by Robrecht Dierck

It was a gloomy Wednesday night, early December.  Around midnight the bartender stepped outside to have a smoke. Tiny, glacial raindrops were drizzling slowly with the wind, covering the cobblestone street with a silvery blanket. Under the balustrade of the tavern’s entrance he took out a pack of Lucky Strike, extracted a cigarette, perched it between his lips and gave it fire with a short burst of his lighter. He leaned back against the cold brick facade and inhaled deeply.

It was a slow night and the patrons showing up had been a cheerless crowd. Overcome with grief, panic or any other mix of emotions, they had sat there drinking disconcertedly, drowning the bar in quiet melancholy.

When the burning cigarette tip reached his fingers, the bartender flicked the butt onto the pavement and watched it fade out as he slowly exhaled the last smoke. Inside, only his brother was left, sitting on a barstool near the entrance, swirling a glass of beer.  The brother worked as a lawyer a few blocks away and had come to the bar as soon as he had heard the news. The lawyer had given word about the USS Arizona and the total destruction resulting from the surprise attack. The bartender took out a bottle of rye. They would bury their father.

Four years later, on a sunny early August morning, another bartender was walking the central avenue, towards his place of business. The city was slowly coming to live, as people were starting their various activities.

There was a spring in the young man’s step. His wife was in the clinic and had just given birth to a baby boy. The budding father was happy, being able to provide for his family.  He would clean up his shop and make the necessary preparations to accommodate his first customers. When the bartender arrived, he first settled himself on a chair to bask in the morning glow. He produced a pack of Sakura cigarettes from his jacket pocket and popped one in his mouth. A swift strike against the side of the matchbox brought a sparkling flame to the matchstick. As he was bringing the burning head towards the tip of the cigarette, he looked up and witnessed a bright flash in the sky.

With a deafening blast his world ended. The world would change. The bartender would celebrate.

 

It was a bright August afternoon and the old bus rolled slowly along the dry hills. Everything looked dead and I could smell, no, taste the dust that lingered in the air. What was I doing there? I had spent so much time away that the place I had been born wasn’t my home anymore. The people were foreign to me, the language sounded strange and the weather was irritating.

Somehow, nostalgic thoughts found their way in. Memories of a bored girl who dreamed of doing more with her life than staring out the window. I used to take this same bus every week back and forth because I worked in the neighbour town. My family always waited for me with fresh treats and gossip. It’s a small town, after all. Everyone knows everyone, or at least those who matter. If you didn’t want people discussing your life like they owned it, you’d better hide.

When I was sixteen I had braces, not to mention a lot of acne and a flat chest but managed to have a really cute boyfriend, who also happened to wear braces at the time and because of that I spent months explaining that no, we never got tangled or stuck while kissing. Before we were together, a girl I was best friends with for a few months had a big crush on him, but he was in love with me. I had to choose and we never spoke again. I felt horrible like I always did when somebody was mad at me and I craved her forgiveness but life went on. I think that guy is married now, I don’t know, we haven’t spoken in ages.

The first boy I ever kissed died in an accident a few years ago. I didn’t go to the funeral and every time I’m back in town I think I see him somewhere. The realization is always a shock. I was a thirteen-year-old nerd when we dated for a whole of two months! He was very popular and the gossip mob was hot in my ears: he was seen kissing a new girl every now and then. True or not, I couldn’t handle it for more than eight weeks, when I was already falling in love again.

Aaah, those lazy teenage years: falling in and out of love, all the drama, the crying, the first times, the promises, the boredom, the constant feeling that something was missing. I felt that lack every day of my life, until I decided to go looking. My mother cried, my sister cried and I cried, saying goodbye and not knowing when we would see each other again. My father and brother tried very hard and didn’t drop a tear.

I was terrified. Why was I doing that? I never felt so alone and so free at the same time! I was flying away from conformity and narrow-mindedness towards the complete unknown. My future stretched out in front of me with infinite possibilities and with some luck I would find that missing piece.

For a while there I thought “This is it! This is how I want to live, I’m meant to see the world”. I felt all the things I needed to be complete: independence, confidence, excitement, wonder, growth, pride. I had friends, I travelled, life had changed.

Then why was I coming back, sitting alone on that old bus, mourning a life left behind and that would never come back?

We entered the town and absolutely nothing had changed. Same houses, same stores, same people. Old and stale. I feared getting stuck there again. My body was sore from more than twenty hours of travelling, my stomach growled with hunger and I tried to cry as quietly as I could.

