Iberia (18 page)

It was cramped, poorly designed and hot. These inconveniences
I could have adjusted to, but in addition it was noisy. In fact, it
was so noisy that the clang of ordinary traffic, such as I had heard
at Badajoz, was like the muted rehearsal of an orchestra lacking
drums, cymbals or trumpets.

The lone window of my narrow room looked out upon a
cramped courtyard occupied by a garage specializing in the repair
of motorcycles, one of which had mufflers, and there must have
been an epidemic of faulty ignition systems in Toledo, for never
had I heard such coughing, choking and spitting as came up from
that nest of cycles. The noise was magnified, of course, by the
restricted area in which it took place and by the reflecting walls
which hemmed in the court.

Some twenty children played about the doors of the garage,
engaged in a game requiring three boys to hold hands while
making a dash through the opposition in an effort to touch a
truck whose motor was being disassembled by means of hammer
blows which struck resisting metal and echoed through the court.
The game had three parts: Those holding hands screamed as they
ran. The defense screamed encouragement to one another. And
the workmen hammering the truck hurled curses at both.

From a nearby doorway a mother, determined that her son not
become a delinquent, screamed an unceasing series of cautions:
‘Diego, stay away from the truck!’‘Diego, stay away from the
motorcycle!’‘Diego, stay away from the big boys!’ Diego, whoever
he was, paid no attention.

Just when I concluded that I had come upon a kind of absolute
noise, two additional motorcycles roared into the compound with
exploding motors, whereupon the children left their game and
screamed approval of the new machines while the workmen
banging at the truck bellowed warnings to stay clear of the
machines and Diego’s mother issued, at the top of her voice, a
new volley of instructions.

Under these circumstances a siesta was impossible and even
resting with my eyes open was forestalled, so I left the clamorous
room and decided to explore the city, but when I reached the
elevator it was ominously dark. It was out of order, so I walked
downstairs and searched for the Zocodover, the lively central
plaza which I had enjoyed in years past, and there in relative peace
I watched as long-distance motorbuses from Milan, Amsterdam
and Stockholm poured tourists into the city. In addition, scores
of local buses brought Spaniards to Toledo, so that on this day
Toledo must have been one of the busiest tourist cities in Europe.
Foreigners came to see the cathedral and the El Grecos; Spaniards
came to pay silent homage at their national shrine, the Alcázar,
and there were so many people in town it was difficult to find a
seat at any of the attractive cafés, and I began to comprehend
what a tourist crush had enveloped Spain in recent years.

If I left the Zocodover, I was confronted, wherever I went, by
rows of little shops selling acres of the cheapest tourist junk:
damascened ash trays, inlaid penknives, letter openers that tried
to make you believe they were ancient Moorish daggers, florid
ceramics showing a wan knight tilting at a windmill, and gaudy
banners woven with iridescent colors. These graceless shops
numbered not in the dozens but in the hundreds, and it was
depressing to think that the once-great crafts of Toledo, which
had supplied the medieval world with splendid wares, had so
degenerated.

In the early evening I returned to the hotel to try a tardy siesta,
but the elevator wasn’t working and when I reached my room the
noise from the courtyard was simply unbelievable. New children
had joined the games; new motorcycles were being tested; and
Diego’s mother had returned to her monitory job with new
energy. It was difficult to believe that the taciturn Spaniard of
history could make so much noise, but apparently his repression
of centuries found voice whenever he came into contact with an
internal-combustion engine. No man, I was to discover, derives
so much pleasure from racing an engine with the exhaust open
as a Spaniard; it is a national characteristic.

In a kind of numb despair I walked back downstairs, the
elevator still being inoperative, and sought a restaurant for dinner.
By bad luck I fell into the hands of a restaurant dedicated to the
business of gypping foreigners, most of whom appeared in the
city for only one day and were gone, so that they could be outraged
with impunity. I was about to witness an example of this policy.

The Spanish government, aware that the golden rewards of
tourism could evaporate as quickly as they appeared, has taken
sensible steps to protect the tourist; the chain of paradors is proof
of this. Restaurants are required to offer, in addition to their à la
carte menus, a special tourist menu from which one can get a
good meal and a bottle of wine at a fixed price. By ordering from
this menu one can eat really well in Spain and at about half the
price he would expect to pay in either France or Italy.

