Lethe returns to the Senora's apartment after the party

When Lethe arrived back at the Senora's apartment it was 2:30 in the morning. The residential street resembled nothing like the rest of Madrid on a Friday night. Whereas other sections of Madrid were clamorously alive, the Senora's street went to bed before twelve o'clock.

The irritable doorman in blue overalls was standing in the corridor. "Why do you come home so late?" He pierced Lethe with one of his angry smirks. "Don't you know the Senora's sound asleep? You're going to wake up my building. Estupido!"

Lethe shook his head and passed the angry doorman's first floor apartment. He quietly climbed the stairs.

At the Senora's door, he turned the brass knob and leaned his weight forward just as a thief would before breaking into some old rich lady's apartment. The nick knacks and antique book shelves, the embroidered furniture and wall-hangings projected an ambient aura, a ghostliness over the room. The Senora's presence lodged inside these shrunken objects; she was watching him from their various locations.

If only he could be quiet . . . Every wooden beam in the apartment creaked, the door knobs whined, and a single light illuminated the whole floor. He was afraid to make any noise, and he tried to suppress his fears, but it was like being in the classroom of the International Institute. He couldn't help himself.

He had to wash his face. Every night he washed his face.

The faucet stayed on for an extra five minutes. He was drunk. He loved the feeling of water, the inexplicable wetness of water, the incessant renewal of the ritual. He bathed in the sink, soaking his eyelashes, running the soap wildly over his neck. The shower beckoned him, but he told it "no". It was too late for a shower. A shower would definitely wake up the Senora.

He clamored down the narrow hallway and stumbled into his bedroom. His breathing was loud. His footsteps were shameful. The wooden beams creaked and cawed underneath him, telling rascally jokes; the springs under his bed squeaked obnoxiously like a thousand mice.

He moved to his desk, an old desk from a children's library, the Senora once told him. Out of his disheveled jacket, he removed the gift that Ricky had given him tonight and he held it in his hand for a long time. Then he unfolded the paper corner by corner.

Startled by a random noise in the street, he threw a nervous glance to the door. He glimpsed the Senora standing there. But he was only dreaming.

Once he could relax, it was beautiful, the light streaming from the sky at this hour. He threw his face back into the moonlight coming from the balcony. He looked out of his room up-side-down, with all the blood rushing to the crown of his head and the starry sky falling just below his chin.

The happiest he'd ever been in his life was when he was eleven years old. His parents sent him to an arts camp in Michigan for the summer. He went there every year after his tenth birthday, but this was the first year living some place besides home. He'd been at the camp for two weeks and this morning he was walking to the bookstore, on the other side of camp, the 'light side' they called it, where the girls' division was located. On his little escape from the boys' side, he was enjoying the freedom of being ten and a half.

Big maple trees lined the campus roads and tall concrete buildings rose up everywhere. Mr. Love said campers could expect a tornado soon, and these buildings supposedly protected the campers. The basements were sturdy and secure, but Lethe hadn't seen the insides yet. As he moved away from the buildings and stretched his gaze to the center of campus, the people looked like dots on the horizon.

He came to an old-fashioned lamppost. The campus had these lampposts scattered throughout. He stood by the lamppost in a sort of dazed dreaminess. He turned 180 degrees and surveyed the woodsy area and the nature trails winding off toward the auditoriums.

As he was moving, everything slowed down and a ray of sunlight broke out from a cluster of leaves, almost blinding him.

With his mother's VISA, he pushed together a second pile. Then he peeled off his smoky shirt and laid in bed. His heart was beating; he could hear it. He looked up at the ceiling and thought, "I can't stay here any longer."

Stumble It!

The Spanish Party

On Friday night Lethe met his Spanish friends at the end of the cul de sac. All the group was there, Carlos, Ricky, Javier, Damien and the others; but they seemed to be waiting for Lethe to arrive so they could take him off somewhere.

Javier, the fat-cheeked, jovial Spaniard, approached Lethe with open arms and ushered him toward the group . . . "My parents are gone for the weekend," he said. "We're celebrating at their condo. Will you come?"

Anxiously Lethe crawled into the back of Javier's small European car and wedged himself between two new friends. The car peeled around the circular drive, gained a steady momentum on a residential street and then plunged into the night traffic.

With the windows down, the wind kept blowing into Lethe's face and making his eyes water. Loud Spanish music, a mix of Samba, techno and rap trumpeted behind their heads. Soon everyone was talking over everyone else, sharing their favorite music styles and bands. By no means was Javier an experienced driver. He jolted the car nearly a dozen times in a seven mile radius. The five of them flew off every road bump and sunk into every dip, which further provoked their frenzied excitement. Cruising Madrid with a bunch of Spaniards, what could be better than this, what could be more exhilarating? At last Lethe seemed to have found his niche.

