From here to the country and golf club «Los Arqueros» is a fifteen- to twenty-minute drive. Chelsea is uploading some of the photos I took with her imPhone, which gives me time to think.
If I want this mission to become a success, I need us to have some conversation. She has to become my friend. Friends talk to each other and do fascinating things. Friends are, or at least try to be, friendly with each other. But Chelsea is all but friendly. She's over-bored. She's self-assured. How can I change another person? Which words should I use?
I visualise a perfect world of people talking with each other, a cocktail party at the American embassy. All the important people try to get drunk on free champagne as quickly as possible, before anybody finds out how bored they all are. Then #3, The Diplomat, comes in. He's popular. He's confident. As a professional dialoguer, he knows what to do and how to do it. He's my role model. I learn from him. First, he welcomes the latest Nobel Prize winner, and they discuss the relativity theory. He shakes hands with Mr P.H. Johnsson, and they debate the recent problems in international politics. He meets the President of the USA, and they chat about how the New York Yankees are doing this season. And finally, he says hi to Chelsea, and they babble: "Duh. Like… Whatever."
I do my best to stay friendly, which is not easy when somebody bitches you off all the time. Even now, while we're driving through the breathtaking beauty of Andalucía, it's hard to make her like anything else but her own Facebook page. When I point at an old ruin, a family of deer, or a picturesque stone bridge over a narrow pass, making a casual remark like: "Have you seen that?", or "Isn't this beautiful?", she doesn't even take her eyes off her phone while she answers: "Duh."
I feel stupid and contagious. How can you be friendly with someone who refuses to be friendly with you? You can't change other people. All you can do is change yourself. Slowly, fear becomes my principal emotion. This mission might be too complicated for me. I'm worse at what I thought I would do best. After all, I'm only #5, The Runner, the pizza delivery boy of the LSD, who runs errands to provide others with everything they need to complete their missions. Even now, when I have a proper mission, driving a car that would make James Bond jealous, I don't feel a real spy. Someone put me behind the wheel of the Titanic, with the iceberg sitting next to me. What does it take to be a real spy? Do you have to drink martinis and play poker all night long?
"Did you ever kill a man?"
Chelsea's phone has disappeared, and her curiosity has taken its place.
"What? Kill a man? No, not really. But I've killed chickens, rabbits, a few goats, and even a pig once. My parents are butchers. Before I became a spy, I used to help them in the shop."
"If you're a real spy, you have to kill people. That's your job. You—"
"Who told you that? Do you really believe that people who order others to kill people have a better view of the world? Do they possess some mythical, mystical, mysterious, magical wisdom that allows them to go against the nature of life, the essence of every religion, and the fundamental meaning of humanity? Are you really that naive?"
"DON'T INTERRUPT ME!"
Chelsea doesn't even listen to what I say. She wants others to listen.
"I'm sorry. I—"
"It's rude to interrupt other people when they are talking to you."
"I won't do it agai—"
"Now you do it again! Don't you know nothing?"
I wait politely until she's finished. The iceberg and the Titanic are on a collision course. But at least, we're talking. All I have to do is change the topic.
Two Ice Ages later, I dare to say: "Are you in your final year at school?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"And then you go to Harvard?"
"Isn't that obvious?"
"Are you from Boston?"
"Didn't you read my Facebook page?"
"Is it true that all people from Boston answer every question with another question?"
"Who told you that?"
"Talking with you is difficult."
"No, it's not. Why?"
"You don't listen. You only deny everything I say."
"No, I don't."
I hate myself. As a man of action, I'm not good with words. I'm not a communication magician like #3, The Diplomat, who combines natural talent with years of training. It's impossible to learn such an important skill in five seconds, or even in my ten days to prepare for this mission. I will lose this fight like I've lost every battle Chelsea and I fought so far. The problem is that I don't want us to fight. I want her to have the best-day-ever, although it looks more and more that she likes to fight, and I'm giving her what she wants.
I take a deep breath. This mission is not about giving her what she wants. This mission is about giving her what she needs, what the world needs: education and good manners. If she doesn't accept it when I try to teach her in a friendly way, I will force her, and I will spank her, until she understands, and I'll hit her on her head with the high heels of the Duchess of Alva until she finally accepts that… That what? That I'm losing it? I should spank her until she finally understands that she should spank me until I understand that I have to change my opinion about spanking? Is my opinion better because I beat it into everyone who has another opinion?
