THE END OF A LONG SUMMER By Rose Boucheron The rich senor was wise and kind. He had built many houses, and towers which reached up to the sky. He was, the smallest boy told the others in awe, like God That summer, the playing cards belonging to nine-year-old Fernando Rodriguez Lopez and his gang stayed in the pocket of Fernando’s long corduroy trousers. For the boys had found something else to do which took up every moment of their spare time. Every day, after school, Fernando Rodriguez Lopez and his gang went to see how the house of the rich señor was coming along. “He is the richest man in all of Spain,” Fernando said. “I think he is the richest man in all the world,” said his friend Carlos. Gravely, Fernando shook his head. “The world is a very big place, my friend.” he said wisely. “It is possible, of course.” He thought for a moment while they waited. “Yes,” he said finally. “I think he could be the richest man in all the world.” “He has many millions of pesetas,” a third boy said. “Many millions,” Fernando agreed. “So many that you and ‘I cannot imagine how many boxes he has to keep it all in.” “He is also,” said another, “a most gracious gentleman—although he was not born of aristocratic parents. He is wise, understanding, kind to others. He could have been a priest.” “The mind of a saint he has,” Fernando said. “And to think that he played in this village as a boy, just like us... And that he had no shoes to his feet,” Fernando went on. “At least we have shoes, although we are poor. And he looked down at his rope-soled espadrilles. “To have no shoes at all is a very sad thing.” Carlos said. “Especially in winter.” “He has worked very hard to make his fortune,” Fernando said. “He gives his money to the church and to the suffering-“He could afford to wear gold boots if he so desired,” Carlos said. There was a thoughtful silence. “I would like to be like the rich señor when I grow up,” said the littlest member of the gang. “You will have to grow much and work hard,” Fernando said. “The rich señor has many lorries and much land. It is said that he has built many such houses in the city, and some towers which reach up to the sky.” They looked at him wide-eyed and he lowered his gaze. “I do not know if this is true,” he said, feeling in all truth that he could not imagine such a thing. “Like God,” the littlest one said. “Ssh,” they said, they eyes focused on him in warning. “Perhaps today we shall see the car,” Fernando said hopefully. “They say it is the largest car made in the world.” “I think it is a car from the United States of America,” Carlos said. “Not so,” Fernando stated. - “It is a Spanish car. Only the Spanish can make a car like that. And he has not one such car, but four, they say.” “True,” they said. “Such a man deserves more than one such car - “When we are grown up,” the littlest one said. “Will we each have such a villa?” They all looked at Fernando trustingly. “The rich señor,” Fernando said, “left the village when he was eleven years old, with no money, no shoes, and no overcoat. And it was winter,” he added, for he was a great teller of tales, because he believed them himself as he went along. “It was snowing hard and his feet were burned and blistered…” “I thought you said it was snowing,” the littlest one said. Fernando closed his eyes patiently. “When the snow is very cold and the roads are like ice, bare feet get burned in the same way as they do on burning sand.” They accepted this unquestioningly since Fernando was the clever one. They trudged along in silence. “And consider,” he went on. “He had never been to school, like us, that is…” “I shouldn’t mind that,” the littlest one said. “The rich senor was born under a watchful eye from heaven, an angel who protected him and watched over him so that the rich senor could survive and become a great man. If we had a king,” he said simply, “be would be a king.” “A king.” Carlos echoed. They followed him up the dusty road towards the rich señor’s house. The village clung to the lower slopes of the mountain like limpets on a sea wall. Here and there the grey stones had crumbled, leaving an empty shell of a dwelling, where dry grass grew out of pink and grey tiles on the roof, and the broken shutters creaked back and forth in the high winds of winter, to expose a room open to the sky. Occasionally you came across a house rebuilt with new inside walls and brand new shutters, and a roof shiny and undulating with rosy, pink tiles, but mainly the village was crumbling, and the little houses nestled into the side of the great mountain for protection. You could walk from the bottom of the mountain to the top of the crumbling village by climbing over the ruined walls, and this is exactly what Fernando Rodriguez Lopez and his gang did every day after school. For the rich senor was building a new house from the ruins of not one old house, but three. It was at once the most interesting, the most strange, and the most splendid thing they had ever seen. Surefooted, they clambered along and over time ruins until they reached the summit of the village, where in front of them, in all its glory, lay the rich