The bus station was crowded and loud, but as soon as we approached our stop I saw my family waiting for me. Big smiles and gentle hugs welcomed me back and right there, lost in my mother’s scent and warmth I realized why I had to come back and understood that my soul would always yearn for something I don’t know.

His hands were dry and rough from using chalk all day. So were hers. She got goose bumps when he held her tight, palms open pressing gently on the small of her back. They kissed passionately and in that moment they forgot about the rest of the world.

The rest of the world consisted of the school where they both worked, her uptight family and most of the citizens of their small, cranky town. First, they could never be seen together by any of the school staff – it was against the rules. Second, her parents would never approve their only daughter dating a dark foreigner. She wasn’t sure what they thought was worse: being dark or being “not from around here”. Third, if anyone saw them together it was certain that both the school and her family would know about it faster than a bullet.

And that’s why they met late at night in his studio. It was a small and neat place, with an open kitchen and one room where he put a small dinner table, a sofa-bed and a tv. It was located on a narrow street above a bakery. There were more shops than houses in that area, so when they closed at night there weren’t many people around.

He had opened his sofa-bed and they cuddled under his thick wool blanket for the gazillionth time this year when he said:

“Let’s go somewhere”.

“Where?”  She asked, unconcerned.

“Somewhere we can be together, where nobody will care”.

“Only if there’s a beautiful sunny beach we can go every day”.

“I mean it. Let’s make a plan and leave. I can’t hide anymore”.

“I don’t like it either. But where would we go? Where would we work? What about my family?”

He sighed and held her closer, playing with her short brown curls.

For a few weeks they talked about it some more. He showed her his research – nice cities they could move to, schools they could apply to work at, new places they could visit together.

“I just want to be with you. I want to hold your hand and kiss your lips and not have to pretend we don’t know each other”.

“I know, me too! Give me some time and I’ll figure out how to deal with my parents”.

“Your parents…”

The following Friday they found themselves alone at the teacher’s room. They spoke softly as they sat across from each other at the big table and struggled not to reach out for each other’s hands. He sipped his coffee. She ate her cookie. They took furtive glances.

When one of the other teachers came in, they pretended to read their respective textbooks. He gathered his things and walked slowly out the door, murmuring goodbyes. The other teacher sat next to her and asked in a badly disguised conspiratorial whisper:

“He’s hot, isn’t he?”

“I guess so, if you like the type”. She replied, dryly.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed the way he looks at you!”

“What?! No! You’re imagining things”.

“I don’t know… One hears whispers…”

“Whispers? What kind of whispers?”

“That he receives mysterious visits at night. Of a certain white lady with short brown curls”.

“You’re out of your mind if you think I have anything to do with that-” She stopped midsentence and stomped out of the room, flushed. He didn’t have time to leave or hide and they practically collided by the teacher’s room door. She gasped and looked at him terrified but couldn’t articulate a word. He tried not to look so shocked but left with his head hanging down.

The weekend was madness. She couldn’t stop thinking about what she had done. Why had she reacted like that? Was she actually afraid people would see them as a couple? She wouldn’t leave her room and her mother believed she was sick - she kept on bringing soup, tea, hot milk. All she wanted was that he picked up his phone. She would beg for his forgiveness, she would say she never meant what she’d said, that she would tell her parents, that they would go away and be together.

She couldn’t eat, she couldn’t concentrate on her lesson plans. All she could think about was him – did he hate her? Would he forgive her and take her back? Why wasn’t he picking up his phone?

On Sunday afternoon she had decided: she was going to introduce him to her parents. To hell with her mother’s explicit dreams of having pink-faced grandchildren. To hell with her father’s undisguised prejudiced comments and their suffocating overprotection. She loved him and she would go away with him.

She stormed out of the house wearing flowered pajama bottoms and an old grey cardigan. Her mom didn’t have time to ask where she was going nor to stop her. When she arrived at his door she was breathless and all the words she thought she would say to him had fled her mind.

His lights were out. She rang the doorbell once. Waited. Looked around. Rang it twice. Waited. Knocked on the door. After ringing, knocking and sobbing for what seemed an eternity an old man appeared at a window across the street:

“Are you looking for the teacher?”

“Yes! Have you seen him?”

“Are you his girl?”

“… yes”.

“Oh dear. You’re too late. He left”.

“Left? Where?”

