On the last weekend before returning to London Danny and Luis collected the rental car, a silver Volkswagen convertible, perfect for a road trip. Since it was another warm day Luis lowered the car’s roof. Driving out of the city felt like embarking on the adventure Danny imagined their marriage would be. Before departing Cádiz they stopped at a bakery to buy two paper-wrapped barras de pan, one filled with jamón, another with queso de cabra, along with two bottles of sparkling mineral water from the mountain springs inCatalonia. Enigmatically Luis claimed there were no shops where they were going.
The scenic drive took over two hours, passing through Parque Natural de Los Alcornocales before arriving at the small historic hillside town of Jimena de la Frontera. Though the town was pretty, Luis didn’t stop, following a road further up the hill. At this point he slowed to a crawl until he found a turn-off. They bumped along a narrow dirt track for a time, reaching a rusted metal gate where Luis parked. Danny stepped out and surveyed the area. Though they were high in the hills there was no panoramic view as they were surrounded by a plantation of tall oaks. Luis explained that these trees were harvested for their bark which was turned into corks for the region’s wine. Many of the trunks were banded where the cork had been stripped back. To the chatter of birds Luis led the way, lifting the latch on the rusted gate.
Danny asked, ‘Isn’t this private property?’
Luis nodded.
‘My grandparents owned this farm.’
Since his grandparents had died many years ago, Danny wondered, ‘Who lives here now?’
Luis replied, ‘We could.’
Chapter Forty-FourA Different Kind of Life
The oak plantation thinned as they climbed the steep dirt track, reaching an elevated plateau beneath a sheer ridge, sheltered from the prevailing winds and shaded from the afternoon sun. The word Luis used to describe the farm was cortijo, and it comprised three stone houses arranged with the largest in the middle and the two smaller ones either side. Between the houses were almond trees and in the walled remains of a fire pit, charcoal dust was speckled with wildflowers. At the perimeter were taller orange and lemon trees with unkempt branches and a legacy of rotten fruit underneath. Like impacted teeth, sandstone boulders jutted out of the soil. Some of the smaller rocks served as a place for chopping firewood, evidenced by chinks in the stone, while others were smoothed from mounting horses. Seed pods driftedthrough the air, seeming to slow to take in the beauty of this place, a forgotten world. Standing in the dappled sunlight with his hands on his waist, Luis took on the appearance of a renowned explorer who had rediscovered the lost city he had been searching for his entire life – the lost city of home.
Scattered around the three houses were the ruins of stables and barns with sloping roofs and faded tiles. A herd of free-roaming goats had followed them up the hill and began grazing among the buildings, their bells overpowering the birdsong. Despite the dilapidated condition of the farm only a modest act of imagination was required to picture its past, not one of subsistence or rural drudgery but of abundance. The walls of the main buildings were decorated with blue ceramic azulejo panels of the Virgin Mary. Beside them wrought-iron lanterns of exceptional craftsmanship hung outside massive timber doors. The doors were engraved with fantastical images, including dragons, castles and knights. The main house was unlocked but the hinges were stiff with age and it required the strength of them both to push the door open.
Inside Danny and Luis stood on a stone slab floor. Much of the original furniture remained, an oak table and hand-carved chairs. There was a clay oven patiently waiting for life to return. The air inside the house was cooler. The layout had been cleverly designed, a breeze flowing through the horseshoe-shaped open doorways. At the back there were two small bedrooms on either side of the hall. In one there was a porcelain crucifixon the wall and when Danny looked closer, a pale pink gecko sheltered behind it, with fragile translucent skin.
Climbing the uneven stone stairs to the roof Danny and Luis emerged onto the terrace which offered a view through the break in the treeline. The terrace was crowded with urns, some made of clay and prettily painted, others mottled and without decoration. During the long hot summers when the cortijo stood abandoned most of the potted plants had died, reduced to wilted stalks except for the largest urn where a hardy Ginkgo biloba tree had survived, cascading its roots over the edge, finding soil in the surrounding urns, scavenging water from drops of morning dew.
Looking out over the land Luis said, ‘My grandparents hoped that one day I would take over this farm. My father would’ve sold the land for a barrel of wine, so their only hope was me. They taught me many of the skills needed to live here from horsemanship to carpentry.’
Danny asked, ‘Is this home for you?’
Luis held on to the question for a time before asking one of his own.
‘Could it be home for you?’
Danny sat on the wall, staring at the olive trees.
‘It would be unlike any life I’ve ever known.’
Luis agreed.
Danny continued, ‘It would be unlike any life I ever felt suited for.’
Luis reacted to the limitation Danny placed on himself.
‘We always believed big cities were our friends because they let us be anonymous there. We don’t need to be anonymous anymore. And if we live here, everyone will know us.’
‘As what? The two fags in a farm on a hill?’
Luis didn’t miss a beat.
‘Some might say that. A few. So be it. Danny, you dreamed of a garden.’
Danny laughed, ‘Luis, this is more than a garden.’
Luis sat beside Danny.
‘It’s a way of life. This place was always more than a farm. My grandparents allowed friends with no money to stay. The outhouses were filled with people down on their luck – poets, artists and musicians. They would compose songs and paint in exchange for a few hours’ work in the fields. Before I left Cádiz in disgrace, I visited my grandfather here. He could barely look me in the eye. But he prophesized that one day I would return. At the time I thought he meant that being gay was a fad, an act of madness that would pass. Today, I believe he meant that nothing had changed in his heart about me. He didn’t know how to say it. And I didn’t know how to hear it.’
Danny’s fingers explored the leaves of the ginkgo tree.
‘Describe an ordinary day.’
