Spiderman Unmasked

Like the rest of Madrid, Plaza Mayor wakes up slowly. In the morning, it is refreshingly quiet and serene; you can amble across the cobbles without having to traverse the crowds, pause to take a photo without being harangued by a Mickey Mouse and take your pick of the terraces without having to stalk tables... The calm before the carnival.

As the morning drifts by, the street performers filter in one-by-one, preparing for the day’s entertainment. A year since I last visited, I watched as a steady stream of familiar faces arrived. The inexplicably successful snapping goat (a body of tinsel and a plastic head with a hinged jaw) remained resident in the north-west corner. Whether desperate or just enthusiastic, its jingles, snaps and shakes seemed even more animated than they were last year. The man masquerading as a baby, his face painted garish colours and nestled in an overly twee pram, took up position in the centre of the square. More disturbing than entertaining, his success is even more surprising than that of the goat. The headless sailors meanwhile had multiplied three-fold. Wearing identically ill-fitting suits, the bulge of their heads protruding clumsily from between the shoulder pads, they hovered awkwardly in opposite corners of the plaza. 

A few new faces had joined the ranks. The yellow zig-zag crest of a Bart Simpson bobbed through the crowd, alongside a short and squat Tigger, a Winney the Pooh and a host of less-recognisable characters. I was informed that one, which can only be described as a pink banana with a smile, was the sidekick to Spongebob Squarepants. Innovation must be running low… There were a few token Spanish acts: an ornately dressed matador waving a bilious red flag and a Carmen swishing the elaborate red skirts of a full flamenco dress, as well as a few notable absentees: the tango-tanned Elvis and the Charlie Chaplin were nowhere to be seen, nor was the Jesus Christ who made his debut last April (hardly surprising in a staunchly catholic country). 

In the business of the plaza, experience shows. By midday, the Tigger had retreated glumly to the shade of the central statue; the Goat, in comparison, had procured a generous hatful of change from passersby. Spiderman meanwhile, the undisputed ringmaster of Plaza Mayor, remained nowhere to be seen. Presumably, he was unconcerned with the slow trade of the early morning. As expected, just as the square was beginning to buzz, I heard the rattle of his plastic trunk being dragged unceremoniously across the cobbles. 

When I looked up however, Spiderman was nowhere to be seen. In his place, a large, squashy-looking Spaniard wearing an unbuttoned scruffy shirt, baggy knee-length shorts and flip flops. Running a hand absent-mindedly through his thick mop of black hair, he sat down on the trunk and looked around the plaza absent-mindedly. His round-shouldered slouch and perusing gaze curiously familiar, not to mention his possession of the trademark trunk, I was immediately suspicious. … Could this bushy-haired, broad-bellied Spaniard be the man behind the mask? After a moment or two he lumbered to his feet. Standing, his silhouette was unmistakable. The faded black T-shirt had risen to reveal a band of belly flesh drooping in a generous sag over the waistband of his shorts and he was rocking back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back. There was no mistake: Spiderman had appeared in the plaza without his disguise. Was this a first? Spiderman unmasked?

He didn’t linger long in the open. Taking hold of his trunk, he began walking towards a nearby restaurant and, waving a hand in greeting to the waiter, vanished inside. I imagine his metamorphosis from mere mortal into superhero was rather more cumbersome than most flash transformations; he didn’t emerge for some time. A booming “Venga! Hay criminales por aqui?!” alerted me to his reappearance. Slaloming through the crowd with his distinctive gait – belly first and breast bouncing slightly with each step – he began his shift by patrolling the square. Taking command of the plaza, he swept past the restaurants to high-five the waiters and greet the locals before setting to work with characteristic panache.

On his watch, even those observing from the safety of restaurant terraces weren’t safe. Quick to catch the eye of any tourist even mildly curious, he would swoop to their table, yoink them from their seats and work them through his extended repertory of poses: ultra-camp, then heroic, then sexy. When a slightly disorientated group wearing sombreros and dragging wheelie suitcases stumbled into the plaza – a potential jackpot – he was immediately ready for the pounce: legs bent and bouncing on the balls of his toes as they approached. While the snapping goat lay abandoned in a shimmery heap on the floor (its occupant having a quick fag under the archway) and the Flamenco dancer squatted dolefully under the shade of her umbrella, Spiderman dominated the square with ease. 

