YES, VIRGINIA; or, NOT IN THE HOUSE OF BERNARDA ALBA

virginia is reading "el imperio eres tú" by javier moro. every year, her son's girlfriend's parents buy each of their daughters a copy of the winner of the planeta prize, and the one of those daughters to which her son's girlfriend corresponds has gifted virginia the book. her son is absent, but his girlfriend visits his mother monthly at the boyfriend's family home on the vega outside of granada. on this particular visit, i'm there too, at the cortijo del pino as virginia is reading "el imperio eres tú" by javier moros, and i'm embarrassed. and i'm not embarrassed because i've come alone with the girlfriend in the boyfriend's absence, but because i've fallen asleep on the couch in the living room after lunch, and when i wake up it's just the two of us: me, sloppy with grogginess on the couch next to her chair, and virginia with her book.

it was lunch. we'd had a big one. virginia's rooms (which are maybe a dozen) occupy the second floor of the cortijo, and virginia was in the large one that is the kitchen making a paella when we arrived. lucky for me, virginia is a woman who calls a day in advance to know how to plan a menu for her guests. there's rabbit in the paella instead of shrimp. and she asks if we'd like one of the chickens for tomorrow. we have coffee with our strawberries and cream. but not even the caffeine (not even to mention the nap in the car) can keep me from falling asleep when i get to the couch in the l-shaped living room that occupies one of the corners of the square corridor between virginia's rooms and the windows that look out onto the central courtyard of the cortijo.

it could also have been the table. there's a mesa camilla in the living room, and after lunch there were five of us seated around it with our legs under the blanket in the warmth of the heater fixed under the table; but when i wake up from not having realized that i'd fallen asleep it's just me and virginia. and because i'm embarrassed i ask about her book, and she tells me about the tradition in her son's girlfriend's family. i'm not familiar with the author, and that embarrasses me more, but, to my ultimate embarrassment, i'm not familiar with any of the other authors that virginia mentions in the aftermath of my unfamiliarity with moro. virginia is a reader, and the built-in shelves on the wall behind her are filled to the high ceiling. in my embarrassment, i change the subject to the table, and virginia is surprised to find out that the japanese use something similar -- and that i had a kotatsu myself in my apartment in college. it's a wonderful concept. i couldn't have helped falling asleep.

alone in the living room with her embarrassed guest, virginia is easy with the anecdotes. and it's not so much that virginia is trying to quell my embarrassment, but that virginia is someone with whom one talks and his embarrassment is easily quelled. so i ask her, easily, about the pictures on the wall near the television. and so virginia tells me the story of the cortijo, which is the story of her late husband's father's wife, which is the story of a childhood summer home purchased for a young bride with the fruits of youthful ambition in argentina, and later the story of a farm managed by a young widow. the widowed virginia and her family have kept the house through the crisis by converting a large part of it into tourist apartments, all of which (aside from the newest, which occupies the only enclosed space above the second floor) are located around the courtyard on the ground floor, where virginia's oldest daughter lives with her family. the office of the new family business is among virginia's rooms on the second floor, and the built-ins on the walls of the office are full as well.

when her son's girlfriend returns to the living room, she asks virginia about the article, the one by josé saramago, who had been married to an andalusian woman and had written a brief piece on his introduction to his wife's family. the girlfriend's experience being introduced to virginia's large and loquacious family had apparently been comically similar. and when virginia finds the article and shows it to me, the formation of my picture of what the portuguese author describes is aided by virginia's annotation. from the same file, virginia produces photos of herself at garden parties playing cards with her children's aunts. her face is droll, but life on the vega outside of granada appears not to be strictly pastoral. after the eldest has gone back downstairs and virginia's youngest daughter has arrived (i never meet the third, the one named for her mother), virginia has given up on her reading for the time being and gotten online. there's a ring from her computer, but she reassures us that she isn't going to skype with her french teacher just now. during the week, she trades him breakfast for instruction. and when the rest of the community gathers for social events at church, virginia meets with her teacher and the rest of her group at the library. i'm thoroughly envious when she tells me about the literary excursions they plan.

tomorrow, however, virginia will go to the library to vote. and it's surprising -- although not unlovely -- to hear the calmly dignified seventy-something year old woman say in her bright, unaffected tone that she will not be voting for a particular candidate. which, she asks someone to remind her, is the more asperous word for fascist. and at that question i wonder, however delighted, at the what possible intrigues the cortijo might have hidden -- or those, at least, that i might need to stay awake in order to be let onto. and then i think about all of virginia's armoires. the one in the room i'm using undoubtedly has a story, but i haven't had the courage to open it for fear that what came out would be a ghost i couldn't handle alone under the high ceilings in the dark of night on the vega. it might also be locked. there are keys hanging everywhere, and they seem to simultaneously signify both shelter and exposure. but, what's certain is that the armoires are clean. i know from another anecdote, about another woman in another house, that andalusian mothers like to keep them that way whenever they're expecting guests -- both for those coming in and for those who might come out. and there's no difference here. i'd be hard pressed to call virginia traditional, but she hasn't dropped the standard for her local tradition of southern hospitality. and yes, virginia, i would like another coffee. and the cookies. please. and then i'll probably manage to have another nap, whatever intrigue it might cost me. but better for virginia, probably, because she can get back to her book. i just hope that no one lets me sleep so long that i miss the chicken.