The ocean breeze dusted the years off the bricks and brought a salty sting to the

face of the coastal villa, melting the more prominent stone structures into smooth,

melancholic shapes. The defining borders between individual bricks dissolved, only

veteran residents could identify the dull grey roads from the awkward blue bridges, or

either from the red clay brick in the central plaza. This villa was revered as the most

beautiful in all of Andalucia, but not for the prevalence of the gorgeously hideous melted

stone roads and disfigured bridges. The reverence was born of a man whose inhumanity

baptized the Spanish people and adulterated the human race.

For as long as anyone could remember, he played guitar. Through every evening

of the mercilessly warm, humid summers-- when the notes nearly stuck in the sticky,

syrupy air-- the sound of his touch rang like a dinner bell for hungry children. The people

of the villa silently buzzed about the plaza --like Spain’s many winged insects buzz about

an orange flame-- which burned at the center every night, until midnight. Although

ineffable, for fear of some unforgivable sin, all who gathered to dine or shop in the

windows within his music were silent, as if there were a spell cast upon their vocal

chords, tying them gently in place with silken gossamer. It was said that even the

youngest child found no tears to cry in his plaza. Perhaps that is because their mothers

cried all the tears the two had between them, because for the people of the villa, nothing

was as beautiful as his music.

He was there most nights in the spring-- and autumn-- as well, touching his guitar

under the moonlight that washed over the plaster and brick. Floating in the soft light were

his blanket and guitar case, which was opened only once-- at midnight-- when he laid the

bright strings and worn wood to sleep. After a while they no longer mistook him for a

street performer, so most of the time he played in peaceful seclusion, dreaming at the

center of the villa. Those few individuals bold enough to insist (or god forbid leave their

money next to him) would elicit nearly the only stoppage in play, which purchased only

such an abrupt, embarrassing silence. The money was always taken up, crumpled by a

shaky hand, as the blushed-face drifted quickly away, luring the eyes of the merchants

and villa people. Only the coldest winter evenings kept him silent, and the nights in the

plaza without his emanating resonance were sparse as a war-torn, fatigued battlefield.

However, even this would not be enough to spawn the villa’s mysterious aura, for the

true inhumanity was the smell. The hero of the villa smelled so violently of sadness that

for ten meters around him the ground was permanently wet with tears, as if the very Earth

were crying and those tears crept up through the smooth brick, wiggling and negotiating a

space for them to rest, listening. One could find no explanation in his face (who had the

gall to interrupt him, or the emotional strength to be so close as to attempt?), and his body

was unyielding as the sun; he did not sway to his own music despite the swooning,

waving brick of the villa. Unmistakable as the shiver of a salty breeze on a full moon

night, was the dulcet fragrance of his misery. It reeked of despair, and flooded the air in

precious mescolanza. Of this--being only human-- they were murmurous. Something he

had lost now haunts him like a phantom. Or, his heart was a grey, dead organ that lay

decaying in his chest. The more vehement of them suggested him merely one of the many

homeless in the country, a slum child. This was reserved for the infrequent tourist, too

ungrateful to appreciate his fragrant sorrow.  

On an especially busy evening after the harvest, where families silently bustled

and performed the rituals of the feast, a little boy learned of the origin of his pungent

smell. The boy’s mother lead him by hand into the heavy, salty air that hung over the

damp stone within two meters of his guitar case. The mother realized her son was trapped

by the evil man and she desperately tried to yank the boy along, praying out loud not to

be the one to disturb him, sweat seeping through skin. But the boy refused to move, and

in her struggle the woman dropped her bag of market goods and watched in breathlessly

as a lone orange rolled to his feet. The music stopped. The villa went silent as eyes

peered out from the shop stores and sidewalks. The villa rippled silently, like a pebble

ripples water. He bent and gently picked up the fruit, his fingers delicate as it disappeared

under the shadow of his hat. He gulped the scent.

“Porque eres tan triste?” blurted the child. His mother gasped, her eyes bulged.