I'm losing it…
You can't change other people, not even by force. Trying to change others by force will probably give fewer results than not trying at all. All you can change is yourself. But… I'm not the problem…
Chelsea is the problem. She's born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Her parents always gave her the best of the best of the best. She never had to struggle. Her most difficult problems came from her math teacher. All everyone taught her was: if you want anything, you ask others. Chelsea never learnt how to solve problems; she only learnt how to be one.
I shouldn't blame her. She's not responsible for the example others gave her. She's a child. I'm an adult. I'm 22 years old. This girl is 17; she's a woman, according to her body, but a child according to her mind. I'm the grown-up here, so I'm the one who should behave like an adult. And so far… I haven't. I'll urgently need to change myself…
I take a deep breath, and another one, and ten more, counting them, to control my emotions and let reason recoup its voice in the voting again. Never react on instinct. Feelings and emotions have an important function in our system of values and decisions, but they should always be in balance with our reason. When we turn off either our brain or our heart, we lose our life. When you're in a state of heavy emotions, it's wrong to act or decide on important topics. This is such a moment. I need to cool down. I need to think.
The breathing exercise helps. I concentrate on something nice, beautiful, the sunlight on my face, the view, the car I'm driving. Slowly, my natural, patient, tolerant, desired state of mind returns. What did I learn from all those books I've read?
My upcoming rage was understandable, but wrong. I accept that. Acceptance is always the first step. No one demands of me to be perfect. I accept my lack of communication skills. It's not a disaster; it's a learning experience. I accept having some minor points in character and education. Why am I the victim of my negative feelings? Can't I control emotions like envy, hate or, like now, of not being in control, of impotence, of powerlessness, caused by that stupid immature behaviour of that stupid child who… (deep breath… calm down…) only reproduces what her environment showed her? Spank children and they'll become violent. Love children and they will love you back…
Human beings are animals, monkeys who talk, dress, and wear make-up. Our instincts dominate the dark side of the Force that drives us. My intelligence should handle my negative feelings.
We humans adapt ourselves to our surroundings. We do what others do, and call it «learning». If you're part of a group where everybody smokes, you need to choose: either you behave differently and drop out of the group, or you adapt and start an unhealthy habit. Most of us pick up the habit: our desire for social contact is stronger. When a mother divides all her time between bottles and shops, you can't expect a child to understand. If your father never had time to love you, you follow his example. It's not your fault if your parents preferred to give you material well-being over social well-being.
Look at the world through the eyes of Chelsea: everybody wants something from you, and nobody asks you what you want.
It's not my mission to save a future world by changing the way a 17-year-old girl thinks; it's my mission to save today's world by giving her a fantastic day. I should trust my colleague #3 to do the rest of the work. #1, The Boss, expects me to behave like an adult and accept Chelsea like she is. She's not a problem to solve; she's a minor inconvenience, to keep the job interesting. A policeman has to wear a uniform, a medical doctor has to wash his hands 100 times per day, and a spy has to learn to accept others like they are.
Like many women, Chelsea is «Tell». Like many men, I'm «Show, Don't Tell». I'm a man of action. I show love and affection to others by solving their problems, like I might ignore them to show I hate them. Those strong emotions go without saying. Women are different. Women dominate words, language, and communication. A three-year-old girl's vocabulary is twice as large as her twin brother's. For Chelsea, words have a different meaning; it's like we both speak a different language. For her, being heard is a sign of love and respect. Her friends at Facebook tell her they like her, and Chelsea thinks they listen to her. Her parents never listened. They were too busy, fulfilling their own desires. Their education of their child consisted of telling her what to do. Every time I tell Chelsea what to do, every time I disagree with her, every word of criticism only gives one message to her: I'm superior. You are inferior. You're not worthy.
Chelsea's generation differs from mine. My parents taught me how to solve problems, so I would never depend on anybody but myself. Chelsea belongs to the Peter Pan generation, the children who will never grow up. They learn to depend on others, on the money others give them, on the jobs others create for them, on the love others might give them (or not). Chelsea never learnt how to be creative and how to solve problems; She learnt how to follow orders and how to pass tests. She is the future generation, and I'm the last of the Neanderthaler, looking at how a new and superior human race takes over. I can't change that generation. I can't even change one other person. All I can do is change myself. I have to adapt to the new order, or I will be extinct before this day is over.
