The Spanish House the Spanish House by Version 1.1.1 6 May 2008 Suhayl Saadi
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ISSN 1754-1514 The Bottle Imp Issue 3, May 2008 A Novella The Spanish House The Spanish House by Version 1.1.1 6 May 2008 Suhayl Saadi To Aziz Balouch and Shusha Guppy and all the singers whose voices never die www.thebottleimp.org.uk The Bottle Imp is the ezine of the Scottish Writing Exhibition www.scottishwriting.org.uk and is published by the Association for Scottish Literary Studies www.asls.org.uk with the support of the Scottish Arts Council. ASLS is a registered charity, no. SC006535 Introduction The Spanish House is set partly during the autumn and winter of 1974–75, and partly in the year 2020, between London and rural Spain. The protagonist is a woman from London, Marjery Morris, who meets a certain Joe Leon at a Marxist meeting. She comes un- expectedly into a moderate inheritance from a hitherto estranged uncle, and they decide to take some time out. She spots an advert to rent a barraca (a small, stone house, a bit like a Scottish bothy) in southern Spain. She telephones the number given and finds herself being interrogated by a certain irascible Doctor Levi, who owns the property. The story is contemporaneous with the dictator Franco’s last illness, and it is told entirely from Morris’s perspective and in her voice. Joe Leon is of Jewish origin, though he has eschewed religion for dialectical materialism. The couple share a set of values, a view of the world. From the moment they arrive at the deserted barraca, however, they begin to react very differently to their new environ- The Spanish House ment (a fictional setting, close to the village of Darra on the northern Text, Notes and Glossary slopes of the Sierra Morena at the point where the three provinces © Suhayl Saadi, 2008 of Castilla La Mancha, Estremadura and Andalusia meet). I see the Iberian peninsula (together with Sicily) as pivotal to the onset of the Modern era, as well as being a constant reminder of the interconnectedness of Judeo-Islamic-Christian culture and thought. In The Spanish House, this matrix manifests against the semiotic backdrop of an almost rabbinical dialectical materialism. The node in The Spanish House is the relationship between sex, politics and religion and the manner in which these three play out through the character of a woman at a particular time in history. The fugue lies in the link between love – Eros – and the aim of transforming the human condition. The poeticism of the piece becomes so intense that the fiction begins to bend; a process analogous to the effect on time-space of being funnelled into a cosmic black hole. The deliber- ate use of the folk-song idiom is a turning-on-its-head of the flawed and dangerous Romantic and post-Romantic concept of “a people”, a self-contained tribe, a hermetically-sealed “folk”, linked, bound and defined by the land on which they dwell. In a distorted mirror- image of the eschatologies of some traditional societies where the people are seen as being an integrated seam in the landscape, in the patriotic-nationalist rapture the land becomes defined by dominant groupings, their dominance being expressed through those ultimate farcical reductions of folk songs which we call national anthems. The Spanish House plays out using folk songs, but here the agenda is The Spanish House the opposite, namely to elicit the lie, the inherent impossibility, of such a concept. Marjery becomes fascinated by the local church and its priest, but the attraction, at least at first, is essentially a surface one. Joe, on And I fell to grieving over the generations of men… the other hand, starts out the straight materialist, but by degrees (Levi, from The Legends of the Jews, Vol. II) falls into a state of intoxicated self-neglect. Their relationship steadily falls apart. The story is permeated by the cante jondo (deep song), We socialists are freer because we are complete; one of the folk-song forms of southern Spain. Church and priest, it we are more complete because we are freer. turns out, are far more than they seem, as is the elusive Dr Levi. The skeleton of our complete freedom is already Philosophically, the story is an exposition of the dialectic of the spirit formed. in the pre-Marxist sense. Ideas of Sephardic and Arabic culture rise The flesh and the clothing are lacking. uncontrollably from the white, burned earth of the Inquisition-Con- (Dr Ernesto Guevara, Havana, Cuba) quistador trail, along with the unresolved axis of the Spanish Civil War (the second being partly an ultimate consequence of the first), until the narrative is driven to a screaming climax that is wordless I returned to the Spanish house because there was nowhere else to in its intensity. go. My head pounded and my swollen feet ached in my boots as I Towards the end of the story, forty-five years on, the protagonist half-walked, half-climbed up the hill. The roof of my mouth was like herself begins to question the veracity of the narrative, to poke faults a canciónes manuscript and my tongue, an inkless quill. I didn’t care. in its fabric, to question its rules of engagement and even the exist- What I had to do was too important. ence of the other characters in the novella, and to point out obvi- Once again, it was spring and it was early morning, perhaps five, ously hackneyed literary devices such as the moderate inheritance, perhaps six. I wore no watch. The stars had faded and the air was the newspaper advertisement, the peculiar phone conversation, until fresh and cool before the onset of the heat of the day. My breath ultimately, she is led to confront the tenuousness of her own exist- gave off a fine, yellow mist and my lungs seemed to have expanded ence, not simply as a mortal human being but also as a functional within my chest so that in spite of my exhaustion, I felt as though I character in a fiction. This calls into question the range of possibili- could’ve walked on. As I climbed the hill, the land about me began ties of the novel and novella forms in the long stream of storytelling to feel intensely familiar, like the bones of an old lover: the dusty and music that comprises the human imagination and also evinces hillsides with flashes of green, the smell of roses coming from some- the polyvalent and sometimes contradictory relationships between where, the sound of my boots on the hard earth of the track. I kept song-forms like flamenco, reggae or rock and politics. Not so much my eyes focused on the regularly-spaced ruts which some jeep had angels on the head of a pin, as a balancing-act along the invisible made, the previous winter and on the small, blue flowers which grew strings connecting diametric Kabbalistical poles stretched almost to by the side of the track and which gave off no odour. I knew that if breaking point. Crack the vessels! I looked up too often, I would lose consciousness, and that like the stars I would fade into the enormity of the blue sky. A few times, I did try to catch a glimpse of the barraca, but to no avail. Then I remembered that Garcilaso was not a carmen and was set some way back from the edge of a plateau so that while one was actually climbing the hill, the whitewashed stone shack remained hidden from view. I should’ve known that, from the time before. So much of my life had been a symphony of forgetfulness. A nuba, pummelled and 1 distorted and confused until I could no longer tell that which was Levy who, I think, must have been a psychiatrist of some sort. At true from the morass of persiflage and falseness with which gladly least, that was what Joe and I had figured when we had looked at the I had adorned myself. advert in the newspaper. It was one of those small, boxed adverts, The hill, the house at the top of the hill, the sky above that and and it was in a no-frills section of the paper which normally did not the village below. Suddenly, in the midst of familiarity, I felt a sense deal with holiday cottages. But then, Garcilaso had never been a of alienation. I had returned for reasons of my own … but that was holiday cottage. Looking back, perhaps it was this which drew me a lie. I didn’t really know why I had returned. They ran through to the place, though at the time, I was more concerned with the my mind, the reasons, the men: Joe Leon, Dr. Levy and the man price and the location. In spite of the fact that Joe had a Spanish who had called himself Father. Padre Úbeda de Valor. I half-spoke surname, renting the house was my idea, not his. The thing was, the names of which I had hardly dared think during the fifty years Joe had never regarded himself as anything other than English. Or, since I had been here last, and I felt a trembling seize hold of my Middle English, as they used to say. As someone who has spent more gut. I stopped. I had to sit down. Then I walked over to a large, time around academics than I care to remember, I must say that I flat-topped rock, sat down and closed my eyes and felt the morn- had always thought of Middle English as referring to an ancient form ing breeze brush against the lids.