Court of the Myrtles (15 page)

“Okay, I said I will,” I say again, like a kid not interested in the kind of advice dispensed by parents watching you on a diving board at the deep end of the pool when you just want to take the big plunge.

The ferry whistle goes off and Alice looks at her watch. “I ran out of time and I ran out of dreams—but you go find yours.”

I ignore Alice, wondering why she's still sounding so weird, slightly annoyed at her ability to always chatter just at the wrong moment.

And with that, the anchor hits seas bottom and we're back on dry land.

Alice was right. I didn't have to die before my time. Whether it was six minutes before six or six minutes after six, in accordance to a clock-maker's granddaughter, my mom would certainly be there when it
was
time.

I can't be sure now if it was Alice or my mom who once said, “Life is what you make it, and what you make it is up to you.” And so with those words reverberating in my head, I began going less to the cemetery, and then even less to my part-time job because I was busy studying full-time. With Mom's insurance money, the house that Grandma left me, and a small chunk of savings, I was surviving just fine.

Autumn kicked in practically overnight and so did my classes at the local community college. It's been awhile since I pulled my runaway bride stunt. Over the Columbus Day break, I skipped a Thursday night plane and followed Alice's advice all the way to Spain, to find my Eddy, at the Alhambra, just as I promised, at the Court of the Myrtles. Stepping off the shuttle bus that brought me to the top of the hill, the Alhambra was as magnificent as I remembered. I began to think about how much life had changed, how much
I
had changed since the last time I'd stepped on these worn stones. The sky was brilliant blue and the morning sunshine told me it was going to be a perfect day, the kind with a crisp autumn breeze and rich Cezanne colors.

I looked around and smiled.

I was here.

I was back.

I was older.

But so was Granada.

As I approached one of the ticket booths I placed the Peter Rabbit tin on the counter. The gold and magenta leaves whirled at my ankles as a woman counted my euros. It was still night-time back in America. People would be waking up to the Columbus Day Parade, or apple picking, or foliage drives. Maybe a year from now I too, would have a long weekend with the man of my dreams in New England. He'd be my partner, my future, my husband. My Eddy.

After thanking the woman at the counter, the one with the warm ruby red-lipped smile, I turned toward the grand entrance, fantasizing that when Eddy arrives, we'll hug and laugh and walk and kiss. Not necessarily in that order. And then, after showing him the Alhambra, we'd head off, arm in arm, and celebrate in a little tapas bar over plates of Spanish olives and red bell peppers stuffed with tuna and eggs drowning in olive oil. We'd drink sangria—lots of it—and reminisce about the past. Then we'd stroll through the windy hills of Granada, find a cozy hotel and spend a long night in each other's arms.

I wondered if Eddy had changed much, changed jobs, lost some hair, gained some weight—it had, after all, been a
year
since we last set eyes on each other.

Glancing at my watch—you know me by now—I had a little time to kill, so I made my way over to the Court of Lindaraja, remembering when I took a photo of that special fountain. The picture still hangs on my bathroom wall at home so that I can admire this glorious place every time I soak in the tub.

Taking in its tranquil, lush green beauty, I inhale and exhale gently to match the fountain's flow. I exhaled one last time to clear the jitters.

It was twelve noon when I arrived at the Court of the Myrtles, where I hoped Eddy would be waiting.

But he wasn't.

I looked up one end of the courtyard across the water's reflection and then walked to the other side. Just as Alice told me. Look left and look right.

The same reflection in reverse.

No Eddy. No problem.

I'd just sit and wait.

So I did, placing the tin can to my side, its ribbon untied and retied several times in a fearful debate whether or not to finally open it all the way. I hadn't been ready until now. But with Eddy by my side, whatever my mom wanted to tell me left in that tin can would finally be revealed.

This was the perfect place, a place where a knight would rescue his princess, since on the north side where I sit, is the tallest of the complex, the Comares Tower.

So romantic, but so nerve-racking! And this was insane, wasn't it?

I needed to pace. So I did.

