The Battle of the Ebro

ACT I – A Pincho Too Far.

Setting: Casa Alberto, Tudela.

A dim, narrow bar smelling faintly of bleach, Rioja, and fried cartilage. The counter is cluttered with half-drained glasses, pinchos under glass domes, and a small handwritten sign: “Menú del Día — Oreja de Cerdo.”

The lighting flickers slightly, unsure whether to flatter or expose.

Characters:

DANIEL (The Peregrine): worn, wry, a pilgrim of mixed conviction. Sandals dusty, eyes alert to absurdity.

ALBERTO: the barman. Mid-forties, dead behind the eyes but efficient. Moves like someone who stopped listening years ago.

THE SHADOW: a gaunt man in cheap sportswear, glassy-eyed, perpetually hovering — left, right, forward, back. His presence is an itch that won’t scratch.

THE PIG’S EAR: glistening, stubborn, and silent.

---

[Lights rise. The hum of the fridge. A muted TV showing a bullfight rerun.]

ALBERTO (flat): Oreja de cerdo?

DANIEL (hesitant): Sí… why not?

ALBERTO (shrugs, disappears into the kitchen).

[THE SHADOW appears, circling slightly behind DANIEL. Every time Daniel shifts, he shifts too — left, right, closer, back again. Breathing audible. A nervous dance of invisible boundaries.]

DANIEL (to himself):

Containment. Everywhere, containment. Even in hunger.

[ALBERTO returns. Sets down the plate. Steam rises from a pale, fleshy curl of pig’s ear. It quivers, glistens.]

ALBERTO:

Cuidado. Está caliente.

[He retreats. THE SHADOW lingers closer, eyes fixed not on Daniel, but on the plate.]

DANIEL:

(aside, quietly)

I’ve crossed mountains, rivers, and wind farms…

And yet here lies my true test —

the unholy cartilage of Casa Alberto.

[He raises a fork. The ear resists. The sound is somewhere between a squeak and a tear. He chews. Grimly. The chewing continues longer than the audience expects.]

DANIEL (muttering):

Unromantic. Utterly unromantic.

THE SHADOW (suddenly, softly):

You like it?

DANIEL:

I don’t think “like” enters into this.

THE SHADOW:

You pilgrim?

DANIEL:

Something like that.

THE SHADOW:

You believe?

DANIEL:

In what — transcendence, digestion, or survival?

[THE SHADOW laughs — a dry, high sound. He moves again — left, right, forward, back — a moth orbiting a bare bulb.]

DANIEL (aside):

He hovers like a conscience I never ordered.

Too close to shoo, too fragile to fight.

[He chews another bite, wincing. The texture refuses compromise. He gulps Amstel straight from the bottle.]

DANIEL (half aloud):

Amstel — the pilgrim’s absolution.

Washes away all memory of cartilage and sin.

[THE SHADOW stops moving, stares at Daniel.]

THE SHADOW:

You don’t finish?

DANIEL:

I finish everything. Eventually.

[He lifts the final curl of ear, swallows hard. The crowd — unseen, but present — exhales.]

DANIEL (quietly, with a grim smile):

A pincho too far.

Even the body must learn humility.

[THE SHADOW edges away, muttering something indistinct — maybe a prayer, maybe a warning. ALBERTO reappears to clear the plate, unbothered, unseeing.]

ALBERTO:

Todo bien?

DANIEL:

(beat)

Sí. Todo suficiente.

[He stands, leaves a coin on the counter, and steps back into the hard sunlight. The hum of the fridge fades, replaced by the long hiss of the Ebro wind.]

Blackout.

ACT II – The Circling Vulture of Doom.

Setting: Tudela Station, late afternoon.

A heavy heat, the smell of diesel and disinfectant. Offstage speakers drone delays. A flickering vending machine hums an unending hymn to caffeine.

Characters:

DANIEL (The Peregrine) – pale, clenched, beyond irony.

STATION VOICE – metallic calm.

TICKET MACHINE – blinking, unresponsive.

COMMUTERS – shadows, earbuds, exhaustion.

THE VULTURE – lighting effect: a slow-turning shadow above the waiting hall.

---

[Lights up on the TICKET MACHINE flashing ERROR 404 – NO SERVICE. DANIEL jabs buttons, breath quickening.]

DANIEL:

No ticket, no mercy. I’ll pay on the train, I’ll barter my soul, just let me out of Tudela.

STATION VOICE:

El tren con destino Alfaro… retrasado quince minutos.

DANIEL:

Fifteen minutes? You liar. You mean eternity in fifteen-minute increments.

[He doubles slightly, hand to stomach.]

