Still there was nothing to see. Nothing that anyone there wanted to see, that is. Only hundreds of people facing the parade route, standing so closely together that one held one's cigarette crooked next to the ear to avoid burning the bare arms that pressed in on all sides. Only the disappearing of the sun behind the clock tower kept it from being uncomfortably hot. Serious devotees had arrived early in the afternoon to grab the precious spots along the barriers and now enjoyed the coveted unobstructed view (of nothing) and the equally desirable elbow rest. The crowd behind them had filled into such a mass that it would have been difficult for any early comer with a change of heart to force their way out of the plaza: they were trapped. The rest of the spectators consisted mainly of elderly Spaniards with young grandchildren, or those few sneaker-clad tourists who, attracted by the swell of noise, had drifted into the streams of people moving into the plaza.

The crowd continued to grow and still there was nothing to see. Only those children small enough to dart under elbows could move freely. Adults needed to content themselves with shifting from hip to hip and swaying their heads back and forth in search of a glimpse of the empty street through the spaces between shoulders. A rustle, an unseen signal and the aimless head bobbing changed to a focused straining towards the source. But nothing. Only a newscaster in a shiny red leather jacket and heels quick-stepping down the road, trailed by two large men in plaid shirts and jeans hauling a heavy camera and unwieldy microphone.

The clock struck half past the hour and the crowd shuffled forward as if pressing closer and straining to look past the heads in front would bring activity down the road. But there was still nothing. More cigarette butts and crumpled paper cups littered the cobblestones of the plaza. Two tourists had their picture taken standing in front of the fountain. A small boy wearing short yellow pants leaned his chin on his father's hip and said something. Those within earshot laughed as the father rubbed his son's dark head and those next to those laughing asked what was it, what did he say. And then the laughter ended and the patter of idle questions and remarks that couldn't really be called a conversation began again.

The hands of the clock had moved forward another quarter of an hour. And then it began.

First came the horses, ambling along, mounted by men dressed in black with heavy metal helmets of medieval knights topped by bright pink plumes. Shuffling slowly behind them came a large crowd of parishioners, all carrying candles, all dressed in dark suits and dresses, all barefoot. The last stragglers of the group disappeared around the corner and nothing followed. But then a shout of recognition from the barrier and the entire mass pressed forward again, straining on their toes to see over the shoulders in front. A figure robed all in purple appeared, wearing a tall peaked hood with just the eye holes cut out and carrying a large silver cross. At this the crowd pressed forward so tightly that nothing could be seen but the backs of heads straining forward and up. After the first followed another and then another and another of these hooded figures with the staring eyes. As the purple hoods grew in numberso did the noise that accompanied them, sounding first like a broken tambourine and then like a crumpled drum roll, a disembodied clinking and scraping that at last could be seen came from the heaps of chains trailing along the asphalt from the bare ankles of the purple gowned figures. Then more hoods and more chains and more barefooted shuffling, but the silver-worked staffs were changed for heavy wooden crosses carried by the gowned figures. And then another pause.

The clock struck the hour. A short elderly woman, wearing an elastic-waisted dress of flowered polyester, her thinning permed hair pulled away from her face by plastic clips, turned her dark glasses towards a group of Filipina women in their early twenties leaning on the yellow barrier. She frowned and shook her head and raised her hand to call their attention. She opened her mouth and began with "Listen" but then a shout from the other side of the plaza attracted her attention.

The statue of the Virgin Mary appeared in the far corner of the plaza. It stood atop a large platform draped in velvet reaching the street, covered with electric candelabras, ornate white and silver woodwork, and framed paintings of the life of the Virgin Mary. The height of the statue was such that it could be seen easily above the heads of the crowd, even from far back in the distance. The platform was mounted on a motorized cart steered by a man turning a large wheel attached to the back of the cart. Dressed in a long veil and robe of embroidered black velvet, the virgin leaned slightly forward, her head bowed, tears rolling down her face of dark wood, and it seemed that when the float moved she shook slightly as if about to prostrate herself. The cart halted and flashes went off around the crowd as people cried "lovely" and "beautiful." It pulled forward again and then stopped.

The old woman turned back to the group of women. She addressed the one nearest her who was wearing a red t-shirt. She raised her raspy voice to a shout. "Listen! You young one, look at you taking my place that I have waited here for hours to have."

The woman she addressed straightened from her position of leaning against the gate. She looked down at the woman without taking off her dark glasses and pulled her chin up in anger. "But I haven't moved! I have been in this place for hours just next to you."

"Don't you say that, look at you, shameless one, you have no right to be here." At this the girl's friend began to shout at the old woman. As she spoke her face flushed darkly. "We've been here waiting! We haven't moved! We have been standing next to you for three hours!"

In the road behind the float with the Virgin Mary appeared a similarly ornate cart carrying a statue of Jesus Christ wearing a gold crown and dark robes, his right hand lifted palm up. The crowd burst into applause that traveled across the square even to those who could not yet see the float. The old woman strained to see over the shoulder of the man in front of her and then turned back to the young women pressed against the barrier. "You have no right to be here! This is not your country! You don't speak the Castellano! You have pushed me out of my place and now I who have been waiting here for hours cannot see!"

By now every person within earshot had fallen silent and turned towards the pair. In the distance drums beat and faint applause sounded. The young woman pressed her trembling lips together and small dimples appeared in her chin. "This is my place!" She seemed suddenly in motion, as if her entire body was poised for movement but had not decided yet in which direction to go. The tourist couple standing directly behind her inched backwards as far as the crowd permitted and began to mutter to each other in English.

Her friends put their hands on her shoulders. "Leave the old lady. Come over here."

"Old lady, take my place. Here. Take it! Now!" She pushed away from her spot in the barrier and shoved through the people pressing against her to stand behind the back of her friend. "Just take it, grandmother!" The young woman's friends shouted back at the old woman. "Shame on you! What shame, grandmother, what shame."

Around them the crowd pulled back and began to speak again in low voices. They turned towards the road again and began to crane their necks towards the floats, every now and then stopping to cast a glance at the crying girl. A gray-haired Spanish woman in a navy blue suit standing near the barrier tapped the old woman on her shoulder. She leaned towards her ear and muttered something and then gestured with her chin towards the group of young women, frowned, shook her head and stepped back. The man steering the float of the Virgin Mary began to pull it backwards towards the crowd, and then forward again, making an unwieldy three point turn and rolling the statue of the Virgin Mary to face the statue of Jesus. The two floats stopped a few feet apart and the crowd applauded again. More flashes went off. The old woman shoved her way further along the barrier and leaned back over her shoulder to scold the young woman. "You dark one, you watch your language. You don't know how to speak Castellano."

"The Castellano is my language as much as it is yours, grandmother. You should be ashamed!"

She turned to her friend and the two of them began to speak rapidly, shaking their heads. They pushed their way further along the barrier away from the old woman and behind them the crowd pushed forward to fill the vacated space.

The float with the Virgin Mary began another laborious turn back to its original position.

The old lady turned to a young couple standing on her left. "What shamelessness. These foreigners come here and have no job and have no right to be here."

She turned her head back towards the group of women.

"You have no right!"

The float of the Virgin Mary completed the turn and continued slowly along the road. More applause and cheers and more flashes came from the crowd. After a moment the float of Jesus Christ began to move forward after it. Behind the float marched three drummers banging a steady rhythm. A marching band appeared around the corner and fell in behind the drummers, playing a slow march dominated by heavy blasts from the brass horns. The statue of Jesus floated away down the road, its upraised hand shining brightly in the glow of the swaying electric candles.

Maggie Sloan lives in Madrid.

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