But after an hour of pacing back and forth in front of the rescue tower, under the porticoes with the fretwork design, this poor princess was pooped. That's when it occurred to me that, knowing Eddy, he might be at the wrong courtyard, just like I had joked with Alice. So I slumped onto the bench and began sipping my water bottle, asking the occasional visitor if they'd seen a man who might be Eddy. Somebody suggested that a guy that fitted Eddy's description was sitting right over at the Tower of the Seventh
Floors, but in the end, I chose to stay put on my bench. You can't confuse a Tower with a Court. Can you?

Midday turned into afternoon as the camera-clicking tour groups came and went. A field trip of children with backpacks passed by, giggling, playing tag, threatening to push each other into the water, far from interested in the history of the Alhambra. I waved to each one of them before watching a sexy couple strolling by lazily, their eyes for nothing else but each other. They too had more on their minds than the beauty of this landmark. It reminded me of what might be with Eddy, if only Eddy would get here… I began tapping my feet.

I remained glued to that bench just outside the tower all afternoon, staring into the pond. A stray black cat appeared, lapping up water from the fountain and creating a ripple. Taking out my little camera I snapped his photo. It was as though he posed just for me. But I wasn't here for a cat.

Only once did I pop my head inside the big vast space of the Comares Tower, with its glazed tiles and complex stucco design, each like some open book decorated, adorned with hundreds of religious phrases. My willpower and nerve were fading, yet I couldn't help remembering something else I had learned in college. There was a phrase—a running theme—constant in all these rooms. Red was the symbol of power, green of paradise, and blue, was the hope of attaining paradise.

Walking back outside, I felt the sharp contrast between the rich interior and the simplicity of the exterior. Some history book once said exactly this about these castles—that “in inner life, spirituality and the family, lies true wealth.” My truth was about true
love; I just knew it. Above me, the sky was still blue. Hope. And suddenly I felt my mom—and even Alice and Joy—very near to my heart.

I knew right there was no time like the present to flip the lid on the tin can once and for all. So I did.

Just like that.

Standing right there at the Court of the Myrtles, I shimmied the stubborn slight rusted, slightly dented cover off and looked inside.

There was an antique key nestled in my mother's fake Pucci scarf, which I lifted from the box, its fluorescent colors draping over my knee. Underneath it lay a campaign pin—red, white and blue that read: “Bernie for Town Council. The way of the future!”

This was it? A way to
what
future? A button from the father I never knew. A key? Okay, clearly it opened something, but what? Ridiculous. Disappointing. Had I waited my whole life for a key and a scarf? A
campaign pin
?

I put the contents back in the box and rested it on my knee.

What did I think should be in here? Shame on me. I snapped the lid back on. Maybe I should
pray
for my mom instead of selfishly wondering what she might have given me. And yet, for a split second I felt anger. Anger for her not only leaving me, but leaving me
this.

Rearranging my dignity I decided I needed to focus on Eddy.

I stayed on my bench as five o'clock passed, my spirits dimming faster than the setting sun. Maybe October would come and go, and so would Eddy. Maybe this was a foolish idea, though Alice once told me to take risks. Yeah, some risk, I reasoned. I'd
wasted money for this trip half way around the world, not to mention I've needed to pee for the past two hours and…

“Excuse me?”

I look to the water's reflection to see the upside-down face of a handsome man, his sweeping brown bangs and blue eyes complement a nicely rounded jaw supporting an extremely infectious grin. He is wearing a worn but comfortable T-shirt and has camera gear swinging from his left hip over his blue jeans. His black boots are in need of a good polishing.

“Hello,” he says, extending his hand. “I'm Brian.”

I look up to meet his face and extend mine robotically.

“Hi, I'm Marla.” I say, my eyes darting around just in case Eddy shows up at this very instant and I'm with another man.

“I don't mean to pester you,” says Brian. “But I've been waiting for about an hour just over there,” he explains, pointing to a nearby wall. “It's just that—well, the sun is just right and if I don't get that shot of the water, I won't make it in time.”

“Oh, am I blocking your view?” I say, turning around to see what he was aiming at and then realizing the view was right in front of me.

