August 1990
As Emilio and I walked along the exit tunnel from Sol station a man coming in the other direction approached us. He had scorched skin, a black mullet and a short square face which looked like it had been put in a vice. His white vest had seen much better days. He asked the time, and as Emilio lifted his arm to look at his watch the man’s hand darted into his unprotected pocket and grabbed his wallet. I froze, surprise multiplied by cowardice. Emilio caught hold of the man’s hand on its way out, but before a tug of war could develop the assailant was suddenly pinned against the wall by a passerby. The passerby then pulled the mulleteer’s arm out and simultaneously twisted it wrist-upwards, revealing the track marks and exclaiming almost triumphantly “Drogadicto!”.
The summer of 1990 was the statistical and social peak of Spain’s heroin epidemic , captured in the cine quinqui film genre, and resulting in a rise in muggings and vigilantism such as this.
* * *
I was looking forward to the hot weather, and hadn’t counted on the vampiric living style in flats in Madrid. A fear of the heat getting in, which turns into a fear of any sunlight whatsoever. Curtains drawn, dingy rooms, denial of the summer outside. Shafts of light, sunbeams, a spot of daylight? ¡No pasarán!
* * *
If the heat was intense, so was the build up to Emilio’s mother’s culinary pride and joy: her gazpacho. So much so that I had no choice but to profess that I liked it, despite finding it so sour and vinegary that the first mouthful made me want to retch. With my politeness taken at face value, to my distress I was then served gazpacho countless times in the coming days. The proud beaming smile of the mother answered by baleful protestations from my clenched stomach. It would be years until I could appreciate and enjoy gazpacho, thanks to some Cordoban salmorejo offering cold soup acclimatisation.
* * *
Emilio’s favourite pastime was to play Dungeons & Dragons with his friends, sat on the cool floor underneath the stairs in the building lobby. This was not my idea of either comfort or fun. I entertained myself as best I could by playing along as el burro, the donkey. Emilio found this exasperating as I wasn’t taking it seriously. These games would go on for hours, during which I longed for another trip to the Canillas municipal pool.
* * *
If our entertainment interests did coincide on one occasion, it was on the trip to Madrid’s sprawling amusement park the Parque de Atracciones. Aside from the rides, we watched a concert by the comic band No me pises que llevo chanclas. Is it better to have a hit with a novelty song than not to have a hit at all? They embraced their status, and weren’t shy about dancing around with inflatable phalluses.
But when it came to the encore, and each band member took a solo in turn, it was clear that these were skilled musicians. I’d like to think they found their true calling later. Perhaps one going on to play post-rock bass in Migala, another producing Rosalía’s first album, and still another returning to their Andalucian roots and touring with Tomatito.
* * *
My mid-A level Spanish left something to be desired, especially in so far as understanding actual Spanish people talking. After a trip with Emilio to the centre, with the intention of walking around and visiting a museum, his dad asked me “How was it?”. I answered “It was great” at exactly the same time that Emilio answered “It was shut”.
* * *
We took a day trip to Avila, the spectacular walled town. Emilio’s best friend was spending the summer here. As we walked along a central street, out of nowhere he yelped and leaped and pretended an ATM had taken a bite out of his hand. Here was a vivacious, jocular and clowning young Spaniard. The antithesis of the serious, studious and at times mirthless Emilio; perhaps the pair complemented one another perfectly. I’d found Emilio’s unexpected love for Jerry Lee Lewis and his ability to knock out Great Balls of Fire incongruous with all other aspects of his demeanour and character, but this must have been the bridge between the two boys. I couldn’t help think that my stay would have been better if this friend had been in Madrid the whole time, or if I’d been matched on an exchange with him instead.
* * *
Credit: Sol station photo by TeaMeister