The summer I turned 20, I spent six weeks in Spain with a beautiful stranger. A boarding school blonde, an Abercrombie catalog, an all American fantasy. Dropped on an island in the middle of the Mediterranean, she fell asleep Sara Patterson and woke up Godard’s Dream.
We were invited by my Aunt’s ex stepmother, Antonia, to stay with her in a small village on the island of Mallorca. Sara came in place of my second cousin - her boarding school roommate - who bailed when she got a summer boyfriend. All of the classic fairy tale plot points were in place.
For the first week, Antonia paraded us around town, to dinner, to drinks, sent us out with friends’ nephews, hosted dinner parties in our honor. But Sara had quite an effect on men, on all men. The phone started ringing off the hook, and Antonia was not interested in being anyone’s secretary.
At first, the signs were subtle. The phone was moved from the hallway into her bedroom, the hair dryer she lent us disappeared. But they continued to grow, and louder: she locked her door when she left, the staples in the fridge were not replenished, the supply of filtered water disappeared. The shifts we were promised at her sister’s jewelry shop in town stopped, and with that, our means to eat and live and stay on the island.
Both of us, for different reasons, refused to ask our parents for any money. So it was decided, quietly, without a word, that we would survive on Sara’s beauty for the remainder of the summer. No effort would be involved on her part. She simply had to walk into a bar, a restaurant, sit down at the beach and wait for mere minutes. And this would allow us to live out the rest of our European summer.
The first bar was called Red. We arrived early by Spanish standards, and as suspected, the manager approached us promptly, asked if we needed anything. He was short, alpha, Australian. Absinthe was set on fire, appetizers sent out on cue. This continued for a number of weeks. Once, he visited us and saw the empty fridge, and from then on we had groceries. I remember he bought us a package of smoked salmon and we tried to cook it in the oven.
We met another at the beach. He was playing soccer, and the ball rolled over to Sara. He was young, our age, a local. He didn’t have much to offer, but he did have a car, and always brought beer to the beach. We tied the plastic bags tight and let them float in the ocean to keep them cool.
The third took us out to fancy dinners. Bottles of wine and white tablecloths. Chinos, button downs. He was home for the summer from college abroad. When I watched him watching her I knew he would give up everything for her.
Sara dressed the part, played the Innocent. I made small talk - the smallest talk - with his friend. He was tall, wore glasses, and was intelligent, I presumed. But I had no way of knowing. We didn’t understand each other. None of us did. Yo quiero this, vale that, otro vodka con gaseosa por favor. Smile, laugh, look down, look back up at Sara.
Cooking the smoked salmon… it’s too good