El Amor

Mariposa sat at the small table in a café in Tarragona, Spain, patiently awaiting her date's arrival and hoping he would appear soon. Tarragona, though somewhat small, was a busy city due to the bullfights, and it was possible that Santiago had been delayed by unforeseen events since he worked at the Tarraco Arena where the bullring was located. Mariposa reassured herself he would arrive shortly. He had promised her that tonight would be a very special evening. The two had known each other for a year, but they had never been on an actual date until this evening.

She was enjoying a glass of Sangria. The wine was rich and velvety with just a hint of aromatic spice. Despite steadily sipping its fruity essence, she could not quell the butterflies that flitted about her stomach in anticipation. She was looking forward to seeing Santiago and learning what the evening might bring. A bit nervously, she glanced about the dimly lit room and saw a picture on the wall directly to her right. It was a beautifully illustrated painting of a brave matador or bullfighter. The cape draped over the matador's arm was vibrant, bright red, seeming to almost sway with motion despite the stillness of the artwork. The artist had captured the anger in the bull’s raging eyes as he poised on the precipice of an attack, his horns thrust forward . It was so lifelike that Mariposa shivered and then chose to look elsewhere. She had never much cared for the bullfights despite their popularity.

She took a deep sip of the Sangria and turned to her left when her attention was drawn to two men who sat talking rather loudly at a small table in the corner of the dimly lit room as they drank crystal glasses filled with Absinthe. Whatever it was they were discussing, it was obvious that their conversation was heated. One was a handsome, tall, blonde-haired gentleman, and the other, a shorter, stockier man with dark hair and a mustache. Eventually, after becoming angry and frustrated, the darker haired gentleman rose hastily from his seat and left.

Surprised by their public disagreement, Mariposa quickly looked away toward the door hoping to see Santiago, but such was not the case. When she turned back to steal a glance at the remaining gentleman, he gave her a charming smile and shrugged his shoulders. As she smiled somewhat timidly back at him and much to her surprise, he picked up his drink and leisurely walked toward her.

“May I sit for a bit, señorita? I fear my friend has suddenly left me all alone, and I find myself in need of companionship,” he smiled charmingly as he took a seat at her table., not waiting for her reply.

Mariposa was a bit startled by the man’s boldness but didn't wish to be rude. “Sí,” she said. “But please know my date will be arriving shortly, señor.”

“Lucky man,” the tall, slender man said as he settled himself comfortably in the seat across from her. “I’m called Scott by the way,” he said with a beautiful smile that had obviously impressed many women.

“Buenas noches, Scott. I am Mariposa,” she returned the smile.

“So, you are waiting for your sweetheart? Your novio?” Scott asked. It was obvious he was American.

“Oh, no!” Mariposa blushed and quickly answered as she smiled shyly. “It’s only our first date, señor.”

The man nodded and leaned forward with his elbows on the table. With exerted concentration, he began, “Ah, but el amor is so very splendid and beautiful when it’s fresh and young. Yet, as time passes, it so often becomes a damning element in our lives.” His glorious smile faded with his next words. “You see, I should know,” he said as he held up his left hand for her to see his ring to indicate he was married. “At best, you can’t live with it, and you can’t live without it.” The handsome smile returned, albeit a bit ruefully, with the last words.

Mariposa was uncertain how to respond. Who was this American and why did he have such a sad , dismal view of love? Furthermore, why was he inclined to share it with her? It was obvious that he’d had too much to drink. Perhaps this is why he and his friend had argued. Were they arguing about el amor?

“Señor,” she began, but he immediately interrupted her.

“Please, I must insist that you call me Scott,” he said, his blue eyes gentle as he appealed to her.

“Scott,” she said hesitantly. “Perhaps you’ve had enough to drink tonight. I thought that this drink… this absinthe…era muy mala,” Mariposa whispered as she pointed at the milky, green drink on the table in front of him. She would never dare to drink the dangerous green drink that so many spoke of.

Scott looked down into his glass and smiled. “But my sweet, young señorita, such intense pleasures are derived from the depths of the dangerous and the forbidden.”

Mariposa blushed at his words and quickly changed the subject. “Where is your wife tonight, señor…Scott?” she quickly corrected herself.

The man gave her another rueful smile. “I fear she finds her pleasures in the forbidden as well,” he sighed. “Alas, she has taken off with her friends for more exciting times than intense, heated discussions betwixt my friend and I, as you have just unfortunately witnessed.”

“I see,” Mariposa said, genuinely sorry for this man’s current misfortune in life, friendship, and love.

“Do you? Do you really see?” Scott asked, intently watching her and awaiting her answer.

Unsure how to respond, Mariposa once again attempted to deter the conversation from the question with which he had just presented her. “Why are you in Tarragona? Are you working here?” she asked.

