Once Again with Feeling

"I understand your anger, Esperanza. But divorce would be a disaster in every way. I'll agree to a few months' separation, but never to divorce. We can't do that to ourselves, our families, our reputation, our future children. Everything we've built."

"All that can burn for all I care. You've just told me you were proud enough to stop loving me when you knew I didn't feel the same way. Why shouldn't I be proud enough to divorce you now that I know you don't take our vows as seriously as I do?"

"It's not the sa--"

"Yes, it damn well is the same. I've never stepped out of line since I married you. Not even in my fantasies. But you've been stepping out right from the beginning. Get out of my father's house. You're no longer welcome here."

*****

Florentin left the cortijo half an hour later, but without budging from his position--he would give her time to cool down, but would never consent to a divorce.

To maintain appearances for the moment, Esperanza joined everyone else in seeing him off. As always, he kissed her mother's cheek, shook her father's hand and hugged their son before he got into his car. As he drove off, his last pleading look was at her. Then he was gone.

Standing beside her, young Florentin watched his father's car disappear into the hills. "Mama?"

"Yes?"

"When are we going back to Madrid to be with Papa again?"

Esperanza looked down at the boy. If she would lie to anyone, it wouldn't be to her child. "I don't know. But it certainly won't be for a few months."

He was bold, curious and proud. But at the heart of it, he was still a 6-year-old child who loved his Papa. On hearing her response, his eyes began to water. His lower lip wobbled.

Esperanza lifted his chin, making him hold her eyes. She spoke softly, but very firmly. "Be strong, Florentin. So that I can too."

The little boy gazed up at her, then nodded his head. He sucked his sobs back in, blinked his tears away, and stood straighter.

"Good boy." Esperanza took his tiny hand in hers. "Let's go inside. I need to make phone calls about tutors for you."

She spent the rest of that afternoon scheduling interviews with prospective tutors. It wasn't until the next morning that she confided in her father about Florentin. They were alone; taking one of their predawn walks among the vines.

Surprisingly, he didn't oppose her determination to get a divorce.

"Do whatever you need to for the sake of your dignity," said Don Cipriano quietly. "I always have. Telling you otherwise would be giving you less, and I can't do that."

Esperanza stopped to stare at him; this man who had taught her everything she knew and given her everything she had. "Papa," she whispered. "I love you."

"I've put all I have into this vineyard and I always will. But it isn't my life's achievement. That's you, Esperanza." Don Cipriano kissed her forehead. "Getting your freedom won't be easy. Others won't view it as I do. Be prepared for that."

He turned out to be right.

Even with her father's blessing and support, ridding herself of her husband was the most difficult task Esperanza had accomplished so far. It involved a tedious, expensive application to an ecclesiastical court--because when he'd taken control in 1939, Franco had repealed a 1932 law allowing civil divorces in cases of infidelity or abuse. A similar law hadn't been reinstated yet, so there weren't many paths to her freedom.

She fought for it regardless.

A few factors were on her side. One was that she was the injured party in an infidelity case. Another was that new amendments last year had granted wives more control of their property. It meant that even without the document Don Luis had signed eight years ago, she still had a chance of keeping the Torrejón estate out of Florentin's hands.

Her only real concern was losing access to her son. Even with these new reforms, it was far more likely that Florentin, as the father, would win sole custody if it came to a court battle.

It nearly did. Ending their marriage dragged out for many months, because of Florentin's stubbornness. He was not a stupid man. He threw in clever roadblocks every step of the way. Discussions via their lawyers didn't help. Appeals to his father didn't help either. Eventually, she was forced to go herself to Madrid to meet with him. This, he readily agreed to.

They met at the house on a gray early-December afternoon. Despite his unpleasantness via his lawyers, Florentin was still very genteel in person. He welcomed her at the door, kissed her as he ushered her inside, and insisted that they only chat about pleasant things while they ate lunch.

After lunch, the battle began. They argued for over four hours.

At the end of it, Esperanza's throat was hoarse. "Just let me go, Florentin. There's no way we can have a tolerable marriage now. What's the sense in being tied together miserably when we can be free to please ourselves? From one human being to another, I'm asking you to let me go. You love Delia. You could finally marry her if you want to. Don't let anxiety over your reputation get in your own way. Divorce isn't terrible anymore. Noblemen and diplomats have done it. Even if there's a little gossip, so what? People will soon find something else to talk about. You'll still be the man you want to be."