I'm a spy. I'm on a mission. It's not my mission to educate this girl because, in my opinion, her parents and her environment gave her the wrong example. I feel sorry for her, she doesn't seem very happy with it, but it's not my mission to change her habits or her customs.
Even if I'd want to, I can't. You can't change another person. Everybody on this planet will do what she has learnt as «good», although almost everyone has a different idea about what this «good» exactly is. According to my religion, #1, The Boss, and #3, The Diplomat, have a mythical mystical clear idea about good and bad. As long as I follow their orders and do my job, I have nothing to worry about.
Chelsea should have her best-day-ever.
So far, she's not having it.
Why?
My mistake. I tried to put myself above Chelsea and made her feel inferior.
When I called her Queen and Princess, she showed a different reaction.
She doesn't learn. She hates criticism.
She thinks she's smart, beautiful, and, above all, superior.
All she wants is a slave who awes her…
I'm learning.
I hope it's not yet too late…
I pull over to the side of the road. My deep breath hints at the difficulty of my upcoming confession. After closing my eyes for a second of concentration, I say: "I'm sorry."
Now I should wait. The servant kneels until the princess tells him to get up.
"Sorry for what?"
"Sorry for doing all the wrong things. You are… I look up to you. You are like a mentor to me. I admire you as a person. All I wanted was to give you a wonderful day, and I'm ruining it all. I'm sorry. I'm nervous. This is my first time in a car like this with a woman like you. I mean… You're the daughter of the American Secretary of Defense, and I'm the son of a butcher. I hope you can forgive me. I mean… I want to learn from you…"
I've read Rupi Kaur, a Canadian woman who dominates words like it's the easiest thing. Some of her poems, I know by heart:
«i want to apologize to every woman
that i've called pretty
before i called her brave or intelligent.
i'm sorry if i made this sound as if
something as basic as what you're born with
is all you have to be proud of when your
spirit has squashed mountains.
from now on, i'll use words like:
"you are creative" or "you are empathic".
it's not that i don't think you're pretty.
it's because you are so much more than that.»
Telling Chelsea that she's beautiful would have been another mistake: she's not. She'll probably be the only one at her school who ends the year without a date for the upcoming prom, and she would only hate me more for trying to bribe her with such flattery. She's a child who wants to be taken seriously by the adults around her. I'm one of those adults. I should behave like an adult. She needs me to admire her as a person and accept her superiority. She loves it when I call her a mentor. If I want this mission to be a success, I should give her what she wants.
It works.
Chelsea kills the deadly silence with the only answer I hoped for, the only word that makes sense after my despicable act of rolling in the dust under her feet.
"Duh."
The slave is allowed to go on: "I hope you'll correct me if I'm wrong, but I see you not as the daughter of an important father, but most of all, like a unique person. You're not like, for instance… Sandra-Dee, the dau—"
"I see you don't know me. I'm THE most unique person. That's the correct way to say it."
I'm back. Now I have to take the next step: show confidence. Trust her with a secret.
"That's right. You're Chelsea, THE most unique. That's why I want to show the world who you really are. That's why I want to do my best to give you more friends on Facebook. I can't make all those people love you, of course. Nobody can force anyone on Facebook to like what you're doing. But the truth is… I saw your potential. All I need to do is show the world what you are capable of. You have so many talents. That was my plan for today. We put you into the spotlight, make photos and videos of the real you, and publish them on the Internet. Not just on your Facebook page. Everywhere. My friend, number two, The Nerd, can do that for me… For you, I mean."
The Nerd would do anything for any woman. He's locked up permanently in the basement of a high-security building, surrounded by high-tech electronics, but without anyone to communicate with. To fight his loneliness, he turned off the spam filter of his e-mail. He was delighted when I offered him the chance to work together on this mission.
It's getting late. We have a timeline. We have to go. I start the car and hit the road again. I try to relax. This went well. The iceberg on my right is suffering the first effects of global warming. Using words to explain your acts, your doubts, your fears, is not a bad habit for a man. Perhaps I might even learn it, if I work hard for the next three hundred years.
