World Traveler

World Traveler


Elena could still remember the musty odor of the first book that captivated her. Covered in dust, it surfaced along with the hairballs and lint as her mother drew back the broom she had swept under her grandmother’s bed.
Her grandmother’s Persian cat surveyed the scene from her perch atop the bureau, casting a haughty gaze upon the human toiling below. Elena had never played with this cat and had rarely even petted it on the few occasions it allowed her to get near.
It was as if the cat was a queen and the people around her royal subjects. It’s no wonder her grandmother named her Princess.
“Princess, darling. Princess, come to your mami.’’
The echo of her grandmother’s voice surrounded Elena as she pictured her caressing her cat. Even when her daughter and granddaughter visited, it was the cat who commanded her attention.
But perhaps it was better that way because when her grandmother wasn’t fondling the feline she was often interrogating Elena’s mother.
“Have you found a man yet? You need a good man to take care of you. Not a bandejo like the one you shacked up with.’’
Her mother would turn around, busy herself with dusting her mother’s furniture, and roll her large brown eyes upward as her lithe body visibly slumped.
“No, Mami. Not yet. It seems all the good ones are taken.’’
Elena often wondered why her grandmother always asked this question since there was no man present in her own house. Her grandfather had died years before.
Her grandmother lived in a modest ranch in Murphy, Texas, a small town about a half hour from Dallas, the big city where Elena and her mother lived in a small apartment near her mother’s day job cleaning hotel rooms. Her grandfather had once farmed in Murphy and his widow stayed and lived on the profits from the sale of his farmland to developers who put up subdivisions.
The town was named after a resident whose land grant paved the way for the railroad in 1888, and few exciting developments had happened here since then.
Despite the subdivisions it was a still a small town of a few thousand people, all living in the shadow of the heart of Texas.
Unlike many girls her age, Elena never looked forward to visiting her grandmother. From a very young age, she came to believe her grandmother viewed her as proof of her mother’s misfortune with men.
There was little to dissuade her from this. After her grandfather died, her grandmother had stopped cooking the large meals he once enjoyed.
There were no freshly baked cookies or warm hugs. Just the stiff embrace of a woman whose home smelled of cat litter and something else just under the surface. Years later Elena would recognize the odor when she delivered meals to the homes of the elderly in Dallas.
It was the smell of age, or, as Elena would think of it, “old people’s houses.’’
But Elena would not have to visit her grandmother anymore because the old woman was no longer living here. She had died unexpectedly a few days ago, causing her mother to collapse into tears on the small second-hand plaid couch in their tiny apartment.
Even at 8, Elena wasn’t sure whether they were tears of sadness or relief.
Still, the odor of the old lingered in the air as her mother swept out the debris from under her grandmother’s bed. Not satisfied that she had captured it all, her mother kneeled down and peered into the dark space.
“Aha,’’ she said, like a treasure hunter seeking gold. She stuck the handle end of the broom under the bed and pushed out the dusty book, rubbing the film of dirt off the cover before frowning and depositing it in the waste basket.
Elena fished it out as her mother dusted the bureau around Princess. On the cover of the book was a picture of a dark, long-haired man with black eyes embracing a pale, blonde woman.
“Passion River,’’ was emblazed in red letters under the lovers. Was this really her grandmother’s book? Elena should have been mourning her grandmother that night but instead she was transported to the Mexican side of the Rio Grande as she lost herself in the same world where her grandmother must once have escaped to. Elena stayed up all night reading about the passion that united a white well-to-do settler named Sarah and the Mexican bandit named Francisco who kidnapped her.
She felt her heart racing with every turn of the page until the light of dawn finally ended her trip.
A few hours later her mother awoke her and told her to put on the black dress she had laid out for her on her nightstand. Her mother seemed as tired as she was this day.
As they sat through the funeral service attended by a dozen or so of Murphy’s oldest citizens, Elena imagined herself clutching the taut back of Francisco, as his horse raced along the Rio Grande.
As the priest blessed the casket at the ceremony, he referred to her grandmother with the Spanish word abuela. It was a word Elena had never used because her grandmother, a second-generation Mexican, years ago had given up her language to fit in with the white Texans surrounding them.
Just then, Elena’s eyes welled up with tears. Her mother, thinking her daughter was missing her grandmother, clutched her to her side.
But Elena was really crying because in her mind Francisco had just been shot by the sheriff and the love of her life lay dying by the Rio Grande.

***

“Excuse me, Miss? Miss?’’
The man’s voice interrupted Elena’s thoughts as she dusted the book case display near the store window. Jolted into the present, she tipped over the latest Stephen King horror novel as she turned around.
