Silvia was back when I returned from the cliff walk. She must have got in the night before, because it was still early in the day. She probably hadn’t done the four or five hour walk through the mountain trails in the dark, although you never know around here. That night was the new moon though, and without electricity, naturally we planned things around that.
Silvia’s appearance surprised me. For some reason I was expecting her style to be more crunchy and artsy, since everything in the Cafe was natural and placed with the attention of an arranged still life. She dressed in a conventional manner, black jeans, and a small black t shirt which hung loosely on her petite frame. Her sheer black hair, cut in a straight line around her shoulder blades, had sophisticated silver streaks which streamed drown from her temples in imposing stripes like those on the face of an owl. She wore blank biker-style ankle boots, even in the heat, and elegantly thin silver hoop earrings peeked from behind her thin neck. Had I seen her in any other place, I would have guessed she was a film producer or a minimalist designer of some sort. How she came to run an illegal cafe along the dusty edge of a highway I knew not.
What little I did know about Silvia before I met her was what Lila had told me. Silvia had been in the village for about twenty five years. She had given birth to Cas here, and raised him as a single mother. In her former life, she was a circus performer. She traveled in a real circus, specializing in balancing tricks! It was easy to imagine her in the ring, surrounded by spotlights and people packed under a large tent, her wiry body highlighted in a lycra suit, doing one-handed handstands on top of an elephant, or walking with two hands on a large ball. “How long was she in the circus? How old was she when she joined?”
The remarkable vitality of this women, probably in her early 50‘s judging by the wrinkles on the sides of her eyes, was not only evident in her youthful build and skin; the plants around her were also a reflection of her impeccable good health. Despite the odd place she called her home, and her choice of business, which sustained itself with hardly any money, it was clear that Silvia was a woman of the world. Tibetan prayer flags fringed the eaves of the metal roof. Also on the outside wall hung a collection of primitive masks. They nearly covered the upper third of the wall they were so numerous, the way the walls of flamenco peñas are often sequined with Andalusian ceramic plates and round shiny metal trays. Protected from the rain, writhing above the other African, Mayan, and Polynesian masks, was the headdress of a Chinese dragon. It had lime green skin, ferocious fangs, a protruding scarlet tongue. Concentric rings emanated from its its bulging eyes, protectively watching for intruders. An iron statue of lord Shiva in a ring of flames danced in the round window in the back of the kitchen.
There were two altars at the Cafe, one outside, and one within. The one on the terrace was a collection of unusually shaped large stones and precious crystals laying at the feet of a serene concrete Buddha upon whose knees grew moss. The smaller, less public, altar was mounted on the inside wall to the right of the bar top window. It was a handmade wooden shelf with brightly painted carved leaf forms along its edge. The shelf was covered with random objects surrounding a small verdigris copper seated figure of Tara, the Goddess of Compassion, and an incense burner. The shrine also held pebbles, dried flowers, smooth sticks, a black velvet ribbon, two large marbles, various shells and seed pods, and other magical things.
Without a television, without having been in a car, nor gone anywhere beyond the half mile radius of the Cafe, I felt transported into another century. As Miguel promised, Silvia welcomed me without hesitation, and I continued my job washing dishes. My attitude around Silvia was one of a Renaissance apprentice who first learns to sweep the floor, run errands, and do menial tasks, such as pick the leaves off of medicinal plants, before learning any theory or methods of the craft. There were many things I wanted to know about this herbal healer, who was truly the mistress of her domain, but I was too shy. The days passed, and she Lila and I flowed easily with each other. Silvia took care to provide me what information she deemed necessary. I respected her privacy the rest of the time, staying away from conversations of a personal nature.