But. I sat down, looked at the menu and said, ‘I’ll take fish
soup, Spanish omelette and flan.’

 

‘And what wine?’

 

‘Whatever comes with the meal.’

 

‘Nothing comes with the meal.’

 

‘But it says right here…’

 

‘You have to order that. Then it’s extra.’

 

‘But the menu says…’

 

‘You’re pointing at the tourist menu.’

 

‘That’s what I ordered.’

 

‘Oh, no! You didn’t mention the tourist menu.’

 

‘I’m mentioning it now.’

 

‘You can’t mention it now. You’ve got to mention it when you
sit down.’

 

‘But you haven’t even given the order to the kitchen.’

 

‘True. But I’ve written it in my book. And it’s the writing that
counts.’

 

‘You mean that if I’d said “tourist menu” at the start, my meal
would have cost me a dollar and sixty cents?’

 

‘Clearly.’

 

‘But since I delayed three minutes the same meal is going to
cost me two-sixty?’

 

‘Plus sixty cents for the wine.’

 

I tried to point out how ridiculous such a situation was, but
the waiter was adamant, and soon the manager came up, looked
at his waiter’s book and shrugged his shoulders. ‘If you wanted
the tourist menu you should have said so,’ he grumbled.

 

‘I’m saying so now.’

 

‘Too late.’

 

I rose and left the restaurant, with the waiter abusing me and
the manager claiming loudly that I owed him for having soiled a
napkin, which I admit I had unfolded.

 

I escaped but projected myself into an even worse mess, for I
chose what seemed to be the best restaurant in Toledo, where I
announced quickly and in a clear voice that I wanted the tourist
menu.

 

‘What a pity! With the tourist menu you can’t have partridge.’

 

‘I don’t believe I’d care for partridge.’ I had had it on a previous
visit and was not too taken with it. ‘Just the tourist menu.’

 

‘But on the tourist menu you get only three dishes.’

 

‘That’s exactly what I want.’

 

‘But on that menu you don’t get special wine, and I know you
Americans prefer a special wine.’

 

‘I’ll drink whatever you Spaniards’ drink.’

 

‘We drink the special wine.’

 

I insisted that I be served from the tourist menu, and grudgingly
the waiter handed me a menu which offered an enticing choice
of five soups, eleven egg or fish dishes, seven meat courses and
six promising desserts, but of the twenty-nine dishes thus
available, twenty-six carried a surcharge if ordered on the tourist
menu. Technically, one could order a dinner that would cost the
price advertised by the government, but if he did so he would
have two soups, one cheap fish and no dessert. Madrid had laid
down the law, but Toledo was interpreting it.

 

As a traveler I work on the principle which I commend to
others: No man should ever protest two abuses in a row. Few men
can be right twice running, and never three times straight, so I
ordered three dishes, each of which carried a surcharge: soup,
roasted chicken, flan. The soup was delicious and the ordinary
wine was palatable and I sat back to enjoy the meal which had
started off so badly.

 

Unfortunately, I had chosen a table that put me next to a
good-looking, ruddy-faced Englishman whose tweed suit gave
the impression that he must at home have been a hunting man.
As he finished his soup he said to his wife, ‘First class, absolutely
first class.’ He had, as I suspected he might, ordered the partridge,
but when the waiter deposited the steaming casserole before him,
the Englishman looked at it suspiciously, waited till the water had
gone, then asked his wife quietly, ‘Do you smell something?’

 

‘I think I do,’ she replied.

 

‘And do you know what it is?’

 

Without speaking she pointed her fork at the partridge,
whereupon her husband nodded silently and brought his nose
closer to the casserole. ‘My goodness,’ he said in a whisper, ‘this
is fairly raunchy.’ In gingerly manner he tasted the bird, folded
his hands in his lap and said, ‘My goodness.’

 

His wife got a piece of the bird onto her fork and tasted it,
looked gravely at her husband and nodded.