DANIEL (aside):

System delayed, nature not. Biology remains punctual when nothing else is.

[He bolts offstage toward the Baño Público. The sound is a mix of echoing footsteps and a single disgusted sigh. The VULTURE circles wider, a slow whoop of wings.]

STATION VOICE:

Atención señores viajeros: el tren procedente de Castejón entrará en vía dos.

[Fluorescent flicker. A rush of COMMUTERS fills the platform, weary bodies shuffling into alignment. The VULTURE descends, brushing their heads like a thought of futility.]

[DANIEL re-enters, paler, lighter, pack half-zipped. The train screeches in behind him.]

DANIEL:

Synchrony at last—excretion and escape. Rare alignment of man and machine.

[He clambers aboard; the doors close with pneumatic finality. Inside, the carriage hums with the tired silence of Friday commuters.]

COMMUTER 1 (half-asleep):

Is that smell diesel or doom?

COMMUTER 2 (without opening eyes):

Same thing this hour of the week.

[The train jerks forward. The VULTURE fades from the roof. DANIEL sways in the aisle, clutching a strap, staring at his reflection in the window — grey sky, grey face, grey river below.]

DANIEL (quietly):

Freedom smells like disinfectant and relief.

Alfaro ahead. Or so they say.

[Blackout. The sound of rails fading into heartbeat.]

ACT III - The Berbers in the SEAT

Setting: A dusty, unremarkable Spanish road, somewhere between Alfaro and Calahorra. The sun is now higher, revealing the endless, straight expanse. To the left, a low agricultural field. To the right, the occasional rush of traffic.

Characters:

DANIEL: (The Peregrine) Mid-distance, walking steadily in sandals. His face shows a quiet, knowing amusement.

ANCIENT (A1): An older Berber man, dignified, despite his visible confusion. Wears a traditional tagelmust (head wrap).

YOUNG (Y1): A younger Berber man, trying to navigate the situation. Also wears a tagelmust.

SILENT (S1): A third Berber man, completely silent, staring out the window, his tagelmust slightly askew.

(The scene opens on a small, slightly dusty SEAT Ibiza, parked clumsily on the shoulder of the road. Inside, the THREE BERBER MEN are visibly disoriented. ANCIENT is fumbling with a crumpled map that looks utterly out of place. YOUNG tries to operate a smartphone with limited success. SILENT stares out, utterly still.)

ANCIENT: (Sighs, runs a hand over his tagelmust, which is impeccably tied despite the circumstances) This map... it speaks of routes, of numbers. Not of wells, not of stars. Where is the wisdom in these lines?

YOUNG: (Frustrated, poking the phone screen) Baba, the phone says "recalculating." It does this every time we take this "shortcut." It has no soul. And no signal.

ANCIENT: (Squinting at the road ahead, then at the map) Shortcuts. You speak of shortcuts. When did our journeys become so... truncated? We used to measure by the arc of the sun, by the thirst in the throat, by the very grit beneath the camel’s hoof.

(He glances down at the plush, synthetic interior of the car with a look of profound distaste. He tries to shift, but the bucket seat holds him in place. There is a moment of uncomfortable silence, punctuated by the faint hum of passing traffic.)

YOUNG: The man at the gas station said this way was faster to... (He fumbles for the name) ... Logroño.

ANCIENT: Faster? Faster to what? We are going faster to... this. (He gestures vaguely at the dusty road, the passing cars, the lack of any discernible landmark that speaks of timelessness.) The land is flat, yes. Like the desert. But where is the horizon? Where is the space to think?

(He looks down at his hands, instinctively reaching for a phantom sabre, his fingers closing on air. A flicker of something like shame crosses his face.)

ANCIENT: I feel... contained. Like a tiger in a very small, rattling box. Without teeth. Or armour. This… seat... it holds me. But it does not protect me.

YOUNG: (Looks up from the dead phone, a hint of desperation) Baba, the navigation... it just keeps saying "Turn around when possible." But where is possible? It all looks the same!

(SILENT suddenly turns his head, his eyes fixed on something outside the car. He points a finger, slowly.)

SILENT: (A low, rumbling voice, unused, like grinding stones) Peregrine.

(ANCIENT and YOUNG follow his gaze. In the distance, they see DANIEL, walking steadily in his sandals, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips as he navigates the uneven surface of pebbles and grit. He seems utterly at home in the difficult landscape.)

ANCIENT: (Watches Daniel for a long moment, a profound sadness in his eyes) He walks. With nothing but his feet and his will. Where is his Seat? Where is his shortcut?

(He turns back to the crumpled map, then to the unresponsive smartphone, then to the younger man. A deep sigh escapes him.)

