‘No, no, no, no…it’s not what I’m looking for.’ Irritation marks
Evelyn’s features.
‘How about these?’ Her stout husband, in his Bermuda’s and the lime-green polo shirt, holds up a pair of sunglasses.
Evelyn looks up and instantly her face contorts with rage.
‘God! You don’t expect me to wear those, do you?’ she snaps. Mitchell shrugs and puts the glasses back on the rack.
‘Oh, it’s no use,’ Evelyn sighs, disgust and boredom written all over her immaculate face underneath the smart straw hat.
‘If you pull the hat a bit further over your face, perhaps the sun won’t bother you that much.’
‘You’re such an idiot!’ Venom splashes from each syllable and if looks could kill Mitchell Crockton would drop dead on the spot. However, it doesn’t seem to bother him.
‘Let’s have a cup of coffee,’ he shouts cheerfully, ‘you want a shot of cognac with it?’ Mitchell’s good humor cannot be disturbed by his wife’s panic attacks, they’re too numerous, besides what can be bad, he figures, with booze available under each rock, sunshine, palm trees and beautiful girls, practically naked, parading around everywhere; Mitchell is having a great time and his self-satisfied features confirm the happy state he’s in.
Evelyn saunters by the shelves packed with T-shirts and shorts.
‘All you do is booze, you haven’t stopped since we got here,’ she drones, ‘one of these days you’ll topple over with a cardiac arrest.’ Evelyn’s face shows nothing but discontent, the corners of her mouth are perpetually turned downwards.
‘You like this one, Señora?’ Pilar shows the American woman a pair of John Lennon style sunglasses. Evelyn seems shocked. Not knowing how to react – is that peasant serious? – She manages a smile and says: ‘No thank you, Señora.’
Pilar’s face is a mask of seriousness but when the lady’s back is turned she covers her mouth to hide the horsy laugh.
Walking over to her husband who already made himself comfortable at the bar, Evelyn addresses Mitchell in a stern manner: ‘We’ll have to go back to the hotel first.’
‘Well, we can also make the excursion to the North of the island tomorrow.’ Mitchell, unswerving, proposes casually.
‘You rushed me, that’s why I left them,’ she whines and to Jaime: ‘A coffee, please.’
“We’re on holiday, Lyn.’ Mitchell tries to smooth things over but his spouse remains vexed. Now she’s found something amiss with the coffee, it’s too weak.
When you order a coffee in Spain you will more than likely be served a café con leche, a little coffee with lots of milk. If you want your coffee a bit stronger you order a cortado.
‘This tastes horrible.’ Evelyn mutters.
‘Order a new one. Señor!’ Mitchell holds up his hand to catch Jaime’s attention.
Jaime is in a complex debate with three islanders about something or other; they are all talking at the top of their lungs while the volume of the television set in a corner above the bar is turned up full blast (hysterical folks in the Spanish version of The Wheel Of Fortune) plus a group of young tourists just walked in – the tienda suddenly is in the grip of a terrible racket.
Evelyn holds her head in both hands.
‘Señor!’ Mitchell calls out again.
‘No! Please! No!’ Evelyn pulls his arm down, ‘I feel a splitting headache coming on. Get me out of here.’
‘All right. Fine. Go on, I’ll pay the bill. I’ll drive you back to the hotel.’
Head bent and clutching her Louis Vuitton sporty line handbag, Evelyn hurries past the boisterous tourists to get to the door. Jaime has caught Mitchell’s sign and comes over to settle.
“Dos cafés y un cognac.’ Mitchell speaks as if addressing a two-year-old, proud to show off his smattering of Spanish. He is rather elated to be able to drop off the bothersome nag, let her lie down in the dark with a wet washing-cloth on her forehead if that’s what the silly cow wants to do on her holiday, it’ll give him a chance to sit himself down at a seaside terrace, have a couple of drinks and observe the beauties strolling along. What? He might even get into a chat with one of those brown babies and who knows what might happen….
‘Adios!’ Mitchell’s shout of joy is heard above everything as he takes his leave to join his sour-looking wife on the porch.
‘Mm, smell the flowers, Lyn, isn’t it lovely?’ He puts a square hand around her waist.
‘I have two thousand horses galloping around in my brain,’ says Evelyn with thumbs pressed against her temples.
‘Come on, I’ll take you to the hotel. With an Excedrin and some rest you’ll be fine in a couple of hours.’ Mitchell, with ever so much tender care, steers his unhappy wife towards the rented dark-blue BMW.