“Tarragona is such a beautiful city and the sea is so lovely. I am visiting my closest friend and attempting to work on my latest novel, my dear, at least on good days. On bad days, like today, I drink and argue with my closest friend. And I suppose one could say that I tend to drink - and argue – quite frequently,” he said as he took a large swallow of absinthe.

“Oh! You are a writer! ¡Que interesante! What is your book about?” Mariposa was genuinely interested.

Scott smiled his beautiful smile and nonchalantly leaned back in the chair. “Well, let’s see. I mostly write about love. Don’t you find that ironic in consideration of the view of it I’ve just painted for you?”

Mariposa did indeed find it ironic. It was odd that a man with such a dismal view of love would choose to write about it. But then again, el amor was a wonderful thing, at least for her.

“Please allow me to explain my pretty Spanish butterfly,” Scott said as he leaned on his elbow across the table to look intently into her brown eyes. “I write about el amor, my dear, because I am a hopeless romantic, and I have not yet given up on achieving it in my life.” He relaxed in the chair and drank from his drink again before continuing. “I have a need to know and understand love and to have it fill me to the depths of my being. I crave love with an intensity that extends beyond a need for sustenance of any kind.” He picked up his nearly empty glass and waved it in the air. “And believe it or not, I crave el amor more than I crave even this poison.”

Scott finished his drink and added, “Hope for such things springs eternal, does it not?”

Before Mariposa could respond, however, he suddenly rose, declaring it was time for another drink and then headed to the bar. She watched as he ordered another drink of absinthe. As Scott lingered at the bar, Santiago entered the café and immediately found and joined Mariposa at her small table.

Mariposa rose and kissed Santiago’s cheek. The smile she gave him assured him that she was very happy to see him.

“I am so sorry I am late, querida,” he said. “I was detained at work.”

Mariposa smiled sweetly. “It is not a problem. I am just so happy to see you, Santiago.”

The two were interrupted as Scott meandered by the table and stopped to introduce himself to Mariposa’s date, a fresh drink in hand.

“I see your amigo has arrived,” Scott said, and smiled at Santiago, extending his hand in greeting.

“I fear I was a bit lonely and kept your date company for a short while as she waited for your arrival,” Scott said. “We had a very thorough discussion on the subject of love, and I gave her my most earnest opinion.”

As Santiago’s brow rose in surprise, Scott continued. “I informed your sweet Mariposa that I am a hopeless romantic. I think el amor will eventually win the day for all of us, don’t you? Ah, and I can see from the way you look at this delicate and beautiful Spanish butterfly, that it may very well be true.” Suddenly Scott grew serious and gave a gracious bow before he added, “I pray el amor will triumph for the two of you. I can easily see that it is already a flower nearing a full and beautiful bloom.”

And then, as suddenly as he’d appeared, Scott turned on his heel and headed to his former table where he was joined yet again by the gentleman with whom he’d been arguing earlier in the evening. The two hugged, laughed, and patted each other on the back as they began a new and intense conversation.

Mariposa nervously eyed Santiago, who was looking at her in wide-eyed amazement.

“Santiago,” she began. “I did not know what to say when he approached and began to discuss such serious things like love. I found him to be very sad, always hoping to find love.”

Santiago continued to stare at her in disbelief. “Mariposa,” he said. “Do you not know who that gentleman is?” he asked.

“No,” she shook her head. “He said his name is Scott, and I know he’s an American, but that’s all.”

“Querida, that is none other than F. Scott Fitzgerald, the famous American novelist. And he’s sitting with Ernest Hemingway, another famous American writer. The two are well known throughout Tarragona for their carousing ways. They drink nothing but absinthe and champagne – or so the story goes,” Santiago said as he eyed the two men.

Mariposa dubiously looked at Santiago. “F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway? I am not sure I know who they are,” she said. “But Scott did tell me that he writes.” She stared at the two men as they conversed, a new view of Scott taking root in her mind. She would have to buy one of his books just to see how he wrote about that thing called el amor for which he continuously searched and hoped.

Mariposa looked at her date. “Famous American writer or no, I would much rather be sitting here with you, Santiago, enjoying this beautiful night.”

Santiago picked up her slender hand and kissed it. “And I, with you, querida. But still, not just anyone can say that they met someone like F. Scott Fitzgerald on their first date. Perhaps you should consider picking up the pen and writing a story about this incredulous encounter!”

Mariposa shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I will leave the writing to the two of them,” she said and the couple laughed as they began the first night of many to come for them.

Indeed, a lifetime of el amor and many long years together would be forthcoming for Mariposa and Santiago. And who can say? Perhaps it was due to the words of F. Scott Fitzgerald, a hopeless romantic, that their love triumphed to an ultimate and beautiful end. Regardless, there is little doubt he would have been immensely pleased, and also a tad bit envious, of the love the two shared during the course of their lives.