“C’mon. You’ll see. They’re expecting us.”
They’re expecting us.Xavi gulped, then opened his car door slowly, trepidation coursing through his body. This was how most horror movies started, and he’d seen a few with Abe. One wrong turn. A town out in the middle of nowhere. A house that looked quaint and inviting on the outside, and then BAM!TexasChainsaw Massacre, the Latino version.
Xavi had barely gotten out of the car when the front door blasted open, and a little old lady, followed by an even older man, blew out of the house like Lulu and Xavi were the Second Coming of Christ.
“Welcome!” the woman chirped, her light blue eyes twinkling with pure joy. “Lulu, right? I’m Gwyneth.” She blatantly ignored Lulu’s offered hand and pulled him into a hug so fierce it should’ve been physically impossible with how frail she appeared. The older man headed straight for Xavi and started speaking to him in Spanish, welcoming him to their humble museum, which was, Xavi soon found out, truly a museum dedicated totheLorca. Then, before Xavi knew what washappening, it was his turn to be hugged to within an inch of his life, while Lulu started chit-chatting with the older man who’d introduced himself as Ernesto.
“Come, come.” Gwyneth pulled at Xavi’s sleeve as they trailed behind Lulu and Ernesto up the stairs to the small bungalow. “I madetres lechescake this morning. You have to try it.” Xavi found himself nodding, his head spinning. He caught Lulu’s gaze overflowing with fondness as they were led into a small living room and coaxed onto a sofa that was barely big enough for the two of them. Soon, they were bombarded with cake,cortados, and questions, and Lulu answered for the most part, his mouth stuffed withtres leches, Xavi still too stunned to speak. Looking around the small living room, there was an old map of Spain adorning one wall, along with shelves upon shelves of books about the Spanish Civil War, the Franco Regime, but mostly just poetry from both Spain and South America. Xavi’s mouth watered. Most of them looked old, perhaps even first editions, although he didn’t dare hope. Noah would’ve blown a fuse if he’d been here because there were some by the Chilean author Pablo Neruda, too, a new favorite of his. Fuck, there was an old edition ofEspaña en el Corazónwhich could very well be a first edition.
“Are you ready?” Gwyneth reached out her hand to him when they’d finished the cake. “You ready to meet Federico?” Her blue eyes swam with unshed tears, and it was clear to Xavi that it meant something to her to be able to share her home, her little museum, with a fellow lover of the great Spanish poet.
Xavi nodded, accepting her hand, then got up, following her through the kitchen and up the stairs to the first floor, which turned out to be entirely dedicated to Lorca.
“But how…” Xavi whispered in awe as he took in what looked like he’d traveled back in time to 1930s Spain. From the furniture to the music spilling from an original Brunswick record player to the shelves filled with Lorca’s famous works. There was even a small desk, which looked like a replica of the one he knew Lorca had owned. Where he’d written all his masterpieces, giving the Spanish people,hispeople, a voice. “This is just…” Xavi turned around in a half-circle, his eyes meeting Gwyneth’s, then Ernesto’s and Lulu’s, who’d followed them upstairs.
“Vamonos,” Ernesto said, pushing first Xavi, then Lulu further inside the room. “Don’t be shy.”
“Why Lorca?” Xavi rasped.
“Why not?” Gwyneth said, a tender expression on her weathered face. “Because we must never forget. What he endured. And the actuality of his words. As long as there is oppression, there is a need for Lorca and his words, don’t you think, my young friend?”
Xavi nodded. It was true. As long as there was oppression… Lulu looked at him, his almond eyes covered by a wet sheen, his lips curled into a tender smile.
“Gracias, mano,”Xavi mouthed at him, and Lulu blushed, then shrugged, mouthing back a “De nada, oso.”
