Female Vampires of Spain, Film Script Euro Vampire Stories, Vampiras de Malaga

V A M P I R A S de MÁLAGA

("Female Vampires of Spain"-Rated PG. For Adult Version, click here for to request email book

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“No, tio, haven’t seen anybody here but us,” the man said, obviously giddy from his female companions and the joint he was smoking.

“Nobody,” a cute Spanish girl added.

I must have appeared confused. I looked around, down the coast, where the highway made a sharp curve over the base of a cliff, out in the water, and directly up the cliff behind us. Nothing.

I walked up a short trail to the highway and got on my motorbike.

That evening I dressed up and went to Mr. Grandshire’s business dinner up in the mountains behind Marbella. His home was a converted 18th century parador, a typical country inn.

Inside, white walls displayed portraits of Renaissance grandees and Picasso prints. Several wealthy guests, possibly buyers, and foreign salesmen like me mingled, sipping large glasses of champagne and red wine. A platter of various sliced meats, anchovies, barbecued slabs of fish; manchego, cheddar, and Swiss cheese, green olives, and raw vegetables graced the main table, a large, dark oak piece of furniture with thick legs carved in Baroque splendor.

A purple tapestry covered the wall above the fireplace, which was crackling with burning logs, providing warmth to the mid-winter evening.

A jazz quartet played wild improvisations outside on they patio next to the pool. The stars were out, sharply twinkling in the clear night sky.

I spoke with Mr. Grandshire shortly and conversed with some of the guests that seemed most likely to be interested in buying property along the coast.

Feeling that my business was done, I ordered a cognac from the waiter and served myself a plate of food from the abundant table and sat out near the pool. It was slightly chill, so I zipped up my leather jacket.

In the light of the torch lamp I saw three beautiful women, all of whom I had seen before. It was the French and German girl I had seen on the nude beach and the bewitching Spanish woman I had seen in Bakala Teteria. They all interrupted their soft chatter to look over at me for a moment.

I smiled and nodded and returned to chomping on my delicious food. My heart was beating. I felt a certain fear, indefinable. C’mon, it’s just a group of hot-lookin’ chicks, I reasoned with myself.

The Spanish woman was wearing a purple dress, the neckline of which dove down almost to her belly. On the sides of her tanned cleavage I could see the edges of a black brassiere. Her *** were small and pointy and she wore a gold chain suspending an ankh and pentagram. The French girl wore tight white slacks with frilly red top; the German, a nearly transparent light blue dress, which revealed dark blue *** and bra.For Adult Version, click here for to request email book

A few more minutes of them giggling and talking in accented English, then the French and German women went back inside. The Spanish woman was alone with her plate of food and glass of wine.

She approached me in black, high-heel shoes, the crisp sound of hard soles on the patio stone alerted me.

“Hi,” she said in English.

I was amazed how young and carefree she sounded, which belied her mature and somewhat grave countenance. She could be 100 years old or 26. It was the expression of the eyes and mouth. Physically, she looked around 26 or 27, and presently that personality emerged.

“Hi,” I said back, and then gazed on a particularly bright constellation in the southern sky.

She sat next to me and nibbled a strip of roasted beef eagerly and sipped her wine.

“Are you one of Phelas’ friends?” I turned to her stunning visage, lit around shadows with the torch’s orange light.

She chewed a piece of very rare meat, so rare that drops of red juice concentrated in the corners of her mouth.

“Yes, “ she said in an oddly dusky and low voice–she was so feminine, an odd contrast. “I met him a few years ago in Morocco.”

She sipped her red wine, licking her lips with a flicker of her longish tongue.

“I’m Scott, salesman for Phelas’ enterprise.”

“Do you smoke marijuana?” she asked in lazy Andaluz Spanish.

“Uh, sure.” I replied. Somehow I didn’t want to smoke with her, though I usually enjoy Mother Nature’s finest.

She pulled a thick joint from underneath her black bra and lit it with a purple lighter encrusted with gems that might have been rubies.

The mysterious woman inhaled and passed me the joint. I felt the sweet remnants of her saliva as I took a drag.

The German and French girls returned. They stood near us and smiled politely at me, then both started speaking German to the Spanish woman.
I don’t understand German too well, but it seemed it was quite important what they were discussing.

The Spanish woman stood up, ready to go with her two friends, and I got up and thanked her for the joint.

“Keep it,” she said. “Pleasure to meet you.”
She gave me the customary warm kiss on the cheek and softly shook my hand.

“Likewise, I’m sure,” I said.

It wasn’t anything unusual in Spain, the friendly kiss on the cheek on first acquaintance, but this kiss was exceptionally warm, almost intoxicating.

Feeling slightly stoned, I decided not to smoke the rest of the joint after the women had left, but wrapped it up in a flower petal and placed it my pocket.

