Los Gatos de Madrid

 Los Gatos de Madrid
(The Cats of Madrid)
By Arlene Levin
(c)2020

Madrid 1971

I remember the walls were turquoises.  The brilliance of the color was filtered through the thick smoke that hung in the air.  It was late in the evening at this local flamenco bar in the  center of old Madrid not far from our apartment.  This was a gathering place for “Los Gatos de Madrid.” That is the affectionate name for Madrid men, Madrilanos, that roam the streets like cats late at night looking for the last drink, the last song, the last event to close their evening.

It was 2:00 a.m.  The bar was filled with men of all ages  drinking, smoking, laughing and whispering comments over the din of the crowd.  As the music began, Michael and I slipped into the bar and stood near the door. I couldn't understand the words of the song but words were unnecessary.  The beat of the guitars and the singer’s soulful voice told the story.  My imagination drifted. I knew from the intensity of his expression, the song was about love, maybe a long suffering love, maybe love lost, maybe the desperate search for love. 

    

                                                                                           

Slowly moving forward the singer found his focus, a Madrialano in the crowd. Their eyes met and were fixed.  A man, maybe 30 stood with his friends.  Unlike the casually dressed crowd, I recall him clearly, tall, lean, dressed in exquisite high fashion, a beige coat flung over his shoulders and a classic white scarf draped around his neck.  He stood with a wry smile as the singer came close and closer.   The guitars exploded with the classic pounding flamenco rhythm.

 

The singer reached impossible notes expressing his pain.   As the song ended the Madrialano’s friends jubilantly slapped him on the back.  You could feel a release of tension.  The crowd broke into cheers followed by loud conversation and more wine.

Michael and I were the only strangers in the crowd.   I was the only women in a sea of men.  As a foreigner I could go places Spanish women couldn't or wouldn't go.  I looked around and thought “I’m so out of place”.  I felt invisible standing in the corner near the door.  If I was alone or with another woman it might have been different.   If I was a Spanish women in this situation I would be noticed and considered one of dubious character.

As the song ended, Michael and I slipped out the door into the cool clear night.  We rarely went to this bar as our evenings usually ended well before the first song began.  But this night we had a wonderful very late visit with friends, drinking and partying.   

Arm in arm we happily stumbled down the cobblestone street continuing our late night journey home.  With a smile I thought, “we found our last song and a last event to perfectly end a memorable evening.”  I whispered to Michael, “Tonight we too are Los Gatos de Madrid”

Picture Credits
Pablo Picasso
Mark Mason
Marvin Steel