Before her stood a man who appeared to be in his mid-30s, with curly, black hair and dark eyes that were magnified by thick glasses. Before she knew it, he was reaching past her to pick up the King novel. He handed it to her with a shy smile.
“I’m sorry,’’ he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.’’
“No. No. No trouble,’’ Elena stammered. “I was just tidying up a bit before we close for the evening.’’
“Oh. Then I don’t have much time,’’ he said. “Is there enough time to look at a travel book?’’
Elena nodded yes. “Was there anything in particular you were interested in?”
The man smiled slightly again. “Yes. I need a book on Spain and a book on learning Spanish.’’
“Ah, Spain,’’ Elena smiled. “A beautiful country.’’
“You’ve been there?’’ said the man. “I hear it’s beautiful. I’m going in a few weeks, but I want to learn as much as I can about it now and I need some language tips because I don’t speak the language.’’
“You mean the languages,’’ said Elena softly.
“There’s more than one?’’ he asked as a hint of anxiety furrowed his brow.
“It depends on where you are going,’’ Elena said. “In Madrid there is one language. In the Basque regions there is another. In the Catalan region, still another.’’
“Oh, I see,’’ he said.
“But I think we can help you.’’
“You can? That’s great,’’ he said, as he followed her to an aisle marked “Travel.’’
She kneeled down to extract several books from the bottom shelf. As she stood up she nearly bumped into him, arching back at the last moment before a collision.
“Oh,’’ he said, grabbing her shoulders to give her balance. “I’m sorry. I was standing too close.’’
His dark eyes seemed even larger than before as his hands released her.
“No. No. No,’’ she stammered again. “It was my fault. I should look where I am going.’’
“What, what part of Spain are you traveling to,’’ she said, as she stepped backwards.
“I don’t know yet. All of them I guess. I’m taking a sabbatical from my college job. I wanted to research my roots.’’
“Oh. You’re a professor?’’
“Well, in a manner of speaking. I teach graphic arts inbetween painting.’’
“You mean you’re an artist, or, do you mean you paint houses?’’
A warm, melodic laugh rose up from his stomach. He smiled.
“I paint canvasses,’’ he said. “But I also painted my house, so I guess I’m a jack of all trades. Speaking of jacks, my name is Frank; what’s yours?’’
Elena stood speechless for a moment, as if she was attempting to translate what he said.
“Uh. It’s Elena,’’ she said.
“Elena what?’’
“Uh. Diaz. Elena Diaz.”
“Well, Elena Diaz. Pleased to meet you. Frank Cordero.’’
He held out his hand. She hesitated for a moment before accepting it. His hand was large and warm. She felt a slight tug as she released her hand from his.
“So, you have been to Spain before,’’ he said. “Was it fun?’’
“Oh yes,’’ she said. “It was. I have visited every region of Spain but Barcelona is my favorite.’’
“Really? Why,’’ he asked.
“The smell of fresh breads filling the air; the plump ripeness of fresh fruit in the open air market; the blue hue of the sky above the Mediterranean Sea.’’
As she said these things her eyes left his and seemed to travel thousands of miles away.
“You sound like you’re in love with the place,’’ he said. “Maybe you should be working there instead of here.’’
“Maybe,’’ she said dreamily before her eyes landed again on him.
“But I want to make a go of my bookstore here first.’’
“This is your store?’’ he asked. “Wow. I love the name. The Next Chapter. It drew me right into the store.’’
“Thank you,’’ she said, smiling. “Oh,’’ she frowned, looking at her watch. “It’s getting late. She fingered the pages of the two books in her hand and gave him one entitled, “Frommer’s Guide to Spain.’’
“I think this is a good overview,’’ she said.
She walked over to the Languages section and picked out a guide to the Spanish language. “This one might be a good primer,’’ she said. “It’s Castilian Spanish, which is widely spoken in Spain.
“How do you say the rain in Spain falls mainly in the plains, in Spanish,’’ he asked with a smile.
She hesitated a moment before realizing that the line came from the film, “My Fair Lady.’’
“Oh,’’ she laughed. “I’ll have to think about that one.’’
She walked him over to the register, where she rang up his purchases and gave him the change.
“Thank you,’’ he said as he accepted the bag. He was almost out the door when he turned back.
“You know. I was thinking that maybe you could offer me a few Spanish lessons before I go on my trip?’’
She froze for a moment before a small laugh escaped her mouth. “Oh,’’ she said. “I’ll have to think about that. I’m very busy here and … and I travel a lot.’’
“OK,’’ he said, as he fished in his jeans pocket. “But if you think you can, please let me know. I need all the help I can get.’’