Women are «Tell». Men are «Show, Don't Tell». It's been like that for 40 millenniums. We can waste another 4.000 decades to convince the other half of humanity to adapt to our way of communication, but perhaps it's better to simply join forces. Why don't we all learn to talk «Show And Tell»? It's like Portoñol, the mix of Portuguese and Español that everybody speaks in Latin America. It's like Spanglish. It's communication. When the reader doesn't understand, the writer should use better words.
What's the next step? Where was I? Oh, yes, Chelsea is unique and I admire her. Instead of telling her what to do, I should listen to her and show her why I take her words seriously. Perhaps it's a good idea to start asking questions now. I need the exercise. I need a test, and I need to pass it…
"What is your passion? Which are your talents? What do you want to achieve in life?"
Chelsea's combination of haughtiness and boredom has changed like magic. She's even smiling: "Oh, that's easy. I want to be an actress, and a model, and a singer, and a famous dancer too, and I want to win Grammies, with the music I play and compose myself, and I want to win an Oscar, and… like… well, you know."
"Isn't that a little too much? Isn't it enough to be an actress OR a model OR a singer OR a musician?" I bite my tongue. Criticism again. I'm not here to solve her problem; I try to pass a test.
"I'm sorry. Other girls your age think like that. You are more unique. I made a bad joke."
"Perhaps you should stay out of the field of comedy, Arse."
"And you should add Comedian to your little list of goals. You have a talent to make people laugh. That's what I like about you: for your father, life is a career; for you, life is a mission. For me, your life's my mission too. I'm glad I can help you. You're going to like all the little surprises I've cooked up for you. Do you want to become an actress? That can be arranged. Do you like to dance and sing? It's been worked out already. Do you dream of being a model? You're going to love this. Do you want to win prizes as a musician? That might be a little complicated, I mean… Prize-winning musicians study daily hours for many years. Do you play an instrument already?"
"I play the guitar. Well, sort of. I had this teacher. My father contracted him to teach me how to play the guitar. But you know… He was, like, the worst teacher on the planet."
"Perhaps the guitar was the problem?"
"Duh. It was Lucille, the guitar B.B. King played for fifteen years. But B.B. King made his guitar cry, and his guitar made me cry."
"Because your teacher was the worst teacher on the planet?"
"My father said he was the best teacher money could buy. But my father just didn't try hard enough to find a better one. Imagine. I studied the guitar for a whole month, one whole hour every Friday afternoon, and all I ever learnt was a … How do you call it?"
"A genre? He only taught you how to play classic guitar or Flamenco?"
"No, dumbo. It was something with an A…"
"Artist? He only taught you one artist?"
"No!"
"All you learnt was one album?"
"NO! Don't you know nothing? What's it called? It's on the tip of my tongue…"
"A chord?"
"Yes, that's it. The chord A. I knew it was something with an A. I told that stupid teacher I didn't need to learn the whole alphabet, just enough to do a show for my fans, but he didn't listen. And it's so simple. Everybody likes singers with a guitar. They can all go bananas when I enter the stage, and then I take my guitar, and I do TWAAAAIIINNN, and they go crazy, and want me to do it again, and they shout I'm fabulous, you know, like those rock stars, and no rock star can play an A-chord like I can."
That's what happens if you watch too much TV and too many commercials: your concentration span goes down to a max of seven seconds, and your expectations go up until you think you can win Grammies after one hour on four Friday afternoons with Mark TWAAAIIINNN. It looks like I have a lot to learn, and I don't have time to study; all I have is a maximum of seven seconds to pass this test.
I have to make her feel good: "I don't think it was the teacher. It was the guitar. B.B. King played it for fifteen years? That piece of junk was even older than you are. How can you play and win Grammies on an old doohickey like that? Did B.B. King win Grammies? No, of course, he didn't, because his guitar was way too old. I bet you he was happy to find someone to sell it to, so he could buy a new guitar, a much better one."
