BILBAO

Horace Andy

It may have been love, infatuation, or pure lust. I don't know. I didn't stay around to find out.

It was a few moments after I had entered Kafe Antzoka that I saw him looking at me. A middle-aged, white man in a dark suit. For crissake, it was a Reggae concert with one of Jamaica's pioneers, Horace Andy.

It was about 9:20 and the place was noisy. He came over to make conversation and I couldn't hear a damn thing. I managed to hear the offer for a drink and said no; water, no. That didn't stop him from returning a few minutes later with a small bottle of water and his phone number on a pink flyer, for chrissakes. The flyer showed a clown and the name Kurrusku. He said that was him. The number was written at the top and again, near the bottom 653749942.

Half an hour later, during the concert, he introduced this guy as his friend. A few minutes later, another bottle of water. Twenty minutes later, another, which I refused. I showed the friend the two that I had in my bag.

Then this clown returns with a beer which I absolutely refused.

Andy had the place filled with young, dreadlocked youngsters, a guy offered me ganja which I refused. The place was hopping and I could breathe a little by keeping the door ajar.

Before the intermission, I left, making sure the clown didn't see me going.

Patrick Barry Barr