THE GIRL WITH GOLDEN HAIR (Agnes and Mariana)

That day, last fall, was one of those fucking endless Murphy’s Law day. Everything went wrong at the office. I felt like I was going to explode as a result of sheer internal pressure, or collapse due to extreme exhaustion. I just wanted to go home, and take a long hot shower.                                   

     The last three weeks had been typical autumn days: windy, cloudy, rainy, yellow, and melancholy. Like me, distressed by the departure of Mariana.                       

     Outside, the sun was shining, for a change: tender and cheerful. Through the window of my office I could see the late birds, frolicking. The dead leaves piled up in every corner, but there were still many of them hanging on to the trees. That was a good omen. It meant that winter would be late. I tried to muster some strength and optimism from that. "Fuck you Mr. Murphy!" I thought, as a final judgment, and I tried to smile.                          

     I ran down the stairs, and much to my annoyance, I was late by a few seconds, and missed the streetcar. A light rain was falling. I was intensely upset. Inside the bus shelter on Saint Clair Avenue I felt like a caged bird, waiting with impatience the next streetcar.  I was watching each raindrop, descend, as if in slow motion, hit the asphalt, bounce back, and split into many sparkly droplets. That drill mitigated my anxiety.         

     The next streetcar took almost a half hour to arrive. I jumped inside, and sat in the very back seat, as I usually did. It felt good to be inside and on my way home. When we reached Bathurst Street the drizzle had become a full-fledged storm, with thunder and lightning. Trying not to think about the things that were disturbing me, I fixed my attention on the rain lashing out at the window panes, and the flashing explosions of light in the sky.

     By the time the streetcar made it to Corso Italia, where I was living, the rain had relented. I got off at Boom Avenue. "Strange name for a street," I thought. Was it because it was a noisy area, or because many car accidents occurred on that intersection? I had one, once. It was summer. I was driving a company vehicle, distracted, watching a girl whose navel was screaming at me. And, boom! I collided with another car.                                      

     I stepped into Mrs. Anderson’s Convenience Store.  I bought the newspaper and lottery tickets. When I was paying, Mrs. Anderson took the money from my hand, touched it, and lingered long enough to make me feel uncomfortable. She gave me the look she would always give me. I wasn’t sure of what she meant.  I thought she wanted to have sex with me. But the truth is, the image of Mrs. Anderson on her knees, giving me a blowjob, or naked, on all four, with me penetrating her from behind, was disgusting.  Regardless of how horny she seemed to be, and how lonely I was, I decided that I would rather pass on that opportunity. There was something repulsive about her.                            

     After I finished my business at Mrs. Anderson’s I crossed the street towards Via Italia, to Mrs. Rossini’s house, where I lived. I was renting a room on the second floor. When I arrived I searched the mailbox hanging from the front wall for correspondence addressed to me. I felt a great depression in the pit of my stomach when I saw that it was empty. I had been waiting for a letter from Mariana that never seemed to arrive. She had left three months before, without saying whereto or when she would return.  She left me a little dry note with Mrs. Rossini: “I’m sorry”. I had endured three months of grief, hoping she would communicate with me, and I couldn’t stand one more day without knowing her whereabouts.            

     Dejected, I opened the door, removed my shoes, and before heading upstairs walked over to the kitchen, where Mrs. Rossini was preparing dinner.                                          

     “Any mail for me today, Mrs. Rossini?” I asked.

     She looked at me with a triumphant smile on her face. “None”, she replied with certain sarcasm in her voice.  
     "Mrs. Rossini, why do you insist on punishing me?” I inquired, angrily.
     “Because you deserve it Nelson; because you only have yourself to blame; because you’re an idiot.” she responded, laughing at me. “What's wrong? Do you feel guilty? You regret it now, don’t you?”

    She spat with a derision that filled me with rage, and choked me with anger.            

     “Mrs. Rossini, I have nothing to feel guilty about.  If Mariana abandoned me, she did it on her own free will”                                                           

    “Yes, it's your fault,” exploded Mrs. Rossini, like I had never seen her before. “Mariana did not abandon you, she wanted to stay. You let her go, because you're an idiot. Now you're desperate; aren’t you? You regret it; don’t you?  You let her go. A fine, pretty, smart girl; she was dying for you. You’ll never find another one like her. Stupid!”

    In a paroxysm of helplessness, not knowing what to say to Mrs. Rossini, I dashed towards the door leading to the living room and slammed it behind me. Before it closed, I could still hear her voice shouting: "Stupid!" The word echoed in the dark corners of my brain.

    Extremely troubled I went up to my room. I honestly don’t know why I argued with her. Mrs. Rossini was a sweetheart. She rented me the room without many inquiries, when I didn’t even have a job, believing in the promise that soon I would get one. And, above all, she adored Mariana.

    I entered the universal cataclysm that was my room. Dust, books, papers, CD's and underwear crowded into the empty spaces.

    I undressed, got into the shower, and let the hot water vapors cleanse me of my bad mood.                

    When I came out of the shower, I turned on the computer to check my e-mail, no one had left any message. I turned on the TV, nothing interested me. I turned on the radio, turned it off after a few minutes. I tried to read a book; I got bored, and put it aside. I felt uneasy, depressed, enraged, like an animal in captivity. I finally threw myself on the bed, defeated by apathy, and stared at the posters of Agnes that were all over my walls.           