 

‘What to do?’ he asked.

 

‘You obviously can’t eat it.’

 

‘I wonder should I call the waiter.’

 

‘I think you’d better.’

 

I was now in a relaxed mood and had no desire to see the
Englishman make a fool of himself, because obviously he wanted
to avoid a scene. ‘With your permission, sir,’ I said, waiting for
him to acknowledge me.

 

‘Of course.’

 

‘I’m afraid there’s nothing wrong with your partridge, sir. It’s
how they serve it in Spain. A delicacy. Well hung.’

 

With admirable restraint the Englishman looked at me, then
at the offending bird and said, ‘My good man, I’ve been
accustomed to well-hung fowl all my life. Gamy. But this bird is
rotten.’

 

‘May I, sir?’ I tasted the partridge and it was exactly the way it
should have been by Toledo standards. Gamy. Tasty. A little like
a very strong cheese. Special taste produced by hanging the bird
without refrigeration and much admired by Spanish hunters and
countrymen. ‘It’s as it should be,’ I concluded.

 

The Englishman, not one to make a scene, tasted the bird again
but found it more objectionable than before. ‘I’ve shot a good
many birds in my lifetime,’ he said, ‘but if I ever got one that
smelled like this I’d shoot it again.’ He picked at the casserole for
a moment and added, ‘This poor bird was hung so long it required
no cooking. It had begun to fall apart of its own weight.’

 

Once more I tried to console him: ‘I’ve had Toledo partridge
twice before, and I promise you, it tasted just like yours.’

 

‘And you lived?’ He pushed his plate away but refrained from
complaining to the waiter. He did, however, look rather
unpleasantly at me, as if to reprimand me for trying to convince
him that he should eat such a bird.

 

At this point the waiter brought my chicken, and I am
embarrassed to report that it smelled just like the partridge. It
was one of the worst-cooked, poorly presented and
evilest-smelling chickens I had ever been served and was obviously
inedible. I tried cutting off a small piece, but blood ran out the
end and the smell increased. I followed through and tasted it, but
it was truly awful and I must have made a face, for the Englishman
reached over, cut himself a helping, cut it into pieces and tried
one while giving the other to his wife. Neither could eat the
sample, whereupon the Englishman smiled indulgently and said
very softly, ‘See what I mean?’

 

When I tried to erase the taste of that dreadful chicken with a
drink in the Zocodover, the effect of the lively square was killed
by a couple at the next table who had with them that curse of the
modern world, a very loud-playing transistor radio which ground
out exactly the kind of cheap jazz I could have heard if I had
traveled not to Spain but to Waco, Texas. And when I got back
to my hotel the elevator still wasn’t working but the mechanics
below me were. Diego and his mother had gone to bed, thank
God, but an older set of delinquents were now playing with
motorcycle throttles and I was still not asleep.

 

I was kept awake not by the motorcycles, which did shut down
before midnight, but by television, which from five or six nearby
sets, all emptying into my enclosed courtyard, offered the
Spanish-language version of
Bonanza
, one of the reigning favorites
on Spanish television. I doubt if there is any country in Europe
which has the unremitting noise quotient of Spain, and on this
night I was to understand why. Anyone who has a television set
must play it at top volume to let his neighbors know he has it.
Anyone who has a motorcycle must run it open-throttle to
impress those who aren’t so lucky. And now a family down the
alley, who had neither TV nor motorcycle, showed the world what
they did have by playing their radio full-blast, with Mahalia
Jackson, to whom I am normally partial, bellowing ‘He’s Got the
Whole World in His Hands.’ How I got to sleep I don’t know,
but early in the morning I was awakened by a dishwasher
serenading me with ‘Cielito lindo’ while he dropped cups and
saucers.

 

And yet it was Toledo that would reveal the essence of Spanish
history. It was a city crammed with meaning, and in exploring it
I experienced a kind of schizophrenia: my routine living was as
unpleasant as I would know in Spain, for the noise grew as the
service declined, but the significance of Toledo increased until I
felt it to be a spiritual home in which I was a privileged guest. It
remains the city which I recall with greatest frequency if not the
most affection.