Chelsea is happy with the carrot I gave her; she chews it with pleasure: "Yeah. My father knows nothing about music. He says music is a waste of time. He bought that old guitar on purpose, to let me fail and make me feel bad about myself, so I would abandon the project…"
"But he took you to Spain. Spanish guitars are the best in the world, and they also have the best guitar players here. It would surprise me if we can't find you a better teacher today, one who can teach you in five minutes how to play. But that's something for later. First, we have to add a minor point of interest on your list of awesome things to achieve in life: a unique person like you should also excel in at least one major sport."
"Do you want me to play basketball?"
"Chelsea! Now you disappoint me. Didn't I tell you where we are going? Do you really think I'm unaware of your superior social class? Let me tell you something about balls. For a woman, not having them, this might be interesting. Poor men in the ghetto play basketball. Factory workers play football. Junior managers play tennis. Executives play squash. Presidents and the influential politicians play golf."
I don't mention the conclusion: the harder the life, the bigger the balls.
Chelsea remembers now, perhaps because we pass the sign «Los Arqueros – Golf and Country Club»: "We're going to play golf!"
"YOU are going to play golf. The Spanish Open starts today. I promised them a unique person to tee off the tournament. Is there anybody more unique than you? It won't be the opening event on tonight's international news, but it will draw the attention of your kind of people, and it will put you in the spotlights in a classy way. It's unique to start the day with a hole-in-one."
"What's a hole-in-one?"
"Something that will give you a lot of new friends on Facebook. Trust me. It's fun."
* * *
"This is a driver nine, perfect to tee off at this par three.", the man says when he hands Chelsea a stick.
Chelsea lifts her eyebrows. It's obvious she's never seen a game of golf before, and now everybody wants her to tee off and start the most important golf tournament of the country. She looks almost desperately at me: "A pair of three? Does he want a threesome with an underage? And what's all that about perfect tea? Are they British? Don't they drink coffee?"
I put my hand on her shoulder and take the club: "This man is the Alcalde, the mayor, of Marbella. No, he's not that Alcalde of Marbella who owned a football club in Madrid, who was sued in over seventy lawsuits for corruption when 'suddenly' all the files were missing. He's not that other Alcalde of Marbella either, who was sent to jail when the authorities found garbage bags full of money in his house, money that was 'just a loan' from all those construction companies with permission to build on places where construction was not allowed. This man is the Alcalde of Marbella who's also the president of this golf club. They call this hockey stick a golf club too. You use it to hit that little white ball. Members of this golf club put the ball into that little hole over there in three attempts. That's why this lane here is called a par three. But you only have to hit it once. That's tough enough. They call this club a driver nine because most people don't know how to handle it well; they miss nine out of ten, which drives them crazy. But you're not like that. You drive others crazy; I mean your fans, of course, and everybody else who loves you."
I put the small ball on the tiny plastic mushroom and explain the next step: "This plastic mushroom is called a tee. You put the ball on top of it and then you hit it with the club, as hard as you can. In the first lane of the day, that's called «tee off». That's why you are here, to swing your club and hit your ball. You like dancing and music, so swinging, balls, and hits are nothing complicated for you. Do you like to practise with something bigger first? They must have a basketball here somewhere, or a football…"
"Don't be ridiculous, Arse. This might be my first golf tournament, but I'm not stupid, you know. Watch how I do this."
"I know. You can do it. Take your time. I'll be right there, shooting your shot with my mobile. We'll need the images for your Facebook page, remember? Don't forget to smile at the camera. The camera loves you, and so do all your fans on the other side of this camera."
I step back and grab Chelsea with my spiPhone: "Here we are now. Entertain us."
She lifts the club and smashes it full force on top of the ball. It disappears below the surface. Hole-in-one. No doubt about that.
Next to the Alcalde stands a voluptuous woman with black hair in a braid. Her broad smile makes her look like an ad for a dentist: "Let me help you, dear. Swing it. It's like dancing."
The smiling lady puts herself behind Chelsea, lays her arms around her, and puts her huge breasts in her neck: "First, you move the club backwards, like this. Then you aim at that little flag over there… And then you swing… You see?"
The lady steps back to see the results of her kind instructions and Chelsea follows her advice: she looks at the little ball between her feet, looks at the flag on her left, looks at me (I signal her to smile, it looks better on the camera), and swings her club full force backwards into the broad smile of the lady who will now definitely need to find a dentist urgently, one with a bucket of super glue and enough patience for thirty-two 3D jigsaw puzzles.