Javier's family must be loaded, because the building was New York City-modern, made of concrete and glass. There was no doorman in the lobby--unusual for upper-class residences in Madrid. Polished stainless steel elevators took them up to the 24th floor and Javier opened the door to a spacious apartment with an eat-in kitchen and an open view of the city. No furniture, however; just an empty condo.

The Spaniards funneled into the loft-like apartment with their whiskey bottles and Coca Cola, their cigarettes dangling from their mouths. They kept their jackets on, surveying the stark environment. Then they dispersed into the various corners of the condo and struck up conversations. Lethe expected to see some women trickle in, but Javier informed him later that his parents wouldn't allow co-ed parties in their "espacio vivo".

It seemed strange that women were restricted from this party because the next thing that Lethe noticed was cocaine on the granite kitchen table. The Spaniards gaily incorporated the white powder into their celebration. They did not hide it from the rest of the group or abuse the drug in private. Rather they treated it as a novelty, a mere toy, a party favor.

The fervid animation among the Spaniards increased Lethe's curiosity. They hunched like merry pranksters around the guy in the center who separated the substance into neat, manageable piles for his friends.

Coke was taboo where Lethe came from, but here it seemed somewhat acceptable, moderately cool. So long as everyone was enjoying it, the drug didn't arouse suspicion or incite hostility. Lethe watched Ricky, the master of ceremonies, as he expertly snorted the first bump, then casually swiped his nose clean and stepped away from the table. Carlos picked up the rolled Euro after him.

Later that evening Lethe stopped Ricky in the hallway and asked, "You wouldn't be able to get any more of that would you?"

"Sure," Ricky said. "Take this--" He handed Lethe a piece of folded-up paper.

"Whenever you want some more just ask."

Stumble It!

Another Senora?

They sat at the table waiting for Lethe to arrive. The meal was Spanish rice and beans; a quick meal; the Senora was tired of cooking for absent people. Donte told a story about his classmates while the Senora drank from her glass of wine. Once she enjoyed listening to Donte speak his pretty fluent sentences but now they grated on her aged ears and the more embellishment he gave to the Spanish language the less she cared to listen to him. His head had an oily sheen that reminded her of a slippery eel. She dismissed these thoughts because they were irrelevant.

"Are we eating before Lethe arrives?" Donte asked innocently.

But the Senora was inwardly possessed and thinking of something far more important than when was the proper time to eat. Donte lifted his delicate shoulders and looked into the mirror to adjust his ball of hair.

Back at the International Institute, the Director pounded his hairy knuckles on the desk in front of him. He did this to make his point heard. He had several points and all of them he stated on the phone when he talked to Lethe earlier. His first point was that Lethe should return home immediately (pound).

His second point was that Lethe should see a psychiatrist (pound, pound).

These were issues that needed to be addressed by a professional (pound, pound, pound).

"I'm seeing a professional," Lethe interjected. "I already have a psychiatrist. You can't send me home for that."

And the third? The stupid boy made him forget his third point.

Lethe angled for the Director's sympathy by bellowing a defenseless cry. These were the emotional reactions he'd been practicing while walking to the International Institute. It was not beneath Lethe to prepare for a big moment.

"I can't go back to living at home, my parents are getting a divorce and they'll want to drag me into the whole sad affair. I beg you Director allow me to stay here in Spain. Let me live with the Senora. She's my only hope."

"I can't let you live with her, it's against the rules. I've told you that already. But I may be able to find you another senora."

"Another senora?" Lethe asked naively.

"If you're dead set on staying here in Spain," the Director conceded, "then maybe we can arrange something with a woman I know."

All the tortured sadness drained from Lethe's face and he jumped out of his chair to embrace the Director.

"You don't have to hug me. She's an old acquaintance of mine and she owes me a favor."

"I can't wait to meet her."

"Slow down, she's not your Senora yet. We have to agree on a price."

Linda tapped on the glass window to her husband's office and pointed to her watch.

"Women can be so damn impatient sometimes," the Director remarked. "I better get going."

When Lethe returned to the Senora's apartment, Donte had on his usual look of perplexed happiness. The balcony door was open and the curtains blew forward and back in the evening breeze. Lethe pushed his cigarettes down to the end of the table and took a seat.

"So how many more days will you be living with us?" Donte asked.

"You act like I'm some sort of a burden--"

"No, not at all. I just wanted to know when I can move my things into the room with the balcony."

The Senora brought Lethe's food to the table. The Spanish rice had been reheated and the pan was caked on the sides with burnt beans.

"It could be two days or ten days. I'm not sure. The Director is looking for another senora for me."

"Another senora?" Donte said incredulously.

"In a rare change of heart, the Director has become sympathetic to my cause."

The Senora held her cigarette in front of her face. Smoke poured out of her nostrils in small increments.

"So what's your new Senora like?" Donte probed.

"All I know is that she's a single mother with two kids. I may have to help out with the kids but I don't mind."

"You? Take care of children?" Donte laughed satirically.

"I wouldn't be that bad, would I?"