Silvia came and left the Cafe often, cooking the main meal of the day and leaving the service, the cleaning, and any additional food prep, to Lila and me. Whatever food our customers brought determined the menu, roasted fennel with melted goat cheese, fava bean stew with swiss chard, chick peas and pig fat, yam fries made with olive oil from The Vines, green peppers filled with garlic and eggplant risotto, and many kinds of salad, dressed with fresh lemon juice and homemade miso. Running a restaurant with no refrigerator means using up perishable things immediately. If we were given fresh milk, we would use it for rise pudding, flan, or scolloped potatoes, for example. With whatever was left over, we made yogurt for the next day or thick bechamel with a hint of nutmeg for croquettes. If a vegetable or fruit was in season, we cooked with that, canning jams or sauces, or laying wracks on the roof to dry. Silvia taught me tricks about canning, and cooking, such as using leftovers in soup. I also learned a lot from her by watching her with other people. Always gentle, and observant, I was convinced she could read minds. She was silent often, and when she did use words, they usually pertained to current situation. There was an occasion, which baffled me, when Silvia was not as docile as usual.
One day a group of policemen came for lunch, about eight of them. Four were in uniform, and the other four appeared to be in training. They all wore the same outfit but the trainees were unarmed and less decorated. The Cafe serves a higher ratio of police officers to regular civilians from the road than your average food stand. I was not sure for what reason. They never caused any trouble, nor had I ever heard any of them question the legality of the venue. A slight ‘us and them’ tension beset air with law enforcement officials around, but that may have been the case anywhere. There was another guy who has been there for awhile, a hipster type, who sat at my favorite table under the eaves when the policemen arrived. I was glad Silvia happened to be there that day, because there was a high level of bravado flying around between the cops and the four men they appeared to be training.
We rarely served meat, but that day a neighbor had brought us a leg of beef. Silvia made all eight men, plus the hipster, sandwiches with homemade mayonnaise and tomato, while I prepared salads with cucumber and avocado. The meal passed uneventfully, with much boisterous chatter, although they were disappointed we had no cold drinks. While they were waiting for the check, one of the policemen called jovially to the hipster, “Hey, what’s happening?”
“Not much. Just enjoying my day off.”
“That’s nice. What do you do?”
“I’m a journalist. I write for El Ideal.”
“Then you must be aware that Spain has one of the most liberal immigration policies in all of Europe?”
“I know that is a widespread belief, yes.”
“And you’ve heard about all the allegations that there is racial profiling by the police at identity check points?”
“That has been in the new a lot lately too.”
“Why don’t the newspapers ever mention that the reason more Black and Arab people are detained is because they are the ones who don’t have the proper paperwork? They’re not the only people getting checked. They just fail to present proper ID more often. Police don’t make the laws. We just enforce them. The people who complain are the ones who make the laws. This is a democracy.”
“The ID checks started before Spain was a democracy. There are other countries, for example the US, where people cannot be stopped by the police unless they obviously broke the law.”
“That’s not true anymore,” said one of the policemen in training. “Suspicion is enough of a reason to stop someone in the US now as well.”
The officer who started the conversation concluded. “It has to be that way. It’s the government’s job to look out for the welfare of it’s people, and the way the economy is nowadays, protecting people’s jobs is a priority. We sure get a lot of bad press for just doing our job, that’s for sure.”
Silvia brought them thier check, and I watched her from the door, clearing the plates and water classes onto our biggest tray. One of the men looked at the guy next to him and pointed his chin at Silvia jokingly as if to say, “Look at this. She’s about to drop everything.” The other men noticed and watched with amusement, clearly not having much respect for people in the food service industry. Even I thought everything on the tray was going to tumble and crash.
Silvia held a pottery water pitcher in one hand, and she wriggled her other hand under the huge oval shaped tray with at least 20 plates, 8 cups and some small baskets on it. The hipster, myself and the police held our breath as Silvia gracefully lifted the tray and twirled it upwards so its weight was over her shoulder. Performing this impossible balancing act with no apparent effort, Silvia turned to the most vocal police officer. “If the government wants the best for people, then why it is so expensive to buy land or build a house that most people can’t afford it?”
