Ignacio

I remember 1929 better than any other year, and of that year, I remember the 23rd August better than any other day. It was day number two-hundred and thirty-five of the year, a Friday. Of that day, I remember standing on the corner of Isabel La Catolica and watching cars zoom by and people stroll past. I stood there so long that after a while everything blended together, my mind was unable to separate what was man from what wasn’t. Nobody looked at me, nobody stopped to talk to me, nobody cared.

Fridays are a wonderful day or so it seems. Children run faster and adults laugh louder at the idea of liberation from the shackles of routine. That Friday, the sun seemed to shine brighter, I felt every one of its tentacles kissing my skin as cars ‘beep-beeped’ their way through the concrete jungle.

There I was in a sea full of grumpy, stressed, happy, anxious faces…alone. Each and every one stuck in their own concoction of egocentricity.

“Ignacio,” she called me, just as she had on many other occasions. I had always chosen to ignore her, but today, was not any other day. You see, there is a reason why I remember this day more than any other day.

I wonder, before I continue, if you could tell me what your favourite fruit is? Tell me. Strawberries? Peaches? Pineapples? Think of it, the freshness of it, its sweetness and the overpowering satisfaction you feel when its juices explode in your mouth and the unequivocal surrender of your taste buds as they beg you for more. Think about it, the indulgence, the attraction and momentary high. This is what I feel every time she calls my name.

I turned to look at her. I wish I could say against my better judgement, but this would be a fallacy. There she was, standing next to me, her pale blue eyes and porcelain skin soaking in the sun like no other. There she was, as strong and unsurmountable as a lighthouse in dark stormy seas, ever willing to guide the way.

“Isabel,” I said softly.

The aroma of strawberries wafted up my nose as I said it, my knees buckled, excitement and anxiety brawling in me like two opposing factions. But here, I finally had someone to accompany me.

And so we stood, together, in that street corner, watching passers-by, some beaming, some not. Some solemn, some not. Some full of love, some not. Some oblivious to her, some not. And so we stood, until we could stand no longer, until my resolve begun to wither.

Sensing this, Isabel turned to me. “Ignacio, what do you fear?”

I turned to her. “Fatigue,” I replied.

I saw a sliver of confusion creep through her otherwise blank expression.

“How so?” she probed.

My breath caught in my throat as I prepared my reply. One of those peculiar apple-green buses swished close enough to feel and all of a sudden the determination I had thought lost, returned. I turned to her as a young girl no older than twelve, looked at me and then at Isabel, the panic in her innocent face, palpable.

“In a world full of billions,” I replied. “I awake as I slept, alone. In a city full of millions, I stand as I was born, alone.”

“How does this relate to your fear?”

“Loneliness is tiresome.”

At this, she touched me.

“Be alone, no more,” she said.

That smell of strawberries returned and I willingly, walked into the middle of the road, turning to stare at Lady Death as she smiled and walked after the girl. I heard screams, the sound of that apple-green bus again, labelled Zocalo, followed by nothingness.

Yes, I remember 1929 better than any other year and I remember 23rd August 1929 better than any other day that year. It was day number two-hundred and thirty five of the year. It was the day I died.