A Spanish Alchemy

After writing my 750-word entry 'Between Two Waters' I felt inspired to write a longer story set in beautiful Andalucía. I hope you enjoy indulging with me in my strange sexual fantasy.

This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

- Paulo Coehlo, The Alchemist

My name is Julia. I am an American woman in my mid-thirties. Recently, I've quit a stressful job, broke up with my long-term boyfriend, and left the rest of my life behind to travel the world. I've also just been turned into a cat.

My absurd story starts on a late August afternoon. I was sitting at a café in a quiet plaza in Tarifa, Spain. The heat was sweltering but bearable as a constant breeze from the ocean found its way through the narrow streets to me. It was a nice, cool breeze.

It was the hour of the siesta, which, though in many parts of Spain had long been forsaken as a ritual, was still honored dutifully here in Andalucía. Most Tarifeños had escaped into their homes from the blazing sun. But I'm a lover of the sun, even at its most blazing.

An orange tree full of bright Seville oranges offered some shade, and nearby a pair of old date palms stood where doves picked at the sun-drying dates. In my hand was the book that first inspired me to come to Andalucía -- The Alchemist by Paolo Coehlo.

The novel's hero, Santiago, is on a quest to the pyramids in Egypt in search of treasure there - his 'personal legend'. I couldn't remember how the story ended, I had only read it once before in high school, but I remembered some of the places Santiago visited on his travels. One of these places was Tarifa.

I finished my espresso and was starting to nod off when a particularly strong gust came through. A bandana, the same bright red of a torero's cape, fluttered through the air like a butterfly to land at my feet. I picked it up. Spotted the woman that it must belong to sitting opposite the plaza from me. She sat in the shade of another orange tree at another café.

She did not bother to chase after the bandana. I wondered if she knew it had been carried off by the wind. I was inclined to walk over to give it to her, but then, I thought, maybe I won't. Not yet at least. I wanted to see how long it would take for her to miss it. A bit of a game to pass the time on another listless afternoon. I put the bandana beneath my book so that another stray gust would not carry it away from me, and I continued reading, glancing secretly at her from time to time, hoping to catch her the moment she begins her search.

When I finished my espresso, she got up and walked towards me. I buried my nose deeper in my book. A smile curled on my lips. My heart pattered excitedly. She knows I have it.

"Perdóna," she said as she arrived at my table. She spoke with an accent strong and sumptuous like my espresso.

I looked up from my book. Cupped my hand to my brow to shade my eyes from the sun to see her better.

"Hola," I replied. I was always nervous about speaking Spanish, though I was quite strong at it. I was just very self-conscious, and my biggest pet peeve was coming across as an obvious 'gringo'. But something about her besides the prospect of speaking Spanish made me suddenly nervous. What it was, I was not quite sure at first, but as my eyes adjusted to the sun and her silhouette gained resolution, I understood that it was because of how beautiful she was.

The first thing I saw of her was her cotton white t-shirt, damp with sweat, so much that it gripped her chest tightly so I could see the dark outlines of her nipples on her small breasts. Averting my eyes upward, I found her eyes. They were vivacious and lively in how they watched me. They crinkled at the edges with her smile. Her face was delicate. It was a kind face. One that belonged to a woman living a carefree life. Her hair, raven, curled in the humid air in a thousand different ways. An artful cascade that seemed purposefully messy.

She was the very image of what I expected of a woman from Andalucía, so much so that Paco de Lucía might have written a song about her.

She put a hand on the back of the chair across from me.

"I'm sorry, but I believe that is mine," she said in English.

"Oh, this thing?" I replied in Spanish, wanting to return to the beautiful language. I picked the red cloth off the table and waved it in the air.

She raised an eyebrow. Amusement spread across her face.

"You speak Spanish," she said brightly.

Encouraged, I replied, "Of course. Why wouldn't I? We are in Spain, aren't we?"

She laughed. A laughter containing the brightness of the sun.

Just then, the waiter, a portly man with a bushy mustache, came out to us and asked if I'd like anything else.

"Sí señor, una mas café por favor," I said, in the best Castellano accent I could conjure.

He smiled and looked at the woman to whom I still hadn't given the bandana,

"And for your lovely friend?"

