All entries for Sunday 27 January 2008

January 27, 2008

This is the monastery of Santa Maria de las Cuevas in the Isla de la Cartuja quarter in Seville.

Seville is one of the most intriguing cities I have visited. The commentary at the door says Columbus

lodged here for a brief period of contemplation before he undertook the voyage.

No hint of blood crosses my path as I stroll along the cloister's endless orange groves on the

twelfth of April, 2005. Only blossoms, a sublime perfume of blossoms. At 5.58 pm,

as the sun prepares to enshroud the city, I take the picture that you see below.

At 6pm, the tiny bell signals the Angelus. La Giralda, the great Muslim minaret that is now the

cathedral's 'alminar', its bell-tower, follows suit. I shudder. This is where I come from. This hollow,

overbearing echo. This evening shudder that smells of orange blossoms.

Habitually, I nod and murmur the same prayer my great-great-great-great-grandpa did

four-hundred-and-forty-two years ago, as he fed Turkish slaves' heads into a cannon-barrel.

No remorse. I fill up my pipe, strike a match, gaze at the smoke teasing its way across a drowsy

Guadalquivir.

It is 6.05 pm, and nothing obstructs my line of vision. The first novillo, still very young but not very

sharply horned, will fall by 6.15. I sit back and relax. The crowd shall cheer. Invariably, this southwestern

breeze will caress my nostrils with blood, freshly picked from the ranges of Miura. Ole, la muerte alegre.

I wait. No eagerness, no craving. But no remorse, either. Only this memory of winds

that never travel by themselves. Never unmarked, unscented. And I shudder. The evening rustles its way

through the groves, and as it reaches toward me, reminds me of my pipe. I need a new Zippo. A cheaper one.

Sooner or later, it will break down.

7 pm. I make my way back to the hotel. Death, Hemingway reminds me, is incidental to the game. So is

this muted cloister. And the shifting perfumes of an afternoon. Where is the blood that kept you awake, Federico?

Where are the secrets that burden the river?

I rush across Calatrava's bridge. Is this the third, fourth, twentieth taxi that I've missed? I realise I've lost count.

And swear.