The village turned suburb

The village of Pozuelo does have a soul, and I am determined to ferret it out, mixing caution with curiosity, as a child who ventures where he knows he might not be welcome. The soul of the town lives in the tiny things: moss growing between paving stones in an alley; crooked shutters opening to an iron-fenced balcony; the chipped stucco along the corner of a yellowed building; the great, old ivy along a wall of white stones; winding lines of stone walks that lead from one neighborhood to another. These stones were here long before the marching rows of brown brick houses.

Sometimes, there is a sudden un-hiding of the soul. Perhaps an open gate, and then I am in the back alley of a music school. Moss grows along the stones here too, to the edge of the iron-wound windows. A single tree along the left. From a curtained window on my right comes the sound of piano etudes, and then the chaos of both hands pressed flat on the keyboard. Farther on, the sound of a violin. There is a posted notice about a concert series at the Museo de la Reina Sofia, which I have just missed. I wonder how the great composers sound through the lens of a Spanish soul, until I ruefully remember that they are foreign voices even in my native country.

Another treasure: an open door to an apartment building. The building is shaped like a crooked figure eight, and harbors two tiny courtyards among its rooms. Both are open to the sky, and weeds and potted plants alike lift their heads to the drizzling rain. The hallways here are in poor repair, despite the new layer of shiny brown paint on the windowsills of the second floor. The blue walls are chipped, the marble steps worn, the banister spindles approaching rust. The wide wooden doors are losing their varnish in patches, and hold only a knob in their center; like most doors here, a key is needed to turn the lock and open them. The place is dirty, and the only light comes from the windows onto the courtyards. On the way out, I read the paper labels on the rusting mailboxes: Jesus, Sergio, Maria Carmen.