Once in a blue moon I put a very short story I have written on here, more to pad out what has become an occasional blog than anything else. It started with this one, The Clockwork Heart. This one is about tortilla, often known as 'Spanish Omelette' over here, and is for my good friend Chris.
'Tortilla'
Cross-legged on the
warm terracotta, Pablo and his father sat in the doorway of their
home and ate the tortilla they had cooked together. Somewhere behind
them, beyond the single wicker armchair and the table and the radio
that crackled with sport from the city, the frying pan sputtered and
cooled.
It was a simple
meal and they ate with their hands. The thick wedges of tortilla were
still hot. The bread was fresh and the olives bitter and salty. Pablo
had already devoured the single slice of ham his father had cut for
him. Both of them drank Rioja from glass tumblers, the young boy's
being topped up with a good amount of water. The bottle and jug stood
beside his father's empty work boots.
The short garden in
front of them was parched yellow. Both father and son spat their
olive stones into it, making silent competition of who could make
furthest. The orange tree near the front gate had turned crooked and
brittle two summers ago. An axe lay next to it in the scrub. Despite
his talk Pablo's father had yet to chop it down. Pablo was sure it
would make fruit again next summer. He spat an olive stone in its
direction.
The sun was falling
toward the horizon and everything was golden and shadow. The air was
warm on their faces and sweet and dusty with a full day's work. In
the valley below them a tractor moved along the dirt road between the
vineyards green and golden. An occasional breeze wafted the smell of
the vines and the soil up the hill and into the garden. The orange
tree did not stir.
On the radio a
cheer rose and dissolved into static. Pablo looked back into the
empty house. The shutters were closed and it was cool and gloomy. His
father topped up both their glasses with the Rioja.
'Miguel says this
year will be a good harvest. We will have to work hard and work long
hours. But this is a good reward.'
'The tortilla is
good too,' Pablo said.
'The best tortilla
is simple. It is onion and potato and egg. The widow Diaz puts
peppers in hers but she is wrong,' Pablo's father picked up a
triangle of the thick tortilla. Strong white teeth broke it. He
caught a chunk of potato that fell toward his lap and popped it in
his mouth.
Pablo watched his
father and ate. His mouth was dry. He gulped at the wine and wiped
his lips with his forearm as he had learned to imitate from his
father.
'Your grandmother
never put peppers in hers,' his father continued. 'My father and I
liked that. People must always make things so complicated now. No
respect for simple things. No appreciation.' He took a bite of
tortilla and then wiped his fingers on his overalls. 'It is the
simple things which are the best. Sun. Wine. Tortilla. These are the
things people enjoy coming home to.'
He took a chunk of
the bread and mopped up the oil from the tortilla on his plate. Pablo
did as he did.
'Senor Alvaro says
widow Diaz makes the best tortilla in the village.'
'Alvaro drinks too
much. He thinks it is endearing,' Pablo's father chewed as he spoke.
His mouth was thick with bread and oil. 'He'll eat anywhere he can.
He hardly notices what he is eating. He is like a dog.'
'I think he was
eating with Senorita Pilar last night. He woke me up with his
singing.'
'Yes. Drunk. Fat
and drunk. Your teacher should know better than to feed him.'
'He was not always
drunk, was he papa? Senor Alvaro used to drink orange juice. I saw
him.'
There was another
cheer from the radio. This time Pablo did not look around.
'Eat,' his father
said. With one of his great brown hands he placed another piece of
the tortilla on his son's plate. 'And drink the wine, it is good. You
are a growing boy. Grow up strong.'
'Like you father?'
Pablo's father spat
an olive stone onto the prickly yellow grass and took a sip of his
wine. He washed it around his mouth and swallowed. All the time he
was gazing out at the vineyards on the hillsides and the tractor
crawling away between the shadows. The sun was touching the highest
undulations of the horizon now. Everything below the burning sky was
dark and green. Hot and mysterious. High on the hill, father and son
sat in the last of that day's light and witnessed the night creeping
up behind them. Suddenly Pablo felt very far away from his father and
it scared him.
'It is very good
papa,' he announced in between bites. 'Much better than the widow's.'
The frying pan had
cooled. The radio continued to play. The air was still warm. Pablo's
father took another long draught on the Rioja. A little of it dripped
from his bottom lip. He wiped it away with his forearm and looked
down at the slices of onion and potato and egg. The light was fading
fast around them now. His father's head remained bowed.
'I am sure your
mother will come home. Soon she will', his father said. 'When we were first
married she made the best tortilla.'