The Senora kept silent and allowed her boarders to speak their inanities. Who knew whether Lethe would find a new senora or not; it was none of her business. She needed to focus on the apartment, the cleaning and the cooking. When he was gone, there would be more work to be done. She stood up from the table and carried the dishes to the sink. Donte and Lethe continued talking in a dreamy, hypothetical manner.

Lethe lie in bed that night, imagining his new senora. She was young and strong, but old enough to be his mother, with thick, black Spanish hair and muscular arms and shoulders. She had a buxom chest and strong hands. Her exact features dissolved and morphed into a number of different faces he had seen before in the streets of Madrid. She had some resemblance to the Senora's maid, Catalin, but a more experienced, darkly erotic personality. These images of the mysterious senora tossed in his mind until the early hours of the morning when he work up confused and alarmed by his dreams.

The Director

The Director of the study abroad program had a shiny bald pate with a fluff of thin, gray hair around the back of his head. He smiled generously and spread his arms to welcome you into his office. Some of the younger women (his female students) stood back in terror, but the Director reassured them it was only his "personalidad espanol" coming out. When in his native land, he felt a change in himself, a return to his natural way of being.

The female students at Cranely College may have feared an older man's release from his life-long inhibitions but he was not making advances toward them; he was merely showing them how passionate one can be about life. He was encouraging them to discover Madrid and to taste the Spanish culture.

"Pero, no habla engles."

"But don't speak English" he warned them. One could be deported for such a blatant disregard of the rules; Cranely College prided itself as the Harvard of foreign exchange programs and many students from the Ivy League choose Cranely College in Spain for its rigor and strong reputation.

The Director was not merely an enforcer of the rules; he was also a doting husband who gave his wife the position of secretary in the study abroad office. The Director was a family man. He had brought his family to Madrid thanks to the benevolence an institution, that being Cranely College, where he taught Spanish year round except when he took these trips to Spain. In short, the Director tapped the study abroad fund to pay for his wife and kids' vacation.

He had vague plans to steal the money when he was only a professor in the Spanish Department. But now that Linda was helping in the office, he hardly thought of it as "stealing". After all he was getting old and needed his youthful wife to keep him company. He loved her creamy legs, her outmoded, 50's style skirts and her horrible pink lipstick.

Their offices were on the top floor of the International Institute. Linda sat at the secretary desk and played the designated role, shuffling papers, making appointments and organizing things. They worked in their separate rooms but it was futile to hide their affection for each other; Vidal and Linda were overtly sexual beings and had produced four bumptious children in a very short time. Students who came into the office to sign papers or to speak to the Director found their public displays of affection revolting.

At the height of Lethe's ecstasy over meeting the group of Spaniards, he received a phone call from the Director. Lethe was not in his bedroom inhaling endless cigarettes and staring over the balcony in despair, but instead talking to the Senora in what he believed to be lucid, intelligent speech about his recent transformation. "And now I can speak Spanish fluently," he blurted out a rapid string of vowels attempting to prove his point.

"Momento, momento." the Senora stopped him so she could answer the phone.

Lethe lit a cigarette and looked at the Senora with wild, suspicious eyes. Then she handed him the phone.

"Ola." Lethe muttered, losing his interest in the Spanish language.

"Hello, Lethe. You haven't forgotten me I hope."

"No sir, of course not. How's life?"

"Life is fine, just fine. Are you enjoying your stay?"

"Yes sir, rather nice here in the Senora's apartment."

"I'm sure it is, I'm sure it is. I hear from your teachers that you have been taking it easy these days. You haven't been to class in eight weeks, Lethe. What's going on?"

"I'm bored."

"You're bored."

"Yes, my classes are too easy for me. I wanted to really immerse myself in the Spanish culture."

"And how do you plan on doing that?"

"I'm quitting school and I've joined a band of brothers, a group of Spaniards who want to be my friends."

"How precocious of you Lethe, but don't you think it would be better to go home, back to where you're from. Is it Chicago?"

"No, I don't live in Chicago any more."

"Where do you live then?"

"I live at college in upstate New York. If I had to leave Spain, I'd go back there. But I don't see any reason why I'd have to leave. I'm perfectly happy here and the Senora says . . ."

"It's not up to your Senora. The rules say--and I'm reading off the page of the handbook right here in front of me--No student should be allowed to stay with his host family if he is not enrolled in classes at the International Institute. "

"But I hate the International Institute. I really dread it. I can't go there anymore, I can't."

The pungent smell of the greasy chorizo rose into Lethe's nostrils. The Senora was preparing sausage for tonight's meal.

"You need to come to my office right away." The Director continued.

"Where is your office?"

"The International Institute of course."

Lethe sighed and held out the phone to the Senora as if they were done. For another minute, the Senora nodded her head and spoke to the Director in Spanish. Lethe tried to make out their words, but the Senora was speaking too fast.

"He wants me to leave, doesn't he?" Lethe asked.

She reached for her cigarettes and an ashtray nearby. "Don't worry nino I'm not going to kick you out."