Everyone was quiet. The hipster and I waited for the cop to answer. The cops waited for Silvia to drop the tray. Finally the man spoke.
“Look, I’d love to talk about this with you all day, but you’d better go put that tray down before you drop it.”
The tray was perched on the tips of four of her fingers and her thumb. Silvia stayed where she was, rotated the tray slightly and removing two of her finger as support. It was totally badass and seemed completely unnecessary. Nevertheless, as Silvia showed off, holding the tray of china above their heads, she watched all eight men squirm uncomfortably in their seats, caught off guard she was speaking their language.
“Look, Silvia, maybe you’ll win the case, and you’ll all be able to stay here for free and let the rest of the country support you by paying their taxes.”
I wondered why Silvia had picked a fight with these men. “Wouldn’t it be better to get along with the police? How did this man know her name?”
“People’s taxes may be supporting you, but how are they supporting me? The State should be paying Serge, and the others in the co-op, who take care of all the addicts you guys drop off here.”
I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Well, I’ve got to give to you,” the lead cop said to Silvia, as he and his buddies stood up to leave, “you have a better idea what we’re up against than most people do.”
What a strange interaction. “What’s the co-op?” I wondered as the men turned and plodded down the delicate steps. Silvia smiled at the hipster and carried the tray, still on one hand into the kitchen and easily set it down. About 20 minutes later, the hipster departed as well. When I gathered his empty plates from the table, I found a handwritten note tucked under his glass. It read,
“Matriarchal Lady,
It’s your time
To guide the way.
Let the greedy gates crumble.
Around the fearful iron bars.
On the ground
Beautiful flowers stronger
Than fortresses tower.
I grow smaller and smaller
Until mighty as the dust
I enter the heart.
We. Us.
Truth rectifies all.”
I gave the note to Silvia, and she smiles when she read it, placing it, when she was done, on her special alter.
“Did you know that guy?’
“The guy who wrote the poem, or the policeman?”
“The cop.”
“We’ve been involved in a court case for years trying not to get kicked of this land. Officer Juan is often the one who gets sent out here to do deal with. His son is a heroin addict, so he actually appreciates what we do here and doesn’t give us too much of a hard time.”
“What do you mean, he appreciates what we do here?”
“On the other side of the bridge there’s an old factory where Cas and his friend have organized a co-op. They have a trade economy, art studios, and workshops there. Many of them live in the upper floors, and some people do business on the outside too, selling crafts, artisan homemade cheese, clothes, and things.”
“And how does the heroin fit in?”
“Since the court case could take years before they can evict us, it’s already been over two, the City of Granada started dropping off homeless people here who were resisting arrest. Most of them are addicted to drugs when they come. The city claims that, since this is a public place, we cannot turn anyone away. They’re giving us a piece of our own medicine, so to speak.”
“And these junkies live in the co-op too?”
“There’s a man named Serge. He came on his own, let’s see, at least five years ago. He’s a godsend. He’s a recovering addict himself, and an ex-con. That always somehow gains people’s respect, which is strange, because going to jail is one of the things people fear the most. Serge was even a professional soccer player in a former life, and he’s helped many people quit using. He’s amazingly good at it. He has a following now, and they all support each other. Of course it happens often that someone brings drugs in, or relapses while they’re here. Usually they get back on track or they end up going back to the city because the people who stay are committed to being clean. Up to now the culture has been strong enough to sustain without any big blow outs.”
While I did the dishes, freezing cold water on my hands, warm breeze from the window on my face, Silvia was cutting up the rest of the beef into chunks and soaking them a bowl of marinade. I was trying to picture a bunch of artists and recovering addicts living together in an abandoned factory when Silvia started speaking again.
“I was a heroin addict before I came here.”
I was stunned. “Did Lila know this? Had she decided to let Silvia tell me herself?”
