Mr Lynch’s Holiday

26

It reminded Dermot of bars in Ireland. A TV flickering in the corner. Stools up to the counter. Bags of crisps served on a plate. It was called El Rincón. He asked Inga what it meant and she told him: The Corner. Nothing fancy about it at all.

He had been restless that evening in the flat, unable to settle. He was standing on the terrace, watching the sky darken, when the buzzer sounded. Her invitation as welcome as it was unexpected.

It was a forty-five-minute brisk walk along the dirt road into San Pedro — a good preparation for a cold beer. When they got there, Inga introduced him to Luis, the barman, and ordered a couple of Cruzcampos.

‘Just in time,’ she said, as Luis turned up the volume on the TV.

Dermot looked up to see two teams lining up on a pitch. ‘Is there a match on?’

Inga laughed.

He took a sip of his beer and noticed that the scarf she was wearing had something written on it.

‘Helsingborg,’ he said slowly.

She turned and smiled. ‘My team.’

‘Oh, right. A football scarf.’

‘Of course. What did you think?’

‘I just thought it was a scarf — you know, women often wear scarves.’

‘Not like this! You must have thought I looked mad.’

‘Not mad, no. Hot, I thought. Even allowing for the sun going down, I thought a woolly scarf could be hot.’

She looked back at the TV. ‘Luis always has the big matches on here. It’s the only place I can see them.’

Dermot saw the flags at the bottom of the screen and realized that the match was between Sweden and Spain.

Inga carried on talking. ‘Perhaps you could become a temporary supporter of Sweden, given that your own side failed to even qualify.’ She glanced at him, waiting for him to take the bait.

‘Did they?’

She laughed again. ‘Oh, very good. I’m sure it didn’t hurt at all.’ She turned back to the screen. ‘No one in Lomaverde is interested in football. That’s why I asked you — it’ll be nice to have some intelligent conversation about it.’

Dermot was quiet for a while, drinking his beer. It wasn’t long before Inga turned from the screen and peered at him. ‘You weren’t making a joke, were you?’

He looked down at his hands.

‘You don’t know anything about football?’

He shrugged. ‘The truth is, I don’t know where that Aston Villa bag came from. It’s got me into all kinds of bother over the years.’

‘Oh no, Dermot! Why didn’t you say?’

‘I didn’t know we were coming to watch football. Anyway, I don’t mind. It’s a nice change.’

‘But I said we’d be able to see the TV in the bar.’

‘I just thought you liked TV.’

‘And wearing woolly scarves?’

He shrugged. ‘I take the invitations I get.’

She kept apologizing. He didn’t know what for. In the end he told her to please just watch the match and let him drink his beer, and she did.

He was content enough to look about the place. He studied the pictures hanging behind the bar: a signed photograph of a basketball team, a poster of a red sports car, and a small picture of the Virgin Mary with a black face. She seemed to be watching him, her expressionless eyes following his each time he took a drink.

There was an odd selection of food on offer. A glass display case on the bar was filled with bags of crisps and two boxes of doughnuts. Next to the till was a large jar of olives. He eyed the murky contents with suspicion. He’d eaten one once. He’d thought it was about the worst thing he’d ever had in his mouth. He’d thought if people would eat them they’d eat anything.

Away from the bar and the buzz of the television two women of around Kathleen’s age sat at a table playing cards, drinking something red and fizzy that came in small bottles. On another table a little girl, presumably belonging to someone, sat drinking a chocolate milkshake and colouring in a large picture of a palace. Dermot thought of Nagle’s place in Ennistymon, people slipping in and out without much thought, using it like an extra room of their house. He wondered if Eamonn had ever been to El Rincón. It might be nice for him, getting out of the flat, a change of scenery. He could always bring his laptop for company.

Inga seemed unbothered at being the only Sweden supporter in the place. She shouted at the TV a couple of times and laughed occasionally with Luis and some of the other Spanish fans. When the game finished she apologized to Dermot for her team’s defeat. ‘It wasn’t a game to convert you, I fear.’

‘Is that what you were hoping to do?’

‘I thought you might see the light.’

‘I’ve never been much good at that.’

She took off her scarf and blew her fringe from her forehead.

‘Are you a regular here, then?’ Dermot asked.

‘It depends what football’s on. I don’t come that often, but I know Luis now and one or two others.’

‘I got the impression that there was some bad blood between local people and you all up there.’