"Tinto Verano, por fa," she replied without hesitation.

"Vale," he replied.

"Excuse me?" I laughed.

"Red wine with lemon soda," she answered.

"I know what that is. Just perplexed at the presumption that you'd be joining me."

She shrugged, pulled the chair out, and sat in it.

"I wasn't sure how long it would take for you to give me back my bandana. It could take forever. I might as well have a drink in the meantime."

I realized I had it clutched in my hand. So, I held it out to her.

"There you go."

She took it.

"Gracias,"

"De nada."

"But I'll still have my drink," she replied. "I need refreshing."

Impressed by her assertiveness, I gave her a smile. A Tinto de Verano sounded very good at this moment. So, I called out to the waiter before he could disappear.

"Excuse me, señor. Please change my order to a Tinto de Verano as well."

"Very good. Two Tinto de Veranos," he replied as he disappeared into the café.

Eliana leaned back in her seat. Put her elbow on top of the backrest. Her t-shirt went tight against her breasts. Her nipples strained against the white cotton. I blushed and glanced away when I found myself staring for a bit too long. She smiled. A glee in her eyes showed that she had caught my momentary voyeurism.

"So, what's your name?" She asked.

"Julia. And you?" I avoided her eyes by watching an old man on a park bench reading a newspaper. Rare to see anyone read newspapers anymore. Perhaps a habit he developed long ago which he refused to give up as it would then become just another fond memory of younger days.

"I'm Eliana."

"That's a beautiful name."

She nodded her head in thanks.

"Are you from here, Eliana?"

"No. But I've been here for as long as I can remember."

"Where are you from?"

She shrugged. "All over. But really, this is home."

I could tell she was completely disinterested in her origin story, so I didn't press it.

"It's a beautiful place to call home. I would love to live in a place like this."

"It's not a bad place. You should."

Our Tintos de Verano came. Ruby red. Fizzing. Condensation beaded like sweat on the glasses from the heat.

Eliana raised hers.

"Salud," she said.

"Salud," I responded and raised mine.

She took a sip, then said,

"I hope I'm not overstaying my welcome."

"No, not at all," I replied.

"Perfect. Now, where are you from?"

"Seattle."

"Beautiful city. And what brings you to Spain?"

"Traveling."

"Do you come for business or pleasure?"

"I come for pleasure."

"Mmm, lovely. I can help you with that."

When she said that, I was in the middle of sipping my Tinto de Verano. I snorted into my glass.

"Something wrong?" She asked with a faux innocent tone.

I shook my head vehemently.

"No, no. Sorry. It was just an unexpected thing to hear. I'm sure you can."

"Yes. But I'm being quite serious. Are you into women?"

I burst out in a fit of nervous laughter. So loudly that my laughter echoed off the walls of the white-washed apartments surrounding the plaza. I wasn't sure what answer to give her. I never really considered myself a lesbian. I slept with a girl once in college, and though I enjoyed it very much, it was only the one time, and I was silly and in college.

"Depends. I'd have to be really, really into her," I finally answered, blushing bright red.

She cocked her head as if surprised by my answer.

"Is that so?"

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"I'm not disappointed."

"Oh, no?"

I usually found such assertive approaches viscerally cringeworthy, and usually, I responded, whether I wanted to or not, by spurning it vigorously. This time, however -- maybe it was the wine and the heat of the afternoon -- I was eager to see to where she would take this pursuit.

"So," I swallowed nervously, "what is it about me exactly that made you think I'm into girls?"

She brushed her hair aside nonchalantly and put on a pair of sunglasses. There was a pause before she answered as if to search her mind for an answer that wasn't crude, or at least witty if it was.

"I caught you watching me."

"I wasn't watching."

My heart beat harder. I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat and brushed my hair aside nervously. All tells that was obvious to her, as I gleaned by her pleased expression.

"Yes, you were. It was obvious. May I ask, and tell me honestly -- between the moment you caught my bandana and the moment I walked over, how many pages did you get through?"

I glanced at the book, which was now sitting on the table.

It was a question that to answer truthfully would be all too embarrassing. The answer might have been one or two at most, or it might have been zero. Either way, in that half hour or so, 'The Alchemist' was not on my mind. She was. And she knew it.

