Pispajo

Inigo Arista was raised below one of the many Basque mountains, Mount Aizkorri. His family owned the side of a foothill, between the mountain and its valley that reached out deeper into the country.

His house was common in this area. The small, white structure bunched together with neighboring houses, and had wood frames that were exposed. It looked almost cemented to the ground, as if it belonged to it. A flock of sheep, three chickens, and a single rooster roamed in the yard, as well as the occasional loose child.

In a pasture, far from the house, they owned a single bull. The family said they raised it to enter the bull fights, then they said it was used to stud; nobody knew the real reason they had it. It became a part of the family in a sense, and it specifically became a part of Inigo. There was something tremendously peaceful about the bull’s fierceness, as well as its disregard to everything, thought Inigo.

The Arista family had been in the highlands as long as any of them could remember. So, at 24, having traveled across Spain, he decided to leave and live in the city - Pamplona.

+++

Jesus Christ it’s cold, Inigo whispered to himself, Joder, it's freezing.

The rain that had beat down on the cobble roads all day had stopped. In its wake, the damp roads left a shiver up the backside of the town, and the winds blew voraciously.

“Inigo, pay attention, help me with this!” A short bearded man shouted. His name was Juan and he was struggling with a large jack hammer. Other men in orange vests walked around and picked up cones and various other construction tools.

Juan stood up straight after the truck was loaded. “OK chicos! That’s all for tonight. You will all be payed overtime for your work. Let’s pack it up!”

Inigo tried to light a cigarette. The wind bore hard on his face so he slipped into an alley to light it, then continued down the road. None of the stores were open, other than a couple of the convenient stores with their Chinese clerks. Inigo was used to the quiet of his village in the mountains, surrounded by nature, but it’s an eerie feeling being in a silent city at night, there is something unnatural about it, Inigo thought to himself, this is my life now.

The clouds covered the moon or stars and the street was wet from the rains. The wind subsided and all that remained were his footsteps and the droplets of water falling from the gutters.

+++

The men had decided the next day to all celebrate the week. The night had come and the cobble streets were filled with people. Every Thursday, there was a celebration in this city and loud noises reverberated off the walls of the plaza. Teenagers sat, drinks and pinchos in hand, against the walls and laughed loudly. Parents would enjoy their wine and cigarettes as their younglings ran wild, jumping off fountains and benches.

“Hey!” Juan said. “Inigo! Ven aqui! Come here! I want you to meet someone.” Ingio was smoking a cigarette outside of a bar and spotted Juan walking down a less populated part of the street. Juan put his arm around Inigo, thrusted towards him and whispered drunkenly in his ear as they walked.

“So, I think the one from Madrid is yours. I’ll get the other one. She’s local anyways.” He whispered. Juan had a thin beard that brushed against Inigo’s cheek, which repulsed him.

“What are you talking about?” Inigo genuinely asked.

Halfway down the bar, alone, sat two women. Juan draped his arm around Inigo dragging him towards these two gorgeous women. As they got closer, Juan nudged Inigo in the stomach.

“Here’s the guy I was telling you about. The real Basque from the mountains.” They turned and looked at him. Juan put up his hands as if to behold him, then they all laughed.

“So country boy, how do you like Pamplona?” Said the one obviously from Pamplona.

“I love it. Always wanted to leave my village, and here I am. But there are some problems of course.”

They all stared.

“Well for one…I have to work with guys like Juan.” Said Inigo.

They all laughed. The one directly across from him jeered back and when her head came down, she locked eyes with him, only slightly. Now he understood what Juan had meant by the“Madrid one.”

The girl was 2-3 years younger than him. Her hair was wild and frazzled. The curls were small, black, and almost microscopic but produced an array of inconsistency atop her head. Golden earring hoops just barely poked out from under this black mane. Her face was small and she had freckles on her nose and around her jaw line, which was sharp. Her nose was slightly elongated but blended with her olive skin.

It wasn’t the clothing, or her figure, that teased Inigo, but her eyes. They were dark. They almost matched her mascara and dress. The eyes didn’t look like a puppets eyes, with black nothingness, but understanding. Eyes that Inigo believed already knew what was, and what will be. They contrasted with her red lips and made an assortment of sympathies in his head that pestered him.

The conversation was good, pure and lighthearted. The bar had closed at 2 in the morning and all four of them walked along a less populated street. Inigo and Maria walked side-by-side.

“So tell me, really.” Maria said. “What’s Pamplona like?”

“Eh, it’s not bad. I’ve always wanted to live here, for as long as I can remember, I suppose.”

“Vale, question. Madrid or Pamplona?”

“Easy. Pamplona.”

“Que?” She said, astonished.

“Well, I don’t like the city, I just find them fascinating to visit.”

“Really?” She asked. Still astonished. He could feel her eyes on him, and would glance over time and again.

“Yes of course. Can’t believe anyone would like them.”

