The nightmare replays. We’re in the demonic whir of a roundabout; our exit keeps flashing past us as we spiral around in a frenzy trying to get off.  I hear the bellowing first, then a fist pounding the back of our car.  A black man bawling, running wildly among the cars caught in the centrifuge of the rotary.  A little girl sags in his arms, limp. I’m screaming, “WAIT! WAIT!” 
   

Over the blare of the traffic noise, I hear “We can’t stop.  We don’t know the language.  We don’t know where to get help.” We are speeding away out of reach.  I’m straining, struggling to see them out the rear window; then they are lost. 
   

My eyes snapped open. It’s deep night. The sheets are churned up around me. . . There’s a delay. . .This is not my. . . oh, right. . . Madrid. . .our midterm getaway vacation; getaway from grading adolescent essays, getaway from the stultifying campus housing, and getaway from the pity of the faculty.  
   

We’d never been to Spain, but we had read and reread Hemingway’s novel For Whom the Bell Tolls. We found a cheap five-day deal.
   

“Snapped open”?  That’s a lame cliché.  But, I can’t seem to find another useful description. I tried several methods to latch them down. I did the “tense and release” of every major muscle group that my therapist had suggested.  “Try to think forward, not backward,” she suggested. Today I’m going to have hot chocolate for breakfast; yummy, satiny smooth Spanish chocolate, thick as pudding. I’m going to have it with a side of churros, crispy dough-fried spirals crusted with cinnamon sugar. 
   

My eyes “snapped open”.  Click.
   

I crawled into Mark’s bed.  I tucked into the curve of his torso and tried to breathe with the whispering rhythm of his breath, my love, my love.  He shifted toward me smoothing his hands through my hair and over my back.   “It’s all right, baby. It’s all right.” he murmured through the twilight of his sleeping.  I gentled down, calmed by the stroking metronome of caresses.
   

He suddenly was awake to the immense journey I had made across the chasm between our beds.  We touched our lips together.  I felt him hard against me, yearning for me to come to him again, open.  His warm gentle hands slipped between my thighs, “Please,” his lips murmured into my mouth, “Please, Rachel, I want you back. Let me.”  
   

But, I couldn’t. I could not. I was walled in, locked down tight. So I’m here now, shut in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet, and writing.

 

3/16 Segovia

We planned a one day trip.  The car rental was at the Atocha Train Station, an elegant brick building that has the old-fashioned patina of a time when travel by rail was genteel. Inside a Victorian atrium is an overgrown botanical garden. I trailed behind Mark through the station searching for the Hertz office. Already he was the happy explorer on an adventure, charting a course throughout the station, and occasionally stopping to ask newspaper vendors “Donde esta el location de Hertz?”  The replies, Mark translated as, “The  office is abuelo.”  We wandered through the forest of the lobby searching. (Mark never uses the word “lost”.) We finally found the Hertz office tucked down on a lower floor. The clerk at the counter enunciated  in fluent English that abuelo is the word for grandfather and abajo means downstairs. . .  Mark joked, “The forest must have confused my sense of direction.” Later he confessed that he had only one year of Spanish in high school.  
   

The rental car was a new BMW.  My man was very excited about that.  He was the designated driver while I sat shotgun as reference librarian. In my lap was our Spain File with various articles from The Times, Vanity Fair, Bon Appetit, Fodor’s and the Eyewitness Travel Guide, as a cross reference. We also had the Euro-City Map of Madrid with the city exits marked, and finally, the road map that showed us how to get to the M-30 from the A-6 to Segovia. I figured Madrid is modern, and, from what I could tell, the A-6 was the ring road around the city, but I didn’t spot the exit for A-6 until it was too late. 
   

“You weren’t paying attention.”
   

I said, “Their signage is bad.”  He was right though; I had begun to drift down into my thoughts. The good news - or bad - is that in Spain there appeared to be no speed limit on the highways. Mark in his math teacher mode did some computations from kilometers into miles. According to his calculations, we were making up the lost time with the BMW humming along at ninety miles an hour.  
   

