At Córdoba railway station the subterranean traveller attracted the attention of a skinny, goodlooking woman in her late forties who invited him for a glass of sherry on the buffet terrace. It soon became clear she held him for much younger and that she was interested in his services. With five euros in his pocket, the traveller found himself in no position to decline, and so he ended up in a well-kept merchant home where everything indicated a childless marriage. We have plenty of time, Rocío comforted him. The subterranean traveller had her up against the wall of the master bedroom, she on one leg and the other slung over his arm.
They then continued on the bed and when they were done, Rocío begged to be taken with him. Let's go to Tarifa and watch Africa, she proposed, I'm rich. Rocío happened to own a convertible. With a basket full of olives and sparkling white wine they headed South. While the traveller was steering her car through the darkness, Rocío raised glass after glass to him and spoke about the crisis that was hitting her countrymen. I can feel the weariness that has taken hold of the Spanish people, she said. For so many years we lived on a bubble of sheer happiness, thanks to our inherent optimism and our belief that tomorrow will be better, this belief that has us dancing in the streets while the crops are rotting on the field. She let her long nails run along the traveller's thigh. I speak beautiful words, don't I? she smiled. Quite, the subterranean admitted with some difficulty.
They had chosen the back road over Ronda, Rocío claiming the night air was nowhere as soothing as it was here. We Spanish, we are tired, she continued, we've worked so hard and we have succeeded enormously. Every next morning was a new and better mañana. But now we can't keep up any longer, we are exhausted, we are stretched to our limits, everything has become elaborate and expensive. We want our peace, we want to be tired, we no longer want to improve, we want to be poor and eat gazpacho. And how would you know, asked the subterranean traveller, thinking of her declared riches. I feel it in my heart, answered Rocío, I feel it in my guts and in my soul. Siento la sangre del pueblo español. She burst with laughter and put her hand on his crotch, which was now showing a promising bubble. You're not tired, I hope? The traveller was dead-tired of course after all he had been through, but with five euros in his pocket there clearly was no room for the truth. Let us stop here for a while and enjoy the gorgeous silence, Rocío offered. They found parking space behind a rock and while he took Rocío from behind on willpower alone and she at full volume shattered that gorgeous silence, the subterranean traveller wondered how many lovers this woman had brought here and for how long he would be able to satisfy her, partly out of sheer curiosity, partly because the sportsman he felt inside him did not want to perform under par.
