A Boy Called Manolo

As exciting as it was just to be living in a foreign country, it was the linguistic angle that was proving to be my personal revelation.

I spent every second of my free time trotting around the shops, trying to entice shopkeepers and fellow shoppers alike into conversation just for some language practice.

Not overly tactful about my verbal skills, the locals frequently laughed at my inventive pronunciation. But their mirth only served as an additional incentive to make sure the last linguistic laugh would be on me.

And it looked like it might well be, as I was getting a lot of Spanish practise at home by this stage…

On my fourth or fifth evening in Puerto Alcúdia, I had once again popped down to the peppermint striped terrace below the apartment – a book under my arm as a foil for my not-so-surreptitious observation of the world going about its business – and ordered a snack.

It was only as I was licking my fingers, having mopped the last of the olive oil from my plate with a chunk of bread, that he caught my eye. He was grinning at my obvious enjoyment of the meal, and I blushed to have been caught being considerably less than composed.

‘Hola.’ He mouthed the greeting from behind the bar and I immediately turned several shades redder, before turning away to busily study the yachts bobbing about in the marina. I had learnt my lesson well with regard to Spanish waiters, and had no intention of inadvertently giving the green light to another manhandling in the Ladies.

‘Hola.’

Oh God! He was right next to the table!

I flashed an embarrassed smile, hoping that he wouldn’t put my still poor Spanish to the test, but the mysterious waiter simply grabbed my empty plate and executed a hasty exit towards the back of the restaurant.

When I dared look over again, he was busying himself behind the bar, and I took advantage of his distraction to study him a little more closely.

Small and slim, he was probably not much older than me. Thick black hair styled a little carelessly with too much gel, gave him a pleasingly rakish air, and his bright white shirt showed off tanned skin to perfection.

And then he looked over… Oh boy. What eyes… big, dark and more than a little suggestive. Exactly what I had been dreaming of since I first cottoned on to the fact that English men were not the only males in existence.

I was intrigued.

I started going in most nights for my evening meal, followed by a coffee; which quickly turned into two, then three then four… We would wave shyly as I pretended to read a book or the newspaper; then, despite much teasing from the other waiting staff, he started bringing the coffees over himself; standing awkwardly by the table as I tried out my fledgling Spanish.

I found out more about him. Manolo was from a village in Granada, in the south of Spain. The second of four siblings, he had lived in Mallorca for a little over four months having come over with an ex-girlfriend (he rather glossed over that part so I read between the lines).

He also mentioned, rather nervously, that he was Gitano.

I nodded as understandingly as possible whilst making a surreptitious grab for the dictionary. A gypsy? Well, at no point had I had to brush clothes peg shavings from his hair, and he spent more time whispering things I didn’t understand (but that sounded absolutely magical) in my ear than demanding that I cross his palm with silver, so I decided that it was something that could be overlooked.

In fact there were even advantages to his “shameful” heritage, which I discovered a few weeks into our relationship.

Our local bar, ‘La Barca’ (the fishing boat) was run by a delightfully welcoming couple from Córdoba, and one evening when closing time came, they gestured for us to stay and handed Manolo a guitar.

My obvious amazement when he launched into a vibrant fandango amused the entire room, but just as I thought the moment couldn’t get any more incredible, an older man; tombstone teeth as sparse as his hair, stood up from his hidden perch at a corner table.

Putting a hand to his heart, he launched into a lament so poignant that even without understanding a single word, it brought tears to my eyes.

It was my first taste of flamenco.

Not the flamenco peddled in the tourist traps, but pure flamenco, spontaneous and true. I will never forget the sight of the singer, his eyes closed in rapture as he sang; my lover, strong hands cradling the guitar, and the owners of the bar throwing their proud, straight-backed bodies around in an ancient dance of passion and courtship.