Silvia continued. “When I found out I was pregnant with Cas, I was about your age. My partner, who I had dropped out of high school to be with, got me into drugs, and we were using whenever we could. I managed to stop several times, and he used to beat me so I wouldn’t leave.”
“How could this be?” I was shocked. Silvia showed no scars of this time that I had seen.
“I even used a couple times while I was pregnant, but as soon as I found out, I quit. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. The circus was performing near Girona that spring, and I had a friend in Barcelona. I just ran after the show one night. I took the train and showed up at her house. She had a bunch of people over, and that was the first time I met the Carpenter. I had never met a man like that. He was just returning to Spain after traveling the world for eight years on foot. He started in southern India, went up through Pakistan, Afganistan, and crossed through the Middle East, through Eastern Europe, and then back to Spain.” She paused, reflecting a moment. I wondered who the Carpenter was, reckoning that I would probably fall in love with a man who had done that too.
“So you fell in love with him?”
“I don’t know if I would call it that. We did talk at the party. I was still going through withdrawals. I was a wreck, but I did gather that he had been checking out the okupas in the Pyranees and was going to start one down here. I followed him down here about six months later, when my ex started looking for me. I truly believe he would have killed me if he found me. Luckily, he didn’t know I was pregnant.”
My mind reeled, trying to identify the proper emotional response, horror, admiration, judgement, sadness, pride, doubt? I had been judgmental of heroin addicts before. Since finding out that my new heroine and mentor used to be one, my thoughts had instantly changed. In fact, now I almost envied her. “Is this the reason she is so strong and wise? Now I can never be that poised, for surely I will never walk such a hard road as she’s been down.” What a strange thing to envy not only other people’s good fortune, but also their hardships which build character. Yet we fear the pain involved.
I looked sideways at Silvia as she massaged the curry and herbs into the raw meat. Past her silhouette hung a faded poster of a flamenco dancer with a singer beside them in a straight backed chair. Both had grimaces on their faces, as though they were the ones being butchered, or having salt rubbed into their bleeding hearts.
The expectation that life should be easy is what gets us all in trouble. Life is easy when we live it with wisdom, which most of the time we do not. Physical, emotional, and mental pain are the wonderful little gifts along the way which potentially can steer us on a better path. If we pretend we have already achieved a state of harmony, when we have not, we resent these uncomfortable signposts along the way. If we acknowledge and then share our pain, first with ourselves and then with others, we expand our version of happiness to include pain. It is the contraction of resisting pain that hurts so much. The pain itself allows us to deepen our understanding of life. Flamenco is a supreme art form, because it provides us with a way of acknowledging the pain in our lives, abiding with it, and allowing ourselves to be transformed by it, rather than preferring to pass over it, wishing the pain would go away.
“Does the Carpenter still live here?” I asked. What I really wanted to ask was if they had been a couple of not, but I didn’t dare.
“Yeah, he comes and goes. You’ll probably meet him one of these days. He comes by here sometimes. His real name is Nu. In the last few years he spends quiet a bit of time in Morocco, but he was around all the time when Cas was growing up. We all lived up at The Vines. Nu and Miguel actually built the place. I named Cas after Nu. Cas is short for Castaña.” This I knew was the word for chestnut in Spanish.
“Chestnut is the Carpenter’s favorite tree. He loves trees more than anything.” I had never seen Silvia look so proud. “He tries to emulate them.”
“So, trees back him.” I made a mental note. These people all seemed way out of my league, so experienced, living such rich lives. I had spent most my life watching TV and doing the usual things, like playing team sports and summer camp for kids. As she often did, Silvia seemed to read my thoughts.
“Miguel really liked you, by the way.” I looked up, again surprised. “He left a note for me when he dropped you off. He said you are one of the most awake young people he has ever met.”
Alleluia! This woman had a way of blowing my mind open, and then, right when I was about to shut down, putting a salve and a little blanket over me so I could rest.
.....