The M-30 was easier to pick off. The vista that spread out around us was the proverbial ochre “plains of Spain” with snow-capped mountains ranging purple as the scenic backdrop. “The Sierra de Guadarrama,” I read to Mark from the guidebook. “The quaternary period carved the mountains’ profiles with glacial lakes, culverts, caves and dense forests. It was in these mountains that Ernest Hemingway fought alongside the Republicans resisting the fascists during the civil war.” 
   

“Little rabbit, thou art very beautiful now. I love thee. You are very rare,” Mark quoted Hemingway’s character, Robert Jordan to Maria, his lover and fellow guerrilla fighter, in his story about that futile conflict. Mark grabbed my hand and kissed it. “Truly.”
   

“So what else does it say?” asked my hero. 
   

It says “The landscape is noted for its enormous rock formations and walls of granite. From these stones comes the legacy of the walled cities.”

 

Everywhere we looked, the landscape was strewn with stone giants. Occasionally the ruins of a medieval castle appeared on the vista as we hurtled down the highway.  
   

Along the edge of the road, on dusty footpaths near olive groves, we saw Spaniards walking and talking. In Madrid they walk and talk in the city streets and plazas 24/7. Don’t they ever sleep? Mark and I flop into our beds every night exhausted from the miles we’ve logged every day trying to check off Velásquez, Goya, El Greco, Picasso and everything else on our must-see list. Meanwhile, outside our hotel window the walking and talking continues until dawn.  
   

The morning streets of Madrid look like a hangover. The street cleaners, wearing their green pennies, are out in force sweeping up mounds of cigarette butts and bottles. But, unfortunately for us, picking up dog excrement isn’t one of their tasks.
   

I continue reading from the travel book, “The greatest concentration of Spain’s 2,000 castles is in this area. In the 10th and 11th centuries this region was the battleground between Moors and Christians. Villages and towns were fortified as protection against one side or the other.”
   

“What informathion do we have on places to eat?” he says, imitating the Castilian accent, trying to make me smile.
   

Fodor’s recommends Mesón de Cándido or Casa Duque. “Cochinillo is the traditional specialty of Segovia. Don’t leave the city without sampling it’.” 
   

Food poses a problem. My appetite has been irregular for months, and Spanish cuisine does nothing to improve it. Spaniards love meat. Mark quipped, “Thank God we’re not vegetarians.” (though I might be after this trip) All kinds of sausages and hams, hanging by cloven hooves, are proudly displayed front and center in every restaurant. The largest restaurant franchise is called The Museum of Ham (Museo de Jamón). 
   

Spaniards don’t shrink from death. In the bullring they aggrandize it and ritualize it. I told Mark, “Absolutely NO. No bullfights.” He took me to a Flamenco performance instead.
   

We decided to walk first and see Segovia, then eat. We’d already fallen into the regimen of eating a late breakfast, a very late lunch, and drinks and tapas for dinner very, very late. It was then noon. We had several hours before we’d be hungry. 
   

We saw, courtesy of Fodor’s and Eyewitness Travel Guides:

 

1. The Roman Aqueduct: “One of the greatest surviving examples of Roman engineering. It spans a total of 2,952 feet in length, and rises in two tiers to a height of 115 feet.“

2. The Alcάzar: “This 12th century royal castle rising sheer above crags appears like the archetypal fairy-tale castle.” 

3. The Cathedral: “Dating from 1525 this is the last great Gothic church in Spain. The pinnacles, flying buttresses, tower, and dome form an impressive silhouette.”

   

I chose the restaurant called Casa Duque because it looked so charming. The house was located on one of those narrow ancient streets that meander through the old walled city. Its stucco façade was a tapestry of geometric patterns in pastel colors.  I read to Mark from the guidebook “Segovia is known for this carved plaster technique called sgraffito. The designs are a remnant of Segovia’s Moorish history.” 
   

Everything about the restaurant was inviting: the warm wood-paneled bar, the crisp white linens on the tables, the army of fawning waiters in formal attire, the lively crowd, and the clink of wine classes filled with the local red wine. The home-baked fragrances made us hungry. 
   

Fodor’s didn’t elaborate about the Cochinillo, except to say that it was a famous Spanish meal of roast pork. Not wanting to be crass tourists, we ordered the specialty, and Ribera Del Duero wine.
   

