Back in the early seventies when personal computers, e-mail, mobiles and text messages were unheard of, and in the more remote pueblos of Andalucia the telephone was only just coming into its own, postmen were nearly as important as the village priest, the mayor, the visiting doctor and the sergeant in command of the Guardia Civil headquarters.
In one of these remote villages lived Paco the postman, a forty year old bachelor whose duty it was to go down to the nearest town twice a week to collect and deliver whatever letters to the inhabitants of his locality.
It was a secure job with regular wages, petrol and repairs for his essential motorbike paid for, he naturally knew everyone and was privy to all the gossip, but despite this he was not satisfied with his lot for deep down he was a poet and wanted to be recognized by the world as such.

On the days when he did not have to deal with incoming or outgoing post he went out into the campo, sat beneath an olive tree and wrote such sentimental verses that they quite often made him cry they were so romantic.
One morning he decided that it was time to become famous and he hit upon the shrewd idea of sending his love poems anonymously to all the spinsters and widows of the village for a month or two, then to reveal himself to be the brilliant author. This way his inspired art would not only become known but he might also capture the heart of a future wife.
So he started his rounds twice a week making sure that no one knew from whom the letters came and that each and every female kept the delivery of his poems secret.

Heartbeats began to quicken in the pueblo on Tuesdays and Thursday and the more observant noticed that Maria Carmen, Maria Dolores, Maria Angeles, Maria José, Maria Isabel, Marie Sol, Marie Nieve, Rosa, Pilar, Angustias and a dozen or so more now eagerly awaited Postman Paco on their balconies, at their windows or on their doorsteps.
Then on one of the Tuesday mornings Paco, as was his habit, went into Esteban’s Bar for his usual coffee and anis seco before setting out on his rounds and found himself confronted by the tasting of Esteban’s new terreno wine. This particular year it was very good, Esteban was pleased and generous and the tasting turned into a fiesta so that by three pm Paco was quite drunk but, ever zealous, insisted on launching out to deliver his poetic mail.

That evening, Esteban went down the little passage leading to the servicios, where the telephone hung on a wall, and unhooked the receiver intending to ring through orders for more beer, wine and mineral water from the suppliers.
Though he had been one of the first to get a telephone in the village, he still felt a childish thrill when using it. It was costly so he didn’t play with it, but enjoyed calling the depository. For some reason, however, the line was dead.
He shook the receiver, banged it with his fist, but there was nothing. So he hung up, left the bar and went straight up the street to talk to Maria Dolores who ran the pueblo’s telephone exchange. It was up some steep stairs above the carpenters shop, in a small room with a window which overlooked the main street. Maria Dolores sat in front of the console eight hours a day, knitting, or sometimes playing parchis with her friend Rosa the hairdresser and sometimes Rosa would do Maria Dolores’s hair

To Esteban her life seemed to be relentlessly boring, but she provided an essential service and, of course, knew everything that went on in the village because she listened into most conversations.
As Esteban walked in, Maria Dolores was turning the little handle of the console furiously and pushing various plugs into appropriate holes.
‘Digame ! Digame ! Oiga ! Oiga !’ then ‘Ola !’ she said, swivelling round on her special stool. ‘Que tal?’
‘My phone is not working, Maria.. Is anything the matter ?’
Maria Dolores could not be said to be pretty. She was very thin, the thinnest woman in the pueblo and, because of this, love and marriage had passed her by. She was only thirty two, but at that age, by village standards, she should have been married and had two children if not more.
‘I don’t know what it is. Two or three lines have gone dead, but Manolo knows about it and is coming to see what he can do, ‘ she explained.
Manolo was the village genius who repaired everything from Rosa’s hair dryers to Paco’s motorbike.
’Can you put me through to the depository from here then ? I need to order more beer,’ Esteaban asked.
‘Claro.’
He watched her dial the number expertly with the end of her pencil, note down the call on a pad as she connected the line to the public telephone in the corner on the little table.
Esteban picked up the receiver and gave his order.
An hour or so later when he was back behind the bar gearing up for the night’s business, Manolo came in for a few beers and a cognac.
‘Did you go up see Maria Dolores ?’ Esteban asked. ‘Did you find out what the problem is with my phone?’
‘The problem with your phone,’ Manolo said through a sigh, ‘ is Paco.’
That Esteban did not understand.
‘Paco ? What has Paco got to do with my telephone?. He’s the postman.
’Exactly.’
Esteban was none the wiser. ‘Can you explain ?’ he asked.
Manolo took a deep breath. ‘Did your sister, Eloisa, the one who never got married, receive a letter this morning ?’
She did. It’s right here next to the coffee machine. She hasn’t come home yet.’
‘Did you check that it was addressed to her ? ’ Manolo asked.
‘No....’ and Esteban reached for the letter, studied the envelope and made a face.’ It’s addressed to Maria Dolores.’
‘Open it,’ Manolo said.
‘I can’t do that, it’s Eloisa’s.’
‘Maria Dolores listens to all the phone conversations and steams open letters addressed to others when she has the chance, you can do it too.’
Esteban made sure no one was looking, turned on the steam tap of the coffee machine, waved the letter under it and opened it without difficulty.
Inside was a love poem dedicated to the most beautiful woman in the world whose hair forever shone in the moonlight under a starlit sky, whose skin was as white as the driven snow or as smooth as polished mahogany depending on the sunbeams that shone through the blinds of her boudoir of a summer’s day....and so on.
‘I still don’t understand what this has to do with my phone,’ Esteban said.
‘Ay, por dios !’ Manolo sighed. ‘You, of all people, at the centre for all the village gossip don’t know what’s happening ! For the past month Paco has been sending poems to every lovelorn woman in the pueblo and each of these stupid women has been under the impression that she has a secret lover. Yesterday, because he was drunk, Paco delivered the wrong letters to the wrong women and now all hell has been let loose as these spinsters discover they are not unique.
‘But what has this got to do with my phone ?’ Esteban asked with some irritation, banging his fist on the bar.
‘Don’t expect logic under these circumstances, Esteban. All these women are at each other’s throats. Rosa deliberately burnt Maria Carmen’s hair with the curling tongs this morning, Amparo burnt her cousin Marie Sol’s favourite dress ironing it this afternoon, Maria Angeles and Maria Jesus came to blows in the panaderia, and Maria Dolores cut off every old maid’s phone so that they can’t make any calls. Your phone is also used by your sister Eloisa !’
At which point Paco came into the bar, hopping on one foot with the aid of a crutch, his head bandaged, his arm in a sling.
‘What happened to you then ?’ Esteban asked, only just hiding his amusement.
‘But before Paco could explain that a number of irate widows and spinsters had assaulted him with mops, brooms, dustpans and other household implements, a ripe tomato hurled by Eloisa, flew across the room and hit Paco fair and squarely in the face.

It took a while for Paco to recover fully from his injuries and life became rather dull in the village, and certainly the contented smiles on the faces of all the spinsters and widows disappeared for they were no longer loved.
However, Maria Dolores of the telephone exchange felt sorry for Paco and went to his small cortijo on the edge of the pueblo most evenings with soup or a stew, a chorizo sausage or Serrano ham, and though she did not think much of his poetry, she realized that here was a very sincere and sentimental man who needed a woman in his life and, when he proposed, she accepted, and they got married, had the reception in Esteban’s bar and when they went away for their honeymoon the village became completely isolated for no one received any letters or phone calls for a whole month.