Florentin gripped her hands. "But our son, Esperanza. Think of what we owe our son."

"He's tough. He would be, being ours. He'll be alright as long as we don't put him through a custody battle that'll deprive him of one of us. We can share him. And we'll draw up a legal document to secure what he'll inherit if we have more children with other people." She held his hands too. "Florentin, you're the man who helped me save my land. Be that same man and set me free. Things don't have to be this way. We could be friends again. We should be, in case either of us needs an ally one day."

He turned away, clearly at war with himself. Eventually, he looked into her face again, staring at her. Then he leaned in and kissed her.

She let him. He wrapped his hands around her waist, pulling her close. Undoing her dress buttons. Within 10 minutes, he was inside her. After these long months of separation. It was already night by then, so they went upstairs together afterwards. There, in their old bed, they joined a second time.

Sex was enjoyable with him, as always. Now it was even better. Perhaps because they both knew it was the final time.

In the morning, when they woke wrapped together naked, he spoke with soft resignation. "Alright. Do what you must. I'm not going to fight you anymore. When are you going back to Cádiz?"

"A car is coming for me later this morning."

"We'll discuss the custody and inheritance agreements for Florentin before you go. When we're satisfied with the details, we'll get back in touch with the lawyers to make it binding."

She touched his cheek. "You're a gentleman."

They had breakfast, talked, and she left Madrid a few hours later.

There were no roadblocks from then. It was a matter of letting the legal process run its course. In February 1977, shortly before her son's 7th birthday, Esperanza Torrejón was a single woman again.

*****

If she were asked to describe the joint-custody arrangement, Esperanza would have said: "It's fair enough."

The agreement was that since their son was due to start attending a private school in Madrid anyway, he should live with his father there during the semester. She'd have him with her in Cádiz for every long weekend, public holidays, and through the summer.

It wasn't perfect, but it was best for all three of them.

So, by Easter time, Esperanza had only two weeks left to spend with him before his father came to collect him. And aside from four days in May, she wouldn't have him again until June 17th.

These remaining two weeks needed to be special, so she took him places most days. Just the pair of them on horseback, or in the backseat of her car while the driver took them where they chose.

Their time together led to some amusing conversations. Such as while they were driving past a market in Zahara de los Atunes and he turned to her to demand: "Why are there no blue foods?"

She frowned. "What?"

"Why aren't there any blue foods?" Florentin repeated. He pointed to the market stalls. "Look. There are red foods, white foods, green foods, yellow foods, orange foods, and even purple foods. But no blue. Why not?"

Esperanza was taken aback to realize he was correct. She'd never thought about it before. Aside from blueberries, she couldn't for the life of her think of any blue foods.

"I have no idea," she replied with the beginnings of a smile.

His little face scrunched up thoughtfully. "Maybe some white foods are actually blue, but we just can't see it with our eyes. Like how we can't see UV rays." Then he grinned. "Wouldn't it be great if I could zap UV rays out of my eyes? When I hate someone, I'll just zap them."

Esperanza laughed. "You'd be a formidable weapon. I'd need to keep you on my side so you could zap all my enemies."

"Oh, I'd zap them good. I'd zap them into dust!"

The next ten minutes were spent making a list of everyone who deserved a good zapping.

To appeal to his adventurous spirit, their next day's activity was a tour of the cliffs and caves near Gibraltar. Although she didn't tell him so, she'd resolved to say yes to whatever he wanted during these two weeks, provided it wasn't something that could harm him. Which was why, that warm afternoon near Gibraltar, she bought him a guitar.

They happened to be driving past a luthier's workshop in the village of Palmones, with an array of beautifully-crafted guitars displayed outside, when he made an offhand comment.

"I wish I had one."

Esperanza glanced at him. "One guitar?"

"Yes. They look fun."

Esperanza considered that. He would probably only find the guitar 'fun' for a few weeks before he abandoned it for the next thing that caught his interest, but it was no harm and these two weeks were to spoil him.

