Fragment 5 - Spanish 201 - Javier

After some fifteen months in Spain, my working life and social life began to change from bargain-basement stuff to something approaching 5th Avenue and even hedonism.

When I first arrived in Barcelona, my friend Robert introduced me to everyone as his cousin - mi primo. At the time, I lacked any curiosity as to why this was necessary. In any case, it was plausible as he and I were of similar build, appearance and colouring. He was about twelve years older and beginning to thin on top, but we could easily have passed for brothers. As time went by, I began to appreciate that Robert - ever the entrepreneur - was connected sexually with practically everyone to whom I was introduced. I have previously described him as "omnisexual". And he was! The guy had love interests in almost every city in Spain and his Barcelona network of girlfriends and boyfriends was as intricate and finely balanced as any spider's web.

As a "cousin", I posed no threat to anyone who believed he or she was Robert's one and only. The absurdity of this is that I was no threat anyway - Robert and I had once fooled around together, but that was in the past, and he was now on the treadmill of accompanying tourists on fifteen-day bus tours of Spain while I plodded away as an English tutor at the university. When we did occasionally catch up it was just for a chat over a meal or a coffee. I think he was pleasantly surprised by my staying power - the teenager who'd come to Barcelona on a whim was still there over a year later and deeply immersed in all things Spanish.

My so-called cousin's staying power was on the wane, however. Robert was tiring of the life he'd led for several years and giving serious thought to chucking it in as a courier and moving to live in Poland. Maybe I'd reached a stage where no fresh revelation had the power to astonish me - I cannot recall being greatly surprised when my quintessentially British friend revealed that he was actually Polish by birth and still had family there!

So Robert did not immediately head south during my second winter in Barcelona. He stayed to brave the cooler weather for a while and, in his own strange way, to say goodbye to Spain. He paid a great deal of attention to me at this time, introducing me to many of his close friends - people whose existence I had previously only suspected - and coaching me in the sundry skills needed in this milieu. Robert also passed on to me a quantity of clothing for which he had no future need - he was planning on travelling light - and I was grateful to augment my disreputable wardrobe with some quality shirts, sweaters and jackets. On reflection, it was as if he was grooming me to succeed him, take over some "role" once he'd gone.

Within the confines of these fragments, it is impossible to describe all the people and situations I encountered after "entering society", but I will attempt to give you some sense of it - a few tastes of the strange banquet of oddities presented to me. I will begin with Javier.

I wish I could reveal Javier's surname because it was a glorious one - it fairly rolled off the tongue like a list of great emperors and heroes; it went a little like Javier de San Bernadino y Santiago, only far more impressive and mellifluous. He lived in an apartment that was akin to a medium-sized palace at one of the city's most prestigious addresses. His family had survived the Spanish Civil War and Franco's regime with much of their money intact but with less of their former prestige and influence. There may have been other siblings, but I only met Javier and his brother and sister. They were all single and childless so perhaps that glorious surname was doomed to extinction.

These three somehow co-existed under the same roof. The brother was a lawyer and the sister was involved in church work. Javier did very little except stay home and pursue his various eccentricities. He was the youngest of the three and he was what some might call a savant or a wise fool. He had been cossetted and indulged his entire life, first by his parents and then by his siblings. As a result he was incredibly spoilt and had little idea of how to control his behaviour in public; but his child-like simplicity and occasional tantrums masked a mind that was like a steel trap where the minutiae of history and music were concerned.

The first time I visited, I was impressed by the apartment's huge marble-tiled entry hall and the passageway leading from it, but they seemed comparatively stark and restrained when compared with Javier's suite of rooms, for he had assembled on his walls and floors the most eclectic collection of antiques and curios imaginable. Suits of armour competed for attention with statuary, tiger skins, a giant brass gong, innumerable paintings and tapestries, and many glass cases containing stuffed animals and medieval costumes. His rooms always seemed dark even though lamps abounded, but the aspect which most assailed the senses was the music that Javier lived by - on a good day he might play Stan Getz, Joao Gilberto, Stephane Grappelli and bel canto opera; on bad days, however, it was just endless and mournful Edith Piaf that filled his rooms.

The task entrusted to me - to act as Javier's "minder" on his occasional forays into the world beyond the apartment - brought with it entry into the social whirl, but it was not without its difficulties. At any given moment (and for no apparent reason) Javier might decide to sit lotus-like in a theatre foyer or on a crowded streeet; worse still, he might remain standing and elect to unzip his pants and display his cock to all and sundry. He had a very long and very thick dick which could never attain full erection because of a tightly restrictive foreskin. He did not want to use his cock. He did not want anyone to touch it. He did not want any surgeon to fix it. He was content just to exhibit it and cry over it. His virginity was unquestionable. I suspect it was also preferable to him. And he loved to get emotional and cry over whatever it was he believed his plight to be.

Even with his many eccentricities, I grew very fond of this strange man. In good times, we listened to glorious music together, attended the opera, and ate excellent food in excellent restaurants. On bad days, we listened to Edith Piaf together and Javier would mostly be quiet and mournful, only breaking the stillness occasionally to exhibit his cock and weep a little. At all times Javier had impeccable manners and a courtesy that seemed to hark back to some golden age of chivalry. It was his poor behaviour that caused problems because, sadly, there is no courteous or chivalrous way to display one's cock in public.

My friend's ability to recall historic dates was amazing, as was his ability to remember the libretto and the score of any opera. When I accompanied him to the opera he would sometimes be disturbed by some small change in the tempo or the recitative that probably escaped other people's notice. He would clasp his hands to his head and mutter over the heresy of such alterations. For me this was distracting, but it was also electrifying to witness such mastery of abstruse detail - I believe that Javier felt personally responsible for ensuring that every opera adhered strictly to the original. Though unorthodox himself in so many ways, authenticity and orthodoxy were the very corner-stones of his dedication to music - his mind could not accommodate any change.

Javier did have a live-in carer - a very capable woman who saw to his every need save one - his need for companionship, fellowship. I gathered that my pseudo-cousin, Robert, had previously acted as an occasional "minder" when the carer was on leave or when Javier went on excursions - apparently he was paid for this, but I made it plain to the family that I did not expect any payment for time spent with their enfant terrible. Truth be told, I enjoyed spending time with him and could never have afforded the opera and fine dining without him. Robert had obviously tapped into many economic side-streams over the years but this was not one that I was ever tempted to capitalise on.

I have made no attempt here to list all of Javier's unique ways. Suffice to say there were also problems surrounding his toileting and the crushes he would develop on people. Wherever he went, a change of clothing went too. And whenever he felt a brief wave of regard for someone - whatever their gender and even if they were a complete stranger - he would rush to hug and kiss them full on the lips. In reality he led a very chaste life and hurt no one. In many ways he was comparable to Don Quixote of La Mancha - crazed in so many respects, but wise, gentle and very loving too.

Javier would have been in his late forties, perhaps early fifties when I knew him and I dare say he is dead by now, but I still think of him and his highly idiosyncratic rooms with great fondness. It was in his rooms that I first discovered jazz and Brazilian music, and it was in his company that I first learned to exercise compassion without reservation. In return, Javier consistently gave me the trust and affection that he rarely bestowed on others - such gifts from a wise fool are something to treasure.

Comments

Another fascinating chapter in a book brimming with so many unique experiences. What amazes me is that for a man as young as you were you had the maturity, compassion, respect for others that sometimes escapes we mere mortals for a lifetime!

Javier was a strange guy, but a lucky guy, and you no less fortunate for the opportunity to know him, help him, befriend him.

Please, write more -- may your muse be ever-present!
 

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