"So, what if I were?" I replied meekly.

She shrugged. Then stretched her arms over her head. Her t-shirt went tight against her breasts. I blushed and looked away.

"Then nothing. I'm only explaining why I thought to come over to you. I thought you might be interested. I thought you were very pretty. So, I came to seduce you."

"I thought you came over for your bandana."

My heart beat harder. My hands trembled. Having a woman approach me and admit right to my face that she wanted to seduce me was something I've never encountered. It was one for the journal, certainly.

In English, she said, "Two birds with one bullet. That is the right expression, yes?"

"Close. We say stone, but I get what you mean," I answered.

She took a cool sip of her Tinto de Verano, seeming rather proud of herself for her mostly successful use of an anglophone idiom. She finished drinking then asked,

"Where else do you plan to visit?"

"No plan. I'm here until I'm bored of it. Then I'll move on. Any recommendations?"

"Have you seen Bolonia yet?"

"Bolonia, Italy?"

She shook her head.

"No. Playa de Bolonia. It is a beach not far from here. Minutes away by car. It is where I live."

"Oh, ok. Is it nice there?"

"A paradise. The most beautiful beach in the world."

"Is that a fact?"

"Yes. And there are ruins there if you're into that sort of thing. Roman ruins. An ancient city that was once one of the richest of Rome, destroyed in an instant by an earthquake. Destroyed like a dream in a storm."

She spoke with solemnity as if she had personally watched nature turn the city to ruins. Her passion, and the whimsy with which she spoke made her all the more intriguing. Perhaps this was part of her seduction. But perhaps I might be open to being seduced by such a woman.

"I'd love to go see it sometime. How can I get there? Is there public transportation?"

She scoffed.

"No. Thankfully, no."

"Then I guess I can't visit."

Without skipping a beat, she answered, "I will take you there right now."

"Oh no, I couldn't."

She put a hand on my knee and replied,

"I insist. You must see it!"

Her hand was nice on my knee. It touched skin right below where the hem of my skirt rode up mid-thigh. Staring at her hand, allowing it to linger there and fill me with its gentle vibrations, I said, "how do I get back to Tarifa if there are no buses?"

"I'll take you back."

I hesitated to give her an answer. The waiter came by again. He picked up our empty glasses.

"Anything else, chicas?"

I shook my head.

"Only the bill, please."

He set it on the table. I reached for cash. But Eliana beat me to it. She handed him money.

"Eliana, please!" I started.

She put a hand up.

"It is my pleasure," she said.

"Ok, well, you really didn't have to, but thank you."

As the waiter disappeared, she looked at me with eager eyes.

"Well?"

"Will I go with you to Bolonia, you mean?"

She nodded.

"To be honest, I'm a bit nervous to."

"Do I make you nervous?"

"You admitted to trying to seduce me. Shouldn't I be a little nervous?"

She leaned in. She lowered her sunglasses from her eyes, so I could see them watch me. She smiled.

"There are plenty more reasons to be nervous of me. Perhaps I should warn you: I am a gypsy witch."

"Oh, are you?"

"Yes, I am. And that means I am very good at getting what I desire. But as you can see, I am a very honest gypsy witch. That is to say, I want to enjoy your company, Julia, but I will enjoy it only if you enjoy mine."

My heart thumped against my chest like a mallet against a kettledrum. I ought to have discarded her claim to being a gypsy witch an attempt at witty flirtation, but everything about the way she said it made me believe her fully. Nothing about her poise or the way she spoke suggested she was joking. She was enchanting. Intoxicating. Furthermore, she was dead right -- I enjoyed how she made me feel. I enjoyed how nervous she made me, and I wanted more of it. A desire inside me yearned for me to go with her, to expose myself further to her beguilement.

"What's there to do in Bolonia beside see old ruins and a beach? There's a beach right here in Tarifa," I said. A meager effort, I suppose, to spurn her advances, as I am naturally inclined.

"There is a show at sundown I'd like to take you to. A traditional flamenco. A real flamenco show. Not one for tourists. But, if you really do not prefer my company any longer, then I will leave, as the beach here in Tarifa is also beautiful, and I'm sure you will like it. if that is the case then I will bother you no more, but not without saying I very much enjoyed having a drink with you this afternoon, Julia."

