dreaming // window // babylón
a short story.
Based on a true story (link here). Originally published in free world fiction🌎.
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Babylón.
That is what we used to call it; I don’t know why.
Just the two of us — me and my father.
We never let anybody else know.
It started in Castello — a lonesome town, a forgotten town, where the elderly sat, with eyes as empty as the pavement. Dusty, sunburned windows hung datelessly over the streets like angels. In many ways, they became angels: those sad, abandoned panes of glass. I could kick the ball as hard as I wanted — nobody ever called down from them.
It was just me, me and my father.
I remember, I was six. We were cracking open oyster shells, mama frying rice with the saffron in the kitchen. It was Pedro’s birthday, I think. He came in and said:
“I cannot wait for tonight! Larissa is coming.”
My father nodded, patted him on the back, and went to fetch him a drink from the fridge. He came back with a smile as wide as a pine tree.
But then he came back to cracking the oyster shells. He said to me, very clearly:
“None of this is for you.”
His smile had disappeared.
But I understood.
I remember, I was eleven. We were sitting beneath the street-lights, at a plastic table that stretched out almost to our neighbour’s front door. Our neighbours, and their neighbours, were sitting at the table. Fat, summery moths fluttered anxiously in the puddles of pale orange light.
Larissa turned to me and said: “my goodness, you’re growing into quite the young man! Even sitting down, look how tall you are!”
My father smiled proudly, for all to see. He nodded in my direction, conversation flowing on either side of his shoulders.
I reached for my cup of iced soda. Larissa wasn’t really talking to me; I found myself sitting again in silence. I looked up at the wrought-iron windows, which were still empty.
My father did not have to say anything.
I remember, I was thirteen. We were packing the car; the house had been practically emptied, and we were moving out. All six of us were now going to fit, somehow, into the rusted Renault Picasso my mother had driven for seventeen years.
Pedro complained; it was a Sunday, he had a headache. My father went to fetch him some aspirin, returning with a small bottle of water and some almond sweets.
I watched Pedro get into the car. I wondered, really, if he was going to remember this place. I wondered if he was going to remember it in the same way I did.
“Alright, people! Are we finally ready… my goodness!” exclaimed my mother, wedging herself behind the wheel.
My father climbed into the passenger seat. I was holding a suitcase between my legs, and on my lap my old, tattered practice ball.
“Adios, Babylón,” I thought I heard my father say, as the car pulled away, its wheels grunting against the old, forgotten asphalt.
But I understood.
He did not have to say anything.
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