All this time out on the patio, the jazz-fusion band had slowed tempo, and was playing dreamy improvisations. The stars shone calmly and down near the coast a helicopter flew low, rotating a spotlight on various buildings and empty fields.

I took a sip of wine and ate some manchego cheese. Phelas appeared before me.

“Hello Scott. Enjoying the business meeting?” he asked, chuckling in a sarcastic English manner– He might have been a British comedian.
.

“Yeah, OK. Lots of pretty girls here!” I replied.

“Hmm, yes…” The older man agreed. Phelas was about 55, slight paunch, but overall trim physique, with a mischievous and sun-weathered face.

“I suppose you have met the girls?” He asked. The torch light shone on his gold necklace.

“Oh, sure. Who were they? The one is especially stunning,” I said.

“They did some work for me a few years back. I quite enjoy having them at my parties. They do things for me sometimes– so many valuable business contacts. Rather jolly bunch of girls at night, unusual. Indeed, always the life of the party,” he reported with tempered enthusiasm.

I spent the rest of the evening mingling with various people. I might have gotten a few buyers for an apartment south of Marbella.

A few couples were necking out by the pool. Feeling a bit left out, as I hadn’t met any women as attractive as the Spanish one, and was unwilling alone; I decided to leave early, around midnight. By the time I got to my motorbike, several guests had already stripped naked and dove in the pool.

As soon as I got home, the phone rang. It was Maria, an ex-girlfriend who every few months would call, saying she missed me, even thought it was she who had broken up with me.

“Hello Scott. I can’t sleep tonight. I wanted to talk to you,” she said drowsily, and then burst into that kooky giggling, her characteristic conversational filler.

I endured another twenty minutes. What I couldn’t understand is why I had to deal with this, after the fiasco of my half-hearted adultery. Her husband had gone back to Barcelona and they were finalizing the divorce.

Before that it had been a cat and mouse game. She was separated but her husband kept on visiting her down south here, pleading with her to come back. Maria was with me, she insisted, yet he kept returning so often I had to keep a permanent eye and ear vigilant while at her flat.

A short architect, he was no one to fear. His professional status and wealth, however, made me cringe, especially on holidays, which were celebrated so often in Spain, when they got together and sort of “patched things up”. I never knew if she’d commit to me or not, whether she’d just end the relationship or keep up the good times. It was a seesaw, a roller coaster, and it jerked around pain in the pit of my stomach.

“OK, Maria. I wanna go to sleep now. Maybe we’ll meet for coffee sometime,” I said, hoping she’d just shut up and let me go.

She ended the call with a bitter “Hasta luego.”

I decided to take a few more puffs off that marijuana cigarette. Inhaling deeply, I lay on my bed and watched the streetlights’ patterns on the wall. A noisy motorbike sped by at times. Water dripped from the kitchen faucet. I put out the cigarette and took a sip of bottled water. Soon, I fell into the chambers of sleep.

In a dream again. I saw Pedro in the teteria serving an ornate pot of tea to the three women I had met at Phelas’ party that night. There were no other customers. It was the night of the first Feria de Malaga, a weeklong August festival in that city. The one small recessed window facing the street was covered with a thick purple cloth, which allowed no light in or out.

The main room of the teteria was lit by three dim lamps and two candelabras, one under the Moorish arch, and another glistening silver on the senoritas’ table.

Pedro sat at the entrance to the kitchen, reading an old book by the light of one weak lamp.

The woman sat comfortably sipping their tea and chatting as if at an American housewives’ Tupperware party. They were all wearing rather conservative clothing, like at a PTA fundraiser event, and this contrasted strongly with the esoteric ambience.

A large black spider crawled slowly down its web under the wall lamp.

The radio was tuned to a Spanish top-40 pop station. A group that sounded a lot like the Mamas and Papas sang in reverberant Spanish chorus, music which made sure all was tranquil and easy, and a feeling of well being was engendered and equal sensations of pleasantness were absorbed by the stone walls.

They started speaking in German, and it seemed I could understand. They kept mentioning Pedro and how he was “perfect”, and how he seemed so bored and lonely.

Pedro walked over and asked the ladies if they needed anything. They ordered a bottle of cognac. He went down into the cellar and brought back a large bottle of the brownish-orange fire.

“The whole thing?” he asked.

“Yes, the whole bottle!” The Spanish women said.

The French girl placed a thick stack of 1,000-peseta bills on the table. Pedro eagerly picked them up and returned to the kitchen, then arrived with four snifters.

“May I?” He asked

“Certainly!” The German woman exclaimed, flashing her large, light-blue eyes.CONTINUE>

(©Copyright 2006, Euro-California Esoteric Books, Ltd.) All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced or transmited in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. (Publishing enquiries, serial rights, film rights contact here.)

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