“How could you dislike the city? Its lights, its action, it’s….fun.” She asked innocently.

“I do like it…for a time. I don’t for the sake of living.”

She laughed to herself.

“What’s with you people? You’d think growing up in Basque country you’d want to be on a beach or in a city or something.” She giggled again. “How about for economic and social reasons? There’s more money to be made in the city. Politics is more prevalent in the city. Everything’s easier to access. You can walk to the doctor’s office, grocery store, parks.”

“That’s provided here and believe it or not, the Basques-in-the-hills have doctors too.” Inigo said sarcastically.

“Vale, vale, but seriously.”

“OK, seriously. There is money to be made elsewhere rather than the city, but, of course, the cities offer more opportunity, yes. If I cared about making as much money as possible, I’d go, but I don’t. Politics hurts more than it helps. Besides, I’m poor, and politics is the kink of the rich. If I cared about convenience, groceries or hospitals, I’d also go – but I don’t. We country people are simple.”

“You’re smart”. She didn’t look pleased.

“I think cities take away what it means to be a human.”

Inigo caught her eyes on his profile. When he looked, there she was, staring as they strode—almost seductively. He felt himself blush as they continued in unison down the street.

+++

Pamplona is a town torn between peoples and regions; bleeding. It’s south of the gloomy Basque foothills and sits, silently, staring at them. Its north of the Ebro River, which gives life to the desert cities below.

The rain doesn’t seem to cease in Pamplona. Constantly falling—smearing away the years of the city. Washing away the wine of revelry, and the blood of butchery, that had been spilt there. A fog blew in from long ago and had not removed itself from the city - this fog that engulfed Pamplona like a mother to babe, and can only be described as nurturing melancholy.

The city has a vibrant nature and the energy. But there is a quietness to the town. When the city slows down from a night of regular drunken splendor, it seems to freeze—in history and in time. The green mountains convening closely to the city resentfully ponder how something so alive can be so soundless, and contemplate the strangeness of the creatures that inhabit it.

But that’s what it is. Across the chasm of the earth and the sure silence of a breeze, the city lives with a victorious whisper.

+++

“I never understood that.” Maria said under her breath.

“Understood what?”

“Why is it called San Fermines?”

“Well, it’s said that Saint Fermin came here in the 3rd century and ran through the streets being chased by angry bulls. But who really knows.” Inigo lent his head down and rested his lips on her forehead.

“Have you ever seen a bull?” Inigo asked.

“No.”

“We had one growing up”.

Maria stared at him.

Inigo continued, “And I don’t know. He was a mean hijo de puta but something makes me miss him. There was a something, I don’t know.” Inigo paused and contemplated in the dusk. “I’m not sure”

“Que?” Asked Maria, sitting up slightly.

“There was this viciousness about him. This confidence. I don’t know. I wish I had it.”

“Inigo…it was a bull”. She said with a light giggle.

“Yes, yes I know.”

Inigo sat up as well, stumbling over his words. “But you should have seen him Maria. Joder, there was a fiery nature to him. A sureness. Something that I crave, something I want to be. Something that is free and strong.”

There was a silence and Inigo realized he had wondered off into his own mind. Maria smiled and rubbed his chest.

“I think it should be…Festival de San Aiden. Saint Aiden of the Ferns.”

“Why ferns, azucar?” Inigo asked.

“Because I like them.”

She smiled and cuddled up closer him having no more comment on his story. Something that tugged slightly at Inigo’s gut and left him embarrassed.

The last few weeks had been bliss for Inigo. He had spent all the waning moments he could with her. It was unspoken, of course, what would be done about her leaving. He looked at the window for what seemed like a long time. The shutter was half drawn; but he could see the white apartment complexes close to his, and the wilderness past that. He felt the rise and fall of her chest under his arm.

“What are we going to do?” He asked. His lips moving against her skin.

Her eyes were closed.

“About what?”

Inigo felt his embarrassment escape him, and morph into awkwardness.

“About us.” Inigo spat out.

She turned her head. Her large eyes looked up and met his.

“I don’t know Inigo. What are we supposed to do?”

“I’m…I’m not sure. I wish I knew.”

“I’m in school, there’s nothing I can do.” She said harshly.

“Well if I had it my…”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you.” She said positioning her body on her side, propped up by her elbow.

“Doesn’t it always revolve around the worker?” He smiled.

The mountains could be seen through the glass and white clouds were hiding the peaks. The only thing heard was the pitter-patter of rain against the window.

+++

The day was finally sunny and cool. The weather had all the workers in good spirts, even Juan. After work he had a heavy feeling. He walked through the labyrinth of streets home and on his door, beneath the doorknob, laid a note.

Inigo,

De ilusión también se vive.

-Maria

He went into his apartment and put the paper down on his kitchen counter. Inigo looked out over the clear blue of the day and turned back to his bed. The sun crept in toward the plain mattress and he wondered how the sun might have looked on Maria from this angle.