David E Balaam - Columbus Day

Maria smiled or perhaps was laughing to herself, at the poor excuse for what she heard as her own language.

"Hola, Christopher." She replied, taking his hand.

George thought he had better follow his son’s lead and extended his hand, but did not chance the mother tongue just yet.

"Hello, I am George Morton."

"Welcome to Calabaza. I am Maria and this is my bar." George was still holding her hand and was surprised by the length of her fingers. ‘Probably a pianist’, he heard his mother say somewhere in the back of his mind. She always had a saying for something attributed to other people’s looks or character. She would have liked these hands. Maria was not stunningly attractive - she was more like a mysterious dark-haired gipsy. Tall, and with a good figure from what he could make out under the apron she was wearing. Her skin was tanned smooth for her age, which George was guessing was around fifty-something, give or take a few years. And even in this light he could see her eyes were a beautiful clear emerald colour, and could not stop from staring into them longer than he should have.

"Senor," Maria said, withdrawing her hand and disguising a smile. "Can I get you something?"

"A bucket of cold water probably," Christopher suggested, giving his father a look of disgust.

Maria looked puzzled. "Take no notice of him. He is leaving tonight. I would like a cappuccino please Maria."

"I only have instant coffee. The machine is broken." Maria replied, looking slightly embarrassed for the excuse.

"Come on old man, its gone mid-day. Two beers por favor Maria."

"Si." Maria opened the cool-cabinet at the end of the bar and took out two bottles of Cerveza.

"Any tapas Maria, we missed breakfast this morning."

"Sorry, no. We do not get enough business to offer Tapas, but I can make you a toasted sandwich. Jambon y queso, err . . . ham and cheese?"

"Sounds good to me, dad, want one?"

"No, I’m fine thanks, Chris."

George and Chris sat opposite each other at one of the tables in the middle of the room.

"What are you grinning about, Christopher? Act your age, please. I am staying here after you’ve gone remember, so do not embarrass me."

"Would I?" Chris looked hurt at the thought but smiled again. "No worries dad, your secret is safe with me."

George was taken-a-back. "What secret?"

Christopher leant forward and whispered. "I saw the way you looked at . . . what’s her name over there," nodding in Maria's direction.

"Don’t be . . ." then realising he had raised his voice, lowered it to a whisper, "don’t be daft Christopher. I have just met her, and I have no intention of starting a relationship . . . with anyone." He gave his son a look to establish his seriousness on the subject.

"OK, sorry. Just a joke dad. I won’t say another word." Chris said, holding his hands up in surrender, and suppressing a sheepish grin.

"Good. I hope not." George replied, in a matter-of-fact way.

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes when Christopher noticed the Jukebox.

"Excellent!" He stood up and walked over to the wall-mounted music box, a few feet behind George.

"Wonder what it takes. Got any Euros, dad?"

George froze and closed his eyes. They had left in such a rush the key episode had taken his mind of other important considerations, such as money.

"It looks pretty old dad. It's still got a selection of original 45’s."

George gestured to his son and called over in a low voice. "Chris, come here. We have a problem."

Chris wasn’t sure what his dad had said, but was more interested in the Jukebox. Thinking George had a coin, he went back to the table in expectation.

"Chris," George was looking directly at his son, and again in a low voice, "Son, listen to me. Have you got any money on you?"

"No, of course not. That’s why I asked . . . ," and stopped in mid-sentence. "You’ve come out without any money haven’t you?" Christopher took a sharp intake of breath. "This is going to be interesting. She’s probably got a giant of a husband out back. I feel sorry for you, old man." Christopher said shaking his head.

"Oh really. I’m not the one having a sandwich, eh?" George had seen a young woman come from behind the bar, where he assumed the kitchen was and came to their table.

"Es este bocadillo para usted?" The young waitress asked George.

"No, for my idiot son."

She looked at George, then at Christopher. Shrugged, and placed the plate in the middle of the table.

Christopher grinned. "Lucky for me she doesn’t understand English."

Talking with his mouth full, Christopher posed the question. "Do we make a run for it pass the geriatric posse over there, or volunteer to wash up? It’s only one plate after all."

"I don’t think it works like that. I‘m going to talk to Maria and explain. After all, I have to come back here," and George left his son to eat, and went back to the bar.

Although two large ceiling fans were rotating at full speed, George was still perspiring. Maybe from the heat, but certainly from the uncomfortable feeling of having to admit they had not one Euro between them.

Maria was back behind the bar talking to the waitress.

"Hola." George coughed. "Sorry, Maria can I talk."

"Si, of course. This is Angeles, but we all call her Angel, which she is some of the time." Maria introduced her to George, and Angel immediately said something to Maria, which they both found amusing.

"I must start learning more Spanish," George promised himself. He gave the two women a puzzled look, as he knew they were talking about him.

"I am sorry, we are not laughing really. It is just my son is called Jorge, and Angel said if I called out his name who would come to me."

"I see, I think…how old is your son Maria?"

"Nine years next month."

It was George’s turn to look surprised. Was she younger than she looked? Does this climate make you look older? He really did not want to get into a personal conversation now. He just wanted to get over the embarrassing problem facing him.

"Maria, this is very embarrassing for me, but it seems we have come out without any money between us. I know this is not a good first impression, but it is an honest mistake."

Maria was whispering a translated version to Angel who looked aghast, and a little amused.

Maria stared at George for what seemed like ages.

Angel was staring at Christopher and then spoke to Maria excitedly.

George turned to see his son waving back and smiling. He gave a ‘thumbs-up’ for the sandwich.

"Angel says you leave your son as hostage while you go and get some money, and take your time."

George sighed. "As much as I would like to I don’t think he would be . . . err," he tried to find the right word . . . he pulled a face of clenched teeth . . . , "of any help to your friend. He has a partner," he said, raising his eyebrows, hoping for a sign of understanding.