The train from Biarritz crept slowly into the station like some shy debutante.
The man shaded his eyes against the glare of the glass and looked out.
Irun. This is it. This is where we get off.
The man stood up and lifted the two suitcases down from the overhead compartment.
Don’t forget my jacket said the woman.
The man reached up again and handed the woman a red three quarter length red coat.
It’ll be too hot to wear said the man.
The woman put on the red coat and began dragging her case down the aisle towards the exit. The man followed her, dragging his own case.
It’ll be nearly a two hour wait said the man as they entered an enormous station. It reminded the man of a cave. It was dim and smelt musty.
I know said the woman. You said that before. It doesn’t matter. None of this is about rushing.
The station hall was echoey like a cave too and they appeared to be the only passengers getting off in Irun.
The man and the woman dragged their luggage to a nearby seat and the woman sat down.
You’d better check about those tickets to Madrid said the woman. You can try that funny French you’ve been practising. It’s so close to the border here they must speak French too.
The man looked towards the ticket office. He could see the top of a man’s head and nothing more behind the screen. The head was shiny with a few wisps of black hair. The man scratched his own head, practising the correct phrases as he walked towards the ticket office.
Bon après-midi he said. Nous avons…une reservation pour Madrid…mais…je veux acheter des billets…s’il vous plait.
The man behind the desk said something in Spanish.
He doesn’t speak French the man shouted to the woman who was already reading a paperback she’d taken out of her case. The cover showed a woman and a shirtless man in some sort of chaste embrace.
Try English she said putting a bookmark between the pages and closing the book on her lap.
They must speak more than Spanish. This is Europe for Chrissakes.
Good afternoon said the man again. We have a booking on to Madrid but I need to buy tickets please.
The man behind the desk just raised both hands in the air and shrugged his shoulders.
Try Mandarin said the woman and put the paperback in her case.
Very funny said the man standing in front of the ticket office, looking like a man who’d lost his dog.
Por favor. A middle- aged woman dressed in flamenco style, a long black dress with red ruffles suddenly appeared. Her greying hair was piled in a bun and in English she said quietly. Perhaps I can help.
It took only a few minutes of the man explaining his problem and the Spanish woman translating before the man was clutching his two tickets to Madrid.
Muchas gracias Senora said the man, bowing slightly towards the woman. He almost curtsied, but restrained himself just in time.
Nada murmured the woman moving away down the hall, her long dress leaving a trail in the dusty floor.
Bloody Carmen Miranda said the woman, just when we needed her.
I thought Carmen Miranda was from South America said the man.
He sat down next to the woman.
What are we going to do for two hours? said the man.
Wait of course. God knows where everybody else is.
I’m going for a walk said the man. There must be a cafe or a bar nearby. This is Spain after all not Geelong.
As he walked the length of the hall, he peered at a huge mosaic which appeared to cover one whole wall. It was dim in the station but he could just make out cows or bulls and what looked like farmers with pitchforks, some sort of rural scene.
Further on there was a row of huge display cases, like David Jones’ windows depicting what looked like historical battles but the glass was so dusty and dark that it was difficult to make out many details at all.
The man returned to the woman who had resumed reading and was fanning herself with some pamphlet she’d picked up.
Let’s try the other side of the station she said. I’m sure there’ll be a bar or something. It’s too hot in here anyway.
The man pulled up the handle of his case and led the way down stairs and up a long ramp to the opposite platform.
I hope you know where you’re going said the woman.
They emerged into a totally different world. Here there were a few shops, some people strolling and a taxi rank with a group of drivers chatting loudly.
In one corner there was a bar with long windows, showing little wooden tables and metal chairs inside. A brown dog was sprawled in a splash of sunshine near the bar’s doorway. The dog merely sniffed without raising her head as they entered the bar.
What do you want? said the man when they were seated at a table covered in thick plastic.
Hola said the man to the girl behind the bar. She wore a blue apron over a short black skirt and a white blouse with ruffles.
Dos cafe por favor said the man. Espresso
The man saw how the light flashed off her big hoop earrings as she moved quickly behind the bar, attacking the espresso machine as if it had insulted her.
He liked how some wisps of her black hair had escaped from her chignon and how she blew them away from her mouth as she worked. There was a slight film of sweat on her upper lip. He noticed that especially.
Going multilingual now are we? said the woman when the man brought the coffees back to the table.
It’s just from the phrase book he said. Nothing special.
A huge overhead fan clicked annoyingly as it rotated in the humidity.
The girl behind the bar called out something to the group of taxi drivers gathered outside and a man with black curly hair and a goatee detached himself from the group and approached the bar. One of the other men shouted out something to him and the men all laughed.
The girl at the bar plucked three bottles of beer from the refrigerator behind her and snapped the caps off in an instant, pushing the beers towards the driver. As he reached for the beers, the girl touched his hand for an instant and spoke in a low voice. The man blushed suddenly and withdrew his hand as if he’d been burnt. The girl laughed aloud but the man thought it sounded more like a growl.
What’s Spanish for turn the bloody fan up a few more notches said the woman who hadn’t noticed the small drama. It’s damn hot in here.
It won’t be long now said the man. Let’s get a beer. I can do that in Spanish.
While the man was ordering the beers the bar door opened and a woman of about sixty entered, holding the hand of a small girl. The woman looked as if she’d stepped from the pages of history. She wore the long traditional dress of the flamenco in cascading red and black ruffles. Her head and shoulders were covered with a black veil, held on place with a tortoiseshell comb. She was magnificent. The little girl was dressed in a miniature version of the same style.
There must be a flamenco convention somewhere said the woman.
The man thought they looked as if they had walked off a Pedro Almodóvar movie set but he didn't say so. The woman would only go to the movies if it was a Romcom and with no less than four stars.
How cute is that kid said the man instead.
Don’t start said the woman.
Jesus, all I said was…
We said we wouldn’t talk about it while we were away said the woman, tearing open another sugar sachet and pouring it into her coffee.
Jesus you won’t stop will you?
Why is this coffee so bitter?
I’m going for a walk said the man.
Outside the taxi drivers were lounging against their taxis, still talking loudly. They laughed again as he walked past. It wasn’t anything he recognised from his phase book.
The man walked to the end of the street where he could see the rounded dome of a cathedral. There wasn’t time he supposed to walk that far and check it out. For the first time in years he felt totally anonymous and he tasted the feeling with pleasure. Buses were parked all along the street outside the station. They were all headed to places he’d never heard of.
How easy it would be thought the man to just get on one of these buses and go wherever it was headed just for the hell of it.
In the distance he could see hills, rounded, smooth hills, white in the glare of late afternoon sun. It reminded him of a story he’d read a long time ago. Hills like, like… Hills like white elephants, that was it. He’d never really understood what was happening in that story anyway, all that Hemingway iceberg theory, with all that deeper meaning under the surface going on.
Maybe the woman was right when she kept saying you just don’t get it do you?
He walked back to the station. The taxi drivers had gone. Outside the bar the woman was standing with their bags.
It’s here the train to Madrid. Where were you?
She laced her arm through his as they walked to the platform.
I’m just asking you not to pressure me while we’re on holidays. That’s not too much to ask is it?
When the train left Irun the woman seemed to relax a little and the man could feel the warmth of her shoulder against his. The woman’s paperback stayed in her case and she just stared out the window all the way to Madrid and said nothing.