He handed her a card with the words, “Frank Cordero, Graphic Arts Instructor, Texas Tech College,’’ printed in large black letters.
“OK,’’ she said. “I will.’’
As the door closed behind him the empty shop suddenly felt more empty than it ever had before. In the year since her mother died and she had opened it up with her small inheritance, her anxiety about starting her new venture had always been mitigated by her surroundings. Surrounded by walls of books, she felt safe and at home, no matter what the future brought.
But now a vague sense of loneliness and unease crept into the store and into her heart. She tried to shrug it off as she turned off the lights and closed the shop for the night.
Besides, tonight she was learning a new language, Italian, in preparation for an upcoming trip to Rome. She had already traveled to Paris, Greece, Germany, Scotland, Ireland and Spain. But there were many, many more worlds to see.
As she drove to the small ranch in Murphy, Texas, from the store in Dallas, she practiced saying “grazie’’ and “bon giorno’’ and “mi scusi,’’ over and over again. Once at home, she ignored the pangs of hunger in her stomach and went straight for her study, where she moved her computer chair in front of the full length wall mirror and turned on the CD player.
She practiced conversations over and over again with the dark haired young woman in the mirror, mimicking the accents of the Italian man on the CD player, smiling at pleasant conversation, widening her brown eyes when the dialogue became more serious. The thin light of dawn was breaking through the window before she finally dragged herself to bed for a few hours of fitful sleep.


****

The buzzer that signaled a customer at the store a few hours later sounded like another alarm clock. She bolted upright from where she was nearly falling asleep in her chair and turned toward the door.
It was the young man named Frank. He was carrying two cups of coffee in one large hand and a bag in the other.
“Hello,’’ he said. “Or should I say ‘Hola.’ I hope you don’t mind, but I was walking by and saw you sleeping in your chair. I thought you might need some coffee to pick you up.’’
“Oh,’’ she said. “Well. Yes. Thank you. That is very kind of you.’’
He handed her the steaming cup, and set the other one down on the counter. He fished in the bag and produced cream and sugar. Then he dug down deeper and extracted a jelly donut.
“You also looked hungry.’’
“Well, uh. Thank you again,’’ she said as she accepted the donut. “That is very kind of you. Uh, were the books of any help?’’
“Yes … and no. The book on Spain inspired another painting, but I’m afraid I didn’t learn much about the language beyond “Hola’’ and “Adios,’’ which I kind of already knew.’’
“Oh,’’ she said. “Well. You need more than one night to learn. Maybe … maybe I should have sold you an audio book?’’
“An audio book?’’
“One with a tape or CD that demonstrates how to speak the language,’’ she said.
“Yes,’’ he said. “That might help.’’
She stood up to search for the book.
“No wait,’’ he said. “I’m in no hurry. Finish your coffee.
Eat your donut.’’
The words were spoken softly but almost seemed like a command.
“OK,’’ she said, unable to disobey.
“So,’’ he said. “Tell me all about Spain. You do know that the coffee and the donut are my payment for a little history lesson?’’
She laughed softly, brushing the powdered sugar from her lips.
“Spain is a beautiful country with a brutal past,’’ she said as her smile melted.
“What do you mean?’’ he asked.
“Have you ever seen Picasso’s Guernica? The distorted images are really a collective cry against the horror of war and a presage to the rape of the arts and individuality by Franco.’’
“Yes,’’ he said, “but Picasso made his hatred of the dictator even more obvious with ‘The Dream and Lie of Franco.’ Don’t you agree?’’
She stared at him for a moment, as if surprised someone was actually engaging in this conversation with her.
“Absolutely, the words behind his images could not have more obviously made his point.’’
“So what is the beauty of Spain” he asked as he leaned over the counter.
“The beauty of Spain is in the Earth and the people,’’ she said, gaining confidence with each word. “It is the people themselves who are most beautiful, in their many different cultures and languages, which finally were allowed to live and breathe after Franco finally died.’’
“And what do you recommend I see first?” he asked.
“That depends on where you fly into,’’ she said. “But if you are an artist, then you should see the museum in Madrid, the Reina Sofia, Spain’s national museum of art, where Guernica hangs after so many years of exile under Franco.’’
“If I am an artist?’’ he said. “So, you don’t believe me, then. Now I’ll have to show you some of my paintings.’’
She laughed, spitting out a powdery morsel of donut that landed on his shoulder.
Horrified, she covered her mouth. “Oh, my God. I am so sorry,’’ she said.
He picked the crumb off his black shirt and laughed before popping it into his mouth.
“It’s even tastier the second time around,’’ he said.
