Life as a twenty-something American in Europe feels like a fairy tale, except for the moments you realize that even in Spain, your roommate drinks the last of your milk and you’ll have to wait till  work to have coffee. I sighed and stared at the fruit bowl through sleepy eyes. There was an apple missing. I’d been noticing missing food items and odd messes in the kitchen for about a month now, but dismissed it as roommate negligence. Or not-so-funny pranks, like finding all my socks in a Ziploc in the freezer after hanging my laundry to dry overnight in the living room. But the apple—Nadia hates apples.  I don’t know people who hate apples; it made me distrust her.  

I tried to blame it on the lack of coffee, but I was sure I had two apples yesterday, and today  there was only one. Odd. I went to my English teaching job and forgot the incident until later. 

On the way home from the instituto, a friend texted, “Oye, ¿tomamos una sidra en el  Trasgu???” El Trasgu was an Asturian bar in the old part of the city. Tamara loved all things Asturian, and  we both loved cider, so it was “our place.” That and the Galician restaurant by the university, where I  discovered I actually like octopus.  

The server expertly poured our sidras in the traditional manner over his shoulder, spilling nothing. We chin-chin-ed our glasses, “¡Salud!” I closed my eyes and let the chill cool my throat all the way to my stomach--in a good way, because Granada in September still feels like anywhere else in late  July. Or hotter. I looked around at the blackened cobblestones underfoot, and the dusty, plastered walls of the surrounding buildings. Then up to the clear, blue sky—which I’m pretty sure the Spanish King and  Queen stole from the Arabs back in 1492 along with the Alhambra, the last stronghold on the Iberian peninsula. Not for the first time, I contrasted it to life in the US, with our young cities of steel and glass and melded cultures. 

Tamara was talking animatedly, her thick Georgian eyebrows furrowed. Her dark hair was pulled  back, accenting the more exotic features of her face. She was upset about some man staring at her culo when she bent over.  

“I can’t say I’m surprised…” I ventured. Spain is the birthplace of machísmo. Sharing  foreignness, Tamara and I had conversations about culture, philosophy, history, flamenco, everything. I  loved these musings, but I was distracted by another thought—an idea starting to form. “What’s the  deal with the trasgu, again?”  

“¿No te acuerdas?” she accused, then launched into the legend, of somewhat ambiguous Celtic Asturian origin.  

The trasgu is a little nocturnal gobliny creature that dwells in houses. Typically, he’s an obnoxious prankster, creating chaos and noises during the night, rearranging your belongings. If you can get him to like you, though, he can be benevolent. The bar menu depicted him with his left hand extended to expose the hole in his palm. He’s very stubborn and will not leave your household—even following you in a move. But he is also very proud, and believes himself able to accomplish anything. If he fails a task, he will leave in shame. This is the trasgu’s Achilles’ heel: you can banish him by sending him to fetch a basket of water from the sea, turn a black sheep white, or collect spilled grain from the floor (he can’t hold the small pieces because of the hole in his palm). When Tamara gets to this part, we  both clutch at our hearts, “¡pobre Trasgu!” 

“Tamara,” I lean in, “I think there’s a trasgu in my apartment!” I tell her about the little things  I’ve been blaming on Nadia. And then, tellingly, the apple.  

“We have to see it!!” she leaned towards me over the table. “If it’s real, we have to see it.

Excited, but still only half believing it, I agreed. We debated: what could we gift him, to turn the  tide of pranks from annoying to favorable? I loved the idea of a house-goblin doing my dishes. We decided on cider, given the trasgu’s heritage, and I bought a bottle to-go. 

On Friday, Tamara came over, we opened a Tempranillo, and prepared a variety of tapas. We left a little plate for Trasgu beside the cider, which we poured into four little shot glasses, goblin-sized.  (Goblettes?) 

I decided we had to tell Nadia. The kitchen was a mess and we were going to leave it that way on purpose. I didn’t want her to think I was being a terrible roommate. She laughed. “Estáis locas.” Nadia was a no-nonsense madrileña, and I wasn’t surprised to hear the disdain in her voice, shaking her round, Spanish head—consisting of the olive skin, dark eyes, and black hair of so many songs.  

“Whatever,” she conceded, “just as long as you clean it up in the morning. Oh, I mean, as long as el trasgucito takes care of it.” she mocked.  

“Of course, of course,” we promised. 

Tamara took the first awake shift, and I tried to calm myself into sleep, like a kid at Christmas. I  must have drifted off, because I awoke to Tamara shaking me, “¡despierta!”  

We listened, straining. Some rattling and then(!) the faucet. It couldn’t be Nadia. We snuck out the door and tip-toed into the hall, grinning in the dark. Around the corner, we could also hear the tiniest, raspiest, slightly off-key humming of a contented tune.  

Trasgu was a bit over a foot tall, and just as the menu depicted him: a scrawny fellow (save his belly), huge pointed feet and ears, a floppy hat falling over his eyes. His bedraggled, torn dress gave him a sad appearance and I wanted to rush into the room and stop him from washing the dishes. I wanted to 

buy him some new clothes (but what would fit?) and take care of him. How could I have wanted him as a house slave?  

Trasgu was precariously perched on the sink edge. I noticed only one goblette of cider remained.  What kind of tolerance could a wee house goblin have?  

We retreated, hands over our mouths, and shook our heads. This was now a real-life fairytale.  

The next day, everything was cleaned--he’d even organized the Tupperware cupboard. We  swore to Nadia that we’d seen Trasgu, but she just rolled her eyes. I guess I couldn’t blame her. 

That whole week, I left little treats for Trasgu: cider, cheese, Maria cookies. But instead of leaving them, I did all my dishes now. In return for the treats, Trasgu always polished or organized something. I reported to Tamara every day: the sliding glass door to the balcony had been cleaned (how  could he reach?), another day the spices were alphabetized. She wanted to come over again the next weekend, but I had a trip planned to see flamenco in Sevilla.  

Nadia texted me that Saturday, “Hey, what did you do with the cafetera?”  

I hadn’t done anything with the stove-top espresso maker. “Trasgu probably hid it--did you leave  him any treats?” 

No answer. 

Sunday, another text, “Me estoy volviendo loca. Yesterday it was in the refrigerator (very funny),  but today, desaparecida.” I was secretly delighted. Trasgu knew she didn’t believe, and since she didn’t leave him goodies, he became mischievous. 

I got in late that night, took off my shoes, and dragged my duffle sleepily toward my room.  Something stuck to my sock and I awkwardly lifted a foot to find the culprit: rice. Realization dawned. 

I turned on the kitchen light, already knowing it would be everywhere. It was like a bag exploded, bouncing grains into every corner. There were a few tiny piles to one side, telling me what I  didn’t need to know: Nadia finally believed, and she banished Trasgu from our house.  

I went to bed fuming and confronted Nadia in the morning. She huffed, “If it was him, el  maldito’s gone now. If it wasn’t, well, it’s my turn to clean the kitchen anyway, so don’t worry.” As if my concern was the rice. I glared at her, unable to think of the words in Spanish through my anger—my devastation at her cursing him and sending him away left unexpressed. Mi pobre Trasgu! Tamara, at least, would share my broken heart. 

LINDSY GLICK is a staff member at UAA, and works in the Office of Equity and Compliance. She moved to Alaska in 2021, and enjoys the many outdoor opportunities the state has to offer.