Glasgow Student Short Story Prize 2009

Judged by A.L. Kennedy
Edited by Elisabeth Ingram, Rebecca CF Bradburd and Jose Velazquez

Spanish Lessons in the Art of Love

“Si, si, o si…” The girl was on top. She was in love. When she climaxed it was always in her native Spanish. She told the boy she couldn’t come unless she was in love. That was a fact. She always said that.

    “Was it good?” the boy asked. He was still young.

    “It was good,” she said. “Couldn’t you tell?”

    The boy could tell but he was still young and she was an older woman, maybe thirty.

    “I could tell,” he said. “Guess I just needed to say it.”

    “Then tell me you love me,” she said.

    “I love you,” he said.

    “Tell me in Spanish, like I taught you.”

    “Te amo, Consuello Manita.”

    Consuello Manita closed her eyes. The boy kissed at the smooth dome of her eyelids, his touch the brush of a butterfly’s wing, her lashes tiny antennae against his lips. His eyes travelled her body, visiting each of her treasures in turn.

    When he kissed her on the lips she knew his hunger.

    “Patience, mi amor,” Connie said.

    “It’s because I love you so much,” he said.

    “I know, cariño,” she said. “Sometimes passion leads and the body follows.”

    Connie smiled. She lit a cigarette. She drew on it and then passed it to the boy.

    “All of this is making love,” Connie said.

    “I get it,” he said. “I didn’t used to get it but I get it now.”

    “That’s good,” she said. “You’re a quick learner. At nineteen the brain is a sponge for knowledge. Some of the people who come to me for Spanish lessons are older. They don’t learn so well.”

    “That’s good to know. Is it the same for love?”

    “The same,” Connie said. “I want to read to you. Great literature is art. I like to read when I’m in love. To mix art into it. Imagine being fucked on the floor of the Sistine Chapel with those great frescoes above you. Can you imagine it? Love is like great art. Wait,” she said.

    She took a book from a nightstand beside the bed. The boy had found a position with his head against the headboard that was half lying, half sitting as he smoked his cigarette. He was naked with one leg drawn up towards him.

    Connie made a tepee about herself with the quilt at the bottom of the bed, covering her head. It looked cosy and the boy’s face wore the thought that it would be nice to move inside, be close to her.

    “This is my favourite passage,” Connie said.

    She had the book open ready to read.

    “Read it in Spanish,” the boy said.

    “But you might not understand all of it,” she said.

    “I’m like a sponge.”

    “So you are.”

    “It’s art. It’ll be good.”

    Connie smiled with her lips, with her eyes, with the way her skin radiated joy. She loved this boy and he loved her. That had to be preserved. She drew his leg towards her and kissed the top of his foot where the skin was softest.

    She said, “After I’ve read to you I’ll make you breakfast and then we’ll make love again.”

    “That would be good,” the boy said.

    She saw the promise had already begun to stir him.

    She said. “Maybe before breakfast.” And she began to read.

    After they had made love she put on a silk wrap and went downstairs to cook breakfast.

    He smoked a cigarette. He dozed for a while. Then she was calling him. He pulled on his jeans and tee shirt and wandered downstairs barefoot.

    “Did you sleep?” she said. She was buttering some toast.

    “A little,” he said.

    He crossed to where she was standing and put his arms around her. The top of her head was level with his eyes. “I’m in love with you,” he said.

    “I know,” she said. “It’s wonderful. Love is the greatest art.” They kissed.

    He sat down at the kitchen table. Connie said, “There’s some sausage and bacon and tomato for breakfast. And fresh orange juice and coffee.”

    “Sounds good. Smells good,” he said. “I have an appetite.”

    Connie put a plate in front of him and then put dishes with the food on the table for him to help himself.

    “Just being in love gives you an appetite,” she said.

    He liked bacon best so he started there. Then he swallowed a full glass of orange juice. He felt strong, not tired any more. The coffee was too sweet but he sipped it slowly without complaining.

    Connie sat on the other side of the table eating. She said, “Do you have any classes today?”

    “No classes today.”

    “That’s good,” she said. “Are you alright?”

    “I don’t feel so good,” he said.

    Connie said, “Come and lie down, mi amor.” She helped him up.

    “I don’t think I can make it upstairs, Connie,” the boy said.

    “There’s a room just through here,” she said. She led him the few steps from the kitchen into the small hallway and then through a door. The room was bare of furniture except for the single bed she laid him on.

    “I need to lie still for a bit,” the boy said. “Then I’ll be okay.”

    “Tell me you love me,” Connie said.

    “I love you.”

    “I love you too. My beautiful boy.”

    “I feel cold,” the boy said.

    Connie took off her robe and squeezed onto the bed beside him. She stroked his cheek, kissed his lips.

    Sometimes she put it in the orange juice; sometimes in the coffee. It was easier to disguise in liquid but you could add it to food as well.

    “Hush now, querido, it won’t be long. Imagine how terrible it would be if the elements got in and started spoiling everything? The paint beginning to peel or the colours starting to run. Imagine that happening to our love. The divine corrupted by mortality,” she said.

    The boy agreed that would be terrible.