"Do you want us to stop so I can buy you one?"

Florentin sat up, his eyes shining with pleasure and surprise. "Would you?"

"If you find one you really like."

He grinned, leaning forward to the driver. "Then stop the car, man! Stop the car right now!"

Both the driver and Esperanza were laughing as the car came to a stop near the luthier's workshop. Esperanza and Florentin got out. The driver waited in the car with the windows rolled down.

It was a windy day, especially so near the bay, but it was still pleasant enough that she told him, "When we've finished from the luthier's shop, we can walk to the marina. Just don't run on too far ahead of me."

"Okay."

They entered the luthier's shop together. It was a modestly sized square room. On every wall hung classic 6-string guitars, flamenco guitars, requinto guitars, guitarra portuguesas and cavaquinhos. It was cool inside, with prettily-carved window shades blocking out some of the heat. Behind a small cashier's desk was the luthier.

He looked about 30 years old, reading a book which he put down as they entered. His eyes moved between Esperanza and Florentin. He smiled on them both. "Does the son want a guitar, or is it the mother?"

His voice was mild. The accent wasn't local. It was the softer, more nasalized accent of the north-west. His hair was the color of a chestnut horse. His eyes were light too. He obviously wasn't a native of Andalucía. He was possibly Galician. Or maybe from Asturias? No, Galicia was more likely.

"The son," Esperanza replied.

Her hand was on Florentin's shoulder. As she removed it, he shot to the desk and demanded of the luthier, "Which one is your best guitar?"

Esperanza stood back and watched.

The luthier gave Florentin a tolerant smile. "The best guitar is the one with the right qualities for the music its player wants to make. What kind of music do you like?"

Florentin considered the question. "When our jornaleros have a fiesta after harvest, they dance a seguidilla. The music is fast. I like it."

"Then you might like this one." The luthier walked around the desk to the west wall.

It was near where Esperanza stood. Their eyes held for a split second as he passed close by her, then his gaze skipped away. He brought down one of the medium-sized guitars hanging on the wall and took it to Florentin.

Stooping down, he met her son at eye level. "See here?" He tapped his fingernail on the guitar's top. "This part is made from spruce. It'll give you a bright sound when you play your seguidilla. Go on--tap it and listen for the ring."

Florentin tapped it with his nail. Then he looked straight at the luthier and challenged, "But all wood echoes. The empty barrels in the bodega do too."

Esperanza was amused at this. She liked her son's fearlessness. Still, he needed to learn to tone it down with strangers. She began to reprimand him.

But the luthier was already replying. "All echoes aren't created equal," he said with no sign of having taken offense. He flipped the guitar over. "Tap this side and you'll see what I mean."

Florentin tapped it. His face lit up. "It is different. It sounds more..." He trailed off, clearly not knowing the word he wanted.

"Resonant," the luthier supplied.

"Yes, resonant! Did you build it?"

"Yes."

"Did you build all these guitars yourself?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I like building them."

"How did you make this one resonant?"

"With many little tricks. I used rosewood for the back, not the spruce. That's because the wood's density changes the character of the sound. And there needs to be a certain amount of hollow space in the guitar, with a particular way of curving the sides."

"Show me," was Florentin's next demand.

Esperanza stepped forward now. It was time to rescue the poor man from her son. "That's enough, Florentin. You've been given enough information to decide whether you want the guitar or not. The man doesn't need to build one before your very eyes."

The luthier glanced at her. "It's alright, Señora." He looked back at Florentin. "I would have been glad to show you my workshop, but it isn't here."

"Where is it, then?" the boy wanted to know.

The luthier laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, turning him to face the south window. "You see across the river to the islands there? That's where my workshop is."

"Do you live out there, too?" Florentin asked him.

"Yes. My house is above the workshop. I keep my store here because its on the mainland near the marina. I can get more customers this way."

"How do you go between there and here?"

"I sail across."

"Isn't it far away?"

"No, only fifteen minutes. I keep a boat at the marina."

Florentin looked at Esperanza. "Mama, he says it's only fifteen minutes. Can we go? I want to see his workshop."

