Unforeseen Events II – Part II

The SS Capulet steamed westward on the Mediterranean Sea, fifty miles north of the coast of Lybia. Stripped to the waist in the heat of the ship’s hold, Ethan shoveled coal into the boiler. This was one of many tasks he performed in his duties aboard the vessel. Two months had passed since he signed on in Mombassa. A small, coastal freighter, the Capulet carried odd assortments of merchant cargo between various ports in East and North Africa, and along the south coast of Spain. 

The clanking sound of a steel door alerted Ethan that someone had entered the hold. It was big, affable Mick O’Grady.

“Wells,” said O’Grady.

“Hey Mick. What’s up?”

“Trick’s over mate. Skipper wants you up in the wheelhouse.”

“I guess this belongs to you then,” said Ethan as he handed the shovel to Mick.

“Don’t ya know,” said Mick.

Coming on deck, Ethan squinted his eyes at the bright, sunlit day. Now in the spring of 1965, it had been nearly a year since he left New Orleans. He never did learn what made him so sick at Lake Victoria though his strength had returned since leaving Kenya. He loved being at sea and appreciated the camaraderie on the ship. He ascribed this quality to the deft leadership of the Skipper, ‘Captain Jake’. 

Jacob Spahn was a seaman’s seaman. He’d worked on ships since his teens. Originally from Nova Scotia, he made his bones on Swordboats out of Nantucket. Then he went on to merchant ships rising up to ship’s master by his late twenties. Two years earlier Jake won the Capulet in a poker game in Tangier.   

Entering the wheelhouse, Ethan observed the Skipper going over a chart with the first mate. Noticing Ethan and looking directly at him he said, “Ethan, stand by for a minute.”

Ethan nodded and leaned back against the open doorway. After four hours in the hold, the cool breeze was refreshing. The ship was running at half steam on a smooth sea.

Captain Jake finished his conversation with first mate Oliver Purdy and turned to Ethan, who stepped toward him. 

“Have you eaten?” said the Skipper.

“Not since breakfast sir.” 

Looking at his watch, “Go on down to the mess and have Smiley fix you a plate of food. When you’ve eaten come back up here. I want to start you in the wheelhouse.”

“Yes sir.” Ethan made his way down to the galley. He was thrilled at the idea of becoming a ship’s pilot.

As the voyage of the Capulet proceeded, Ethan took on more responsibilities. The ship put into seven more ports along the North African coast before turning north for Spain.  

When they reached Malaga, Captain Jack asked Ethan to stay on for the return voyage to east Africa. He declined saying he wished to spend time with an old friend from his home town in California.

“Then let’s stay in touch,” said the Skipper. “You’ll always have a job on any ship of mine.” The two men parted on the square.

Ethan spent his first night in Spain at a backstreet hotel in Malaga. The next morning he caught a bus for the twenty mile trip to Mijas. Months before, his mother sent him Stewart Miller’s address in the village, which he carried in his wallet. Walking up a cobblestone street, he turned onto a narrow lane and proceeded up the winding pathway to the dwelling at number 83 Callejón San Marcos. Ethan could hardly contain his enthusiasm. Knocking on the weathered door he was thrilled at seeing his old friend again and couldn’t wait to see the surprise on Stewart’s face. Then a young Spanish woman answered the door.

“Hola,” said Ethan.

“Buenos Dias,” said the woman.

“Do you speak English?”

“Yes, a leetle.”

“I’m looking for Stewart Miller. I understand he lives here.”

“Oh I’m sorry, he gone.”

“Gone?”

“He go home to America.”

“When was that?”

“Two, maybe three month?”

“Oh… did you know him?”

“No. He rented thees house from my mother.”

“Do you live here now?”

“No. I clean.”

On an impulse Ethan asked, “Is this house for rent now?”

“Que? What?

“Se renta?”

“Si. Quieres alquilarlo?”

“What?”

“Uh… do you want to rent?”

“Yes.”

“You come back in one hour. Speak to my mother.”

An hour later Ethan returned to the casita to find the front door open. 

“Hello. Hola.”

Señora Lopez and her daughter Rosa appeared in the doorway. Rosa smiled while the Señora looked sternly at Ethan.

“Hola. Me llamo Ethan Wells. And that’s all the Spanish I know.”

“I translate for you,” said Rosa.