señor’s house. They settled themselves comfortably on their stomachs on the wide, flat wall, five large sombreros in a row, five pairs of large black eyes round and wary. They had watched the house from the very beginning, from the moment the foundations were laid until the roof was put on. Now it rose like a small palace, built of round, new grey stones, with, if you can imagine a roof of bright, green tiles. By August the workman had already put up the shutters, and now were busy painting them a bright yellow like the daisies with the soft brown centres which grew higher up the mountain slopes. Below the new shutters, of the upstairs windows were finely wrought iron balconies, delicate and airy, like the lacework of a Spanish mantilla. Truly, it was the finest house they bad ever seen. Just when they thought there could surely be nothing more to see, the workmen began to excavate in the walled garden which dropped away from the house. A hole was dug of such size that it was all the boys could do to leave it when the time came to wend their way home. Deeper and wider, wider and deeper the hole became, as the workmen disappeared down into the enormous cavity, watched by five still faces beneath five large sombreros. “For his boxes of gold? Fernando whispered in awe. One day, as they sat astride the wall, they watched as lorries deposited great piles of coloured tiles on to the site. Then the work began of tiling the hole. For days the men worked out of sight, until the sides of the hole were lined with bright green and blue tiles. As each man appeared, the boys breathed a great sight of relief, and tilted their sombreros over their eyes. When the men finished the inside of the giant hole, they made a mosaic path around the edge. When this was finished, an army of gardeners moved in and planted flowers of all colours of the rainbow among the red soil, and giant tubs all round the path. Scarlet zinnias and red geraniums with purple Bougainvillaea. The effect, the boys agreed, was simply magnificent. Slowly, they climbed down from the wall, overcome with the wonder of it all. One day in September, when the weather was very hot and sunny, and the scent of flowers filled the air, it became obvious to the boys that the rich señor had moved in. He came out of his splendid house clad in a white towelling robe, and sat at the fine scarlet chair. He was wreathed in heavy cigar smoke, and as the smoke drifted over to the boys, they each took a deep breath, savouring the deep aroma. It was magnificent. Then they noticed from the house to the great pit lay a long, green sinuous coil. Like a snake it wound its way from the house, across the terrace, and down the slope filled with flowers to the richly coloured hole. They absorbed all this in silence until it was time to go home. Surely, they had seen everything. But more was to come. The next day, after they had settled themselves comfortably on the wall, they discovered the long, green snake was emptying water into that great and colourful hole. It took them three days to fill that pool, and when it lay in front of them, shimmering and silver on top, and blue, deep blue and cool underneath, they watched with black eyes round with wonder and longing, until the saliva ran from the side of their mouths, and the burning sun blazed down… Presently, the rich señor emerged from the house in his towelling robe, and made his way to the pool. From where they sat, he looked like a king. He discarded his robe, and the silver cross shone like diamonds on his chest which was covered with coarse black hair. Suddenly, taken unawares, they were amazed to see the rich senor lift his arms into the air, and dive like a swallow into the pool. Horrified, hands to mouth, they let out gasps of relief as he came to the surface. With long, measured strokes, the señor began to swim. Presently, he came out of the pool, and shook himself like a dog. Then he wrapped himself into his robe again, and went back to his scarlet chair. Whether, at long last, he became aware of five pairs of eyes watching him, or whether the sight of five sombreros aroused his curiosity, he rose and made his way down to the wall, where he stood looking down on them majestically. They stared, completely motionless, at his legs in front of them which were fat like wine bottles turned upside down. They could not have been more impressed at the close proximity of him. Then, he clapped his hands at them, and they blinked rapidly at the sudden noise. “Get off! Get off my wall! How dare you sit there, watching me in my own garden? What do you mean by it, eh? Idiots! Imbeciles!” Slowly, they climbed down from the wall on to the rocky stones below. “And don’t let me catch you here again!” he shouted, do you understand? Peasants!” And he watched as the small retreating figures of five small boys disappeared down the dusty road beneath. Until the dust itself obscured them, and only their sombreros could be seen. Once round the corner, fire boys seated themselves beneath a giant fig tree, and philosophically, Fernando Rodriguez Lopez got out the playing cards. THE END © Rose Boucheron 1967