Years went by, possibly some twenty, and the spinners of Soacinsa rarely crossed Don Emeterio’s mind. Vicente da Rula fell prey to a cancer that morphine could do little to mask; and the chemist heard no more about that child in the mountains except — from what his servant had told him — that he was growing up happily, with his loving mother and the kindly verger of San Fiz whom the woman had ended up marrying.
Don Emeterio Suárez de Valcarría y Candia was a great huntsman, and an even better womaniser. It was well known throughout the region that, as soon as the season opened, he’d be up in the mountains, day after day, goaded on by the smell of gunpowder with not a thought in his head but feathers and hides and trophies. There were times when he’d be marooned by heavy snowfall and not return home for weeks — not that his family worried much about that, for there were arrangements in place for these absences of the master of the house: his wife took charge of the household and their nine sons, and they had an assistant to look after the chemist shop where the locals would still gather in the back to play cards and dominoes, buoyed by comments and conjecture about the chemist’s carryings-on.
Simon Whitaker has already read Brit Es Magazine’s new serial Hotel Damasco and it has set his mind whirring. Here are his thoughts on why you should read it too.
My love affair began in 2007. It’s one of those literary love stories, not because it mirrors those that appear in books but because it’s about the relationship between books and a reader. More specifically, between an independent publisher and myself.
She takes the corner of my eye and pulls me in over Pedro’s shoulder.
For a brief moment, I think I’ve glimpsed Mathilde from uni, an instance of mistaken identity more common here than back home. But in seconds I realise this girl is like nobody I’ve seen before. The lightness in my legs, filling up and overflowing across the surface of my skin, tells me that without question. Her black ringlets cascade wildly around a bright Mediterranean face. Her mouth is a bold, red fruit, shining with speech. Then, with eyes as dark as a forest, she looks at me. We connect.
Oh God, tonight. Just got back with Juliana and Leon. Tired and drunk still, but want to write.
El Valle de los Caídos, a Catholic basilica and monumental memorial
First day discovering Madrid.
Beginning of my pelicula. Sleepless night fretting. Low clouds of dawn.
My Spanish friends have expressed similar bemusement at our saccharine traditions. What on earth do decorated eggs, a generous rabbit and flowery hats have to do with the Passion? Probably nothing really, which may be why I like them so much.