Esperanza began to refuse on principle, but then she remembered her resolution to say yes during these last days before his father collected him. After that, she wouldn't see him for a month. But then, this was not her decision to make. She was forced to refuse.

"Florentin, we can't ask this man to close his store during working hours just so he can take you sailing to see his workshop. It's not reasonable or fair."

Florentin wasn't deterred by this. He turned back to the luthier. "But you don't mind, do you? Señor...?"

The luthier's tolerant smile reappeared. "Serafin." Then, glancing at Esperanza, he straightened and stepped across to her. He held out his hand tentatively. "Serafin de Mosquera."

She put her hand palm-down in his outstretched one. "Esperanza Torrejón."

Serafin de Mosquera raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "I promise you it's no trouble at all, Señora Torrejón. If your son wants to see the workshop, I'm glad to show him. Most customers don't honor me with their curiosity."

"You see, Mama?" Florentin put in triumphantly. "He doesn't mind. Can we go now?"

Esperanza sighed at her son. "Alright, fine. But limit your questions once we're there. We don't want to impose more than we already are."

They went back outside together, and Serafin shut up shop. With Esperanza a step behind while her son peppered Serafin with questions, the three of them began the short walk to the marina.

Despite this being a small village, the marina was busy due to its proximity to Gibraltar. Vessels were sailing in. Yachts sat proudly in their berths. Dinghies rose and fell with the water's sway. Serafin led them down the busy boardwalk to where a tiny sailboat was moored. The boat looked to Esperanza like it had seen some years, but it should be sturdy enough.

Serafin lifted Florentin into it, then took her hand. "I'm sorry for the lack of space, Señora," he said, ushering her aboard. "But she usually only carries one person--me."

Esperanza made the polite response, but to herself she acknowledged that it was the humblest vessel she'd ever set foot in. A simple boat indeed. It seemed to have no pretentions to greatness. Similar to its owner, perhaps.

There was a wooden crate on the deck. Serafin took a blanket hanging on the rail and folded it atop the crate. Gesturing to this makeshift chair, he said: "Please sit, Señora."

Esperanza sat. Serafin went to the tiller. Florentin joined him there, asking his unending questions. Serafin answered each question kindly. He seemed a decent man, but she still kept a watchful eye on his every move around her child.

The boat left the marina and headed into the waters of Río de las Cañas O Palmones, tacking a zigzag course towards the cluster of small estuary islands dotted with trees and low-pitched buildings.

In about fifteen minutes, the humble boat approached a narrow strip of river between the main island and a spit of land with only four buildings. A wooden pier stretched out to the waters from the spit. Three other small boats were already tied there.

Serafin secured the boat to the pier. As he'd done before, he carried Florentin out and reached for Esperanza's hand. "There's my workshop." He gestured to a rectangular two-story building roughly 200 yards away.

"Let's go then," Florentin said impatiently, and raced down the pier ahead of them.

Serafin gave Esperanza a little smile. "Your son is very bold. Good for him."

"But not so good for you." Esperanza smiled back archly. "You've taken a beating and it's not over yet."

Serafin laughed. It had a shy quality. "It really is okay. More than okay; it's a compliment. People only ever care about the finished guitars, not my process of making them."

"We're your first workshop tourists then."

Another shy laugh. "That you are."

They walked up the pier as they spoke. Florentin was already at the door of the building, waiting for them to catch up. When they did, Serafin dug a key from his pocket. He unlocked the door and Florentin shot inside. Esperanza was next, Serafin himself last.

The house was as humble as the boat. The door opened into an entryway with unpainted walls and bare flooring. At the end was a stairwell, and at the side was a door to the workshop.

Serafin showed them through the door. The workshop looked about as much as Esperanza might have envisioned, and she had no particular interest in the workbenches loaded with saws, chisels and lumber. Florentin was a different matter. He went around touching every tool, asking about them, and finally requesting a demonstration of headstock carving.

Esperanza stopped listening to them after the first few minutes. She went to the window. The river view was more interesting. She tuned back in about 20 minutes later, when Serafin spoke to her.

"You would like a glass of water or wine, Señora?"

Esperanza didn't hesitate before saying, "Water." She would really prefer wine, but from the look of his boat and his house, his wine wouldn't be the kind she was used to drinking.