Undoubtedly the star of the circus, Spiderman's success is undeniable. When I first saw him in the scorching heat of August 2010, he was practically a permanent resident of the plaza: a guaranteed presence right from the first café latte through to the evening aperitif. Now, he has the liberty to work to his own slightly sporadic timetable, has upgraded his worn out rucksack to a sturdy plastic trunk and has acquired a miniature statue of himself. He has even appeared in the local English newspaper several times. Needless to say, those in miscellaneous fancy dress have their work cut out if they’re trying to compete!

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As you can probably tell, I’ve been following Spiderman for fair while...

• 23 Jan 2011: The Peculiar Resident of the Plaza
• 4 April 2011: An Update on the Plaza 
• 19 May 2011: The Ringmaster
• 12 April 2012: Does Spiderman get Hangovers?
• 11 May 2012: Times are Tough in Madrid

Does Spiderman get hangovers?

Had it changed in the seven months I´d been away?

The Tio Pepe building in Sol was still hidden behind a curtain of green net and scaffolding... the bearded beggar on Calle Carretas still swayed shakily behind the same cardboard plea... Plaza Mayor was still the melting pot of Madrid, humming as it always did to the tuneful motifs of accordion players… However, when I used to visit on midweek mornings the shiny cobbles were untrodden - expectant, expansive and empty. Last weekend in comparison, the square was heaving: a congested mill of well-dressed abuelos, tourists in halter-necks and hot pants, and locals wrapped up in duffel coats and Doc Martins.

Most notably, the carnival of street performers had swollen ranks. Of course, the long-term residents still occupied their favoured corners - the weary Mini Mouse shuffling in circles around the central statue, the tabletop of zombie heads routinely startling passers-by - but new characters were strolling in between the familiar faces. A nonchalant Elvis strutted back and forth in front of the terraces, his hands laden with cheap finger bling and his tango-tanned cheeks framed by a stiff collar and colourful Hawaiian garland. Occasionally he would pause for a discrete word with a headless sailor, whose floating glasses wobbled on the bounce of their wire supports, or would cock his head in greeting to a toothy yellow sponge, just one of the multiple Spongebob Squarepants. There was even a bare-chested, long-haired Jesus Christ lugging a make-shift crucifix around the square.

However, for all the new arrivals, one member of the plaza was poignantly absent. Spiderman, whose presence had been reliably predictable during my year in Madrid, was notable only by his absence: the ringmaster of the circus nowhere to be seen. It wasn´t until the square was nearing gridlock with the lunchtime rush that his hulking figure appeared.

His distinctive silhouette instantly recognisable, he lumbered into the square from the shadows of a restaurant terrace, walking with heavy legs and laboured steps towards his customary corner. On arrival, he drew his plastic wheelie box to a halt beside him and swung his paper-mache miniature unceremoniously onto the cobbles. Then, rocking back on his heels, arms clasped loosely behind his back, he briefly scanned the milieu of people before him before walking a short loop. Arms swinging characteristically as he went, his unmistakeable outline seemed largely unchanged - the distended barrel of his stomach perhaps slightly bulkier, the slack of his suit stretched in even baggier sags. He walked purposefully through the crowds, bumping fists with a suited clown and saluting one of the waiters on his way to the centre before circling back.

On returning to his wheelie box, he thrust his arms skywards in a full body stretch and made a few stiff circles with his hips in an unexpected sequence of stretches. However, the effort alone of limbering up seemed to swallow what little enthusiasm he had: no sooner had he finished than he collapsed onto his plastic trunk in a heavy round-shouldered slouch. His torso folded in a double roll of breast and belly, legs resting in a shallow V shape, he mechanically folded up his mask and lit a cigarette. Puffing mindlessly on his fag, wholly detached from the buzz of the plaza, he seemed a sorry shadow of the showman who used to command the square. Even a noisy rabble of 15 – a wave of matching fluorescent T-shirts that would have been a jackpot for the Spiderman-of-old – failed to inspire him: he remained stubbornly seated as they passed, his usual theatrical display abandoned.

Is Spiderman struggling to keep pace with the carnival of street performers? Or is he just fed up of the burgeoning circus in Plaza Mayor and unwilling to compete with walking fruit bowls and men selling invisible mouth whistles?

Or, maybe even Spiderman isn´t immune to the non-stop nightlife of the Madrileños and he just had a stonking hangover? I wonder where he goes out for a drink…