Love in English

Chapter Two
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I shook Mateo’s hand, surprised at his warm, firm grip. “I’m Vera, nice to meet you,” I said before I ever so subtly adjusted myself so that I there was a good amount of space between us. It was just as well that he was a married businessman. I hadn’t come here to sleep with the first Spanish man I’d met. Otherwise I’d end up in bed with the man I was miming to on the street.
“Vera,” Mateo repeated, his voice smooth and polished as glass. “You have just arrived and already you have made me feel better about myself.”
I frowned at him, curious and finding his carefully pronounced English adorable. “How so?”
“I was late also. I thought I would spend the whole ride alone.” He smiled warmly. “So. Tell me about yourself.”
I flipped my hair over my shoulder and grinned. “Oh, okay. How long is the bus ride?”
“Three hours, he said.” He nodded up the aisle at Manolo. “We’re supposed to talk the whole ride.” He gave me a one-shouldered shrug. “More or less.”
He was right. Everyone on the bus was murmuring to each other in a forced and kind of awkward way, a range of accents and tones filling the space.
“All right,” I said, feeling immediately comfortable around him. Then again, it was often that way when you were with married men. There were no expectations or misunderstandings—you could just relax and be yourself. “How about we ask each other questions? Take turns. You know, I go first and you go second.” I hadn’t meant to be patronizing but his English was so good that I’d forgotten why he was here.
“I know what taking turns means,” he said good-naturedly.
“Well then that brings me to my first question,” I said. Normally I would have slapped his leg in flirty good fun but I decided against it. Okay, so maybe I couldn’t be exactly like myself. “Why are you here? You speak really good English.”
“My company,” he said. “My English is good, yes, but not so when compared to you. In an international market, those who are fluent in English remain at the top. If you don’t speak so well,” he waved his hand back and forth and winced, “eh, then you are looked at as being dumb.”
“You’re definitely not dumb,” I told him.
He smiled faintly. He had nice lips. “You don’t know me after some beer.”
“A lightweight, I see.”
He frowned. “Light…weight?”
Well he certainly wasn’t dumb but I could see he didn’t know everything. Time to try out my non-existing teaching skills. Lord knew that’s all I’d be doing for the next month. I could only hope that it would feel as easy as it did with Mateo—a stranger up until a few minutes ago—but I knew I wouldn’t be that lucky.
I sat back in my seat. “Yeah, lightweight. It means that you can’t handle your liquor very well. One drink gets you buzzed, the next gets you drunk.”
“Buzzed?” he asked. “Like a bee? I do not understand.” His brows furrowed, his expression endearing. He had really striking eyebrows.
I had to stop thinking like that.
“Kinda,” I said. Actually no, it was better not to confuse him. “Okay, buzzed is like when you’re feeling good. Loosey goosesy,” I waved my arms up and down like a spaced-out hippie. “Tipsy. Almost drunk. You know, you’re like…”
“Happy,” he filled in.
“Yes,” I said. Well, unless you were drinking and in a shitty mood, then that first drink just makes the tears fall. But that was neither here nor there.
“Do you get…happy, Vera?” he asked. His voice was lower and leaned into me ever so slightly. I caught a whiff of fresh-smelling cologne, something expensive that probably came in a turquoise bottle. The cologne made me happy.
I gave him a small smile, suddenly self-conscious. I had expected his eyes to be resting on my cleavage, this damn black tank top kept falling down so low, but he was staring forward at the seat in front of us, waiting patiently for my answer.
“Um,” I said rather eloquently. “I’ve been known to get happy.”
He nodded as if he were pleased with that answer and relaxed back in his seat, the space between us widening again. “In Spanish there are many words I could use, but Manolo said there would be, how you say, consequences if we not speaking English. I admit, I did not realize that we won’t be able to speak a word of Spanish. I can’t imagine I will survive three weeks.”
I felt a strange pang of disappointment. “Only three weeks?” I asked. “I’m here for four.”
“I bet you’re going to get tired of talking,” he smirked. “And I will get tired of having to think. Perhaps I shall end up dumb in the end.”
