Late afternoon in Madrid

“Buenos dias.”

“Bon dia. Would you like to go for coffee?”

“Yes.”

We walked a while and talked a little, just catching up about who had done and said what the night before the morning that was, and we agreed that neither of us could recall specifics, nor wanted to. We walked south and came upon a nondescript café and sat across from each other at a metal table upon wicker chairs in the still cool morning shade, alongside a street in La Latina.

“Which would you like?” she asked me in English as the waiter approached.

“Eh…”

“I’ll take espresso con hielo, on the side.”

“Sí, same.”

We sat and drank and talked and had another coffee with ice for good measure. The morning had been crisp but it was almost noon. We discussed life and work and the beautiful city and travel. What we hoped and dreamed of, but only small dreams.

After a while that was both short and long we arose and walked slowly back north towards Plaza del Sol and the city buzzed around us. She knew a place and I trusted her completely.

That early afternoon we dined on pigs ears at a proper Madrileño cervecería. Casa Toni if memory serves correctly. La oreja de cerdo por Casa Toni. They’re best with bread and drenched in the patatas bravas spicy tomato sauce. A roach ran across the floor; we shifted our feet a bit but didn’t pay much mind.

“It’s my favourite place in all Madrid,” she said, as we sipped languidly on cold Mahous.

“Otra más, por favor.”

The conversation was fresh and it was all perfect.

“I don’t want to stay in London forever,” I said. I’m not sure why it came up, but that’s what I confessed.

“Nothing is forever,” she told me. Or rather, she said it as if speaking to the universe, and I just happened to overhear their conversation.

She was right, and for the first time since two years prior, I was content.

The afternoon wore on. At some point, shortly after she told me how good the napolitanas were at Pastelleria La Mallorquina en Sol, I looked at the time and realised exactly what time it was — I was going to miss the train. I had less than an hour to get my bag from the hostel and get out to Puerta de Atocha. A walk would take roughly 40 minutes and a cab would take just as long, or shorter, or longer. I hadn’t taken a cab in Madrid before.

We strolled, barely moving, northeast along the cobbled pavement of Calle de la Cruz toward Plaza de Canalejas. I knew I was supposed to be going southwest, rapidly, but she was headed up to a museum somewhere that I can’t remember. All we knew was that we needed a few more moments. Neither of us said a word.

At the intersection of Carrer San Geronimo and Calle de Sevilla we turned to each other as if we’d spent a lifetime in conversation.

Nothing was said, except promises to cross paths again. Perhaps not truthful, but sincere. She told me to get the napolitanas.

“It’s on the way to the hostel, you should stop and get one. They’re the best you’ll ever taste.”

I still didn’t know what a napolitana was, and didn’t have time, but I lied and said I would.

We embraced firmly, tenderly, inhaling deeply. Then let go.

It was late afternoon in Madrid when I felt loss. I walked rapidly past the pastelleria and realised the napolitanas were pain au chocolat. It was packed with tourists. After grabbing my bag from the hostel I set out briskly a pie. About halfway to the station I hailed a cab in an act of hope; I hoped the cab would get stuck in traffic and I’d have another day.

The driver was proper Madrileño and I arrived with less than ten minutes to spare, just enough time to pass security and find my train. I spotted the group I was travelling with on the platform and ran up to them as they were walking toward their carriage.

“Where were you?” Brian asked.

They were nonplussed, in both meanings. The rest walked on without a word to me.

“Coffee went a bit long.”

We were sitting in different cars. I told Brian I’d see them in a few hours on the other side.

“Hasta Sevilla.”

I sat down alone by the window and found my breath. I was glad to be alone in that moment. We pulled out of the station due southwest and Madrid became dusty and industrial, then suburban, and then nothing. And in the next moment I recalled her curly dark hair and deep brown eyes, and those words that cut through my soul. And I began to cry.

Either I will forget about her after a short while or I’ll remember her until the moment I die. Neither is forever.

Under Madrid dry river beds line the southern meseta, giving it just enough life.

We peel out and my mind is soon occupied by wonderings of those parched valleys. Pools of water sit mostly idle in the river beds, full of reeds and algae.

The brown and yellow grasses, expansive in their plots, far as the eye can see. Mountains line the valley. Toledo is in the distance; the Tejo, in her adolescence, snakes subtly by. Her watershed is dry here, but vast enough to quench her thirst and the thirst of many others even in the height of summer and drought. She will get to know increasingly great cities until she meets the greatest of them all at the end of her life, as she enters the Atlantic. But for now she is young and has plenty growing to do. Olives grow, and some corn. It is hot, it is arid. It is open. It is home to few, hardy people.

Lisboa is far from here, now. Her memory has begun to fade, as it does after someone dies, over time, even though I know she is still alive. Until forever life flows onwards.