shutters. They passed a baker which was closed. Then a row of assorted shops. A ladies hairdresser. "Handy dad." Christopher offered. George smiled but did not rise to the bait.

Next to that was what looked like an ironmonger. Then more houses. The road widened slightly and they came to a T Junction. Strung above them spanning the width of the street was a banner announcing a forthcoming event. "Must be life somewhere. They’re having an event of some sort. Can you read it?"

George studied the banner but the sun was directly above them and was making it hard to see, even with sunglasses on. He made out Festival of something, April 24th but not much else.

"Can't read much of that. The sun’s in my eyes."

"Lame excuse. Come on then, let’s find this bar if it exists. I’m getting thirsty."

George looked left and smiled. "I think it’s this way. I seem to remember we came along this road from that direction. "Yes, I’m pretty sure we go left."

More houses, and on the right an entrance to a playground. It seems children all over the world play on the same apparatus. There was a slide. A round-a-bout. An up and down thing which the name had escaped George. There was a large wooden house for exploring, and of course a sand-pit. The notice on the entrance gave opening times plus what was a list of Do’s and Don’ts which George could not read, and in the bottom right corner was the EEC logo. "I guess they had funding for this." George thought to himself.

Spain had done well out of the EEC and spent most of it on roads and infrastructure. Many towns and villages had been expanded and benefited from the low-cost housing projects, although George had not seen any sign of that yet in Calabaza. Now Spain had entered a recession, and unemployment was running higher than ever, and George was not sure what the long-term economic situation would be for Spain, his new home.

They walked on, past more houses, and then George spotted the bar. "There, on the corner." He was pointing to a building fifty feet away to the left. "We parked down that side road. We’ve come in the other end of town that’s all."

George and Christopher stood on the opposite pavement facing El Tango. The pavements were wider on both sides of the road here, and the bar had two tables and chairs outside. There was an old awning pulled over the front window, giving much-needed shade to the tables.

"Yes, we sat there and planned the purchase of the house." George looked pleased with himself.

"Excellent. Glad dementia has not set in yet. Can we go inside, out of the heat?"

Christopher crossed the road, but George stood staring at the bar. It had seen better days he thought and needed a paint job. The once bright terracotta walls were now faded to a milky yellow. There was a red OPEN fluorescent sign in the window which George thought was out of character for this old building. The name painted across the frontage had faded, and the ‘o’ in Tango could hardly be seen. Above the bar was what looked like a two-story apartment. The window on the first floor was closed and shuttered. Paint flaked off the old brown wooden louvres. The top two windows were open but had no shutters. Around the top of the building ran a bricked fascia, and George guessed there was some sort of roof terrace. A black rusty drainpipe ran the length of the front wall, completing the sad image of this old establishment.

George sighed, not knowing why. He crossed the road and they entered El Tango.

Chris pushed open the heavy glass door and stepped inside. It was dark, and it took a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the surroundings and geography of the room. When their eyes did adjust to the dim light, they were genuinely surprised by the interior.

It was as if time had passed it by. There were several wooden tables and chairs in the centre of the room and in front of the window, where sat four elderly men drinking iced coffee and playing chess. They looked up with interest when the two strangers entered the bar, but said nothing, although nodded in reconnection.

Christopher was more forthcoming. "Buenos días gentlemen," he said, waving a hand in greeting.

The bar on the left wall stretched about thirty foot, and like any bar worth visiting, it had three shelves along the back of the bar, each around twenty-foot long stacked with every conceivable spirit and liqueur you could imagine. Many, of course, were Spanish or Portuguese, especially Northern favourites such as Rioja and Tempranillo, plus a mix of American, English and Scottish spirits.

But what caught George’s eye was on the far wall. It was a floor-to-ceiling painting of dancers - traditionally dressed men and women in the Tango pose, and a guitarist sitting playing, with beads of sweat trickling down his temple.

Maria walked to the end of the bar where George was standing, looking at the painted wall in admiration.

"My husband painted it." George turned around quickly, and for a second forgot he was in another country. "You speak English," he said rather tongue-tied.

"Si, yes. You are English are you not?" She answered, without expression.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Well, yes, and I heard your friend speaking it," she gestured to Christopher.

"Ah, he is not a friend, he is my son, and I can disown him anytime if he misbehaves," George said, feeling a little more confident.

Christopher was now standing next to George and extended his hand to Maria.

"Hola, buenos días Senorita. My name is Christopher."