“We do things together, and we don’t let our parents’ politics
spoil things for us. But they’re not all Basques. And some of them, if they
were to talk at home…” He left the rest unsaid.
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “And Steve…”
“I know,” he interrupted miserably. “I
started it, talking about the…”
“Don’t say it,” warned Pablo. “Not even
here. But if you want news of…your friend, then be at Kuba tomorrow evening.
And dress cool.”
We broke up, Pablo heading
back into the lanes while Steve and I went south towards the ensanche. Nothing was said for the first few hundred metres, but before turning the
lights out we agreed to keep the appointment with Pablo. As I lay awake
listening to Steve’s usual wet snoring I started to have strong misgivings, but
in the event pride and curiosity got the better of me.
Kuba stood by the roadside in splendid isolation, commanding an
impressive view over the serried ranks of hills that march south and west from
the nearby Pyrenees. It was the best nightclub in San Sebastián, and according
to some the best in northern Spain. To be honest it offered little that I
hadn’t seen in Manchester or Sheffield, but the desert island theme had been
carried through with obsessive attention to detail, the lighting was
extravagant and the sound system unusually large. All the same, the most
noticeable and disturbing feature was that the boys were dancing together at
one end of the floor and the girls at the other.
Steve and I took part enthusiastically
at first, even managing to dance at arms’ length with a couple of the girls
before their own peer group called them to order. But we were out of it long
before we saw any sign of the people we’d come to meet. The volume had
increased to the point of physical pain. The gyrations of the boys and some of
the girls were more desperate, all self-consciousness blown away in the
drunkenness of adrenaline and dehydration. Songs with simple choruses had
become religious anthems as they chanted the words with their faces upturned in
ecstasy.
I didn’t begrudge them their fun. The
chance to flirt with the opposite sex from a distance, and to bond in an
innocently homoerotic way with their mates, was the most exciting thing most of
them had to look forward to. All the same, Steve and I drifted out of the
building. We were glad to get away from the noise, and we were not alone. Even
as the true worshippers poured themselves out on the dance floor, a number of
agnostics were standing outside on the forecourt in various states of boredom
or catatonia. And out here I noticed that the gender segregation was breaking
down, with a steady trickle of couples walking in and out of the darkness. The
night air was fresh and sweet, the stars brilliant and seemingly within arm's
reach, and as I stood gazing up in appreciation I became aware that someone
else had drifted over to join us.
I turned to see Pablo holding out his
hand, and I shook it. Without uttering anything but a curt greeting, he led the
two of us back into the club and up to the far end of the long bar. Once there,
our heads huddled together in order to hear one another above the bone-shaking sound
system, we made small talk for a couple of minutes. Then someone came over to
join us whom I had never seen before. He was a friendly enough guy, about my
age and build, and Pablo introduced him as Carlos. At first I assumed this to
be a chance encounter, but after a couple of minutes of strained head-to-head
conversation the stranger suddenly said, “So, you’re the heroes who helped
Txako get away. It’s an honour to meet you.”
It is not easy to gloss over it when
somebody calls you a hero. I imagine I blushed a bit. Then Carlos bought a
round of drinks, and, barely able though we were to make out one another’s words,
we raised our glasses in a series of toasts: to Txako, to us, to osasuna and one or two other Basque words that we didn’t recognise. It was
spoil things for us. But they’re not all Basques. And some of them, if they
were to talk at home…” He left the rest unsaid.
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “And Steve…”
“I know,” he interrupted miserably. “I
started it, talking about the…”
“Don’t say it,” warned Pablo. “Not even
here. But if you want news of…your friend, then be at Kuba tomorrow evening.
And dress cool.”
We broke up, Pablo heading
back into the lanes while Steve and I went south towards the ensanche. Nothing was said for the first few hundred metres, but before turning the
lights out we agreed to keep the appointment with Pablo. As I lay awake
listening to Steve’s usual wet snoring I started to have strong misgivings, but
in the event pride and curiosity got the better of me.
Kuba stood by the roadside in splendid isolation, commanding an
impressive view over the serried ranks of hills that march south and west from
the nearby Pyrenees. It was the best nightclub in San Sebastián, and according
to some the best in northern Spain. To be honest it offered little that I
hadn’t seen in Manchester or Sheffield, but the desert island theme had been
carried through with obsessive attention to detail, the lighting was
extravagant and the sound system unusually large. All the same, the most
noticeable and disturbing feature was that the boys were dancing together at
one end of the floor and the girls at the other.
Steve and I took part enthusiastically
at first, even managing to dance at arms’ length with a couple of the girls
before their own peer group called them to order. But we were out of it long
before we saw any sign of the people we’d come to meet. The volume had
increased to the point of physical pain. The gyrations of the boys and some of
the girls were more desperate, all self-consciousness blown away in the
drunkenness of adrenaline and dehydration. Songs with simple choruses had
become religious anthems as they chanted the words with their faces upturned in
ecstasy.
I didn’t begrudge them their fun. The
chance to flirt with the opposite sex from a distance, and to bond in an
innocently homoerotic way with their mates, was the most exciting thing most of
them had to look forward to. All the same, Steve and I drifted out of the
building. We were glad to get away from the noise, and we were not alone. Even
as the true worshippers poured themselves out on the dance floor, a number of
agnostics were standing outside on the forecourt in various states of boredom
or catatonia. And out here I noticed that the gender segregation was breaking
down, with a steady trickle of couples walking in and out of the darkness. The
night air was fresh and sweet, the stars brilliant and seemingly within arm's
reach, and as I stood gazing up in appreciation I became aware that someone
else had drifted over to join us.
I turned to see Pablo holding out his
hand, and I shook it. Without uttering anything but a curt greeting, he led the
two of us back into the club and up to the far end of the long bar. Once there,
our heads huddled together in order to hear one another above the bone-shaking sound
system, we made small talk for a couple of minutes. Then someone came over to
join us whom I had never seen before. He was a friendly enough guy, about my
age and build, and Pablo introduced him as Carlos. At first I assumed this to
be a chance encounter, but after a couple of minutes of strained head-to-head
conversation the stranger suddenly said, “So, you’re the heroes who helped
Txako get away. It’s an honour to meet you.”
It is not easy to gloss over it when
somebody calls you a hero. I imagine I blushed a bit. Then Carlos bought a
round of drinks, and, barely able though we were to make out one another’s words,
we raised our glasses in a series of toasts: to Txako, to us, to osasuna and one or two other Basque words that we didn’t recognise. It was
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