The way she said my name, the way the J melted softly into an H with her Spanish accent, melted my heart. I felt it too much to not go with her. Besides, I had never seen a real flamenco show (among Roman ruins on a beach, no less), and my only other plan was to wander the streets of Tarifa listlessly again, as I had the night before. She left me no choice.

"Ok. I'll go."

She clapped once, loudly.

"Perfect!"

She hopped from her chair, tied her reclaimed red bandana around her hair and motioned for me to come with her.

I followed her through the dizzying winding streets until we were out of the old city to where her truck, a rather beat-up and dusty Nissan Frontier, was parked alongside the tall medieval city wall.

Across the street was the Tarifa beach, where, out on the shimmering ocean, kite surfing kites of all sorts of colors danced in dizzying circles like playful birds in the strong wind. Below the kites, the kite surfers blazed through the water and jumped high up into the air to perform incredible aerobatics.

Distantly were the Atlas Mountains of Morocco. Below them, I spotted the white city of Tangier, glinting in the bright afternoon sunlight.

We hopped into the Nissan. The engine coughed on.

I was on my way to a beach called Bolonia with a beautiful stranger, an enchanting woman claiming to being a gypsy witch.

I had to clutch on for dear life. The roads were narrow and winding. Eliana drove with abandon, weaving around cars, taking sharp bends at speeds much higher than I thought her Nissan could handle.

Soon, we climbed up a backroad up the side of a mountain peppered with brown cows on its golden summer pastures,

until we crested to come upon a magnificent view of a vast bay with turquoise water and a golden-white crescent stretch of beach. She slowed down to allow me a chance to soak in the beautiful vista. Nestled in the trough of the bay, a small white town.

"That is home. That is Bolonia."

"It's amazing," I replied.

The sun hung low, nearing the distant shimmering horizon, painting the sky golden and the sailing clouds pink. I couldn't help but grin widely. My heart grew with excitement, and I was elated now that I had agreed to this spontaneous adventure.

A few minutes later, we were driving through the small village, then a small promenade lined with date palms along which daily beachgoers parked. The beach was crowded, but the village was small and sleepy. I was surprised to see such a beautiful beach like this in Spain devoid of tall resorts and condos.

Eliana explained,

"A while back, the government named this a natural park. So, new development is not allowed here."

She parked her Nissan behind a beach bar of a style common in the beach towns of Southern Spain called a 'chiringuito.' Many people crowded it, with beers or Aperol Spritz in hand, vibing to a laid-back house beat.

"The show doesn't start for a little while. Until then, why don't we sun ourselves on the beach?"

I agreed, so she led me down to the beach. We passed by the old Roman amphitheater still in use, where we would watch the flamenco show. The marble remains of the ancient city were scattered around the amphitheater like bleach white bones of an ancient leviathan. The amphitheater seemed to stand as it had the day it was built, thousands of years ago, as if untouchable by time.

"The city was called Baelo Claudia," she explained.

"How many people live here now?"

"Permanently? A hundred, more or less. In the summer, that number can grow into the thousands. A lot of villagers had turned their homes into rentals. Illegally, of course. And then there are the caravanners that come here for the water sports. Some of the villagers hate them. I don't mind them so much. They are fun, and of course, they bring money."

We sat on the beach in front of the ancient ruins. Eliana took out a beach towel and spread it out. I had to hold my breath when she took her top off. Her breasts were perky and perfectly curved, like breasts on the marble statue of a Roman goddess. Her nipples were a brown of sun-kissed dates.

"My eyes are up here," she teased.

"Oh, sorry! I'm just not used to..."

"It's ok. You are an American, so you are a prude. But you are in Spain now, so no one will care if you want to take your top off."

"I think I'll leave my top on."

"Suit yourself," she replied as she rolled her jeans off her legs, revealing thin black thong underwear that strained to cover her nudity.

She tossed the jeans aside.

"Come on, let's get in!" She said, then sprinted towards the water.

For a moment, I watched her run towards the water. She was graceful in the way she ran. Her legs were long and slender, but her thighs were muscular like they were meant for running on sandy beaches.

When she reached the water's edge, she dove headfirst into a wave. A moment later, her head popped up, and she waved at me to join her.