BUENA SUARTE

Even the alcohol tastes like sweat here.

The last of the beers salty composition was painful to swallow. Robert was on his third one from the vending machine and still didn’t feel anything yet. He stared at the old sign on the train station wall.

Zaragoza, he thought, where the hell in the world was that? He tossed the empty beer can into the trash can by the train tracks.

“When is the next train coming?”

Paulo, his guide, shrugged and whispered quietly:

“They usually come every hour. Just, as of late, they have been acting very strange.”

Strange indeed, this whole city was strange.

Robert shook his head. It was time to leave this place. He was needed in Pamplona. The whole trip from Barcelona to Pamplona was supposed to take for three nights - and that was taking it leisurely. He called Paulo to meet him at this train station. His employers had arranged for him to write a thousand-word piece on the running of the bulls - that was in two days’ time.  

“There was some accident. Some explosion, I believe,” Paulo whispered.

“An explosion?”

“Rebels in the East. Something political, I heard” Paulo murmured.

“Political. And no trains. Just perfect.” Robert stared down the dark tracks. Nothing was arriving here - to be sure. The electricity of the travel board blinked indecipherable white runes. The clerk’s office was empty, its window cracked in several places, only an AM radio rattled in intermediate Spanish and static beyond the plexiglass.

There were no employees at the station or any other passengers. His cell phone was of no use - the battery had died hours ago. He wanted to toss it into the trash with the other beer cans.

The whole station smelled like wet wood and cigarettes. The platform was covered with spent tobacco and the used edges of the filters were broken open in a ruddy mush beneath Robert’s booted feet.

You should have stayed in Barcelona, he thought.

Yeah, you should have done alot of things.

Robert remembered the day he told his aging mother about this particular job. His Mother wagged her finger towards him:

“You’re one lucky goose. Little Shreveport boy, going all the way to Spain,” his Mother tisked quietly.

To her, leaving America was like leaving a family, and, possibly tainted by other flavors, one would never to return the same as one left. Sometimes that was good thing - change. But mostly, in his mother’s mind, it was bad.

His Mother, a coquettish waif, always smoking Virginia Slims right down to an amber white filter, lounged on her parlor couch with a glass of rose in her hand.

“Yes, lucky indeed. If only your Father could see you now.”

Sarcasm ran in the family. She had it. He had it. The only one who didn’t have it was his father. In fact, before the heart attack, Robert couldn’t remember the last time he saw his father smiling.  

His father had been dead for eleven years now - and certainly didn’t seen much of any land past Texas and Georgia. He was a lawyer cursed with a soft heart - and that kind of heart never filled any wallets. If it wasn’t for his mother’s inheritance, his father’s pro bono works would have ruined the family - and like many men before who were raised by failures, Robert made a mental check to make sure he never would do the same.

                                             *

The thunder clapped above him, and the rain poured, clacking hard on the metal roof of the station.

“It will get cold soon,” Paulo whispered. “Very cold. The wind comes down from the Pyrenees. It is a very hard wind.”

As if it couldn’t get any worse, Robert thought. That’s when he saw the creature again. He pushed the sweat out from his eyes and squinted towards the end of the shadowed station. It was shaped like a man, but was hunched, and lumbering forward. It raised its arm directly to Robert - and he could almost make out the face. The thunder boomed - and from its radical shake - blacked out the lights of the station.

“Paulo, do see you that?”

“See what?”

The lights flickered on. Nothing was at the end of the station. No lumbering silhouette. No creature.  

“I do not see a thing,” Paulo said, tightening the labels on his jacket. “It must be the wind.”

That was no wind.

Robert had made up his mind that Zaragoza was cursed. 

First off, there was never any sunlight. Most of the afternoon was thick with dark grey clouds, and the other inhabitants of the city were robed people in all black, darting from small alleyway to small alleyway.

On the second night, he leapt up from his sleep in his hotel. Drums and the faint sound of a choir echoed through his open window. He ran down the stairs barefoot in an unbuttoned shirt and found a procession of people marching through the street - led by a priest, his rosary swaying below his clasped palms. The solemn followers staggered in rows behind him - and the alter-boys walked holding the emblems of the Spanish church high above crowd. Robert stood amongst the shrouded townsfolk on the sidewalk - watching the procession pass.

“Que es esto?” he asked the old woman next to him, her hands pressed in prayer.

She turned, quietly, and answered beneath her veil:

“Nuestro Padre ha pasado,” she said, bowing her head.

