wanted to marry her, but Suzanne said, ‘I’m staying. This place was meant for me. Tell you what, Joe! We’ll treat you to the Arc de Triomphe.’
They walked up the hill that led from the seafront to the center of Torremolinos, and there, on a side street, an old motion-picture hall had been converted into a ballroom consisting of a tiny raised floor, scores of small tables and much standing room. It was dark and lined with velvet so that the tremendous volume of sound which erupted from the electronic system came forth clean and hard, without reverbrating echoes. The lights were stroboscope, flashing on and off four times a second, but everything was subordinated to the marvelous beauty of the patrons. By the score, girls who had won honor grades at the Sorbonne and Uppsala and Wellesley came through the big doors, peered into the darkness, and were picked off by keen-minded young men who had won equal grades at TokyoUniversity and Heidelberg. At any table of six you might find four nationalities, languages flowed more freely than the Coca-Cola which most of the dancers were drinking, and always there was the incredible volume of sound, louder than a score of the bands that the parents of these young people had listened to in the 1940s.
‘I really dig this music,’ Joe said as the hurricane of sound enveloped him in its metallic cocoon. Regardless of which nation the young people had grown up in, they accepted this throbbing music as an integral part of their culture and were at home with it; to them the ear-shattering sounds were as essential as pipes and cymbals had been to the ancient Greeks when they were evolving the theory of aesthetics.
‘This is my home,’ Ingrid shouted above the noise as they elbowed their way to a table. There Suzanne closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and invited the sound to flow over her. They were scarcely seated before two German students who had met them at their bar approached and ordered some drinks. They spoke good French, which left Joe isolated, but after a while one of the Germans said in fluent English, ‘Are you having trouble with the draft?’ When Joe nodded, the German clapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Very curious. One of my great-great-grandfathers ran away from Germany to the United States to escape his draft, and now you run away from the United States to Germany to escape yours.’ Joe was about to say that he wasn’t in Germany, but the young man interrupted, ‘Perhaps you know his family? Schweikert in Pennsylvania. One boy was all-American football at Illinois.’
‘Before my time,’ Joe said.
He walked back alone to Jean-Victor’s while the two girls reported to their bar, and he found Sandra waiting. Jean-Victor was out somewhere, but he had told her of the newcomer and she showed him how to spread the tartan sleeping bag. Joe watched her proficiency in handling things, and asked, ‘What did you do in London?’
‘Nothing. Father’s a banker and he’s always let me have a little bread. He was keen on camping and taught me how to cope.’
‘You been here long?’
‘Like the others. Came down for fifteen days. Wept when the airplane arrived to fly me back. Jean-Victor wasat the airport and he said, “Why go back?” So I’ve been here for almost a year.’
‘Who is Jean-Victor?’
‘Parents are Italian. Lugano—the Italian city at the southern end of Switzerland. His real name’s Luigi or Fettucini or something. He finds the French name involves less explanation. Gets a little money from home … keeps his hand in many things down here. We’re not sure how he makes his bread. Probably selling marijuana. I know he has connections in Tangier. You care for a joint?’
‘I’m not big on grass.’
‘Neither are we. If there’s a good party we pass the stuff—to be sociable. If not, we forget it for weeks.’
Joe unrolled the German sleeping bag and watched as Sandra knowingly adjusted newspapers and old blankets under
They walked up the hill that led from the seafront to the center of Torremolinos, and there, on a side street, an old motion-picture hall had been converted into a ballroom consisting of a tiny raised floor, scores of small tables and much standing room. It was dark and lined with velvet so that the tremendous volume of sound which erupted from the electronic system came forth clean and hard, without reverbrating echoes. The lights were stroboscope, flashing on and off four times a second, but everything was subordinated to the marvelous beauty of the patrons. By the score, girls who had won honor grades at the Sorbonne and Uppsala and Wellesley came through the big doors, peered into the darkness, and were picked off by keen-minded young men who had won equal grades at TokyoUniversity and Heidelberg. At any table of six you might find four nationalities, languages flowed more freely than the Coca-Cola which most of the dancers were drinking, and always there was the incredible volume of sound, louder than a score of the bands that the parents of these young people had listened to in the 1940s.
‘I really dig this music,’ Joe said as the hurricane of sound enveloped him in its metallic cocoon. Regardless of which nation the young people had grown up in, they accepted this throbbing music as an integral part of their culture and were at home with it; to them the ear-shattering sounds were as essential as pipes and cymbals had been to the ancient Greeks when they were evolving the theory of aesthetics.
‘This is my home,’ Ingrid shouted above the noise as they elbowed their way to a table. There Suzanne closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and invited the sound to flow over her. They were scarcely seated before two German students who had met them at their bar approached and ordered some drinks. They spoke good French, which left Joe isolated, but after a while one of the Germans said in fluent English, ‘Are you having trouble with the draft?’ When Joe nodded, the German clapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Very curious. One of my great-great-grandfathers ran away from Germany to the United States to escape his draft, and now you run away from the United States to Germany to escape yours.’ Joe was about to say that he wasn’t in Germany, but the young man interrupted, ‘Perhaps you know his family? Schweikert in Pennsylvania. One boy was all-American football at Illinois.’
‘Before my time,’ Joe said.
He walked back alone to Jean-Victor’s while the two girls reported to their bar, and he found Sandra waiting. Jean-Victor was out somewhere, but he had told her of the newcomer and she showed him how to spread the tartan sleeping bag. Joe watched her proficiency in handling things, and asked, ‘What did you do in London?’
‘Nothing. Father’s a banker and he’s always let me have a little bread. He was keen on camping and taught me how to cope.’
‘You been here long?’
‘Like the others. Came down for fifteen days. Wept when the airplane arrived to fly me back. Jean-Victor wasat the airport and he said, “Why go back?” So I’ve been here for almost a year.’
‘Who is Jean-Victor?’
‘Parents are Italian. Lugano—the Italian city at the southern end of Switzerland. His real name’s Luigi or Fettucini or something. He finds the French name involves less explanation. Gets a little money from home … keeps his hand in many things down here. We’re not sure how he makes his bread. Probably selling marijuana. I know he has connections in Tangier. You care for a joint?’
‘I’m not big on grass.’
‘Neither are we. If there’s a good party we pass the stuff—to be sociable. If not, we forget it for weeks.’
Joe unrolled the German sleeping bag and watched as Sandra knowingly adjusted newspapers and old blankets under
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