“I don’t know. I saw him leave with a big old suitcase before the sun was up. Put his key in the mailbox and never told anyone where he was going”.

For almost a year she searched for him – his hometown, the places he had mentioned they could live together. His phone number was deactivated and so was his email address. She didn’t know any of his friends or family. She was lost. She had lost him.

She went back to her literature classes but her students say she didn’t have the same passion as before.

Her mother never had pink faced grandchildren. 

It was a nice Friday night. Natália was exhausted but she couldn’t let her best friend down on her birthday. Jennifer was hosting a dinner party at her house, only for close friends. She would go, stay a couple of hours, find an excuse and go home.
She had already bought her friend a gift, but stopped on the way to get a bottle of wine as well. It was her 29th; they only wanted to have a pleasant and relaxing evening, saving the crazy celebrations for next year. She rings the bell and Jennifer opens the door, looking very excited.
“Happy Birthday! You look fabulous!” Natália said, handing the wine and the gift to Jennifer.
“Thanks. God, you look so tired!” Jennifer has never been a subtle person.
“Well, you know, long hours at the bank, Pablito’s been sick, uncle Tony is visiting… too much going on.”
“Let’s have some fun, then. Forget about all that for a night.”
They ate dinner, drank, laughed, drank, danced and drank some more. It was later than Natália was planning to stay and she drank more than she should, so she called a taxi and went home.
***
Carlos came home from the funeral of a little girl who had drowned in the pool club. The family was devastated and so was he. He was too used to his job to get emotional or attached to people’s stories and family tragedies, but a little girl dying like that was… wrong.
He thought about his grandson all day. Same age as the little lifeless body he was forced to handle. When he learned his daughter was pregnant he got furious at her, but after the baby was born Carlos simply fell in love with him. Pablito and Natália were the most precious things in his life.
Every night he sat on Pablito’s bed, watching him sleep. There was an irrational fear that they were going to lose him. As Carlos watched him, he woke up crying, saying he had a nightmare.
“And a big monster ate the house…” 
“Shh, shh, it’s ok, it was just a dream, papa is here.”
“Stay here!?”
“I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe.”
“Mama…”
“Mama will be home soon. We’ll all have breakfast together. Does that sound good?”
“Mmm hum…”
“Ok, now back to bed. Good night, boy.”
“Good night papa.”
When he left Pablito’s room, his brother had fallen asleep on the living room couch, with the newspaper on his lap. He tried to wake him up, but he was very deep asleep, so he just put a blanket over him and went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.
***
Antonio hasn’t had vacations for years. Although he was now almost 70 years old, he enjoyed being active in his faith. He went on missions in poor countries, helped the communities in need near Santiago, taught English and soccer to the children in his parish. He had been very busy his whole life as a priest. But now it was time to rest. And see his family.
His only brother lived in Concepción with his daughter and grandson. They spoke often on the phone, but rarely visited each other. They got along well. For Antonio it didn’t really matter that his brother was an atheist and his niece a single mother. When he met the boy, he was delighted. Pablito was such a sweet and funny child! Natália was doing a great job as a mother – working hard at the bank, but spending all the time she could with her son, playing with him, teaching him, taking him to parks. Carlos also helped a lot and you could see he was proud of his family.
It had been a great week, but also tiring. It was Friday, the babysitter called early in the morning saying she was sick and Antonio insisted he could take care of the boy. Natália was worried and called a dozen times that day to make sure Pablito had his medicine, his nap, his bath. Uncle Tony was surprised at his own ability to handle the boy. As he was feeling better, they played cars, kicked a ball around the backyard, finger painted a picture of mommy. By the end of the day, Carlos came home acting weird and too quiet and put Pablito to bed. Antonio was so exhausted that he fell asleep on the couch.
***
Natália struggled to find the keys in her purse, took her shoes off, opened the door and walked in quietly (or so she thought). The house was all dark except for her son’s nightlight and before reaching her room she bumped into the coffee table and knocked off a picture frame from the shelf. Everybody was sleeping (Uncle Tony on the couch). It was 2am. She took a shower, brushed her teeth (ingrained habits she would never get rid of, no matter how wasted she was) and collapsed on her bed.
She thought she was having a nightmare or the worst hangover she ever had. The room was shaking so hard, the furniture was falling, and she heard so many different noises it was hard to identify. Screams, alarms, things falling and breaking. Her maternal instinct immediately flooded her and she was feeling awake and protective. She ran to her son’s room, he was crying at the top of his lungs but at first she couldn’t see him. There was a lot of dust in the air; pieces of their roof were falling. As she got closer she saw his bed had been turned over and Pablito was sitting on the floor, a thin line of blood running down his face.
“Come here baby, mama is here, everything is ok.” Natália said as she scooped him up from the floor and went looking for her father and uncle.
The earthquake lasted about one minute. Her house was still standing, but pieces of the roof were falling. She found her dad in the living room, trying to lift a shelf, but it took a moment for her to understand why – her uncle was under it.
“Get out of here! Quick! Take Pablito out of the house!”
“Is Uncle Tony ok?”
“I don`t know. Go get me help.”
“You have to get out of the house, it`s going to collapse!”
As she ran out to the street, chaos was taking place. It was dark, houses were collapsing, and people were crying, screaming and looking for their relatives. She was trying to find someone to help her dad, but all her neighbors were too busy.
“Help me please! My uncle is trapped under a bookshelf!” Someone had finally stopped to listen to her.
“Is that your house?” The man said, pointing at the yellow house on the corner. As she turned, she saw half of her house falling, all bricks and roof pieces.
“My dad and my uncle are in there! Please help me!”
“It`s too dangerous!”
“Please! They`re my only family!”
“Ok, you stay here, I`ll get some help.”
She waited, holding her son in her arms, while the men went into her house. She waited, and waited… praying that her father and uncle would be alive. Finally they came out of the mess that used to be her house. The two men that went in to help, and her father. She met Carlos eyes and she knew her uncle hadn`t made it. They hugged and cried silently for a moment.
***
Carlos had seen hundreds of funerals in his life, but he was never truly prepared to say goodbye to his loved ones. His father, in the biggest earthquake in history, that shook Chile in 1960; his mother, who lost her war against cancer; his wife, a few days after Natália was born. And now his only brother, a survivor, like him. Two quakes came and took a member of his family. And twice he survived. Something was starting to shake inside him.
For the next few days, there were several smaller quakes and people were spending the night on the streets or in the cars. Every day the number of deaths increased, there was no running water, no power, no food. The airports were closed, the roads cracked and some highways and bridges had broken and fallen down.
Natália, Carlos and Pablito were staying in a friend’s house.
“(…) one of the worst tragedies in the last 50 years. Chile is in state of catastrophe.” Natália saw President Michelle Bachelet saying on tv.
“What are we going to do, dad?”
“We start over, kid. That`s what we do. We start over.”

