Signs of Grace

by Thomas Sandor

She approached us formally, her bearing slightly aristocratic yet, almost gliding across the floor like a dancer. Had she been the favorite daughter of some Spanish Grandee, who had owned more land then Croesus had gold? Richard made no secret of his attraction. He makes no secret of anything about himself; one of the most refreshing human beings I’ve met in a long time, his forthrightness and honesty is like water to the thirsty. In these times of challenge, his willingness to take charge when needed gives you hope that we all have such a capacity.

As she began to circle our table, she queried innocently, probing to understand this strange family of travelers, whose moods she must now master. How odd a group we were, representing three different ethnicities, languages, and races (if such a thing even exists), and four countries of origin; and we were having way too much fun. Boisterous, in fact, not the usual table of formal diners unless we’d been drinking. But no, this was our natural state, the most conspicuous group in the room and perhaps the most natural group in the room, and not a bit shy about showing it.

Methodically, but subtly she sorted us out, discovering who was married to whom, and who were the “Alphas” who must be catered to. Richard happily escaped from his second marriage, thank you very much, asked Ester where she was from, and after she’d left the table, I mused to Richard, “I can see her as a Spanish dancer, commanding the floor in some capitol city evening bistro.”

“You’re right,” Richard said. He’d been to Madrid several times and seen the Spanish senoritas dance the Flamenco, whirling and taunting, tossing the hems of their skirts as they stomped out rhythms; their hands positioned challengingly above defiant heads.

“You should ask her if she’s been to Madrid.” I said, “Impress her.”

Richard, more accomplished than myself, didn’t hesitate to jump at this suggestion, and when Ester returned, her reaction was delightful. She must have been thinking, ‘Careful senorita, this is the dangerous one.’ And yet, a spark was struck.

Now Richard, slightly dehydrated from our day of Jamaican rum in Ocho Rios, kept asking Ester for tea with honey, and prodding her with invitations to Madrid, Cuernavaca, and did she know anyone in Phoenix? Meanwhile Irv, our benevolent Alpha Male Zen Master, was, much to Yvette’s irritation, giving Ester pure hell.

“What is this?” he demanded, “I didn’t order this. Take it away!”

When Ester leaned over my shoulder to place my appetizer, I turned my head and whispered in her ear, “Don’t let Irv scare you; he’s really just a big pussycat.” Ester giggled in surprise, clasped my shoulders from behind, running her hands down to my elbows, as one would do to a beloved uncle, and thus her dance began.

For the next two hours, she engaged all at our table with her wit, charm, delightful humor and professional skills, one of the most accomplished dancers on any stage. And yet, were her skills displayed for us, or perhaps for the benefit of the dangerous one? The Flamenco dancer casting dark haughty eyes upon the one watcher who had caught them, teasing him with a hand placed lightly on someone else’s shoulder, a look of appreciation and warmth, tossing her head in refined laughter at someone else’s joke, chatting casually with Maria in their lyrical Spanish language, tilting her head in answer to another’s question, “Oh senora, you see, I have a different boyfriend in every port,” playing the coy but knowing coquette, then revealing her true heart by cradling a stack of menus in her right arm as if they were a loved infant. First hiding behind the curtains at Irv’s latest outburst, designed to test her poise and confidence, she then delivered to him a special diet dessert menu with only blank pages. “You see senor,” head held high in mock defiance, “I am not afraid of you anymore.” Yes, she could match wits with our Alpha males. And then to Richard she said, “With your tea, would you like some more of this, honey? She had become the youngest little sister to this shipboard family of diverse travelers.

You never know what you’ll get, in a senorita from Mexico City.

Copyright 2009, Thomas Sandor.