Later that evening, when I was alone closing up the Cafe, I wondered, “why had Silvia told me all this?” As I brushed my teeth, I a wandered around the kitchen allowing my eyes to rest absentmindedly on Silvia’s myriad of artistic juxtapositions around the now-familiar space. A butterfly encased between two pieces of class was mounted above a small map of the world by the door to the storage room. A wild red rose in a cognac glass half-filled with water rested on a chartreuse green tile by the big cutting board. A collection of blue glass bottles paraded themselves mystically the big window looking out over the field faintly glowing in the moonlight.
“Did she tell me all that about herself because she knows I have her on a pedestal? Maybe she thought I deserved to know she did drugs when she was pregnant so that I don’t worship her too much.” I wondered how screwed up Cas was behind his noble facade, having done narcotics in utero. I wondered if she could tell that I too was addicted to many things, like mass media, money, the pressure to have a socially acceptable status. I finished brushing my teeth and took a long drink of the delicious water running through my cupped hands. Then I lit my lantern and blew out the candelabra in the kitchen, walking down the shadowy path towards the hay shed. The moon was full, and I realized with reverence that it was the solstice. I rejoiced that I had been adopted by such wonderful people, and my heart swelled with love for Nature. Lila mentioned there was a solstice party at the co-op that night, but I was still too shy to go. My home under the eucalyptus trees was teeming with life, and I was glad to be there, celebrating with the birds, animals, insects, the plants, the elements, and the moon. They all knew this was the peak of summer. Everything that is cultivated inwardly throughout the seasons was unfurled and on display, blending into unity with its surroundings, surrendering to life, illuminating the balmy night air.
“Did she tell me about her past to reassure me that one day I too could feel like I fit in here? Did she open up to show me that we’ve become close?” I had been working side by side with her for two weeks already. She had invited me to go walking through the meadows beyond the market gathering poppies. On another day we followed the stream up through the woods and each filled a large sheet with horsetail, which grows on the banks, carrying the huge light bundles home on our backs. I had helped her set up shelved using string and paper bags stapled together in the storage room where the plants could dry. The drying room smelled divine, with the bunks of sleeping herbs dreaming their smells including mint, lavender, rose petal, camomile, saint john’s wort, lemongrass, sage, echinacea, and thyme. Once I told her I felt like I wasn’t doing enough, and she squeezed my shoulder and said she was glad I was there. The next day she taught me how to make soap with the left over cooking oil, scented with essential oils, moisturizing foodsm like oatmeal and honey, and herbs. She said I could trade the soap at the market if I needed anything for myself. I told her I had money from the States and didn’t need anything, but I did enjoy making soap. The weeks had flown by. I decided to chalk up Silvia’s confessions to the fact that she had taken me under her wing. Like any good teacher, she kept me guessing.
I did feel closer to her, although strangely the negative experiences she had shared continued to intimidate and impress me as she had before. Of course being physically abused and stalked, depending on drugs, feeling guilty for putting one’s child in harm’s way, and having to raise a child alone, are not desirable things. It was Silvia’s good health that gave me pause. If I found it so hard to eat well, get exercise, stay connected to my spirituality, how much harder did she have to try, having been through all that? I brushed these thoughts aside. People’s suffering cannot be compared. Life isn’t about chasing the highs and the lows. It’s about becoming sensitized to the more subtle aspects, and we all have equal difficulty with that.
Like flamenco artists, who dive into their pain, name it, explore it, wail it out loud in public, we all are given obstacles which allow us to transcend more. Life does not become a masterpiece when we are finally perfect enough to share it with each other. The art of life is emerging into the light as we are and owning the struggle to live, even, especially, when it hurts. Like a gorgeous leprous dance partner, we are invited to engage. Stamp your foot down with bravery. Raise your shoulders with anguish. Thrust your chest forward, bearing your full heart. Gather the stars in your arms. Then relinquish them behind you, turning around quickly to face the unknown
Miguel Poveda y Carmen de Linares
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