“You’re coming.”
That was how Carmen announced it.
No explanation.
No discussion.
Just those two words while standing in the kitchen holding a shopping bag full of things that appeared unrelated to each other.
“Coming where?”
“The fiesta.”
“What fiesta?”
She looked at me.
“The village fiesta.”
Which apparently answered everything.
By seven o’clock the village square had transformed itself.
Plastic chairs appeared from nowhere. Long tables stretched across the centre. Children were running in circles at a speed that suggested they’d been given sugar and freedom in equal quantities.
Someone was testing a microphone.
Or attacking it.
The sound echoed around the square before cutting out completely.
Nobody seemed concerned.
The old men had already secured the best seats. Experience has taught me that Spanish village events are largely decided by whoever arrives first with a chair.
A local band was setting up near the stage. Three teenagers were attempting to carry a speaker bigger than any of them.
I recognised a few faces from the street.
A couple of people I’d first noticed during those evenings when everyone sits outside and watches village life drift past. One of the women waved.
I waved back, slightly surprised she knew who I was.
“She knows everybody,” Carmen said.
The woman’s name was Pilar.
Within twenty minutes she had introduced me to six people.
By the end of the evening I suspected the real number was closer to sixty.
Pilar seemed to operate as some kind of unofficial village directory.
She knew who had moved house.
Who was ill.
Whose son had returned from Madrid.
Who was renovating.
Who had bought a new car.
And, rather impressively, who still hadn’t fixed a leaking roof first mentioned three years ago.
The food arrived shortly afterwards.
Large trays appeared.
Bread appeared.
Bottles appeared.
I have lived in Spain long enough to understand that if food starts arriving from multiple directions at once, it is best not to ask questions.
The band finally began playing.
For about twelve minutes.
Then everything stopped.
The lights remained on.
The musicians remained in place.
But the sound vanished.
The microphone died.
The speakers died.
Silence.
Everyone turned towards a small generator sitting beside the stage.
A crowd formed immediately.
Not because anyone knew how to fix it.
Just because everybody had an opinion.
Antonio was there.
Of course Antonio was there.
The same Antonio who once explained local electricity infrastructure to me during a village blackout despite possessing what appeared to be exactly the same amount of information as everyone else.
Within minutes four men were studying the generator.
One was holding a torch.
One was pointing.
One was nodding.
One appeared to be supervising despite not touching anything.
The generator responded by refusing to start.
Children continued playing.
People continued eating.
Nobody looked remotely stressed.
Back in London an event organiser would probably have been having a minor nervous breakdown.
Here the interruption seemed to become part of the entertainment.
Pilar continued introducing me to people.
The band sat drinking beer.
The village carried on.
Eventually a loud cough emerged from the machine.
Then another.
Then suddenly the speakers burst back into life at a volume that startled half the square.
A small cheer went up.
The musicians resumed playing.
The four repair experts accepted congratulations.
Whether any of them had actually fixed anything remains unclear.
The evening rolled on.
More people arrived.
More chairs appeared.
At one point I found myself discussing parcel deliveries with a man who claimed a package of tractor parts once spent two weeks travelling around Andalucía before reaching the correct address. Compared to the wandering charger that recently toured half the province before finding me, it sounded entirely believable.
Near midnight I looked around the square.
The old men were still in the same chairs.
The children were somehow still awake.
Antonio was still talking.
Pilar was still introducing people.
And the generator was still running.
Which, judging by the conversations around me, was considered one of the evening’s greatest achievements.