42
Three days later, we’re still at Zahara de los Atunes, and Frida and Andrés encourage us to stay a few more days at the chalet. Charmed, we accept. Eric receives several calls and messages from someone named Marta, and every time, I have to bite my tongue so I won’t ask, “Who is that woman who calls so much?”
On the fourth night, Frida and I decide to go into town for a drink. The guys are playing chess and choose to stay at the chalet.
We find a pub called La Cosita. We each order a rum and Coke and sit down to chat at the bar. Talking with Frida is easy. She’s fun, effusive, and engaging.
“Have you been married to Andrés for very long?”
“Eight years, and every day, I’m more grateful that I ran him over.”
“What?”
Frida laughs. “I met him because I hit him with my car.”
That makes me laugh.
“Tell me everything right now,” I demand.
Frida takes a sip of her drink and begins. “We were both studying medicine in Nuremberg. And the first day I drove my car to campus, when I went to park, I didn’t see him and I ran him over. Luckily, nothing serious happened. He got bruised from the fall, and that was about it. But I tell you . . . it was a real fall for both of us, and from that day on, we’ve never been separated.”
We both laugh. “Hey, and what about the game? Who proposed that?”
“I did.”
“You?”
She nods.
“You should have seen his face the first time I told him about it. He absolutely refused. But then one day, I invited him to a party where I used to hang out with some people in the game, and I introduced him to Eric, and, well . . . since then, he’s been into it!”
“Eric?”
“Yes, he and I are lifelong friends. We’ve always moved in the same circles. It’s something that, as you’ve seen, we continue to do.”
“Hey . . . ,” I say, remembering something, “did you go play the Wheel that Björn organized the other night?”
“Yes,” says Frida with a laugh, “I love that sort of game, and games like that drive Andrés insane.”
“And don’t you feel, I don’t know, a little . . . ?”
“A little . . . ?” she repeats.
“I don’t know . . . Isn’t it a little degrading to be there, satisfying all those guys? I mean, you’re nude. You offer yourselves. You’re who . . . you know . . .”
Frida bursts out laughing. “No, my dear. I love how those guys desire me, I love how my husband offers me, I love how the others possess me. I love it, and Andrés loves it. That’s what counts.”
I want to ask her more about the game, about Eric, Betta, and Marta, but John Paul Young’s “Love Is in the Air” starts to play, and Frida shrieks.
“I love that song! Let’s dance!”
We jump out to the tiny dance floor and begin to move our hips to the beat of the song, and I’m instantly aware of several men watching us.
At about three in the morning, Frida and I decide to go back to the chalet. We walk to the BMW, which we left in the parking lot near the beach, but two men have followed us out.
“Well, well, here are our two dancers.”
When I recognize them, I smile. “If you don’t want trouble, you’d best get out of our way.”
Frida looks over at me, and I can see she’s insecure about all this. We’re in the parking lot by the beach, and not another soul is in sight. I grab Frida by the elbow and continue toward the car.
“Hey . . . come here, beautiful. We want to give you what you want.”
“Leave us alone, you shitheads,” I say.
The men stay on our tail. They’re drunk and continue with their insinuations.
When we get to the car, I tell Frida to give me the keys. She’s so nervous, she can barely hand them to me. I take them from her, and in the same moment, I sense one of the guys behind me: he puts his hand on my butt. I quickly throw my elbow back and hit him in the sternum. Frida screams, and the man curses. The other guy tries to manhandle Frida. In the process, he shoves me, and I land flat on the sand. That infuriates me, and I quickly spring back up.
The one who touched my butt comes to get me, but I’m faster, and I land a punch on his jaw that makes him cry out. I grunt because I’ve just bashed my knuckles. Then the guy gets up and hurls me down on the ground again. I decide to put an end to this foolishness once and for all. I stand, adrenaline racing through my veins, and face off against the guy. I punch him hard in the face and kick him in the stomach. Then I grab the guy who’s holding Frida, spin him around by his hair, and kick him so hard that he flies in the air for a couple of feet.
“Come on,” I shout at Frida. “Get into the car.”
The two men are flat on the ground as we flee. As soon as we exit the beach parking lot and find a street where people are out on their porches, I stop the car. I turn to Frida. “Are you all right?”
Still frightened, Frida nods. “Where did you learn to defend yourself like that?”
“Karate class. My father signed us up when we were little, my sister and me. He always said we needed to learn to defend ourselves from scum, and look, he was right!”
“You’re my hero!” says Frida with a huge grin. “Those guys got what they deserved and . . . Oh my God, Jude, your hand!”
We both stare at my right hand. My knuckles are red, bruised, and swollen. I move my hand as best I can and try to play it down.
“It’s nothing . . . Don’t worry about it. But I’m going to need ice for the swelling. Will you drive?”
“Of course.” Frida gets out of the car, and I run around to her side. When we arrive at the chalet, we see the light on in the living room, and two seconds later, the guys come out to greet us. We’re both laughing, but as we come closer, Eric sees my hand and rushes to me.
“What happened?”
I’m about to answer, when Frida gets ahead of me.
“When we left the pub, these two guys tried to harass us. But luckily, Jude knew how to defend us. It was incredible! You can’t imagine how she punched and kicked them. We have to get ice for her hand—now!”
Eric is speechless while Frida acts out over and over what happened. She’s so impressed, she can’t stop herself. Seeing we’re both fine, Andrés hugs his wife. Eric is walking a bit ahead of me, but his look is surly. I can tell he’s upset. Finally, in order to ease the moment, I give him a kiss.
“Easy. Nothing happened. Just a couple of idiots who wanted me to kick their asses.”
“Just get into the car, Jude,” Eric demands all of a sudden.
“What?”
Frantic, he grabs the keys from Frida’s hand.
“You’re going to tell me who those sonsabitches were, and then they’re going to have to deal with me.”
Andrés and Frida immediately flank him, and Andrés takes back the keys.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Frida asks him.
“To give those guys what they deserve,” he says, and opens the driver’s side door. “Give me the keys, Andrés.”
Eric is having trouble breathing, and his eyes betray his fury.
“Damn it, Eric,” I say. “Nothing happened! What do you want, for something to really happen so we can regret it later?”
He turns and slams the car door shut. He walks over and puts his arm around my lower back.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Yes . . . Relax. I just need some hydrogen peroxide to clean my knuckles, and some ice for the swelling.”
“God, sweetness . . . ,” he whispers, leaning his forehead on mine. “Something could have happened to you.”
“Eric . . . nothing happened. Besides, you should see the other guys.” As Frida and Andrés step inside the house, I whisper, “I beat them to a pulp.”
He hugs me. He presses me to him and buries his face in my neck. We stay that way for several moments.
“Remember what my father told you: I’m a karate champ.”
I smile and his muscles relax. Finally, he gives me a kiss on the lips.
“Oh, sweetness, what am I going to do with you?”