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La Madrugada
By Paul Read
La madrugada: To a random rhythm, my fingers strum the mattress, limbs jerkingintermittently and, as always during the restless hours before sunrise, my mindfocuses on anything other than sleep.The relentless heat that accumulates throughout the day in this city of stone istransformed into a nervous energy that makes the muscles of my legs twitch. Ifumble my way out from under the mosquito netting and tiptoe into the living room.Dragging a chair to the balcony, I sit down and rest my elbows on the railing.Everything in the small square beneath me seems to sigh for what it once held.When we first came here seeking the cheapest rental in town, it appeared to be abeating heart in an otherwise comatose Castillian setting. In the morning the plaza isa focus for those in search of previous inhabitants: El Greco, Bequer, and Garcilaso.By mid-afternoon it settles back into silence. Flanked by convents and churches, thesteep walls of the square are broken only by a few ruins that surround a crumblingcorner 18
th
century building. It was here that we had just been shown the top floor flat, an arid and abandoned apartment. A deposit had been hastily exchanged for some old rusty keys. We had believed the house to be empty apart from us, but aswe emerged from the doorway into that lazy siesta sunshine, we were assaulted bythe sound of approaching flamenco. A rusted, clanking overloaded Nissen-Trade vanappeared over the brow of the hill leading up to the square, emitting at deafeningdecibels, the sound of 'Radio Olé'. In front of us, the van halted and out tumbled asmall frisky white dog and numerous Portuguese gypsy family.We recognised the driver, a dark skinned burly and sweaty man of around 30 yearsof age. We had watched him when we first came here working as an unofficial car 
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parking attendant in the plaza, heaving double-parked cars with hand brakes off,back and forth to allow one to leave or another to enter. Stepping into the shade of atree he shouted to us above the music.‘Hola, I'm Albino,’ and then threw his head back and laughed, sure that we wouldappreciate the irony of his name. He was only about five foot eight, but must haveweighed nearly 16 stone. A giant with sparkling eyes and a boyish grin
.
The fewclothes he wore clung on precariously. Albino thrust a twisted hand towards me.‘And this’, he said calling over a smaller version of himself, ‘little Albino, wife Cristina,daughters, Tamara, Rosio…’ Then the others were introduced: visiting cousins thatwore mostly nylon with an array of hats perched at awkward angles. Despite thestrength of the late afternoon sun, no-one wore sunglasses. I removed mine.His eyes flickered above my head, ‘You take flat over us?’I jangled the keys. The children giggled and pulled at our clothes and the dogbounced in front of us.‘And this is Miki,’ added Tamara, a beautiful seven year old princess who wasclutching a bundle of curly fur to her chest, ‘do you want to kiss him?’‘Tsk, Tamara’ scolded Christina and approached us with her smile. ‘Too long, noneighbours’. Then she kissed us and the children bounced this time and the dogpulled at our clothes. Albino shook my hand again, cousins slapped our backs and Ifelt obliged to kiss the dog.La madrugada: The meeting hour for itinerant spirits. Have we met somewherebefore? Did we know each other back then? History catches up on us. It seeps outfrom cobbled patio floors, sliding under warped balcony doors, until it finds us,nestled in our insular disconnected world. The nuns in the convent come from asmall village in India. The forefathers of Albino and the nomadic hats left Asia for 
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North Africa before entering Europe. And we, who delight in demarcation, are we anydifferent from our ancestors who left Africa, settled later in India before headingnorth? We all are cousins here.Over time, I found in Albino a sumo-like grace in his shifting of vehicles, the slappingof hands on metal and the grunts of exertion. And when he spoke the plaza listened.When Cristina’s mother came round in the morning, to pick up one of the children to join her, begging round the tourist bars, Albino would bawl from his bed-room toleave him in peace. When Miki barked frivolously at hapless cyclists crossing thesquare, Albino would bellow from some dark interior of his flat. He yelled frombedroom to kitchen, from patio to plaza, from driving seat to passenger seat and ashe counted the coins his daughter had extracted from tourists that morning. But hiswas not the only voice I heard. My morning foray to the grocery shop would supplyme with more than just bread and milk: ‘Heh, Ingles….keep my door shut…to keepflies out…and keep your doors locked. Gypsies they steal anything… what sort of loaf was it...? …kids don’t go to school … …beg in the streets with that witch... …anything else?’Re-entering the plaza, I would stand and lean against one of the trees, shelteringfrom the early morning sun as it's warm rays played games of light on the sea of metal car roofs; the only sound, the dissonant chime of a distant church bell. Andthen Albino would emerge from the patio, cussing loudly, pulling down the ever-risinghem of his t-shirt. His bulky form, zigzagging through shadow until he reached thesafety of his van. One morning, with radio at full volume, he cranked open the doorsand began to unload old bits of iron and coils of plastic coated copper wiring. Fromhis back trouser pocket he produced a switchblade and began to peel away the softouter skin of the wire with an accustomed and unnerving ease.He looked over gesturing me towards him. ‘Ven, Pablo, ven.’
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