Our Father has passed on.

The casket was open, and the dead man was dressed in all white, his finger laced on his chest. Robert realized he was barefoot. He ducked back into the hotel. The clerk stood motionless behind the counter.

“Un funeral…” Robert said to the clerk. The clerk did not raise his head to speak.

                                             *

He was very drunk the night he arrived in Barcelona. He gave the name of the hotel in broken Spanish to the taxi driver, and in what seemed like 15 minutes, he burst into his room and fell onto his bed. The hotel was very close to the Mediterranean - just off the main boulevard of Las Ramblas - and he even swore he could smell the sea. Eyes closed and somewhere in a half-fugue state, he heard the murmurs of the evening crowd beginning to gather below his window. Then the murmurs changed to laughter. Somewhere a guitar played.

Poor little Shreveport boy made it all the way to Spain.

What was he going to do - sleep off this drunk when he only had 48 hours left in a city he had never seen?

No. He washed his face in the sink. His eyes were very sunken, most likely from the jet lag. But also his dreams. It was over somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean when he first dreamed of the creature. It was covered with thick, black mud, and smelled of wood and dirt. It followed him from room to room in this old house he had never seen before. Every time he opened up another door, there it was again, raising its muddy arms towards him. He turned the corner again. There was the creature, but now, under the dirt mud, he saw its face. It was his father. He snapped up from the dream.

No. He wasn’t going to stay in this hotel alone. He was going to go out. He was going to join in the crowds.

                                             *

The local Spaniards drank and toasted in fervor on the café patio. The tourists were easy to spot; there were the stoic Asian men in finely tailored suits, smoking Marlboro Reds in silence, watching the people pass. The American tourists were the loudest, arguing about politic over their whiskey. An Australian stumbled over to the Robert’s table with two pints of cold beer and gleefully handed Robert one - the dew from his glass dripping down on the white linen of the café table. He rambled nonsense for a minute, cheered, and was off on his own. The beer was cool and delicious.

“It is good, no?”

A woman sat at the table adjacent to his, sipping in her wine.

“The beer. Do you like it?”

“It’s okay. My Spanish isn’t that good?”

She smiled. “That’s okay. My English is good. I thought that was a friend of yours.”

She raised up her arm from underneath the cloth shawl and pointed to the Australian, who now had started a conversation with a group of young women.

“No, no.”

“I didn’t think so. You are here alone?”

“Yes. I am. For a little while.”

“American?”

“Yes.”

“I could tell.”

“How?

“I can tell. I’m psychic, you know.”

“Oh, you are? A psychic Spanish woman here in Barcelona.”

“You don’t believe in this?”

“No. I don’t.”

“I will join you, yes?”

“Sure.”

Her dress fell down around her legs and as she brought up a small leather bag, which she placed on the café table. “But you must let me read your future.”

She pulled out a deck from the folds of the leather satchel.

“I don’t care about that sort of thing.”

“No. You should. American in Spain. A gypsy woman like me. Don’t I look like a gypsy?”

“I don’t know what a gypsy looks like.”

“Like me. My long black hair. You see my wrists? I wear my Gris-Gris.” She showed the numerous bracelets, several made from steel, gold metal and black leather, cuffing her thin wrists. “I must be a gypsy, no?”

The deck of cards looked familiar, like the ones the fortune tellers would use on the streets of New Orleans - trying to make a quick buck.

“I don’t have any money for that.”

The woman froze, her eyes going completely black. “Careful with that talk. I don’t want your money. I want you to pick a card from this deck.”

She shuffled out the cards quickly and with both of her hands held them across the table. “Pick one.”

“Okay,” Robert said, aiming for the middle of the deck. He turned it over. The woman started to laugh.

“What is it?”

“It’s nothing. You look so serious.”

“Wait, aren’t you going to tell me what this means?” Robert asked, holding the card to her across the table.

“Of course not,” she said, reaching into her satchel, pulling out a long spliff. “They are my friends’ cards. I know nothing of these things. But you look like you need to smoke. Do you need to smoke?”

“Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s probably better than that,” she said 

                                             *

Her name was Fernanda. And it turned out there was a lot Robert and her had in common. Four bottles of red wine finished, they were barefoot, lying in the smooth sand at the edge of the Mediterranean Sea

“It is sad to see you leave,” she said.

“I’m not gone yet,” Robert said. “We just met.”

“Barcelona suits you.”

“How so?” Robert asked

“We love life. You need life.”

