Terraza Talk

Several friends were sitting on a popular terraza in Santiago. They’d decided they all needed an afternoon coffee and met by the café Xacobe, one of those closest to the tree-lined Alameda of Santiago. Most people enjoyed the stroll along the paths of the promenade. Yes, promenade is an old-fashioned word, but Santiago is a very old city. The Alameda was worthy of being called a promenade because it provided a distant but nevertheless spectacular view of the Cathedral, the Catedral de Santiago de Compostela. Some city residents resented the overpowering presence of the building, but even though they resented it, they admired its architecture, the way centuries of history oozed, dripped, gleamed from its rough surface. It also grew, greenly, in the form of little plants that dug their toes, or claws, into the cathedral’s verticality. Locals affectionately called those brave little souls leitugas, lettuces. 

The friends couldn’t see the Catedral from where they were sitting, but they had a panoramic view of a lot of other things. They often went to the same café because one of the waiters was especially good-looking and of course nice. It was darkish inside and open to the world on its terrace. Open and welcoming because there was seemingly no limit on the length of time customers could occupy their seats. The European way. Everybody goes to a favorite café or bar and there are reasons they’re our favorites. For example, a handsome waiter, a real stud, if you put it that way, can be quite the attraction. For both sexes. Plus, a waiter is pretty much a captive audience for customers. He has to smile when they talk to him. The tip. The tip.

The friends see Lavinia coming up Pombal Street, which has a good upward slope in the direction she was walking. On her right is a high stone wall of indeterminate age and infinite beauty, one of the outer liners of the old part of the city. Its very name - it means dovecote - is a reference to a past when a structure to house the birds of peace still existed. Despite the fact that some people say the Galician language is endangered, the linguistic landscape of the four provinces belies it. Nobody refers to this street or any other without thinking that it marks a spot, empty now of form yet plentiful in experiences, constructions, memories. 

This was the street Lavinia was ascending, and her friends probably are wondering if she really understands the space she is in. She seems interested, but was she? Most people were tourists who came for the food and the beaches. However, there were no beaches in Santiago, so most came for food and the cathedral. As pilgrims and gluttons. They didn’t come just to walk, obsessively, the way the friends had seen Lavinia do. There was little new construction in the UNESCO-designated cultural metropolis, so there was nothing new to see. That excessive walking in itself has raised questions among the friends who frequently ran into the American on her strolls.  

As they are watching the ascent up Pombal, the terraza sitters surmise she will probably then turn left and head along Rúa do Franco. They all are thinking it. They also all notice she is carrying something; nobody has to point that out. What it is exactly isn’t clear, however. Lavinia has tucked it inside her black gabardine as if protecting it from the rain. Except it isn’t raining… The article cradled in her arms must be important, though, the way she looks down at it and seems to fold a soft material over it. Something dark, maybe a briefcase, maybe a heavy bag, maybe something else altogether.

All the women in the group are close friends for one reason or another, there is some reason they met and then continued to gather on different occasions. It wasn’t like they were classmates or neighbors or coworkers. They had just coalesced into one of those groups one often saw around the city - groups that socialize because their normal obligations and free times coincided and the group members liked coffee or a glass of wine at the same time or on the same days. Kind of like a marriage of convenience, only it was friendship of convenience. They had only met Lavinia upon her arrival in Santiago, so they don’t yet consider themselves to be close friends of hers. They don’t mind socializing with the foreigner, though, because they are rather interested in her political opinions (Americans are 99% poorly informed, not only about their own country, but also as far as the rest of the world. They must not teach anything in the schools over there.) That’s why they are also happy to answer her questions about Galician culture (as long as she asks out of personal, not academic, interest).

For these and other reasons, the friends all watch as Lavinia, who appears distracted, in a hurry, or worried, comes in their direction but doesn’t see them. Oddly enough, none of the women sitting at the table speaks up. That is, nobody calls the American professor over, nobody invites her to sit with them, nobody even waves. They are all silent and motionless, as if hoping not to be seen, in fact. One of them notices this conspiratorial attitude and tries to gauge the awareness on the others’ faces. Her sideways glances serve no purpose. Then the dashing - dashing! - waiter comes, and the group looks up at him in unison to order another coffee, or a vermouth, or whatever. They’re not in a hurry today.

