The Dud Avocado - Elaine Dundy [93]
“He’s just asked me to the Feria at Malaga.…”
“He’s just asked me down to his bull-ranch outside Seville. Goodness! He’ll expect me to meet his mother next.…”
“He says I’ll adore Spain. Apparently everyone in Spain is mad about large women. That’s something, anyway. Still, rather you than me. Now for God’s sake don’t desert me!” she said, suddenly clutching at my arm.
The Spaniards, unable to control themselves any longer, were determined to bear her off to some other Spaniards who owned a night club in Biarritz.
Angela and I got into the lavender Cadillac with them. The rest followed on.
It was a long drive. Even in the car they all kept trying to talk to her at once. I let the language flow around me, understanding nothing. The top was still down, the night was still warm, and as I looked up at the endless stars I tried to tell myself that my life wasn’t completely over; that there were other things in the world besides a small, faithless bullfighter. There was nature, for instance. There were the snails in our garden in the sunshine. I tried to think of some other nice things, but I couldn’t. There would be other bullfighters, I said to myself. But I want this one, I replied. I was just making up my mind to learn Spanish as quickly as possible when I realized with a jolt that one part of my brain was following along their conversation exactly as if it were in English.
To Angela: “Marida?”
Angela: “Divorciada.”
“Y los chicos?”
“Ningunos.”
What happened next is astonishing. Although I can’t remember ever really hearing Spanish before last night, in the highly technical discussion of Birth Control that followed, I caught every word. I mean it. Every single word. Angela, who was still shouting bulletins at me, started to bring me up to date, but I told her not to bother. Boy! I really surprised myself. Then they got: on to another subject and I was lost again.
“He’s got a point there, you know,” Angela roared suddenly.
“Who? Where?” I’d completely switched off.
“The one in the corner. You know. The one who isn’t a complete idiot.”
I winced with my whole body.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Have I done anything wrong? Do tell me, I’ve such an inferiority complex about offending people.”
“Stop talking about them like that,” I whispered fiercely. “They do understand English, you know.”
Angela looked at me as if I’d suggested they were the boys behind the Oxford Dictionary. “They’re Spaniards,” she said, dismissing the whole fantasy. “Of course they can’t understand. Incidentally their Spanish is quite good for gypsies. I suppose they are gypsies, aren’t they?”
I just groaned.
We arrived at the night club and Angela created her usual Spanish riot—too pointless and painful to describe—all over again.
Then the Flamencos came over to our table and started singing at us.
“Good gracious,” said Angela, “they’re singing about me.”
“What are they singing about you?” I asked between clenched teeth.
“Well … it’s something about the beautiful Angela has come all the way to France and we hope she enjoys herself and stays a long time and.… Oh really, it’s too ridiculous—they’re hopeless, aren’t they? I say, do look at that one! Hasn’t he got the sexiest bottom you’ve ever seen? But still not one of them looks anything as good as your friend Bix, do they?”
“Bax,” I spat at her. “Ax, ax, ax,” I added insanely.
Stefan was baffled. “I don’t understand it. I simply don’t understand it,” he kept saying in amazement, over and over again.
“They like fat women, that’s all,” I snapped.
He was thunderstruck. “But of course. Of course they do!” He hit his forehead with his fist. “I’d forgotten all about that. Well, Angela can coach him in English then. Sorry it lets you out, but it saves us money, eh Basil?”
“I say, steady on,” murmured Plinn-Jones.
“What’s that? What do you mean?” I asked indignantly. “I don’t want to coach him in English!”
Stefan looked quickly at Larry, who frowned back.
“Just a minute,” I said slowly. “Who said anything about teaching him English?” It was coming back to me now. Larry at