“Ah, but if you have enough beer, you can be dumb and happy.”
“Buzzed,” he corrected, grinning impetuously. He brought his phone out from his pant pocket. “I must write that down. Buzzed.” He made the z vibrate as he said the word and I couldn’t help but smile. When he was done he put the phone away and steadied his gaze at me.
“Now,” he said slowly, “it is my turn to ask you.”
“Wait, I was going to ask you where you worked.”
He cocked his head to the side, his smirk deepening. “Those aren’t the rules. Next turn. Now, Vera, tell me what you want to…achieve…when you leave Spain?”
I pursed my lips. “I’m not sure I understand.”
He ran his hand through his hair as he tried to gather his thoughts. It really was thick and shiny and artfully messy, the color of this dark brown desk that was always in the display at my favorite antique shop. Coffee with threads of gold. A few grey hairs teased his temples and for the first time I started wondering how old he was. Not that it mattered, but he had such an easy, jovial way about him that it never occurred to me that he’d be much older than his early thirties.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry, my English…okay.” He waved his hand at me. “Why did you sign up for this? We all have because of our jobs or our companies. But why did you? What do you hope to gain?”
I blinked a few times at his question. “Wow,” I remarked. “That’s pretty deep. What happened to where are you from? Or what do you do for a living?”
Mateo wasn’t fazed. “I can tell you are either Canadian or American, yes? Where you are from is not important. What you do is not important. Why you are here? Yes, that is important.”
To tell you the truth, I was the one feeling a bit dumb. I wasn’t sure what to say except what I always said.
“I wanted to meet new people, have new experiences.”
He watched me closely, his eyes burning with an intensity that wasn’t there a few moments before. It’s like he was searching for the truth, like he knew I was lying. It made my skin prickle, electric and alive.
Still, he didn’t say anything. He just studied me. Even though he hadn’t moved, he felt closer.
I took in a short breath and looked away. “I know it’s not important, but I’m an astronomy student. I study the stars. I study light that died billions of years ago, planets and stars in other galaxies, millions of miles away. All that time and space. And I hadn’t even f*cking been to Europe. I was beginning to feel like a chump.”
There was slough of silence between us. I eyed him gingerly.
His lips twitched into a smile and with that I felt like I could breathe again.
“A chump?” he said. “This is a bad thing?”
“Yes,” I said, my heart beat slowing down. “It’s a bad thing. I felt like I had no business studying the universe if I couldn’t even go overseas and study people there. And yes, I do actually want to meet new people and have new experiences, too, as cliché as that sounds.”
“So you want to study me?” he asked. His tone was innocent but the sparkle in his eye said otherwise. Thank goodness he kept putting out this jokey vibe—most of the time, anyway—or things would get…inappropriate.
“Yes,” I said. “I want to study all the Spaniards and find out their deepest, darkest secrets. Starting with you.” I wagged my eyebrows at him in an exaggerated motion to let him know I wasn’t serious.
“But you never answered what you hoped to gain from all of this.”
I wasn’t done yet? I sighed. “A better understanding of the universe?”
He tapped my arm briefly and I swallowed hard at his warm fingertips on my skin. He smiled. “You know what Vera, I believe you. But I believe that after spending a month with a bunch of Spaniards in the country, you’re going to understand the universe even less.”
I had a feeling he was right.
* * *
The bus ride flew right by as Mateo and I got to know each other.
He learned, as unimportant as it was, about my interest in astronomy and where I lived and whether I preferred white wine or red wine (I told him I wasn’t much of a wine drinker but he only laughed in response, as if I had just said the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard).
He turned out to be a lot more interesting than I had originally suspected. He had a five-year daughter named Chloe Ann. You could tell he adored her from the way his eyes sparkled when he mentioned her name. He showed me her picture from his wallet—she was a pretty little thing with light brown hair and cupid bow lips—but made no mention of his wife. I found that odd and started entertaining the idea that maybe he was separated before I stopped myself. I couldn’t go down that path either.