"It's all right.", I say from behind the camera: "Hole-in-once hardly ever work on the first try. We'll do another one. From now on, it can only get better."
The second swing goes a lot better: it starts behind her back and ends on the other side behind her back, without hitting anyone, and without hitting the ball.
"That's it. That's the teen spirit this old-men-sport needs so badly. Make a few more swings like that, just to get the feeling. Take your time. Put your feet firmly on the ground, as wide as your shoulders. Concentrate on the flag."
"Will you please shut up, Arse? How can I concentrate when you keep talking all the time? I can do this, okay?"
She hits the ground with the next swing. Half a pound of green grass hits the man next to the Alcalde in the face. Luckily, I'm standing on the other side, to film the show. This is great stuff.
"That's how it works. You're getting there. Take your time. The next one will be the hit of the day."
The next swing is indeed club-meets-ball, although the ball decides to join the interested social circles and ends up meeting two of its colleagues, hanging around in the upper half of the trousers of the Alcalde. He seems to have a lot of fun; he doubles with laughter and adds a whole new set of Spanish words to my already rich vocabulary.
Chelsea can't laugh about it: "Can you give me back my ball, please? I have a job to do. I don't understand why people waste their time with such a stupid game like this. Right now I have the drive with the driver, I need to start all over again."
"Don't lose your concentration, Chelsea. You're doing fine. Don't let others influence your performance. We have a mission, remember? The next one will be the hit of the year."
It has to be. We can't afford to lose more time here; we have lots of other things to do today.
Chelsea makes the swing and… the ball flies away, not over the fairway towards the green but over the bushes where the sounds of breaking glass indicate that the Spanish Open includes open windows in the clubhouse.
I animate the audience: "A little more enthusiasm, please. This little lady has just hit a hole-in-one!" All I get are a few lazy handclaps. The Nerd will have to do something about that. I can't record things that aren't there. I can record the celebration of the opening of the Spanish Open, the opening of the champagne bottles, and the first golf pros who show the world how it should be done. We take a quick cup of coffee, and then Chelsea and I say goodbye, so the Alcalde and all the others can get on with their tournament, and we can get on with our mission.
"That went well, don't you think?", I say.
"Did it?"
"Don't worry. It has been a success. I promise."
"Well, I didn't like it and I don't see how anybody else can like it."
"Look at your phone. Check your Facebook page."
Show, Don't Tell.
My spiPhone and all my bug-eye cameras are connected via a permanent open wireless line with the computers of #2, The Nerd, the Gandalf of film editing and the Harry Potter of special effects. Chelsea started the tournament not even ten minutes ago, and The Nerd has already published the results on the Internet.
«Spanish Open starts with a hole-in-one.»
The video shows Chelsea, shaking hands, relaxed, concentrating on the ball, looking at the fairway, taking her time, making her swing… a close-up of the ball on the tee, disappearing with a TIC, flying through the cool blue sky, a perfect curve, landing on the green, bumping and rolling and making a little curve into the right direction… Will it be fast enough?
"Hole-in-one!"
The voice-over is exhilarated. People on the field applaud. People in the stands go crazy. I'm not sure why all the people in Santiago Bernabeu, the football stadium of Real Madrid, do a standing ovation, followed by a Mexican Wave, but I guess this is Spain, where they people appreciate it when others perform well. The clip ends with a smiling Chelsea, lifting her left hand to wave to the audience. I grabbed that when she waved to a waiter to ask for another drink.
"Wow!"
She hasn't even seen the best part.
"Did you look at the stats of the video on YouTube?", I ask.
She opens the link and shows a surprised smile: "50 views in two minutes? 51… 52… 54…"
I smile back: "It seems you're getting popular. Are you ready for the next stage of our Vuelta a España? It's over there, at the back of the garden. I've asked a professional photographer to come. It's the perfect location for a photoshoot of the latest collection of Awesome Artists, THE most popular brand in Spain. She'll publish the photos in Fascinating Fashion, THE most important fashion magazine in Spain. She said she needed a model. I said we needed a make-up artist, a light architect, exclusive clothes that favour your bright side, and right after the shooting, we'll need copies of the best photos for your Facebook page. Do you want to become a model? The dressing room is over there…"