ANCIENT: Tell me again, my son. Why did we ever leave the desert? This... this is no way to travel.

(YOUNG shakes his head, equally lost. SILENT returns to staring out the window, a silent, powerful indictment of the modern world. The small car continues to rattle slightly on the shoulder of the vast, unromantic road as Daniel, the Peregrine, walks steadily onward towards Calahorra.)

(FADE TO BLACK.)

ACT IV – The Imbecile and the Sandalled Pilgrim.

Setting: A small café in Alfaro, 7:15 to 8:15 a.m.

Thin light, metal counters, a toaster that breathes smoke.

The smell: burnt bread, impatience, disinfectant.

Characters:

DANIEL (The Peregrine) – calm, hollow-eyed, needing only a quiet breakfast.

THE IMBECILE – man of purpose without purpose; his life’s meaning lies in friction.

THE TOAST – charred witness to futility.

THE VICHY CATALAN – sealed grace.

OUTSIDE WORLD – the muffled sound of a town trying to wake.

---

[Lights rise. DANIEL sits, backpack at his feet. The IMBECILE stands behind the counter, frowning at a toaster.]

DANIEL:

Tostados con tomate y un café largo, por favor.

IMBECILE:

(cheerfully uncertain) Largo, sí, sí.

[He disappears. Moments later, the toaster coughs. The smell of carbon fills the air.]

DANIEL (aside):

Every pilgrim meets his trial. Mine just hissed.

*[The IMBECILE reappears, brandishing two black slabs of toast. He lays them on the counter, studies them, then frowns — as if betrayed. He reaches for a knife and begins to scrape. The sound is sharp, dry, endless: skrrt-skrrt-skrrt.]

DANIEL:

(quietly)

He’s scraping the toast. He’s scraping his soul.

[The scraping grows faster, rhythmic, mechanical. He pauses, inspects, then resumes, as if the act itself might redeem the burnt surface.]

IMBECILE:

(to himself)

Now it’s better. Now it’s clean.

[He slides the toast across. It’s just bread again—dry, scraped, robbed of everything that once made it food.]

DANIEL:

Gracias.

[He tastes. It has no taste. He pours the coffee—wrong kind, of course—and stares at the Vichy Catalan beside it. Opens it. The faint hiss of carbonation sounds holy.]

DANIEL (to the bottle):

You alone remember pressure and release.

[He drinks. The IMBECILE begins again — another round of scraping, chairs now, spoons, any surface that can yield a sound.]

DANIEL (aside):

We each have our liturgy. His is abrasion. Mine is endurance.

[A faint siren passes outside. An ambulance. DANIEL glances toward the door.]

DANIEL:

Perhaps they’ve come for the toast.

[He stands, leaves the coin, and steps out. The scraping continues behind him, softer, infinite. Morning light widens as he walks away in sandals — calm, absurd, sustained.]

Blackout.

Final Act: Calahorra — The Battle of the Ebro

Setting: Evening settles slow. Heat leaves the stones. A vulture circles, steady as thought. Mosquitoes hover, thick as memory. The pilgrim climbs the last steps to the Albergue — locked. He doesn’t knock this time. He just sits on the wall and opens his can of Estrella Galicia.

THE PILGRIM

So this is Calvary.

No nails, no glory.

Just torreznos cooling in a paper tray and a sky that’s had enough of blue.

(He drinks. Wipes his mouth. The hum of insects grows louder.)

THE UMBRA

(off behind him)

You think you’ve escaped?

The road never ends — it just doubles back.

THE PILGRIM

Maybe.

But doubling back isn’t the same as going nowhere.

THE UMBRA

(laughs, gutteral)

Look at you. A martyr of meat and Rioja.

All that walking and you still end up chewing fat.

THE PILGRIM

(smiles)

Aye. But this time I taste it.

And I’m not mistaking hunger for holiness.

(He holds up the last piece of torrezno, grease glinting in dusk.)

THE PILGRIM

To the ghosts who kept talking,

to the vultures who waited,

to the mosquitoes who drew blood in vain —

and to the imbecile who stayed behind the bar,

forever drunk, forever almost home.

THE UMBRA

And to you, pilgrim? What do you toast?

THE PILGRIM

To the end of striving.

To quiet sufficiency.

And to no more pig ear-os.

(The umbra laughs once, low, and dissolves into the air. The pilgrim eats the last bite. The sun folds behind the ridge; only the glow of Rioja remains in his hand.)

THE PILGRIM

(softly)

I have crossed the Ebro,

and the Ebro has crossed me.

Now let the Sabbath begin.

(He leans back against the stone. The vultures drift east. The road hums itself to sleep.)

Curtain.