As for his line of work, it was kind of impressive. He co-owned several restaurants in Madrid, Barcelona and Seville and was hoping to expand to the UK or the US at some point, hence why his business partner thought he should brush up on his skills with the program. He mentioned that he was sent because he was the one who was always dealing with the media because of “you know.” Of course, I didn’t know but by the time I had the chance to ask, the people sitting in front of us turned around in their seats and invited us to chat with them.
I really didn’t want to—I felt like Mateo and I were having our own private thing. Plus, the English speaker of the two was a girl who usually hated girls like me. I could just tell, call it gut instinct. She was rather small, brunette, hair swept back into a ponytail, wearing glitter-framed glasses and a t-shirt that said Espańa on it that was a size too large for her. She had this expression in her eyes that was both judgmental and calculating, like she was already plotting my demise, which, on her make-up free and child-like face, made her look like a female version of Damien from The Omen.
Luckily, the Spanish girl she was sitting with looked a lot more amiable. She had big brown eyes, a friendly smile and a round face with a bit too much blush on her cheeks. She was probably mid-twenties or older and from the slightly desperate sheen to her eyes, I could tell she really wanted to talk to us. It took me half a second to realize it was because of her bespeckled seatmate.
In the Cliffnotes version of our conversation, the Spanish girl ended up being Claudia, who worked in advertising in Madrid, was jonesing for the bus to stop so she could have a cigarette, loved Jared Leto and Thirty Seconds to Mars, was single but had a cat called Rocco, and laughed a lot.
In contrast, her seatmate was named Lauren, who was studying to be a film critic at NYU’s film program, wrote for the university paper picking apart what was wrong with today’s films, lived with her roommate in the Village, was an only child and a vegan. She was also against American Apparel. I learned this because at one point during our conversation she was eyeing my shirt (I kept pulling it up to make sure I wasn’t flashing too much boob) and asked me point blank what I was wearing.
I exchanged a quick look with Claudia, who looked wide-eyed and helpless, and said, “I don’t know. I think I got it at American Apparel.”
Which, was true. I totally stocked up on the basics there before I came.
The look of disgust on Lauren’s face was like I just told her I eat dirty diapers for breakfast. “American Apparel is a horrible company that demeans women by making their employees pose in overtly sexualized ways.”
“Well,” I said slowly, noticing that a vein on her left temple was throbbing, “I gathered that from their ads. But hey, at least they aren’t exploiting children in China.”
She narrowed her eyes. “There have been many sexual harassment cases. I don’t understand how any woman could support a company that perpetrates rape culture.”
I frowned, totally lost at her train of reasoning. “I’m sorry?”
“I must interrupt,” Mateo spoke up innocently. “I think the shirt looks very nice on her.”
Lauren’s beady eyes darted to his wedding ring. “You shouldn’t.”
I felt a flush of embarrassment but Mateo shrugged and said, “No? Is that an English rule, it is bad to compliment another?” Though the look in his eyes was completely innocent, I caught an edge to his tone. I could imagine him as a businessman, trying to be polite but ruthless at the same time.
Lauren’s eyes were now snake-like slits. She slowly took them off of us and turned around in the chair in a huff.
Jeez, what was up her ass? I looked at Mateo and raised my brows. He gave me a similar look back. Lauren definitely wasn’t a fan of us. Fortunately, Claudia turned out to be more than cool and the three of us chatted about movies for the rest of the ride. I kept talking about what a genius Michael Bay was, which was a total lie, of course, but it was fun to see Lauren get worked up. Finally she stuck in earbuds and listened to her music, tuning us out.
After we had a quick pit stop at a gas station, where we all descended on refrigerated sandwiches like vultures and Claudia was able to smoke her brains out, it was a short hop to the town of Acantilado.
According to Mateo, Acantilado meant “Cliff” in Spanish, although I couldn’t figure out if he meant like a sharp rock face or the name of some dude who was always at a bar. Soon, though, I got the meaning. We descended into a small valley in Sierra de Francia, where rugged rusty and grey cliffsides rose out of green foliage. The village of Acantilado was very small and very quaint, like something from a storybook. I wanted to take out my digital SLR camera and capture every detail but the scenery moved too fast and I knew the blurry photos would do nothing to convey what I was experiencing.