She smiled at that. ‘“Bad blood” — I like that, very melodramatic, very Gypsy’s curse.’

‘Is it not the case?’

‘I don’t think so. I think maybe it’s a fine line sometimes for people between isolation and paranoia. Some people down here are unhappy with the development, or unhappy with the developers, but I don’t think they hold us personally responsible. If anything, I think we puzzle them. Why did we come? What were we hoping for? In our big homes and our funny woolly scarves.’

He smiled. ‘Have you always been a fan?’

‘Not always. I was never that interested in it as a young girl. I followed the local team in Norrtälje, but half-heartedly. When I met Anders though — my ex-husband — he was very keen, used to go to matches most weekends. I had an idea that I should try to share his interests. I’d pretend to be very enthusiastic about upcoming games. Memorize facts about certain players.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘It’s no wonder he thought me a fool.’

Dermot said nothing.

‘It’s OK. He was right.’ She took a sip of her drink. ‘It’s hard to look back. My stupidity, you know?’ There was a long pause. She shook her head. ‘I have to be kind to myself now. That woman was punished enough.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

‘Dermot, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m saying this. I wonder, am I trying to give you the worst evening of your life?’

‘I don’t mind at all.’

‘It’s ridiculous. You have what my mother called a “listening face”. It must be a curse.’

‘It’s not.’ He looked around the bar. ‘You seem quite at home here. Are you glad you came to Lomaverde?’

‘I am. Is that surprising?’

‘I get the impression not many people are.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’ She hesitated. ‘Can I tell you a secret?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m glad Lomaverde has failed.’

He looked at her.

‘Please don’t misunderstand, I’m not glad about the unhappiness it has caused others, of course not. The people who can’t sell their houses, the people who lost money, the workers who never got paid properly, all the disappointments. I’m sorry for all those things.’

‘Of course.’

‘I came here expecting the same as everyone else. A new community, a fresh start in this beautiful place.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘My marriage was over. Thirty years of trying to turn a blind eye, of thinking my husband would change. That felt like a big mistake, a terrible waste of time. I thought I could come here and lose myself in a new place.

‘But imagine somewhere in which everyone is like that. So intent on happiness, on living a fairy tale. They have not emigrated from places with no work or money to a place with jobs and opportunities. No, they have left comfortable lives in search of somewhere even better. It’s a kind of greed, don’t you think? And if you’d have said that to me two years ago, I’d have said, “So what? Why not be greedy for happiness? What’s wrong with that?”

‘Shall I tell you what’s wrong?’

Dermot nodded.

‘Disappointment. That’s what’s wrong. If you’re greedy for happiness then you will always be hungry. You can’t just say happiness is in a certain place and move there, it doesn’t work like that.’ She put her hand over her mouth. ‘My God. “If you’re greedy for happiness then you will always be hungry.” I sound like a fortune cookie. This is all obvious, old as the hills. You know all this already.’

He gave a little shrug. ‘Maybe.’

‘The point is, no one would want to admit to their disappointment, it would be something shameful, something hidden. Imagine living in such a place? Where failure or regret or despair are inappropriate, where such feelings are not allowed, don’t fit with the blue skies and the sunshine. I would have lasted six weeks.’ She exhaled a long plume of smoke. ‘But that isn’t how it worked out. Instead Lomaverde is a failed dream. Do you know the word for it in Spanish?’

He shook his head.

‘“Ciudad fantasma” — a “ghost town”. It sounds beautiful, don’t you think? It is a melancholy place, crumbling at the edges, and I find that I love it. It’s a place where you can admit to mistakes, you have no choice but to. I think the lack of people makes it more human.’ She paused. ‘Is that mad?’

He took a drink of his beer and thought back to his childhood. Exploring empty cottages with Dominic, a certain exhilaration buried in the sadness, a sense of familiarity in the unknown. He saw she was waiting for an answer. ‘It’s not mad. I like it there too.’

She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Shall we head back?’

‘If you like. I’m sorry your boys didn’t win.’

‘It’s OK. It was good to see the game anyway. For all that he took away, my husband gave me three wonderful things: my son, Magnus, my daughter, Pia, and my love of football.’

‘You still love it, even when you lose?’

‘A good defeat can be better than a bad victory.’

‘Can it?’

She laughed for a long time at that. ‘You really know nothing about football, do you?’