PETRONELLA WYATT
Iarrived at Madrid airport, a traveller from an unclean land. A notice, written in English, blocked the way: Anyone arriving from the United Kingdom, because of the dangers of foot-and-mouth, is required to disinfect himor herself in the trays provided.' There was no sign of a tray. The only disinfectant nearby was a half-empty bottle of sherry on a bench. Surely the Spanish did not expect their ancient foe to wash in wine? I addressed a Castilian official, who was upholstered like an ornamental ostrich: 'Excuse me. Where do I disinfect myself?' He regarded me with distaste. 'Are you dirty, madam? We have no shower facilities at the airport.' I attempted to illuminate him. 'Actually, I had a bath in London. I mean disinfectant against foot-and-mouth.' I tried it in Spanish: Tie y boca'. He looked at my foot and then at my mouth. 'Have you got the toothache?' We stared at one another, mesmerised, hopeless. This was an instance in which omission seemed the better part of valour. I bade the man adios. (For the information of Spectator readers, I subsequently discovered that in Spain the disease is known as Webre atosa'.) The glittering centre of Andalusia is Seville. At its ancient Torre del Oro, once covered with gold tiles, every ship was required to surrender its gold for weighing. Turrets, built by the city's one-time occupants, the Moors, reach out to the sky like the morning glories that push their way up between the cobbles. Around the small squares, orange trees, lovely and incongruous against the stones, provide the marmalade for which Seville is fabled but which the locals disdain. Beyond tall wooden doors, carved like the gates of Babylon, lie the treasures of the empire. A few steps away roses bloom in courtyards over which Roman heads preside in silent approbation. 'We will take you to a beautiful casa ttpica,' said my friends from Madrid, Nina and Laszlo Bene. This was a late-mediaeval palace, now occupied by a charming Spanish couple and their sprawling family. 'Do you realise what you are treading on?' asked Laszlo, as we crossed an interior courtyard. I looked down. Beneath my feet, like a fantastical carpet, was a 2nd-century Roman mosaic. Picked out in blacks, reds and greys, the cavorting figures seemed almost as pristine as when they were first laid. I bent and touched one with my hand. It was cool and smooth. I supposed the closest analogy was to imagine fingering the Venus de Milo or the Elgin Marbles.
Take me to your ancient Romans,' I commanded the Benes. They have four young sons. Nico, Ferdie, Marco and little Laszlo. They are blond and upright, with per fect features ranging from Ferdie and Nico's chiselled to Marco's cheeky and cherubic. We had come to Seville to watch the extraordinary religious festivals that take place during the Easter period. Seville has 400 processional brotherhoods, most founded in the 17th century. Every April the brotherhoods put on the kind of theological spectacle that you would assume to be long dead in our agnostic age. Seville's churches have ancient floats with life-sized figures of Christ and the Virgin, each depicting the Stations of the Cross. For a week they are carried through the thronging streets as part of a feria of thousands. The brotherhoods have between a few hundred and a few thousand members. The Macarena, which possesses the acknowledged ne plus ultra of Virgins, has more than 3,000. There are six or seven processions a day. The Macarena processes from midnight to lunchtime the following day. The spectacle struck awe and a sort of primal fear in me. First came the penitents, barefoot, wearing long, dark tunics and tall, pointed hats that cover their faces to conceal their thoughts from the crowd. The Ku Klux Klan copies these costumes for the terror they arouse. As we stood on a balcony above surging crowds, sometimes silent, sometimes agitated, I could not but think, for a brief moment, that the Inquisition had come again. Underneath the base of the Virgin's float, covered by velvet, men were bent double, carrying the huge thing on their backs. Last year, overcome by its weight, one of the bearers dropped down and died. As night threw a sheet of mourning over Seville, the lighted tapers of the penitents illuminated the strained faces of yet more, hunched and groaning, each carrying replicas of the Cross. Still I waited for the ancient Romans. The Macarena apparently parades a whole legion. Never mind the Lord, bring on the Russell Crowes in their short skirts. 'I want to see the Romans; I said plaintively, like a child who has had its sweets taken away. Out in the street, the crowds pushed against me like moving walls. A wooden cross whacked my arm. So what? I would find a Roman if I had to get crucified. After four or five hours of processing, some of the participants were tipsy, imbibing here and there against the cold. The Popes granted Seville a special kind of rice to eat during Easter for strength. Likewise, on Good Friday the people are permitted meat. The ancient Romans, meanwhile, had gone awol. Pilate would have flogged the lot of them. Dunroarnin'? More like Done Roman. 'Otis custodiet ipsos custodesn as they would ask in the ancient world.
In some of the processions, Death is represented by the traditional man in black with a sickle. Consternation is created by Death having to stop now and then to take a breather. This (as we are still in our Roman mood) will `provocare populutn'. The superstitious believe that if Death stands beside them and looks at their face, he will return before the year is up. It may be true that Death, in this case, is only Carlos the bank clerk in funny togs, but when he pauses, the people lining the road cry out, 'Don't stop here, Death!' Poor Death protests, 'But I have to stop somewhere.' One year, two elderly ladies were having none of this. They hit Death on the head with their handbags, shouting, 'Go away!' He reeled and dropped his sickle. Poor Death felt like death.
The ordinary Spaniard detests Brussels. The Spanish way is one of impassive resistance. If the sun makes them heat-resistant, the determination to retain their dietary culture makes them eat-resistant. Globalisation and standard banking hours may have done for the siesta, but Spain is the only country in Europe in which dinner isn't served before 10 p.m. Restaurants in Andalusia refuse to open before 9.30 p.m. As Brussels tries to impose uniform currencies and cheeses, the Spanish see their late supper as a symbol of nationhood. This is admittedly hard for the uninitiated foreigner. La Fontanelle once said that the secret of happiness is 'no heart and a strong stomach'. But to eat Iberian ham and roast pig at the witching hour is to do to the digestion what Don Juan did to his many senoritas. In Spain the hours spent asleep at night are fewer than anywhere else in the world. Yet I learnt to my amazement that the Spaniard has the longest lifeexpectancy after the Japanese. That must be it. Sleep kills.
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