To my surprise we didn’t stop and the bus went around the outer rim of the village where we barely fit through the narrow passages between stone buildings, the wheels trundling on the cobblestone, until we were coasting slowly down an open country road.
“Where are we going?” I asked Mateo.
He shrugged. “I do not know. Perhaps they mean to murder us?” He said this in all sincerity though I caught a wicked gleam in his eyes.
I grinned at his humor, so similar to mine. It almost made me…giddy. God, giddy. What a dumb feeling. And yet I felt like I was infinitely cooler by sitting on this bus and joking with this man I’d just met. I felt giddy that I was part of something, a team of strangers who were all being driven to some place to get murdered.
I was wriggling in my seat like a puppy, my hands gripping the back of Claudia’s seat while we all craned our necks forward to see where Manolo was taking us.
We finally pulled up in front of a long windy driveway up a hill. Farmer’s fields surrounded us, rolling on with the hills until it met the hazy line of mountains.
Manolo ordered us off the bus. As we got up, Mateo nudged me gently in the side with his elbow and with his warm breath close to my ear said, “It was nice knowing you.”
I giggled which drew a look of ire from Lauren. Oh right, she was still here.
Once we were off the bus, we huddled around as Manolo started bringing out the bags, explaining that the hill was too steep for the bus to go up. Though it was still warm, there was a nip in the air and you could tell that we were at a higher elevation.
Soon we were joined by a skinny, scrubby man in cargo shorts coming down the hill toward us. His receding hairline took the focus off his pale and sweaty face.
“Hola folks!” he cried out in a thick Irish accent, waving at all of us and then wiping his hands on the front of his shirt. “I’m Jerry.”
He looked like a Jerry.
“And that hola will be the last Spanish any of you will ever hear,” he went on, putting his hands on his hips. He came across like he was really involved in what he was saying even though I was sure he’d had to do this speech a million times before. “For the next two weeks to one month, all of you will be speaking English. Not a problem for the English-speakers, though I assure you your English will greatly deteriorate as time goes on. The Spaniards will speak better English than you.” From the way he smiled and paused, I could tell he expected more than just a few titters from the crowd but that’s all he got. He shook his hand and clapped his hands together once, loud. “But for the Spaniards, this means no business calls unless absolutely necessary. No talking to your family. You may email them and write them in Spanish to your heart’s wee desire but no speaking Spanish, you all understand?”
I heard Mateo murmur “puta” something to himself. I leaned in, catching another whiff of his cologne. “What was that?”
“I was cursing in Spanish,” he said. He lifted a well-manicured finger to his lips to shush me. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“What were you saying?” I said in a whisper, like we were conspiring.
“I’ll have to teach you when the program is over,” he said. Then he straightened up, hands folded at his front. Jerry was still talking, trying to engage each of us with load of eye contact.
“So I hope you’re all prepared for this,” Jerry went on saying, “because this isn’t going to be easy. But, if you’re anything like the one hundred and twenty six other groups I’ve overseen, then you’ll get through it just fine.” Jesus. One hundred and twenty six? Did this guy never take a day off? “There are twenty Anglos and twenty Spaniards and you’re going to get to know each other really well. Up there,” he turned and pointed at the roofs that were just peeking over the crest of the hill, “is your home for the next while. That is where you will be interacting with each other, Anglo and Spaniard, for six hours a day.”
Mateo grunted and leaned in close to me. “You English don’t understand siestas.”
“Well,” I said, keeping my eyes on Jerry in case he felt like calling on us, “I can’t speak for every other English-speaker here, but I am a huge fan of naps. Totally underrated activity.”
“A nap is very American,” he whispered.
“Canadian,” I scolded him from the side of my mouth.
“You’ll find out what a siesta is. I’ll show you.”
“You’re going to show me how to nap?” I asked warily.