“Quieres alquilar mi casa?” said Señora Lopez.

“You want to rent the house?” said Rosa.

The negotiation was brief. The Señora informed Ethan the house was furnished and rent would be twelve hundred Pesetas a month. He knew the exchange rate was sixty Spanish Pesetas to one American dollar. He tried to hide his delight at the bargain and paid two months in advance. Rosa handed him a key to the front door, telling him she would clean the house once a week. He asked if she could recommend a café in the village.

“Oh si,” said Rosa. “Café Machado. They open early in morning.”

Ethan slept well that night in his new digs in Mijas.

Arising at dawn the next morning, Ethan got dressed and walked down the winding path into the village. He arrived at the Café Machado to find it closed. He turned away from the café and looking across the plaza saw a solitary figure seated on the front steps of a church. He walked in her direction acting as though he would walk past her. He didn’t want to seem obvious or desperate. As he walked the two exchanged glances affirming a welcome encounter. At the last moment Ethan changed course and ambled up to her.

“I guess the café’s not open,” he said.

“It will be soon,” she said with a distinct western American accent.

“May I sit with you?”

“Sure.”

He sat down. They didn’t exchange names right away, but rather nodded and smiled. The woman was of slight stature and build, with fair skin, blu-grey eyes and short blond hair. He guessed her to be in her early twenties. Before any words were spoken, she broke a piece off the bread roll she held and handed it to Ethan.

“Thanks,” he said. They sat quietly in the early morning light, each savoring the fresh baked bread. Right off Ethan liked her presence. Calm and self-possessed, she had athletic legs and smart hands. He felt no urge to hasten the moments. 

At length she asked, “Are you traveling through?”

“No. Actually I’m planning to spend some time here.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“North Africa. And you?”

“I’ve been in Mijas for awhile. Came here from Seville last Fall.”

“You like Spain?”

“Very much.”

“It’s certainly beautiful here. My name’s Ethan by the way.”

“I’m Sally.” She extended her right hand. Ethan felt good energy in her handshake. Again, they sat silently.

Across the Plaza an older man wearing a white apron opened the door of the Café and began setting chairs and tables out in front.

“That’s our cue,” said Sally. They both stood up and walked across the Plaza. “I like to sit outside in the morning,” she said.

“Suits me,” he said. 

The two sat at a small table and ordered their breakfast. Sally spoke clearly to the waiter in Spanish.

“You speak it well.”

“I studied it in college, and attended a language school in Seville.” 

“Is that why you’re in Spain? I mean to perfect your Spanish?”

“That’s part of it. I’m here in Mijas to apprentice with Carmen Castillo. She’s a renowned ceramicist.”

“Fascinating. So you’re an artist.”

“You might say that. But my efforts are still kind of primitive.”

“Practice, practice, y’know. Takes a long time to learn an art form.”

“You know about these things?”

“I was in music for many years. A percussionist in fact.”

“A drummer?”

“Yes. Played professionally with a number of bands.”

“I’m impressed. Are you doing that here?”

“No, I’m taking a break from drumming. It’s a bit of a story.”

The waiter returned outside with a tray full of food and drinks. He set them on the table and returned inside the café. 

“I’m famished,” said Sally. “Let’s eat.”

The two dug right into their meals, eating for awhile in silence. Then Ethan spoke again.

“By the way Sally, did you know Stewart Miller? Here in Mijas?” 

“I did. Nice guy. Superb photographer. He lived here for a year before returning to the states.”

“We grew up together.”

“In Pacific Palisades?”

“You did know Stewart.”

“That’s what I said.”

“God, small world.”

“What about you, are you a photographer?”

“No I’m not. Never even owned a camera.”

“With your traveling don’t you think you might want to have some pictures of where you’ve been?”

“I’ve thought about it but I’m not sure how to go about doing it.”

“How did you learn to play the drums?”

“Good point.”

Drinking down her tea, Sally said, “I hate to eat and run but I’m due at Carmen’s workshop. So if you’ll excuse me?”

“Sure,” said Ethan, a bit taken aback. “Uh, I’d like to talk some more with you.”

“I come here most mornings for breakfast. I’ll see you again.” With that she stood up and scurried off. Ethan watched her skip across the Plaza and out of sight. 

“Wow,” he muttered and took a sip of coffee.  

to be continued…