Madrid 1997 (atmosphere/ description/senses)
The smell first. Not a perfume but an ochre, smoky smell falling down the polished concrete steps. I dragged a tired body up those steps into the late evening light, towards where the chestnut seller had his stand.
Somehow the cooked chestnut smell revived me a little. Pedro [They were always a Pedro] stood waiting, his lined skin taking on the grey charcoal hue of his art. He said hello and waited those few seconds to see if for once, I'd buy his wares. It was the end of the month. In my pocket sat a small wages envelope containing a meagre cheque, wrapped in a good deal of cash; black money, the untaxed part of my wages.
Today was Pedro's lucky day. I loved cooked chestnuts straight out of the makeshift barrel-brazier. I'd loved them twenty years before I'd eaten them. My parents had consumed them on their Honeymoon in fifty's London. I loved the idea of it. Old-fashioned, simple and necessary.
"How much?"
"Four hundred pesetas for a cone-full." "O.K."
"I will prepare them presently." He found the remains of Sunday's EL Pais newspaper in a bag. I recognised it as I'd read the same pages over coffee in Casa Antonio's. He folded it deftly into a perfect cone shape after shaking it hard to make it solid.
"What cold!" He stated to no-one in particular. "What cold!" I was too involved in his work to say much. With sleight of hand he produced an old and beaten, re-shaped stove shovel and dove into the barrel with it, returning with a full scoop of glistening roast chestnuts. The almost-but-not-quite-burnt chestnuts filled the paper cone perfectly. I produced a 500 peseta note and handed it over. As I stood at the entrance to the Metro the dirty-warm air rushed up from below but seemed to be pushed back by the clean, frost-laden Winter air from above. I placed the change in my shirt pocket beside my Identity card, and re-fastened the safety pin on it to ward off the Metro's many pick-pockets.
Now the walk home. I placed my satchel {with corrections I'd not correct} comfortably on my shoulder so I could concentrate, walking slowly to enjoy my treat. I didn't care that my hands would be black from the newspaper print. I could feel the intense warmth of the cone's contents through the paper. By God they were hot! I had to blow hard on the first few and fumble them into my open mouth, imagining in vain the frost-stilled air would follow each one in and help cool it. They broke open richly and tasted of the ground and Winter and oily charcoal.
I walked along at a stroll. Passengers burst out of the Metro's exits up the street, moved briskly away from their commute and towards their lives. I could see them move, watching their breath plume and fizzle out behind them. TelePizza mopeds buzzed around the neighbourhood, wasps searching for nests. Bar conversations seemed drowned by Soccer on TVs in corners. I made the chestnuts last all the way home to my apartment block. As I turned the key in the street door I saw it was 10.30pm on the clock over the Caretaker's desk. I placed the empty newspaper into the waste basket beside the desk and finally felt as if I'd lived for just a moment in Madrid.
Somehow the cooked chestnut smell revived me a little. Pedro [They were always a Pedro] stood waiting, his lined skin taking on the grey charcoal hue of his art. He said hello and waited those few seconds to see if for once, I'd buy his wares. It was the end of the month. In my pocket sat a small wages envelope containing a meagre cheque, wrapped in a good deal of cash; black money, the untaxed part of my wages.
Today was Pedro's lucky day. I loved cooked chestnuts straight out of the makeshift barrel-brazier. I'd loved them twenty years before I'd eaten them. My parents had consumed them on their Honeymoon in fifty's London. I loved the idea of it. Old-fashioned, simple and necessary.
"How much?"
"Four hundred pesetas for a cone-full." "O.K."
"I will prepare them presently." He found the remains of Sunday's EL Pais newspaper in a bag. I recognised it as I'd read the same pages over coffee in Casa Antonio's. He folded it deftly into a perfect cone shape after shaking it hard to make it solid.
"What cold!" He stated to no-one in particular. "What cold!" I was too involved in his work to say much. With sleight of hand he produced an old and beaten, re-shaped stove shovel and dove into the barrel with it, returning with a full scoop of glistening roast chestnuts. The almost-but-not-quite-burnt chestnuts filled the paper cone perfectly. I produced a 500 peseta note and handed it over. As I stood at the entrance to the Metro the dirty-warm air rushed up from below but seemed to be pushed back by the clean, frost-laden Winter air from above. I placed the change in my shirt pocket beside my Identity card, and re-fastened the safety pin on it to ward off the Metro's many pick-pockets.
Now the walk home. I placed my satchel {with corrections I'd not correct} comfortably on my shoulder so I could concentrate, walking slowly to enjoy my treat. I didn't care that my hands would be black from the newspaper print. I could feel the intense warmth of the cone's contents through the paper. By God they were hot! I had to blow hard on the first few and fumble them into my open mouth, imagining in vain the frost-stilled air would follow each one in and help cool it. They broke open richly and tasted of the ground and Winter and oily charcoal.
I walked along at a stroll. Passengers burst out of the Metro's exits up the street, moved briskly away from their commute and towards their lives. I could see them move, watching their breath plume and fizzle out behind them. TelePizza mopeds buzzed around the neighbourhood, wasps searching for nests. Bar conversations seemed drowned by Soccer on TVs in corners. I made the chestnuts last all the way home to my apartment block. As I turned the key in the street door I saw it was 10.30pm on the clock over the Caretaker's desk. I placed the empty newspaper into the waste basket beside the desk and finally felt as if I'd lived for just a moment in Madrid.
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