The Tiled Courtyard – Part 1: Broken Tiles

"We are going to do this ourselves," said Javier.

"We are going to regret this," said Pilar.

They stood in the courtyard of the old house in a village in Andalusia, under a sky of pitiless blue, among piles of broken tiles, bags of cement and buckets of water. The courtyard was small and walled, with an orange tree, a dry fountain and a floor that had once been patterned in blue and white. Now half the tiles were cracked or missing. A lizard watched them from the wall.

She was forty-four, a paediatric nurse from Córdoba, in a headscarf and borrowed overalls. He was forty-seven, a surveyor, tall and brown, in a faded cap, with a grin that made her forgive nearly anything. They had bought the house in the spring for a price that was either a miracle or a mistake. Their children were at their grandmother's for the summer.

"Where do we begin?"

"At the beginning."

"Where's that?"

"There." He pointed at the middle of the floor.

They lifted the first cracked tile with a chisel and a hammer. Dust rose. The cement beneath was black with age. They swept and scraped and mixed mortar, working side by side in the heat. By noon, sweat ran down their faces. By two, they had laid nine tiles. By four, Pilar had stuck a finger through the wrong one and Javier had glued his knee to the floor.

"Stop laughing."

"I'm not laughing."

"You are shaking."

"I am dehydrating."

At dusk, they sat on the edge of the dry fountain with cold beers, filthy, burnt and euphoric, looking at their tiny patch of blue. The orange tree rustled. The swifts wheeled overhead, screaming. The air cooled slowly, scented with jasmine from the next-door wall.

"Can I ask you something?" said Pilar.

"Yes."

"Do you think we can finish?"

"Maybe in ten years," said Javier. "But I'd like to spend them with you."

"Green?" she said, the old word.

"Green," said Javier, softly. "Very green. Tomorrow, we do the border."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Last Tile.