Midnight In Madrid

THIRTY-FIVE

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 10, EARLY AFTERNOON

For Maria Elena Gómez, the new week was not going well.

José Luis, her new partner this week in Pedro’s absence, was an even bigger pain to work with than she had imagined. On their first day together, he had been as aggravating as any man she had ever had to work with. He was slow and inattentive to detail. His attention would wander, he would want to sneak off for cigarettes, and he had a machísmo attitude that she found unbearable, an attitude best exemplified by her doing all the work and him supervising. Or so it seemed.

She had had more than enough of him as they inspected the electrical junctions at the Sevilla station in the old city. While Maria was busy noting a frayed cable that could short circuit if any rain swept down into the station, she looked up to find him not taking the notes as she suggested, but rather watching a gaggle of American girls in shorts and minis, as they waited for a train.

“Are you here to look or are you here to work?” she asked him.

“I’m here to look,” he said.

“Then why don’t you find another partner?” she snapped.

“Because you’re prettier than most of the cows who work for the Metro.”

“I should report you for a remark like that,” she said. “Maybe I will.”

“I’ll deny I ever said it,” he smirked. “You know how women imagine things. If you come on to them, they complain. If you don’t, they’re insulted.”

She handed him a clipboard, almost throwing it at him. The American girls turned and watched the argument and grinned. One of them whipped out a disposable camera and snapped a flash picture. Maria felt humiliated.

“Just shut up and work,” she said tersely as a train rumbled into the station. “Or I will report you. I swear.”

He growled but finally got the message, taking the proper notes as she gave them to him, filling out the proper maintenance request that would be turned in at the end of the day.

They track-walked to the next station, Banco de España, in near silence, moving slowly. They twice stepped to the side en route when the red warning lines cautioned them about an advancing train. They found nothing worthy of note in the tunnel. Then when they emerged at the Banco de España station, José Luis was at it again. When they came up into the station, they were confronted by a huge Real Madrid billboard featuring the goalkeeper, Iker Casillas making a brilliant diving one-handed save.

José Luis took the occasion to sing the praises of Real Madrid.

“I support Atlético,” she said sharply.

He laughed. “Sabes, no comprendo que una bonita mujer sensata como tú seas hincha de ese equipo de perdedores.” I don’t understand how a pretty girl like you could be a fan of a bunch of losers like that.

“Por que no te callas!” Why don’t you just shut up? “For the rest of the week.”

José Luis smirked in response. She knew that lurking beneath the surface, he was one of those men who didn’t feel women should even have these jobs walking the tracks. She was in a genuinely foul mood by now. The attack on Atlético she even felt as a shot at her late father. She felt sadness mixing with her anger and wished the week was already over.

But it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.