*Originally posted on www.anaeasletras.blogspot.com

I knew it would be the last time I’d ever stare into his eyes. 
He was my love. He was my life. 
We had what most people spend their whole lives looking for- true love, happiness, unconditional companionship and trust. 
We had been together for twenty seven years and there I was, sitting by his bed, holding his hand and looking into his sweet brown eyes. 
We didn’t talk. There was no need. We both knew what was going to happen.
His kidney problems had been getting worse this past year. The doctors said he needed a transplant. None of his three sons was compatible. His wife, living in her world of fantasy, didn’t even know what was going on. 
Then, it happened as a joke; my blood tests showed I could be his donor. I, the lover, the family intruder. Ironic. 
He never promised me anything - and I was perfectly happy the way it was. 
In a way, I had more than her. He couldn’t divorce her, not with her disease taking away her sanity and health so fast. He was a good man. And I had his love, his attention, his time. Everything was just fine. For twenty seven years, we coped with everything- his family, my family, society’s judgment. But we were fine.
I never left his side during his treatment. And when I learned I could be his donor I didn’t hesitate. We had surgery and I gave him a piece of me. It felt so natural, the right thing to do. 
I recovered really fast, but he had some complications. They did everything that could be done, but he wouldn’t get any better. He struggled for life for more than a month and everyone already knew the inevitable. 
I didn’t go to the funeral. I mourned alone staring at the blooming flowers in our favorite park. For a moment I felt lost. Life as I knew was over. I chose to live far from my family and close to him. I didn’t have kids. I was lonely. 
However, after so much time I learned a lot with him. And that’s what’s going to keep me moving. He taught me not to worry about tomorrow, because it’s enough to worry about today; And not to let my happiness depend on anyone or anything. With him, I found joy inside of me. I was glad that we had so much history, I was glad I could do what I did to help him and I was glad it was over. He was not suffering anymore. And neither was I.

*Originally posted on www.anaeasletras.blogspot.com