She tugged on his hand in one more fit to pull him along and end the sinful encounter but

he commanded her compliance. The villa was waiting. His hand tossed the orange out to

the child who caught it deftly, and he patted the brick and clay next to his blanket. The

boy sat beside him, the stench of sadness was strong enough to cause blindness, but upon

striking the strings of his guitar the boy could no longer smell him. He played a beautiful

song, and the boy slowly nodded. He gave back the orange as he rose from his seat, and

took his mother’s hand and led her home. The swelling glow of the man’s music

cascaded back upon the plaza. This is the last time the people of the villa remember

anything sharp enough to interrupt his playing. The next time wouldn’t come for twelve

There was a stranger in the villa. His presence was undetected by the numb,

woebegone populace, and would’ve gone entirely absent to even the villa itself if he

hadn’t sauntered over the tear stained brick to the perch of the guitar player. The music

continued.

“You are a good guitar player.”

He made no reply, but offered the merest tip of his head with grace, his face

shielded by the brim of his hat from the stranger’s breath, heavy with spice and oranges.

“You must be the best in all of Andalusia. It doesn’t take a clever man to tell that

they must love you like a hero. Are you not a clever man?”

The music continued. Antagonized by the unusual heat of the May night, filled to

its capacity with the vibration of the strings, and by the wordless answers offered by the

“The music is fouled by your misery. Why play if it torments you?” At this, he

played on. The stranger’s voice was now but a murmur. His teeth were white. The brick

shifted nervously. “Surely you’d rather not--”

The music stopped. Aware of the upset in the quiet solemnity of the villa, la gente

quickly finished their business, money changed hands, glasses emptied, cigarettes were

butted out and sizzled on the damp stone brick, and they scurried away like mice to their

holes. Soon the plaza was empty in sound and body, save the obvious.

“Why do you inquire so?” His English was uncomfortable, the stranger took no

“Call it curiosity. One angel of suffering to another.” He flashed a toothy grin, it

glinted in the moonlight. The salty breeze from the coast blew between the two angels,

and the brick shivered.

“What may I play for you?”

“Save me your scripted words, hero. Tell me this: why is it you are here every

“A tocarse de algo bonita--”

“I don’t want your script, soul. You know why these bricks are wet?” The

stranger gestured, and his gazed followed to the dark, damp red brick under the stranger’s

feet. “You give freely of things not of Earth, things it shouldn’t understand. You know

that we can’t allow this any longer. I’m here for you, and you must leave with me. These

people, of the villa, cannot have you any longer.” A moment passed. “However, your

gorgeous thing has touched me too, so I offer a proposition.” The stranger reached out his

arm, palm up, and took his hand. The callouses in the left palm, the leather and velvet

stretched tight around the slender bone of fingers that drew the sound from the strings.

“I propose we make a deal, hero. I will make you whole again. Give you the

beating heart beautiful enough to cleanse you of your sadness. I will make your guitar

into a beautiful woman, who will love you as it loves you, without fault. She will be your

missing love incarnate. But it will not be free.” The stranger squeezed his left arm, just

above the wrist. The hero of the villa swallowed hard.

“I--”

“If you break this covenant, if you decide you cannot live having traded your

hand for your heart, your villa will end. I will be forced to burn it down, smoke and flame

will destroy anything you’ve left in the brick and the people. The only sound will be the

crack of fire and the susurrous fall of ash.”

His head was now up, bathing in the light of a tired, early morning moon. The

Villa held its breath. He sighed in the air that smelled of oranges.

The story of how love was brought to Spain is often told in passing nostalgia as

something long forgotten. As the decrepit old die away, meagerly dripping words from

their mouths like bile, they make room for an ignorant youth. Every time an old one feels

the cold fingered grip of death, the tradition of telling the story begins. Despite the

offense many generations of storytelling has paid to the tale, the same final image spills

off the elder’s lips: a black silhouette upon agonized brick, floating in a sea of orange

hellfire.