We lingered. We sipped our wine. We doused fresh baked bread in “the  nectar of Spain”, golden olive oil flavored with bits of fresh herbs and threads of saffron. “Forty-four percent of the world’s olive oil comes from Spain,” I had read.  
   

Then a hush came over our dining room as a vanguard of servers filed in; one of them had a huge stoneware platter lifted high over his head. With a flourish the platter was presented at our table for us to admire. 
   

Nestled in the ceramic cradle was a dead baby, a chubby suckling baby piglet, seemingly alive but napping, its skin roasted tan, splayed out in a pool of its own bodily juices. 
   

Mark peered into my face to see what kind of triage would be needed. The waiter continued his performance, oblivious to our stricken faces. He raised the plate high, and using its edge like a guillotine, severed the eviscerated body into separate servings. The silent squeal of the infant roiled my gut. Two legs, with two tiny hooves still attached, swimming in broth, appeared on plates between our fork and knife.
   

Words froze in my mouth. I will not cry. I will not vomit. I must eat this sacrifice.  I swallowed one small bite, followed by a swig of wine.  Two bites, then a swig of wine. Three bites. Wine. Four bites. Wine. About ten minutes later Mark asked for the plates to be cleared, and ordered another bottle of wine. We continued swilling down the wine. It was clear to Mark, but not to me, that I was over the edge. I swayed out of my chair. Mark stood up, enveloped me in the nest of his arms, paid the bill, and led me out.
   

Back in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet, my mind is seared with the drama of Segovia, the Cochinillo, and the African running into traffic hugging his comatose child; Mark saying “Somebody will take them to the hospital. We have to hope for the best.” I’m trying to deflect the memory but my mind keeps circling back and back.
   

My uterus was Molly’s tomb. In the sonogram Mark and I saw her serenely swimming and sucking her thumb. Then she ceased. During the procedure laminaria sticks of seaweed were shoved into my cervix; the violence of that pain dilated with every increment of body fluid they absorbed. After her “birth” Mark cradled her in the palms of his hands. Her body was perfect in every way, ten tiny fingers and toes. Her eyes closed in a profound sleep. I touched her face. My fingers inadvertently brushed her jaw; her mouth yawned open as if she was ready to suckle. For weeks after her death my milk would let down every four hours as if Molly were keeping to an infant schedule beyond the grave. 
   

I check the yoke of my nightgown.  Dry. Will not. . .
   

I stink.  Spain smokes.  It has permeated every follicle of every hair on my body and every thread of my clothing. Even though it’s the middle of the night, I need a shower. The acrid sweat, the shock of Segovia and the remembering needs to be scrubbed away.  
   

After the shower I slather on the soothing buttercream of the hotel’s lavender scented body lotion. Standing in front of the mirror, wearing only a towel on my head, I strike a pose, arms raised behind my head. My figure reminds me of Goya’s painting of the titillating Naked Maja with pink breasts and belly, soft, round and doughy. The hot chocolate and churros seem to be transforming my body into a voluptuous seventeenth century ideal.  
   

My mirror portrait reminds me of our visit to the Prado Museum.  Mark and I joined a kindergarten class and their teacher in front of a large Velázquez portrait of the five year old daughter of King Philip IV, Infanta Margarita, and the rest of the royal family. The children were sitting on the parquet floor amazed by the image of the little blond princess - just their age - wearing an elaborate ivory ruffled gown with ribbons; and, they were especially enthusiastic chatting and pointing at the royal family’s huge pet dog that was included in the scene. 
   

I can feel myself smiling.
   

Another memory flashes into my head: a snapshot of Mark at Scarborough beach, the ocean curls in perfect blue swells behind him, his body is tawny and lean, a happy trail of blonde hair runs below his belly button and slides down into his low slung board shorts.  
   

Rachael and Mark.  Maria and Robert, at the end of the novel, vow “For thee and for thee always and only for thee. . . No other thing could happen more than this; that this was all and always; this was what had been and now and whatever was to come. . . Now and forever now.”
   

I tousle dry my hair.  Naked, my Maja persona silently tiptoes through the night shadows to Mark’s bed.  I slip under the sheets next to Mark’s warm purring body.