    A few minutes later I went to my desk, grabbed the newspaper, unfolded it, and cast a glance at it. Just when I thought my never-ending day was over, it whacked me like a piece of iron.  I couldn’t believe it, but it was there in big black and white letters: Agnes was dead!  She had died earlier that day in a fatal car crash. She was going to be buried the following day, in Oakville, the town where she lived when she wasn’t touring.                      

    She was born amidst a poverty-stricken family, in a very impoverished little town in Newfoundland; the daughter of Danish immigrants; had troubles in school; was expelled once for kissing a teacher; had her brush with drugs and juvenile delinquency in her teenage years; but she had cleaned up her act, gotten her shit together, and devoted the rest of her life to cultivating the one marvelous gift life had given her: her voice. She was an overnight sensation as a pop singer, and rose up to the top of the charts in no time. She had a series of failed romantic relationships, from one of which, she had a daughter. My room was filled with her posters, in which she had that captivating look, with that sadness deep in her eyes, behind her glittering face.                                                 

    I used to make fun of those people who scream and cry when they see their idols. “Give me a fucking break”, I used to shout at the television set, every time I saw the documentaries and reports on the music stars, and people were sighing and fainting. “You idiots, do you think they are gods? They are humans like you, they have bad breath, they fart, and their shit stinks as much as yours.”

   And then, there appeared Agnes. She had a pure, vibrant, soprano voice that made me shiver when she held it in a tremolo. She had an angel face, the artic snows on her hair, the northern lights in her eyes, and big succulent butts. She was the only celebrity about whom I had sexual fantasies. When I went to see her at the Molson Amphitheatre, and before that, at the Forum, I had tears in my eyes, just as I have them every time I see her video clips.        

    When she was on the stage, she was the queen of the scene. She could be wild, confident, and aggressive like a tiger, like an eagle riding on the wind, flying over mountains, forests, and seas; letting her music make her strong; having the time of her life. She was the girl with golden hair and angel eyes to whom the audience would look up and be hypnotized.                                                      

    Or, she could be gentle, soft, and immaterial, like a shadow, like an image passing by, a reflection on my eyes, a wish on my mind; like a summer evening breeze, like the velvet of the night, treading lightly on the ground, floating like a thousand butterflies.                    

    Then she would become sad, and moody. Facing twenty thousand of her fans, how could she be so lonely?  Enchained by her own sorrows, like there was no hope for tomorrow,  like a broken-winged bird, as if the walls were tumbling down, and her love life was a blown out candle; not prepared to die; scared by the guns and cannons of life; like a ghost walking through an empty house, with tears in her eyes. She seemed like she was defeated, and somebody else had won the war; as if her life was slipping through her fingers, and she wanted to freeze the pictures and save it from the funny tricks of time. The halo around her was oppressive. As she sang, I would feel a lump in my throat; it felt like summer was over, the dark clouds were hiding the sun, and the autumn chill was taking over. On those moments she seemed sick and tired of everything, like wishing that show was her last show.                                                   

    But before the show was over, she would get up, and rise from the ashes of her life; taking on the brave new world as it arrived, feeling astray, but going anyway; sharing her silence with us, her fans, and finding comfort in our company; pushing through the darkness still another mile, because the destination was worthwhile; slightly worn, but dignified; no taste for humble pie, with nothing left untried; standing calmly at the crossroads, with no desire to run; crossing the stream, and  having a dream.            
    I dropped on my bed and cried. I had never met her in person, so, I guess I wasn’t really crying over her death, but over the way she made me feel, knowing that she wouldn’t be there anymore to awake those feelings.                                                

    The following morning I called the office and said I was sick. I had a shower, got dressed, drank the coffee Mrs. Rossini offered me, and left. At Mrs. Anderson’s I bought flowers: dahlias, chrysanthemums, lilies, tulips, and orchids; they were Agnes’ favorite flowers. I took the streetcar to Saint Clair Subway Station where I boarded the southbound train to Union Station.  There I took the GO train to Oakville.                                           

    At Oakville Go Train Station I took a taxi that drove me through Cross Avenue and Lyons Lane to Saint Mary’s Cemetery.  It was drizzling, and windy. The wind was scattering dead leaves everywhere. The burial rites were still going on. A group of people (friends, family, the pastor, and the Press) was gathered around her coffin. I waited hiding behind a tree. When the ceremony was finished, and the last mourner left, I went over to the casket, removed the dead leaves that had fallen over it, and saw her face through the glass, still beautiful and angelic as ever, as though she were only sleeping. I stared at her, reflecting on her life and mine. I put a kiss on her lips, with the glass window between our mouths, and placed the flowers on top of the coffin.                                  

    “Rest in peace Agnes Fahlström; thanks for the memories.”  Then I walked away, feeling that there was something definitely wrong with the world, and that some part of me was irretrievably gone. The drizzle, the wind, and the fallen leaves, all whirled around me, surrounding me, like telling me no to go. I had the impression they didn’t want me to leave her alone.  Maybe, I was the one who didn’t want to be alone.   

©William Almonte Jiménez 1999, 2011, 2013