One friend, Dany Souto, lives in Pelamios, down to the right of the terraza. That’s why she knows that Lavinia has made several visits to A Tertulia, a small bar in her neighborhood, at the end of Pombal. The bar isn’t frequented too often by non-locals, so Lavinia’s visits there have attracted a bit of attention, notes Dany. Everybody talks in this city. Everybody. Dany is the first to talk on this occasion, and tells about the visits to A Tertulia, then speculates as to what Lavinia is doing. Dany looks a bit too serious when she states:

“It’s a clear example of foreigner meddling. Whatever she’s doing or looking at, she’s from somewhere else and she’s got no right to stick her nose in our culture. She could also be doing something illegal. The research she says she’s doing? I think she only says that as cover. She’s here on some mission.”

Dany realizes right off that both her words and her tone had surprised her companions. They looked a bit dismayed. Dany realized she had overdone it, but her imagination had gotten the better of her. Or maybe not. It wouldn’t be the first time somebody had robbed something valuable from Galicians who trusted them or had proudly shown something off, only to find it soon gone…

Marta Briones speaks up immediately, as if in a hurry to take her turn. She has studied art history and through her continued work at the architectural school she has met Matías Narbona, an architect who just happens to be the neighbor of A Tertulia at the bottom of Pombal Street, before it branches in several directions and reaches Vista Alegre. Marta, perhaps influenced by her architect friend, says she thinks there is another, more valid explanation for the visits to the little bar that’s undergoing renovation. She isn’t in agreement with the theft theory, but instead suspects very, very strongly that Lavinia might want to speculate on real estate. After all, she seems really enamored of Galicia and a lot of foreigners end up getting an apartment here. The visits could be to learn about property and housing options, that’s all. Americans do like their money, as everybody knows.

The third member of the group is Elisa Senén. She has a grandfather in the mosteiro de Sobrado, and everybody kind of is in awe of that because Sobrado has fascinating architectural features, even for a monastery. And yes, it’s her grandfather, not a great uncle. Elisa is worried that there is some interest on the American professor’s part in discrediting church history in Santiago de Compostela of all places. It’s not uncommon for foreigners to come and try to dig up dirt - is that pun intentional? - her friends think. They try to find a new angle on some site or artifact so it might lose its religious rating and then the foreigners’ sites or artifacts would have less competition. Americans were the best in the world at one-upping other cultures because they actually believed their culture was superior. Superior? A melting pot just mushed into one mess that had no historical memory. Galicians can’t understand how people could survive when they are merely walking on the surface of the present, not knowing what is beneath their feet and beneath the pavement they are walking over.

Elisa also has another theory, in case her friends aren’t convinced about the cultural theft/degradation concept. She has presented her theory with a very somber expression, with one word. She has dropped her word into the center of the group and immediately everyone has turned stiff: Tunnels.

Tunnels beneath all of the city, maybe. At least one tunnel, certainly. The on one side of Quintana Square. Tunnels. Important evidence of past history in old Santiago? Definitely. Everybody knows the legends, the stories, the theories as to what walks beneath them, safely and secretly underground. The thing is, Compostela residents prefer not to discuss the tunnels, for many reasons.

“One hopes there is no tunnel connection with A Tertulia, but I think Matías was paying close attention.” Elisa states and suggests, simultaneously. “He would certainly tell me if things were getting risky.” Elisa affirms this, but doesn’t define the term risky. Why is an old tunnel risky? Why do people in the city not ask and not tell what they know?

The last friend is Sabela, Sabela Liste. She’s an instructor in the Language School and sees Lavinia simply as a serious scholar who has come to work on the legacy of American photographer Ruth Matilda Anderson in Galicia.

