Post Feminist Rumblings

Maria Goyri feels more comfortable now, having established her credentials.

She orders another mojito.

Not many of you, are there? she observes. And not one of you Spanish.

José Ortega y Gasset and George Santayana were here yesterday, says David. But they've gone to Pineda de Mar.

Not back yet? says Schopenhauer. Didn't they go with the girls?

Maria Goyri looks up from her cool mojito. How old are these girls?

I see you are raising an eyebrow, says David. Don't worry. The girls can look after themselves. They are not strictly girls either, he adds, by way of closing the subject.

Are these so-called girls who are not strictly girls and therefore fully grown women, philosophers too? asks Maria Goyri.

Belle et Bonne is my adopted daughter, says Vello. I could not do without her. Marie is my ...ahem... niece.

Hum, says Maria Goyri. You have avoided answering my question. I must assume they are not.

Not what? says David, who has been thinking stray thoughts, and not paying attention.

Not philosophers, says Marie Goyri. Of course, that is not to say....

Of course not, says Vello. If you don't mind me saying so, you seem rather jumpy.

I can't forget what happened to me, says Maria Goyri, when I was a student at the University of Madrid in 1892.

Tell us your story, says Vello. We'd like to hear it, wouldn't we boys?

Schopenhauer looks up from waggling his new cowboy boots, as the smell of the fine Spanish leather wafts up to his nose.

David sniffs vaguely, smelling it too.

I received permission to attend classes, says Maria Goyri, on the condition that I did not wait in the corridor beforehand and distract my fellow students.

Were you some sort of performer? asks David.

I was a nineteen year old woman, says Maria Goyri. And they were young men.

Of course, says David. I see that now. How awkward. How did you get in?

I had to wait in the professor's office until it was time for the lecture, says Maria Goyri. And then he escorted me to a seat at the front near to him.

And after? asks Vello.

The reverse, says Maria Goyri. Straight back to his office.

She swallows the dregs of her mojito. But don't worry boys, I grew up to become the most dangerous woman in Spain according to Franco. I had strong feminist views. During the Spanish Civil War I and my husband were spied on, by our own side.

But you survived, says Vello. Well done. And then what?

We spent our time researching ancient Spanish Ballads, says Maria Goyri. El Cid and all that. Ramon and I loved it.

Ramon Menendez Pidal! says David. He is your husband?

Ramon Menendez Pidal! echoes Schopenhauer. Of course. He is famous. His work on the Ballads became one of the National Treasures of Spain.

Does Maria look pleased at this assessment?

We shall never know.

Before she composes her expression into one of pride in her husband or something quite different, Ramon Menendez Pidal enters the cafe, seeking his wife.

It appears it is time for siesta.