“Kind of,” he says, sheepishly, shrugging and then releasing a flash of white teeth. This man is simply captivating. In what seems like slow motion I watch him run his tanned hand haphazardly through his bangs. “I'd be willing to wait to take the photo, but I have a flight to Madrid in three hours and I'm on a deadline, so…”

“Oh please, go right ahead,” I say, rising from the bench to get out of the shot and see just what he's seeing through his camera lens. A smile of gratitude for life suddenly
passes over me, warming my heart. Maybe this trip wasn't such a bad idea after all, I think, looking out to the horizon. “Beautiful isn't it?” I say gently.

“Yes,” says Brian, staring at me. “Just beautiful.” He focuses his camera twirling the lens quickly to snap a photo. Of me. I blush and put my hand up to stop him but it's too late. He's snapping another and another one. I giggle.

Next he pulls out his tripod and begins assembling it on the path near a shrub of myrtle.

“That's pretty fancy equipment you've got there,” I say.

“Yes, well, when you shoot for National Geographic…”

My eyes widen. “You're kidding?”

“No, I'm quite serious,” he says, flashing that gorgeous smile again and winding his camera on its podium.

“Traveling the world is my dream!”

“My dream, too,” he says. “Free to be whatever I want.”

Did he just say that? I'm instantly sucked into a vortex of memory. “My mom used to say that.”

“Really? And how much of the world has she seen?” he asks.

“Barely any, actually.”

“That's a shame. You should take her sometime.”

“I can't. She's no longer with us.”

“Oh, I see,” he says, stopping what he's doing and standing straight up. “Well, I'm sorry for the loss, and, well, because she never saw the world either, I'm even more sorry.”

I'm speechless.

“And you?” he asks, “How much of the world have you seen, Marla?” He puts his eye back to the camera prepping for a test shot.

“Um, the Alhambra,” I say, shrugging my shoulders and then twirling around.

“Just the Alhambra?” he asks, surprised. “Oh well, then, I could tell you stories.”

And stories he did. He sat with me on that bench waiting for Eddy until the security guard told us they were closing the front gate. We began to gather our things, him with his bulky camera cases, me with my coat and tin can.

“What's in the bunny tin,” he asks, trying to be polite but finding it rather odd. I hadn't let go of it all afternoon.

“Oh, it's nothing,” I say, and flipping the lid over I expose its contents for a second time. “It was my mom's secret hiding place.”

“Whoa, like in a movie,” says Brian, examining the contents of the tin. “The key to the family jewels.”

I knit my brow. “What do you mean? What family jewels? I grew up dirt poor.”

“Oh I didn't mean to—”

“Hey, it's not like it's the key to a brand-new Mercedes…”

“No, but I know that sort of key anywhere,” Brian insists. “May I?” He lifts it from where it's nestled on the scarf and examines it. “It's the key to a safety deposit box.”

“Like at a bank?” I ask, snatching it back.

“Yeah, like at a bank,” he says, amused by my innocence.

I never saw Eddy. And Brian the photographer never made his flight to Madrid. I later learned that Eddy had met somebody new—a school teacher—three months ago. And he never suspected I would
really show
up. But that was okay, I wasn't alone—not that night and not the rest of my nights. Brian and I spent hours talking about everything the world had to offer—from the Eiffel Tower in Paris to the Maya Ruins in Guatemala, the Great Wall of China, the Leaning Tower of Pisa… There were silly stories about him drinking mojitos with Fidel Castro, and stories of the camel in Cairo with a bad case of gas. There were safaris in Kenya and there were hat dances in Mexico. But it was the last story of his not-so-favorite-trip to Turkey that interested me the most, not only because my ancestors were from what used to be Armenia, but because of the way he told it. The numerous empty bottles of Pinot Noir on the table, surrounded by several burnt out candles over our five-course dinner didn't hurt either. And neither did my hand inside his.

Alice couldn't save her daughter and I couldn't save my mom, but Alice had saved me. I arrived at the cemetery ten minutes earlier than usual, longing to express my gratitude, show her my photographs with Brian who was just now finishing up his assignment overseas before coming to join me. I couldn't wait to deliver to Alice a gift, a souvenir—a big coffee table book on the trees of the Alhambra.