After that, Xavi lost track of time and disappeared into 1930s Spain. Gwyneth told him how she’d studied Spanish literature in Madrid many decades ago and how she’d met Ernesto at a protest against the Franco regime. Ernesto had been in prison for a while, and Gwyneth had been forced to go back to the States. Through years of separation, all they’d had to offer them solace and invoke hope were the words Lorca had written decades earlier, fighting the same oppressor. Eventually, after years of incarceration, Ernesto came to America to be with Gwyneth.
“What is your favorite collection?” Gwyneth eventually asked Xavi. He loved all of them—every single poem, the plays too—but there was a collection of ballads which had always stood out. Still did.
“Romancero Gitano,” he whispered, and both Gwyneth and Ernesto nodded simultaneously, like they’d already known the answer.The Gypsy Ballads.Written between 1924 and 1927, the collection was first published in 1928 and comprised eighteen lyrical poems, all of them masterpieces in terms of their mythic allusions and Freudian symbolism.
Moving toward the back of the room, Gwyneth skimmed the books, then stopped, tapping her fingers against the spine of one of them, before pulling it from the shelf. Hurrying back to Xavi and Lulu, she placed it ceremoniously in Xavi’s hands. “There,” she said, and Xavi didn’t even have to look at the book to know it was a first edition; the mere feel of it against his fingers told him so. He swallowed as tears pressed behind his eyes. Lulu reached out and squeezed his shoulder, leaving his hand to rest there briefly before he pulled away.
“Take as long as you want,” Ernesto said, then tugged Gwyneth after him out of the room, the sound of their feet padding down the stairs bleeding into the background, as Xavi’s heart pounded in his ears.
“Read to me,” Lulu said, his voice heavy with emotion. “Read me your favorite poem,oso, and make it mine too.”
Xavi’s gaze flew to Lulu’s. What was happening? He’d never seen this side of Lulu before, like peeling a layer off an orange, unexpectedly revealing a strange fruit underneath.
“Read to me. Please,” Lulu repeated, wrapping his fingers around Xavi’s wrist, pulling him toward a small loveseat next to a window facing the backyard.
Sitting down next to each other, Xavi carefully opened the book, searching for the one poem he knew by heart, in both the original language and the English translation. This version was, of course, Spanish.
“It’s calledRomance de la Luna, Luna.”
Lulu nodded, his body so close to Xavi’s that he could hear every heartbeat and feel Lulu’s body hum with anticipation next to his. Licking his lips, Xavi’sfingertips whispered across the old paper, the words swimming before his eyes. Then he sucked in a breath and started reading. To many, the words of Lorca appeared simple, but to those who loved him, it was the simplicity in particular that spoke to their souls.
“‘La luna vino a la fragua, con su polisón de nardos. El niño la mira mira. El niño la está mirando’.”Lulu shifted next to him, leaning his head against Xavi’s shoulder, his outdrawn breath coasting along Xavi’s chin, making his skin quiver. Combined with Lorca’s magnificent words, Xavi realized he was as close to heaven as he’d likely ever get.
“‘En el aire conmovido mueve la luna sus brazos y enseña, lúbrica y pura, sus senos de duro estaño’.”Xavi continued reading, Lulu’s lovely head resting heavily against his shoulder, Lulu’s sweet scent wrapping around Xavi like a blanket, engulfing them in a world of two, and briefly, Xavi imagined they were lovers. That they could be lovers. Like Gwyneth and Ernesto. Like Joe and Noah. What was so different?It’s your fear,his heart spoke in the voice of Lorca.Your fear is what makes it different.It was true. Xavi was afraid.
When he’d read the final word, Xavi closed the book carefully and placed it on the seat next to him. Turning hesitantly toward Lulu, he found him crying, silent tears trailing down his cheeks. Reaching out, Xavi brushed them carefully away with the knuckles of his broken hand as Lulu closed his eyes, his wet eyelashes clinging to his skin.
“Why are you crying?” Xavi whispered against the top of Lulu’s head, his soft, fragrant curls tickling Xavi’s nose.
“Because it’s so beautiful and sad all at once.” Lulu’s voice came out hoarse, tinted with deep, authentic emotion.
“I know.”