His laugh was infectious and soon she was doubled over, wiping more crumbs from her mouth and lap. Finally, she straightened up.
“Oh,’’ she said. “I forgot your audio book.’’
She went to the languages section with him following closely behind.
“Here it is,’’ she said, handing him the case with the CD. “I should have thought of this last night.’’
“No problem,’’ he said, as she rang it up. “Have you thought again about offering me a few language pointers?”
She hesitated for a moment before looking down and placing his purchase in a bag. “Oh. I would, but I’m pretty busy. I’m … I’m planning a trip to Rome.’’
“Rome,’’ he said. “Wow. Spain. Rome. I guess you are a world traveler. I’m jealous. I haven’t been anywhere but Texas. This year I decided I needed to see more of the world, so I quit my job.’’
“You did?’’ she said.
“Yup. I thought it might inspire my painting,’’ he said. “Sometime, generations ago, my people came from Spain, but we lost the language and our soul over the years as we tried to fit in with the gringos. I guess you could say I’m trying to re-discover my soul.’’
“Yes. I know what you mean,’’ she said. “My family originally came from Mexico, but we never spoke the language. My grandmother told my mother we had to fit in to a new world, so we never spoke Spanish. It was almost as if they were ashamed of themselves.’’
She paused for a moment, as if she had just realized for the first time what she said.
“That’s too bad,’’ he said. “But it sounds like you are making up for the lost language now. Maybe someday I’ll get to Rome.’’
“Maybe,’’ she said. “You never know.’’
There was a silence between them before he finally turned around and headed for the door.
“Thank you,’’ he said as he walked out. “Have a nice day.’’
“You … You too,’’ she said.
Elena looked around the store. The walls of books that once seemed so comforting and protective now appeared to be closing in on her. She felt a vague sense of excitement and anxiety about this man who had now visited her twice.
After watching her mother work long hours at two jobs for years because her father never bothered to marry her before leaving Texas, she had decided that she would not depend on any man for anything.
Her mother’s hard work – and the house they inherited from her grandmother – helped to put her through college, where she got a degree in history and art. When her mother died young of breast cancer Elena did not cry even though it felt like her heart had been ripped out.
She merely retreated to her books. To her surprise, her mother had saved $25,000 before she died and Elena used it to open her bookstore.
There, she lived in a world of drama or intrigue, passion or pain, but she could always close the door on a life or open a new one by starting another chapter.
It was a safe existence in which no heartache could linger too long. But now it was as if this stranger had broken through her wall of books and was trying to open the pages inside.
Suddenly, she needed to get away as soon as possible. As she thought of her trip to Rome, a glimmer of excitement broke through her sadness. The hours until she put the “Closed’’ sign on the door went by like the long summer days of Texas.
At home, she hurriedly packed her bags, choosing her finest dresses, silk stockings and heels for the nights out at Italian ristorantes. She packed her sneakers and jeans for the tours of the Coliseum. She checked her wallet to make sure she had her credit cards and enough money.
She rummaged in her file cabinet until she found the file labeled “Personal documents’’ and pulled out her passport. She ran her fingers along its pages, which had the texture of currency in some of the countries she had visited.
But this currency was worth more than gold.
She practiced her Italian out loud as she signed on to her computer. Even though she had purchased the wireless cable connection some time ago, she still tapped her fingers impatiently as the seconds that seemed like hours passed until her ticket to Italy was within reach.
She double clicked on the icon on her desk top labeled Google Earth. Within seconds the entire world opened up before her.
She maneuvered the cursors until she zoomed in from the satellite in outer space to Italy. Then she flew into Rome, where she scanned streets etched in history and blood until she landed on the Coliseum. She zoomed in closer and could see the remnants of the great outdoor ampitheater. Soon, she could hear the deafening roar of the crowds and smell the odor of humid human flesh as the gladiators fought below.
She raised her hand along with the crowd to signal that the fallen gladiator should be spared. She grabbed the arm of her husband beside her and felt full and alive. She turned to kiss him and was shocked to see the face of Frank Cordero smiling back at her.
She left the Coliseum and zoomed into the streets of Florence. From there she glided across the canals of Venice.
She visited and dreamed for hours before the sun’s light broke through night.
Then she turned off the computer and unpacked her bags, returning her passport to its file in the cabinet.
Her spirits still soaring, she touched down again in Murphy, Texas, the small town she had never left, and fell asleep to the sound of the waking birds.
Outside her store, Frank Cordero was stuffing a rolled up canvas inside the slot on the door. He had stayed up all night painting it. Inside was a painting of a beautiful, dark haired woman at a market in Barcelona, holding a plump melon up to her nose, a smile lighting up her face under the warm Mediterranean sun.