La Giralda

La Giralda
         
         The girl lies face up in a puddle, gurgling and spitting, clawing at the air. Vincent watches her desperately try to grab on to something that isn't there. He offers no pity. Her neck is separated and jagged; warm and fresh with a gash leaking red. Blood mixes with mud and her long sandy curls dip into rain-water sludge. Vincent is disgusted and proud. He walks away trying to fight off the tremors.

         Jack straightened the brim of his Panama hat and walked towards the train. He was boarding the southbound train in Guadalajara to go to Seville. The thing looked like something from the future;  sleek tinted windows, smooth aerodynamic shape, and pearl white paint with a thin magenta stripe at the bottom. It was a pinnacle of new-age design for an old world European city.
         The train would arrive at Santa Justa station in nearly two hours, around four o'clock. Gripping the leather suitcase in his strong left hand, Jack approached the ticket collector. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his gray Chesterfield coat and pulled out the ticket to give to the collector.
         “All right then, Mr. Remington, train leaves in ten.”

         Vincent grabs the girl by the hair and pulls her back, ripping a few strands between his middle and index finger. She screams, he pulls harder. Her heel catches in a rift between cobblestones and she trips. The girl falls onto her back with the black stiletto still stuck in the ground and another flying into the air. Cloudy brown water splashes onto Vincent's overcoat and soaks the front of her dress. She flops around in the puddle barefoot with a tear up the side of her tight blue dress. Vincent draws a slip joint knife from his pocket and pushes down on the girl's shoulder, grinding her body into the stones, bruising the meat above her collarbone. The girl looks up at Vincent kneeling behind her head and before she can scream again, he covers her mouth, the cold sweat on his shaky hand wetting her lips. He flips the knife open and brings it to her neck. In a quick, rigid motion he traces the blade along her neck from ear to ear. Her flesh opens and blood seeps out down her neck, rolls over her chest and ribs, and spills into the puddle.

         The train was passing by Toledo. Jack looked out the window at the Alcázar, an old Roman palace from the 3rd century. The huge stone fortification was where Colonel José Moscardó Ituarte fought off Spanish Republican forces during the Civil War. 
         “Can I get you anything, Sir?”
         Jack turned from the window and took off his straw hat. “Umm, no ma'am. I'm all set, thanks.” He rested the hat on his bent knee.
         The server proceeded down the aisle to help the couple sitting behind him. The train was making good time, they were already about halfway there and it was only quarter of three. Jack straightened his legs, they were getting cramped in the small foot space between seats. He was a rather tall man, about 6'4”, with thinning salt-n-pepper hair that he usually kept hidden underneath a hat. His style was rather peculiar; it was the nineties but Jack still dressed like some one out of Casablanca.
         A girl with a sharp jaw line and thin, delicate lips entered through the door at the front of  Jack's car. She tucked a lock of curly brown hair behind her small ear and proceeded down the aisle. She got closer to Jack, there was an open spot beside him. The girl stopped by him and, in a soft, polite voice, asked if she could sit in the empty seat.

         It just stopped raining minutes before, the alley smells of sulfur and dew. The girl begins to walk faster as she feels Vincent coming up behind her. She grips her sequined pocketbook tighter to her shoulder and shuffles her feet quicker. Vincent rubs his gristled jaw, mumbling and wheezing as he gets closer. He lowers the brim of his hat down in front of his eyes and hobbles after her, almost possessed, like a mad man. She begins to run and he is right behind her. Vincent reaches out with a wavering arm.

         “¿Adónde van?” the girl asked.
         “Ingles, por favor.”
         “Where ya headed?”
         “Seville,” Jack answered, “how about you?”
         “Same.”
         The train was passing by Ciudad Real, only a couple more stops before Seville. Jack had gone to the Iglesia de Santiago in Real every summer since he began visiting Spain. He graduated a History major nearly thirty years ago and loved the rich Spanish culture and architecture. He was interested in the country even as a young boy since he saw a picture in one of his history books of a seven-headed dragon painted on the walls of a Gothic church, the oldest church in Ciudad Real, the Iglesia de Santiago. Jack had vowed to visit there some day.
         “So what do you go to Seville for?” she asked.
         “Just to visit, sight see. And you?”
         “My sister is getting married in the Cathedral in a few days. I'm staying at the Gran Melia Colon until then.”
         “The most expensive hotel in Seville. How does such a young woman afford this kind of stay?”
         “Oh me, God no, I can't afford it. My sister's fiancée, Juan Antonio, is a famous painter. He is paying for it.”
         “I see.”
         Jack looked out the window at the lush, rolling hills. The sky was ripe, tinged red and yellow like a fresh peach. The fine, downy hairs on the nape of her sepia neck stood on end, it seduced Jack. He wiped the sweat on his brow with a tremulous hand, the infliction was beginning to act up. She noticed his shaking but tried not to stare and instead looked the other direction across the aisle.

         The girl walks out of the Gran Melia Colon. The wind blows hair in front of her jade eyes and she buttons up her jacket. She walks down the front steps of the hotel in tall high heels. Her smooth brown legs stretch up from the stilettos and disappear under a cobalt dress. Vincent watches her from a park bench. There's a light drizzle of rain, the girl picks up the back of her jacket and holds it over her head to keep her hair dry. She descends the stairs and turns right towards the Torre del Oro.
         He gets up and follows her, a few meters behind. The girl walks all the way around the military watchtower, marveling at it's 13th century architecture. Vincent watches from a safe distance, he's not too impressed with the Torre del Oro as he's seen it many times before. The rain stops and the girl lets go of her jacket. She walks along the Guadalquivir river, stepping over cracks and dodging discarded gum and cigarette butts.
         She seems to be done sightseeing for the night and begins to head back to the hotel. It's only a few blocks from the Torre and a short distance from the Cathedral. She decides to take a short cut  down an alley between two apartment buildings by the Cathedral. She enters the cobblestone alleyway and turns her head to get one last look at La Giralda, the Cathedral's lofty bell tower. She notices a lumbering giant behind her.
         
         “I'm sorry, miss, I forgot to ask your name?”
         The train stopped at the Santa Justa station. The two began to gather up their things.
         “María Elena, y tú? Your name?”
         “Nice to meet you, name's Vincent.” he says, extending a shaky hand.