“What do you mean? You barely know me,” he said.

“You know nothing of love,” Fernanda said, quite sure of herself, “You know about things, Robert, but you do not yet know about life. Life is a great soup. Do you cook?”

“No. Well, sometimes. Okay, never.”

“Exactly,” she said. “A dangerous proposition. To want to see the world, but not to cook. It is bad luck.”

“Lots of people don’t cook,” Robert said.

“Only those who are already dead do not cook. Are you sure you are not already dead?”

“I don’t think so, I’m sitting right, breathing. With you, with all of this…”

“At least you know how to drink. You are halfway there to being saved.”                                                            *

“You see, Robert. The Mediterranean has no waves. It is a quiet sea,” Fernanda whispered in his ear, moving out away from the lights and the crowds.

“A quiet sea?” He asked.

“And with the most secrets. There is nothing like it. We could stay here until dawn. Watch the sun come up on top of the water. Have you done that before, Robert? You go inside, bring yourself to the top, just so you can breathe through the nose. Right when the sun comes up, now you are equal to it. Your eyes and the sun. Connected, both just on top of the sea.”

Fernanda kicked off her sandals. “Come in the water, Robert.”

“But I’ll get wet.”

“I think that is the point.”

                                             *

“You don’t have to leave, do you?” Fernanda said, leaning against the black railings of her second-floor apartment window - the two white drapes surrounding her in frame.

He could not see her face, but imagined every line of it. Down below on the street, the clamors of the people laughed and kept drinking. He hadn’t even been back to his hotel, and his train East was leaving in two hours. 

“I have to,” Robert said.

“You never have to do anything in life,” she said.

“You do when it has to do with money,” Robert said, folding his hands on his bare stomach, slouching in the wicker chair by her bed. The sheets were rumpled and half torn from the mattress, some draping down on Fernanda’s hard wood floors.

“It’s bad luck,” Fernanda said, turning to look out to the black sky.

“What is?” Robert asked.

“You leaving. And you know it.”

Robert shook his head.

“No. You make your own luck,” Robert said. He stood up and started to dress. The train station was a mile walking distance from Fernanda’s door. He slipped his shirt on and kissed her forehead. Her body was cold.

“I have to go,” Robert said, brushing her hair back. “We will stay in touch”

“I wish that was true.”

“Fernanda, please.”

“Just check your pocket.”

He button up his pants and felt into his pocket. He pulled out the card.

“What am I looking for? This?”

“Good bye, Robert.”

“Come on. This is silly.”

“It is the opposite. It’s not silly. It’s the Hanged Man.”

She was right. The colorful card had a man with his arms tied behind his back, hanging upside down by one foot. “I don’t know what that means. I thought you didn’t know about these cards.”

“I lied. Now go. Your train is waiting for you.” 

“Fernanda…”

“Buena suerte,” she whispered.

                                             *

That was three days ago. Now Robert couldn’t even get out of Zaragoza. He only had a certain amount of time left to get this job done. 

“I will check about the train for us,” Paulo said, snapping Robert back. Paulo walked under the exit sign of the station.

“Check where?” Robert asked, feeling his nose burning with the smell of cigarettes.

Paulo turned, “There is a firehouse up the street. I will check with them. They will have a radio, a phone.”

Paulo turned again and walked quietly into the shadows. Now Robert was alone.

He huffed, letting his breath pass through his lungs inch by inch, pushing out the tension in his gut. The air was hot enough to choke him. He coughed out as thunder ripped through the sky. Robert walked over to the machine and placed two euros in the slot. He racked the lever and a canned beer dropped to the bottom of the drawer. He cracked it open. It was salty just like the last one. The sky above the platform was dark, split only for seconds by the crisp lines of the lightening.

Zaragoza, he thought, a town of no daylight.

He looked back to where Paulo disappeared under the growing exit sign. Pamplona was still far away. Then he heard footsteps behind him.

I knew it. I’m not going to look.

He heard the soppy, wet sounds of the thick muddy feet, drudging their way towards him.

Robert rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t sleeping the same since Barcelona. Now his eyes and ears were playing tricks on him. This is what happened when he didn’t sleep. He saw things, imagined things. This wasn’t the first time.

He finished the beer fast and the hurled the can onto the tracks. It echoed across the empty station. He turned around quickly, but there was nothing.

Robert stood alone under the shards of lightening at the abandoned station in Zaragoza, the city of no light, and waited for Paulo to return.