Dark Fever

Gil gave him an abstracted glance, then nodded, as if suddenly realising what the man had said. ‘Oh, yes-yes, of course.’ He put his hand under Bianca’s elbow and guided her towards the table. ‘I expect you’re hungry,’ he said to her. ‘Sightseeing is tiring and it’s a long time since you had breakfast, isn’t it?’

‘I’m starving,’ she admitted as he pulled back her chair to allow her to sit down. Everyone else at the table had already been served and had begun to drink their soup, a smooth tomato with strips of roasted red pepper floating on the surface.

‘This looks unusual,’ Bianca said, picking up her spoon.

‘Cremasevillana,’ the guide told her, sitting down on one side of her while Gil took the chair on the other. ‘A traditional dish from Seville.’

The waiter leaned over her shoulder. ‘Pan?’

She looked up, startled. ‘Sorry?’ Then she saw the wicker basket of bread he offered her and took a piece, smiling. ‘Oh, yes, thank you.’

‘Time you learnt some Spanish,’ Gil said, taking some of the domed, golden bread. ‘Vino?’ He picked up a carafe of red wine, offering it to her, but she shook her head.

‘Just water, thank you.’

‘Agua,’ he said clearly. ‘Say it— agua.’

‘Agua,’ she said with a touch of resentment because the people around them were listening and smiling. ‘I knew agua was water; I just find it hard to use my little bit of Spanish when anyone is listening.’

‘We appreciate if it you do,’ he said drily. ‘Try your soup.’

She bristled at his commanding tone, but took a spoonful of the soup, noting a touch of onion or garlic in the flavour; it was very good, and so was the bread, but then she was so hungry, she would have enjoyed almost anything she ate.

‘Delicious,’ she said, and Gil smiled at her, suddenly relaxing, his grey eyes very light in that darkly tanned face. She felt her heart skip a beat and looked hurriedly down again, taking more soup.

‘So, what did you think of the Alhambra?’ Gil asked in a conversational tone.

‘It was a dream! I loved the colours of the mosaics on the walls, all those courtyards and fountains. I would have liked it even more if I’d been there alone, I expect— it was so crowded and we were moved on all the time from room to room—it was hard to feel the atmosphere.’

‘Tourism kills the thing it comes to see,’ agreed Gil, leaning back in his chair, his soup finished. ‘But everyone deserves to see something like the Alhambra—you can learn so much from a place where people have lived long ago; it teaches a very healthy respect for the culture of those Moors who lived in this part of Spain. They were brilliant architects and builders, poets in the way they created such beauty from mere brick and stone. They weren’t even allowed, by their religion, to reproduce the human form; they had to rely on colour and geometric shape.’

‘I know very little about the history of Spain,’ she said as the waiter appeared and took their plates away.

‘I’ll find you a book to read.’

She opened her mouth to remind him that she couldn’t read Spanish, but he gave her a wry smile, his eyes mocking.

‘In English,’ he promised, and she thought, I’m going to take Spanish lessons when I get home! Next time I come to Spain I’ll make sure I can speak to people here in their own language.

The soup was followed by a chicken casserole, the golden meat sprinkled with almonds. Served with saffron-flavoured rice, this too had a strong taste of garlic, and of herbs too, although she couldn’t identify which had been used.

‘What’s this called?’ she asked Gil, who told her.

‘Polio en pepitoria.’

‘Polio is chicken?’

He nodded, amused. ‘You’re beginning to pick up a few scraps of Spanish, you see?’

She gave him a dry look and he laughed.

Ice-cream followed the chicken, whipped white clouds of it, sprinkled with chopped nuts and cherries.

‘Helado,’ Gil translated for her.

‘Helado,’ she repeated, and the waiter grinned down at her.

While they were drinking their coffee, Gil murmured to her in a voice low enough not to be overheard by the others, ‘You’re coming back with me, not going on the coach.’