In a Spanish train in the days when the jolts provoked by the buckled branch-line track reached such a pitch that you had to hold on in order to keep your seat, I was once the captive audience of two country men, darker from the sun than the flayed trunks of cork oaks. They were fascinated by my peculiarity.

In a Spanish train in the days when the jolts provoked by the buckled branch-line track reached such a pitch that you had to hold on in order to keep your seat, I was once the captive audience of two country men, darker from the sun than the flayed trunks of cork oaks. They were fascinated by my peculiarity.

They seemed puzzled by my inability to speak Spanish properly (“like a Christian”) since they assumed speech was connatural with humanity. This interpretation of their attitude has been poo-pooed by well travelled people who have found the notion of barbarous foreigners to be familiar in remote places. But I’m not quite convinced.

Certainly my hands were of great interest. One of the earthen figures, in a straw hat and a blue shirt smelling of garlic, old wine and sweat, held my hand and ran his knobbly thumb over it, laughing. He was amused by the pudgy palidity of the skin, like that of a girl from a prosperous city family.

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