“Siesta,” he repeated and I wished the word didn’t sound so sexy coming from his lips. “There is a difference.”
Jerry continued, oblivious to our conversation, “There will be schedules posted every night about the next day’s routine, telling you who you’ll be paired up for the day’s activities. You will have three separate one-on-one sessions in the morning before lunch, and three business situations after lunch. You’ll get an hour of spare time before dinner. After dinner the dramatics will begin.”
Dramatics? I exchanged a look with Mateo but now he was being the poster child for learning and pretending to be attentive.
“This is a fun session, where we learn about both cultures by using immersive techniques and activities.”
I still didn’t know what he meant. Were we all going to start Flamenco dancing?
“There will be flamenco dancing lessons and performances,” he said. I smirked to myself. “Skits, games and excursions to the town for food and drinks. These sessions are when we really let our hair down and get wild.”
Jerry made the motion like he was a 90’s supermodel shaking out her hair. It made everyone uncomfortable.
“Now,” he said, oblivious to how much of a dork he was, “let’s all grab our bags and head up to the lobby. We’ve taken over this whole resort so the lobby and bar now will be our main meeting area. I’ve got some ice-breaker games for us to play and me and my assistant Janet will be assigning your room and room keys.”
“Ice breaker?” Mateo said to me. The sun broke through a few high clouds and bathed his face in light, showcasing his eyes. I could see that brown was an understated way of describing their color—they gleamed like a dark teak wood deck on a sailing ship. They were rich and layered and oh so deep.
I needed to look away but I didn’t. I brushed my unruly hair behind my ears and shrugged. “You know, like getting to know you.”
“But I already know you,” he said with an easy smile. “Why do I have to know anyone else?”
My heart did a funny little flip. Damn his accent. And eyes. And everything.
“This is yours,” Manolo suddenly interrupted us, thrusting my overgrown backpack at my feet before tossing a leather suitcase in front of Mateo. I expected Mateo to tell Manolo off for manhandling his stuff—it looked like a really pricey, custom-made suitcase—but Mateo just brushed it to the side with his foot and picked up my backpack instead. His arms barely strained under the weight but the muscles flexed just enough for my insides to flip again.
“Do you want to wear it or can I carry it up the hill?”
Wow. Chivalrous, too.
I stuck out my hand to take it. “I’m good. But thank you.”
“You are good?”
I sighed. I really was going to have to try and speak more coherently and less colloquial for the next month, or I was going to have a lot of confused and slang-slinging Spaniards on my hands.
“I can carry my own bag,” I explained patiently, “but thank you for offering.”
“Ah,” he said with a nod. I wondered how he was taking it, a young girl like myself schooling him on his language every two seconds. I supposed he’d just have to get used to it just as I would. I wasn’t even used to hanging out with men who were over thirty.
He picked up his suitcase with ease. “I thought you were saying you were good, like a good girl.”
An involuntary smile spread across my lips. “Oh, I am definitely not a good girl.”
“I knew there was a reason I liked you.” He wagged his finger at me, eyes glittering.
He liked me? I knew he didn’t really mean anything by it but still. Butterflies tickled my chest and suddenly I was transported back to kindergarten all over again. I knew I needed to get a grip but I honestly hadn’t had a genuine crush on anyone in a very long time. Sex was one thing—I f*cked when I was horny—but getting giddy like a schoolgirl because a guy said he liked me was another.
Of course, a crush would do me no good in this situation since he was not just a guy, but a man and a married one at that. And I had literally just got here.
“Want to go?” he asked. I blinked and realized that I had been standing there waging some eternal war with myself while everyone else had started lugging their bags up the hill. Only Mateo and I remained behind because I’d suddenly turned into a hormonal moron over someone I had just met.
“Yes,” I said, giving him a lopsided smile. I swung the bag up on my back, my shoulders burning with the weight, and started walking quickly up the hill. I wanted it to seem like I was just trying to catch up but in all reality, I wanted to leave the whole “like me” thing behind, back near the bus, where it belonged.