The Drifters by James A. Michener Read Free Book Online Page A

forest of pillars, stretching in all directions as far as they could see, one of the Germans said, ‘You can see more of Islam here than you can in Muslim countries like Algeria or Morocco. I spent last vacation in Marrakech— exciting in some ways but never a mosque like this one.’
    Joe liked Córdoba and would have been content to linger a few days, but the Germans were eager to meet up with their friends. So they pushed on, and were soon approaching that extraordinary plateau from whose southern rim they would be able to look down upon the Mediterranean. ‘Ah,’ cried the driver as they reached the edge of the cliff from which the city of Málaga could first be seen, ‘this is Spain!’ He pulled the car to the side of the road and pointed out the distant cathedral, the bullring, the esplanade lined with palm trees, the copious harbor, and to the west that chain of marvelous fishing villages which the Phoenicians had known and the Greeks. Costa del Sol, this area was called, and it served as a magnet for young people from around the world.
    ‘That cluster of tall buildings, beyond Málaga,’ one ofthe Germans explained, that’s your Torremolinos.’ He smacked his lips and said, ‘Imagine! Right now! Five thousand of the world’s most beautiful girls down there, panting for me to arrive.’
    ‘Is it a good spot—Torremolinos?’ Joe asked.
    ‘See for yourself!’ the excited German said. ‘Endless beach. Mountains to cut off the cold winds. It’s not a city. It’s not a village. It’s nothing seen on earth before. I’ll tell you what it is—a refuge from the world’s insanity, except that it’s totally insane.”
    They looked down at the panorama, the most exciting in Spain, with its mixture of old Málaga, the blue Mediterranean, the fishing villages and the stark mountains. To see the area from this height, after having traversed the barren upland plains, was to see an invitation to life and music, to wine and seashore. ‘If it’s as good down there as it looks from up here,’ Joe said, ‘it’s a scene I’d like to make.’
    ‘The only people who know how to enjoy it are the Germans and Swedes,’ one of the students said. ‘Americans don’t fit in easily.’
    ‘Lot of Germans down there?’
    ‘When you get down, look. You’ll find whole areas speaking nothing but German. Signs will be in German, too. Or Swedish.’
    They took one final survey of the splendid area, then jumped in the car and started the screeching descent, with tires whining protests as the car swerved first to one side, then wildly to the other. At one point the road had to make two complete circles requiring a sequence of tunnels, so that the car seemed as if it were sliding down the flanges of a corkscrew, and as they sped around the curves Joe caught a kaleidoscopic view of ocean, mountain, sky, tunnel, Málaga and, in the distance, Torremolinos. It was a dazzling, stomach-turning approach, and when the curves grew even tighter the Germans began shouting encouragement to the driver; as he approached a curve they would utter a long-drawn
uggggghhhhh
, rising in tone and volume as the car screamed into the bend, its tires about to pop off their rims, then ending in a triumphant
yaaaahhhhh
as the car teetered, almost toppled over, then regained its direction. When the road reached sea level and straightened out, the driver exultantly jammed the gas pedal to thefloor and they roared along at more than ninety, slowing only when the narrow streets of Málaga appeared.
    ‘That’s the way to come down a mountain!’ the driver shouted, and Joe said, ‘Son of the Red Baron.’
    They did not stop in Málaga but sped directly westward past the airport, and in a few minutes were entering Torremolinos, with its nest of skyscrapers along the shore, its lovely winding streets leading inland. The Germans roared into the center of town, came to a screaming halt before a newspaper kiosk that featured papers from every city in