“I think it’s about time that woman traveler who visited Galicia several times before the civil war and who was also a phenomenal photographer gets recognition in her own country.” She could say more, but doesn’t want to sound pedantic.

Her friends nod, but Sabela is just offering another biased opinion, and it is no more credible (or incredible) than her companions’. In any event, Lavinia has passed by them without a glance in their direction and, in fact, has proven them right in their expectation that she would turn a sharp left and go along Franco Street. The question was still what is she carrying that seems to give her so much purpose?

Nobody in the group could have known that Lavinia is going to have a serious accident not long after her friends watched her go by. The accident is so bad that she almost dies. A car slams into her, or more specifically, a taxi clips her full on. Taxis are obnoxious in the old city. They’re allowed because town officials want to keep tourists happy, which means getting vehicular transportation to their quaint old hotels instead of walking the narrow streets like normal people, like countless pilgrims. Compostelans always walk. Now Lavinia is in the hospital with a concussion, a couple of cracked ribs, and a very bruised shoulder. All right, so maybe she wasn’t almost killed, but the effects are going to be with her for a while.

The friends meet again - on the same terraza - and theorize about the reason for Lavinia’s accident. Whose fault was it? Was it really an accident? Was it because of the unidentified, and so definitely mysterious, bundle they saw her carrying? They have all been to visit her in the hospital (as friends do) and have ascertained that she will eventually recover. When she does, she’ll have to fill them in on everything. Everything. They’ll make sure they include her the next time they have their tertulia. Tertulia, like the name of the bar, meaning social gathering in a public place, to talk, imbibe, nibble. They liked the thought that they had their own tertulia, since in the past most members of tertulias had been men. (The ones in the Derby Bar had been especially famous. Local lore that needed revising and updating to include women, the friends all agree.)

On this occasion, all the women - Dany, Marta, Elisa and Sabela - spin their versions of what happened and why each of them believes it to be based on Lavinia’s outward characteristics or maybe on her inner ones. Each spins her evaluation on a personal loom that pulls strongly on the threads or theories expressed that afternoon when they silently but attentively watched the American walk by. Once more, the most generous interpretation belongs to Sabela. She has no interest in guessing, since she feels that with Lavinia, what you see is what you get. She has every right to be transporting something from one place to another, doesn’t she? It was only a briefcase, or a bag, or something else, after all. People don’t go around staring at every package that moves through the streets of the city. Why do that with Lavinia?

One of the women in the tertulia must be right. The problem is that they all offer their theories, both as to the reasons for going to the bar at the end of Pombal Street and as to the package and its destination. They all have good motives, or at least strong ones. They all have some reticence at seeing the American researcher working so diligently on ‘something’ she has not seen fit to tell them about as she should. One of them must be more concerned about the potential harm a person ‘from away’ can cause, even if she comes to Galicia with good intentions. 

Each repeats her story, adding to the reasons for its correctness. All the companions cast quick glances around the table in an attempt to size up the others. This mystery must be solved. There could something very dangerous or very illegal going on. Lavinia might have tried to cultivate their friendship for nefarious reasons, for personal gain, for… 

The stud waiter asks them if they wish to order anything else, but they shake their heads. They have to run errands, go to the store, the post office, anything to retreat to consider the truth of the whole matter. Was the taxi accident deliberate? Was Lavinia the target or was someone else? Why did it happen so soon after they’d watch her pass them without noticing they were sitting on the terraza? Everybody now looked at the foreigner differently, and at least a couple were uncomfortable speaking with her. Maybe it was time she moved on, went some place else, to another part of Galicia, or maybe just home.

The gorgeous waiter, the one all the friends (except for one) drool over, returns and leaves their check on the green metal table where they’re gathered. The slip of white paper, curving up from the clip and moving in the breeze, is accompanied by a note:

“My buddy sure scared your friend. She’ll be looking over her should all the time now. Maybe she’ll realize she does need to pay attention to what people see and think. That should be worth a good tip, right?” 

The tip. The tip.

The members of the tertulia looked at one another, then they looked up at the waiter, all registering, yet again, how attractive he was.