The Case

I winced as he took the stool next to me at the counter rather than one of the many others in the half empty cafeteria. I only came in for coffee and now I had company. With enough on my mind already, someone else’s thoughts cluttering the picture weren’t welcome and I did my best to avoid any acknowledgement of his arrival. Rummaging in my bag for anything that could be construed as important, I grabbed a few loose papers and pulled them out. Studiously I gave them a good once-over and even put on my glasses to embellish my performance. It was all for nought as my new neighbour politely asked me to pass him the serviettes. To me it seemed a bit like throat clearing before the real event, but no sooner had I given him the serviettes than the barman interrupted taking his order as he wiped the already clean surface. When it’s me they take all day but with this guy it was all done in minutes and I was again left to fend for myself. Just don’t make eye contact I reasoned. Glance at my watch, drink the coffee quickly and get going was the best I could come up with but it was too late. He suddenly started speaking English and I knew my options were fewer with his every word. His heavy Spanish accent belied otherwise fluent and nuanced English and his manner carried an authority that said he was accustomed to being listened to which both piqued my curiosity and worried me a little.

Unremarkable to look at and dressed just as forgettably, this guy and I had been barely a minute from remaining perfect strangers. A few observations about the weather and the impending arrival of spring seemed enough ice breaking for him as he went on to remark on the weather in England. In a last ditch effort to avoid retreading the well worn path of that conversation, I told him I wasn’t English but was headed off with the inevitable query as to my provenance before any distance could be put between us. I hate that. How much should I say? This question just raises more questions and it’s never satisfactory for either my own sense of self or the need of my interlocutor to categorise me in a way that relates to their own understanding of the world. Appearing  to sense my unease, he introduced himself as Sergio and gave me a brief bio as if somehow coaxing me to follow suit. Spanish, from Valladolid, living in Madrid, working in sales or something to do with machinery in the pipeline industry was the summary he gave but he could have said anything. The same is true of any fresh acquaintance so with no great expectation to meet again, I simply nodded.  David, I coughed and said I was Irish. I waited for a tale of how he had once been there or something along those lines. It didn’t come.

I began to feel as if we were in the opening moves of a chess game and somehow he was interpreting me to best work out his next move. I had little to offer in the context having been caught off guard by this intrusion into my head space. Nonetheless, out of politeness and to fill the gap, I conceded my accent wasn’t Irish but more neutral than anything. Saying he had thought as much, he nodded sagely before throwing in the curveball. Australia he said.

Short of falling from the stool, there were few appropriate reactions and my surprise must have been clear. How in the fuck had this guy whose name I didn’t even know until five minutes earlier and who spoke English with no concession to accent get that? I hadn’t lived there since I was a young child and any trace of accent was long gone, at least to me.

If Sergio had piqued my curiosity a few minutes earlier, he now had it by the throat. Drawn in as if by gravity, I hurriedly gave a little more if just to regain my composure. I began to feel I’d been strong armed into something and I’m not given to confessionals over coffee or to strangers in general.  Sergio must have read my discomfort and changed tack to get my thoughts on Spain and Madrid in particular. A few pleasant sounding noises on life in Spain later and I could see him losing interest before he waded in with the word politically. I was torn. This could lead anywhere in this country and I hesitated. Getting the ball rolling Sergio made a few comments on corruption and the legacy of the civil war but it was all a bit too objective and left me wondering if there was a subtext I wasn’t picking up on. Responding I ran off a few equally non-committal anecdotes of a similar type even shaking my head for good measure.  I didn’t have a vote here anyway I said and claimed my interest was more European and worldwide rather than the parochial squabbling of local interests. That was it. That was the foothold he’d been seeking and I’d just given him it without thinking. I might yet be here a while I feared.

Surely I must have a view on Spanish politics and the new landscape that had emerged during the financial crisis. Of course I did but I was unimpressed. The voting system was unfathomable and if the constitution had once offered guidelines on how the country might develop post dictatorship, it now represented more the calcification of development and a paucity of new ideas. Still measured in his tone but now a little more focused, Sergio replied saying that all change had to be managed and delivered carefully. Radicals he said always had to remain disappointed. If they were not, then trouble lay in wait. Humans are not well prepared for great change he surmised.

By this point I was still no clearer on who he was or if it even really mattered. It was clear he wasn’t selling me anything and he hadn’t shown his hand in the way that fascists, extremists and ideologues do. They tend to reveal themselves in response to simple prompts quite early in a conversation and are then tightly bound by a commitment to ideas that gives them little room to manoeuvre. Sergio kept his cards close to his chest and gave little away. Whatever he was, he wasn’t ideologically driven but he did keep me guessing.

Beyond his line of work in the oil pipeline business, Sergio hadn’t really given much away at all so I felt it was my turn to ask. He’d been married once but wasn’t any longer, he had no kids and no close family, he travelled frequently but mostly to Africa, the Middle East and Russia. With each question he replied as if reading and even through the accent, there was something unsettling about it.

Breaking into the moment before there was time to steer the conversation further, Sergio’s mobile rang with the sound of chirping crickets.

• “I have to take this” he said before requesting I mind his belongings.
• “Sure” I replied as it dawned on me I would now be stuck here doing just that.

As he stood outside the door I noticed he had the same demeanour speaking on the phone as he did in person; calm but almost as if reciting lines from a script. Perhaps I was over reading the whole thing but, now I was here looking after his stuff it only remained to see how this would play out.