“Let’s go,” he said, and Terry revved the engine. Jim had never been a car guy, or a speed guy, but he was starting to understand the appeal of life on the blacktop. If he hadn’t cashed in his chips on Madison Vance, he might have splurged on a midlife crisis on wheels. He could see it so easily—he and Franny zipping up I-95, or smaller, prettier roads, taking in the fall foliage al fresco, at a sixty-mile-per-hour clip. He’d get her a helmet in whatever color she wanted, though of course she would want black, or maybe gold. Franny Gold. That was her name when they met, Franny Gold, Franny Gold, Franny Gold. He’d always loved her name, even though Franny joked that it was “shtetl chic.” How could you do better than gold? Terry turned the bike around slowly, and then they were off, Antoni’s BMW directly ahead of them. When he turned, they turned. When he stopped, they stopped. Jim couldn’t see what was directly in front of them—that was just the back of Terry’s helmet—but he watched the arid countryside turn into the streets of downtown Palma. They were on the ring road by the marina, curving underneath the shadow of the cathedral. Jim wished he knew what they were talking about, how much thicker Antoni’s accent had gotten since he left the spotlight. He prayed briefly for some sort of brain injury but then retracted the prayer from the record. Franny had done nothing wrong. If she wanted to sleep with a handsome Mallorcan, he wouldn’t stop her.
Joan had four CDs in his car: Tomeu Penya’s Sirena, Enrique Iglesias’s Euphoria, Maroon 5’s Hands All Over, and One Direction’s Take Me Home, which he claimed belonged to his younger sister. They started with One Direction, at Sylvia’s request, and Joan tried not to nod in time with the beat. It was a perfect day—warm and breezy, and once they were driving, they didn’t even need the air-conditioning anymore. Both Joan and Sylvia rolled down their windows and let the actual air do the trick. Sylvia’s hair whipped around her face like a blond tornado, but she didn’t care. When she’d had her fill of pop confection, she ejected the CD and put in the Tomeu Penya, the one person she hadn’t heard of. In the photo on the CD cover, Penya (she assumed) looked like a creepy hitchhiker, in the same way that Neil Young looks like a creepy hitchhiker. A song began—Joan hit fast forward to the second track, and Sylvia clapped along.
“This sounds like a lullaby by a guy in a tiny jacket playing in the corner of a Mexican restaurant.”
Joan looked at her as if she’d called his mother a whore.
“What? Do you actually like this?”
Joan shook his head, which at first Sylvia took as him agreeing with her, but his face turned red, and that was clearly not the case. “This is Mallorcan music,” he said, pointing at the stereo. “This is our national, country music.”
“Right. And everyone knows that country music sucks, Taylor Swift notwithstanding. Makes perfect sense.” She turned the CD case over in her hand. “Wait, we have to listen to the ‘Taxi Rap.’” Sylvia hit the forward button a few times and waited for Tomeu to start rapping about taxis, which he did.
“Oh my God,” she said. “This is like seeing your grandfather naked.”
Joan slammed the stop button, silencing the car. “You are such an American. Some of us have actual pride in our history, you know! You sound so stupid!”
Sylvia wasn’t used to being yelled at. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the window. “Whatever,” she said, until she could think of something more cutting.
“There are five languages in Spain, plus dialects, did you know that? And Franco tried to demolish all of that. And so yes, it is important that we have a Mallorcan singer, who sings Mallorcan songs, even if they are sometimes not the best.”
Sylvia sat as far back against the seat as possible, as if she were in the dentist’s chair. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not all about your swimming pool and whether or not your brother is an asshole,” Joan said.
“You’re right,” Sylvia said again, and said good-bye to the idea of Joan ever coming close enough to kiss her again, and to the idea that the rest of the day would be any good whatsoever. She almost told him to turn around and take her home, but she feared it would make her seem too petulant, and so she just kept her mouth shut and stared out the window.
The restaurant was on a pier, and shabby in the way that Franny liked, with tablecloths that were soft from being washed a thousand times, and dusty decorations hanging on the wall. It wasn’t for tourists—there was no English menu, no German menu, only Spanish. The waiter brought them two glasses of wine and a plate of olives and fresh bread. Antoni took his hat off and put it on the empty chair beside him. There was a faint mark across his forehead that Franny thought was from the hat, but quickly realized was a tan line.
“Do you enjoy coaching? It must be exciting to work with Nando.” Franny let a piece of bread soak up some olive oil and then dropped it into her mouth.
Antoni took a short sip of wine. “It is good.”
She waited for him to elaborate, but Antoni turned his attention to the menu. A moment later, the waiter returned, and he and Antoni had a brisk exchange. Franny thought she understood the word pulpo and the word pollo, but she couldn’t be sure.
“Did you ever think about leaving Mallorca?” she asked. “When you were playing on the tour, you must have gone all over the world. Was there ever another place that spoke to you? You know, somewhere you wanted to stay?” She cupped her hand under her face. “Do you have any kids?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” Antoni said. “Or maybe you’re still recovering from your brain injury.”
Franny laughed and patted herself on the head, which did indeed still have quite a lump, but Antoni didn’t smile. He wasn’t kidding.
Joan and Sylvia stopped for a coffee in Valldemossa, a charming little town with pitched cobblestone streets and a robust number of tourists wearing backpacks and Coppertone. They sat outside and drank their coffees out of proper little cups, which made Sylvia feel like she’d been a hobo all her life, carrying disposable paper cups down the street. Mallorcans knew how to slow things down. After their coffees were done, Joan directed them up a small hill to the monastery where George Sand and Frédéric Chopin had spent a miserable winter.
“Seriously, if you were going to move into a monastery with your boyfriend . . .” Sylvia said. “No, even if it was in the summer, that still seems like a bad idea.”
Despite scolding her in the car, Joan seemed happy to play tour guide. He pointed out everything—ikat fabric in a shop window that was made on the island; powdery ensaimadas, even better-looking than the ones Franny had made; wild olive trees twisted into snarling shapes. He pointed out cats dozing in the sun. When Sylvia began to fan herself, he produced a bottle of water. Every time she accidentally brushed against his arm, Sylvia felt an electric jolt running the length of her body. It wasn’t that he was perfect for her, or even that they had so much in common. Sylvia had more in common with the sullen girl selling the pastries, she was pretty sure, but that didn’t matter. Joan was as handsome as a man in a Calvin Klein ad, one of the ones where it looked like clothes had never been invented, and thank God. He could have been steering a sailboat wearing only a skimpy pair of underwear and no one would have complained. Complained! Tourists would have paid money to have their photographs taken with him. Sylvia doubted that she would ever be so close to anyone that naturally good-looking ever again. The odds just weren’t good.