It had never happened to me before. The sight of one woman having the effect it did was so dramatic that I stopped and stared, totally oblivious to my surroundings. I had blanked out everything except her, my vision narrowing to focus only on her.
She was blonde. Oh, God, was she blonde! Her silken hair almost white-gold. Fair skinned, tall, dressed in a simple, black serving smock with white cuffs and collar. Her face was flawless, a beautiful and genuine smile on it as she approached us. She was perfection personified. I gawked in amazement.
"Welcome to Castillo de Osuna," she said in a soft, soothing voice, speaking lightly accented English.
She placed the leather bound menus in front of my parents and me, giving me a friendly look when she did. Nordic blondes were very uncommon in Andalusia. My eyes followed her as she walked away while my mind begged the gods she would be our server this afternoon.
"Pay attention, Richard," I heard my mother. "Your father was speaking to you."
"Sorry, I got distracted."
"I noticed," my father grinned. "I was asking if you had made a decision yet on what you will do when my term here expires."
"No ... I haven't. I'm not cut out to be a translator, I've discovered. I'd like to use my language skills somewhere else, but I really don't know where yet. I'm still searching."
We were in the town of Osuna. Just a half-hour drive from Sevilla (Seville), our city of residence for the past six years. My father was completing a contract with an American mining company, developing a copper mine in Gerena, not far from the Sevilla city limits.
It had been an exercise in frustration from the beginning. His American boss wanted to micro-manage everything. The discovery of a nearby two-thousand-year-old Roman village had tied everything up in bureaucratic red tape. I had taken the opportunity to complete my education here, specializing in languages. I had thought I might want to become a translator, using my multiple language facility to start a career in government. The idea had dwindled, then vanished when I saw the real thing at work during a brief internship. It had no appeal to me whatsoever.
I'm Richard Barton, 24 years old, 180 cm (five-foot-eleven), 80 kilos (175 pounds), brown hair trimmed neatly, brown eyes, better-than-average appearance according to others, and a recent recipient of a MA in languages. I lived with my parents in Sevilla, Spain and was currently unattached after an unpleasant break-up with a former girlfriend. But I'm nothing if not resilient, and I was already on the lookout for a replacement.
If I had gained anything in the last six years, it was the experience of living in a foreign land, with customs so completely different from North America. Still, we sacrificed few of the modern conveniences we take for granted. Spain was a modern country, with modern facilities and a well-developed infrastructure ... in most places.
Like our native Canada, however, there were undertones of regional differences. The Basque separatists and the Catalan Independentista were the two most vociferous. As the economy began to falter along with the rest of Europe, life had become much more difficult for the indigenous population. We, however, were almost oblivious to the problems, living in our nicely protected cocoon.
My father was anxiously awaiting the finish of his contract and his return to Vancouver. My mother was of two minds, however. She enjoyed the status and luxurious surroundings of the company-provided villa where we lived. Housekeeping services, a pool off the back patio, her little red Alfa Romeo coupe and, of course, the weather. It was a copy of Southern California with constant sunshine and mild winters. It could be unbearably hot during July and August, but mother chose to spend those months travelling to Canada to visit relatives and friends. My father remained behind to continue his work.
I had no brothers or sisters. I was the only son of Darrel and Laura Barton. Now finished university, I was looking for a career and a place to live. I couldn't continue to live with my parents. I needed my independence. My father would move on to his next contract, wherever in the world that would take him. I would strike out on my own.
I was financially secure for the next few years. My paternal grandfather had left a handsome sum for me in his will with the expressed hope that I would use it to travel and educate myself beyond the borders of my native Canada. I fully intended to do that.
We were returning from a pleasant weekend in Malaga, a brief celebration of my completion of studies at the Universidad de Sevilla. It had been a foregone conclusion that I would graduate some months earlier, but to receive my masters in languages was something I was proud of. My mother, especially, was announcing my accomplishment to any and all who would listen. It was embarrassing now and then, but I understood her pride in my accomplishment.
We had stopped at the Castillo for lunch, having set out from Malaga late in the morning. The clock was approaching two-thirty and it was near closing time for the dining room. It would open again sometime before eight in the evening. Father paid the bill and we prepared to leave.
I was disappointed that the amazing blonde woman didn't wait on us. She was apparently the hostess, greeting and seating everyone. I guessed her age to be near mine and I wondered how I might get to meet her in a more private setting. The answer was in my pocket. In a moment of vanity, I had ordered some business cards online. They contained my name, my cell phone number and my so-called status: Sr.Richard Barton, Linguista.
As we left the dining room, I diverted to the front desk and passed my card to the lovely blonde.
"You are very beautiful," I smiled. "Perhaps we can get to know each other?"
I got a nice smile in return and she tucked my card into the pocket of her smock. She raised her eyebrows to me, then turned to look after the next departing guests. I had hope. Not much, but some. A quick look at her name badge showed Kristiana.
~*~
"If you don't accept that position as a translator, Richard, what will you do with yourself? You can't continue to just live with us and do nothing now that you are out of school."
"That was never my intention, Mother. I'm looking for something that will give me more satisfaction than a boring desk job, translating documents for some agency or whatever. I saw the real job last summer on my internship and that was enough for me. I told you that at the time. You just didn't want to hear it."
"You could have had a job at the government offices," she argued. "You might have been able to move up from there. There are jobs in Ottawa that can use people with your skills."
"I'm sure there are, but that is not what I want to do with my life. I want something more fulfilling and satisfying for my future. Being a clerk in some obscure office in Ottawa doesn't do it for me."
"Such a waste," she muttered.
My mother knew better than to try and get my father to support her on this topic. He was on my side.
The truth, however, was that I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life after school. I wanted a career, but I had not found one that would satisfy me. Perhaps I would have to settle for something less in the short term. At least I had the summer to think about it and look around.
~*~
It was the following morning when my cell phone rang. When I looked at the screen I didn't recognize the caller's number.
"Hello?"
"Is this Richard?" the soft voice asked.
I knew who it was immediately.
"Hello. How nice of you to call. May I have your name?"
She giggled briefly. "I am Kristiana ... from the Castillo ... Sunday ... the dining room."
"I know. I recognized your voice. I'm so glad you called."
"How did you recognize me? We only said two words to each other."
"That was enough. The sound of you voice is burned into my memory forever, as is your beauty."
"Oh ... Richard ... that is such a terrible pick-up line."
"It is, isn't it. But it happens to be true."
"You flatter me. Are you American?"
"No, I'm Canadian, actually. You know, those frozen fellows from the great white north."
I heard her genuine laugh.
"I am Norwegian. I am also from the great white north."
"I thought you might be Scandinavian. Kristiana is a beautiful name for a beautiful woman."
