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Escribano -> Kate was asking for Jason Webster stories (Apr. 23 2010 10:57:38)
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Kate posted this in the "@ GuitarristaMadrid" thread... about life and stuff, but it was too wide with Arash's lovely Alhambra photos, so I moved it.
quote:
I was at least hoping for Jason Webster type plot, running with the Gitanos, stealing cars, meeting Paco pissing behind a tree
We all know Jason is full of it but I've got a good one for you. It's not Spain but there are gitanos and some flamenco (well Rumba Catalan). This will probably be in Volume 2 of my memoirs, "10 Francs to St.Tropez"
When I was 23 I was living in the South of France, on the Côte d'Azur. I made the acquaintance of Gilles. He was tinkering with the twin carburetors of his hot Renault 5 Gordini, so I tried to help him as a pretext to learn some more French words. He was lean and muscular. Black wavy hair and a pock-marked face. He mostly grunted and indicated with his chin so it didn't extend my vocabulary much, but we seemed to get on. He was a gitano from the Carmague. A snake-hipped waiter for the season.
One warm August night we are sitting outside a bar by the sea smoking Gitanes and talking crap after several Pelforths. About eight of us, all French except me and another English guy I worked with. Someone was strumming a rumba and we were happy.
Suddenly an older guy storms over and starts arguing with the guitarist. I didn't understand what he said. Gilles remonstrates with him so the stranger leans down and shouts into Gilles's face. Quick as a flash, Gilles pulls a flick knife and cuts off the tip of his nose. I recall a small lump of flesh falling into the ashtray. There is blood everywhere. Clutching at his nose with one hand, he cries out, steps back and pulls a pistol. He fires into our parasol. Boom! Probably a single-shot black powder gun that one could buy in supermarkets at the time, but we couldn't be sure.
Everyone scatters and runs like hell, leaving behind the screams of tourists and the bloody, snub-nosed gunman waving his firearm in the air.
I stop to look back and now there three other men running towards the bar. "Nosey" points in my general direction and now they are coming at me. I run again, up the hill toward the town. Being a little drunk, I am not sure where I am. Looking down the hill, it seems I am the only stray the posse can see. Up the hill, a full moon is rising.
Then, as I am stumbling around trying to think, a car flies over the top and screeches to a halt, leaving black marks on the asphalt. The passenger door of the blue Renault flies open and Gilles is beckoning madly with his chin. Now we are around and gone, very fast. The fuel mixture still smells very rich to me.
"We are miles away, slow down Gilles!"
"No"
"Why not?"
"The car... it is not mine"
Back home to a sleepless, adrenalin-soaked sweat.
Tune in next time when Gilles asks me to drive a Citroen to Frejus for him.
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