The large terrace of the Rodalquilar Apartment
Out of season, Rodalquilar flowed in a tourist void. The town and the remains of the mining colony lay under the corpse of the old gold factory . There was something spectral in the shadow of the walls open to the sun.
Fede was waiting for us at the apartment. He was handsome, smiling. The decor was cool. Cuca liked it. By a staircase he accessed the terrace . We climb. White cushions, a bar counter, Acapulco chairs. It wasn't hot yet.
The quiet of Cabo de Gata out of season
Cuca went downstairs to check something on the computer. He came to document Carmen de Burgos, a pioneer of Generation of '98 in defense of the women's rights . Fede told me that Carmen had been born there and that she was the life partner of Ramon Gomez de la Serna , but that had to be said at the end.
I nodded. He had given Cuca a detailed tour of her life during the trip. Her father had lands, mines and the farmhouse of La Unión ; he was vice-consul in Portugal. She was the daughter of the chieftain who married a bohemian painter and became a journalist under the pseudonym of Colombian . When her marriage foundered, she met Gómez de la Serna; the genius of the greguería who recited on a trapeze.
The living room of the Rodalquilar Apartment
I went out for a walk . I jumped the beacons and entered the mining town. Only a few walls with remnants of color remained standing. I thought how much the restless young woman must have hated that place . A century later, the nakedness of the environment shaped the atmosphere that protects the sanctuaries. There are places that whisper messages . This one said: you just have to be under the sun.
I decided to listen to it . In the Genoese beach some passers-by walked languidly. We spread out the towels and lay down with our eyes closed. OR A salty breeze rocked the hills that enclosed the bay.
I thought that this was enough, that the trip I had doubted so much about ran outside of Cuca. She played at being Carmen de Burgos; I could not be Gómez de la Serna. My talent was not enough.
Genovese Beach
We had dinner in Cala Higuera . The restaurant was reached by a dirt road. The light was fading; we approach the sea. The songs vibrated to the swaying of the waves. Its sound was superimposed on our voices on the terrace of The shelter . I thought the name of the place was appropriate. The whole Cape was.
Upon arrival at the apartment sex was brief, anecdotal . Cuca began to read a novel. I opened one bottle of the goat and the boot, the wine that Fede had recommended to us. The image of the animal fit into the landscape.
The Fig Tree of Cabo de Gata
I went up to the terrace with a drink and left it on the bar. The moon illuminated the silhouette of the town . I leaned over the railing and watched the phantasmagoria of the abandoned colony. As in an installation Carlos Bunga the walls drew a non-existent labyrinth. Just being in the sun, I thought.
The next morning Cuca woke me up at dawn. When I got out of the shower I smelled like coffee. On the kitchen table there was toast, oil and an empty wine bottle.
"Was necessary?" Cuca asked. I shrugged. The echo of the surf kept me safe.
Kitchen of the Apartment in Rodalquilar
We headed to Farmhouse of the Friar . There occurred in 1928 the crime that inspired dagger of carnations of Carmen de Burgos and Blood Wedding of Garcia Lorca. The place was wild. The chapel and the remains of the building were in ruins, protected by a fence that prevented access. Cuca told me that the event followed the same script as the literary versions of it: love between the foreman's daughter and her cousin , running away from an unwanted wedding with her brother-in-law's brother, fury from the frustrated husband's family, lover's death.
I thought the wasteland was like a blank page. A framework for tragedy.
Farmhouse of the Friar
The days passed. While Cuca interviewed elders and consulted the register of the Níjar town hall, I oscillated between Mónsul and the beach of the Dead . The light was white, the water light and clear. I read the books of Carmen de Burgos naked on the sand; ran through the wastelands; he would ascend to the platform of the mine and contemplate the desolation; he drank the goat's wine; he made conversation with Cuca during dinner; I fulfilled my summary function.
That's a year ago. Cuca published his article and another wound has opened in Cabo de Gata. I'll come back out of season and look for the genius of the place. The one who whispered to me that you just have to be under the sun.