That day last fall was long and everything at the office seemed to be falling apart. I was on the verge of either bursting as a result of intense internal pressure or collapsing due to extreme exhaustion. All I wanted was to get home and enjoy a long, hot shower.
The last three weeks had been typical autumn days: windy, overcast, rainy, and tinged with sadness, much like myself, who was distressed by Mariana’s departure.
Outside, the sun was shining brightly for a change—an inspiring sight. From my office window I could see some birds playing around. Although many dead leaves were piling up in every nook, plenty of them were still clinging to the tree branches. That view was a promising sign, suggesting winter would be late. I attempted to draw some strength from that. I tried to force a smile.
However, my optimism was short-lived. I hurried down the stairs, but to my dismay, I arrived just seconds too late and missed the streetcar. The sky suddenly became overcast, and soon a light rain began to fall. I was deeply troubled. As I sat in the bus shelter on Saint Clair Avenue, I felt like a trapped bird, impatiently waiting for the next streetcar. I watched each raindrop fall in what seemed like slow motion, striking the asphalt, bouncing back, and breaking into numerous sparkling droplets. That little distraction helped ease my anxiety.
The next streetcar took nearly thirty minutes to show up. I hopped on and settled into my usual spot in the back seat. It felt comforting to be inside and heading home. By the time we reached Bathurst Street, the drizzle had turned into a full-blown storm, complete with thunder and lightning. In an effort to push aside the troubling thoughts, I focused on the rain pounding against the window and the bright flashes lighting up the sky.
When the streetcar made it to Corso Italia, the rain had started to let up. I got off at Boom Avenue. "Strange name for a street," I thought. Was it due to the noisy environment or perhaps because of the frequent car accidents at that intersection? I had my mishap there once. It was during the summer. I was driving a company vehicle when a woman, whose navel seemed to be calling out to me, distracted me. Suddenly, boom! I crashed into another car.
I walked into Mrs. Anderson’s Convenience Store to buy a newspaper and some lottery tickets. As I was paying, she took the cash from my hand, lingered a bit too long, and made me feel uneasy. She gave me that familiar look, leaving me unsure of her intentions. I thought she might be interested in having sex with me. But the image of Mrs. Anderson on her knees, giving me a blowjob, or naked, on all fours, with me penetrating her from behind, was disgusting. Despite her obvious flirtation and my loneliness, I concluded that I would rather pass on that opportunity. There was something repulsive about her.
After wrapping up my business at Mrs. Anderson’s, I made my way across the street toward Via Italia, to Mrs. Rossini’s house. I was renting a room there on the second floor. Upon my arrival I checked the mailbox mounted on the front wall, looking for any mail addressed to me. A sense of deep despair oppressed me when I saw it was empty. I had been eagerly awaiting a letter from Mariana, which never seemed to arrive. She had left three months earlier without telling me where she was going or when she would return. She did leave me a little dry note with Mrs. Rossini: “I’m sorry.” I had endured three months of sorrow, hoping she would communicate with me, and I could no longer bear another day without knowing her whereabouts.
Feeling down, I opened the door, removed my shoes, and, before going upstairs, walked over to the kitchen, where Mrs. Rossini was cooking dinner.
“Any mail for me today, Mrs. Rossini?” I asked.
She looked at me with a triumphant smile. “None,” she replied, her voice full of sarcasm.
“Mrs. Rossini, why do you keep punishing me?” I asked, feeling unnerved.
“Because you deserve it, Nelson; because you have none to blame but yourself; because you’re a fool,” she responded, laughing at me. “What's the matter? Feeling guilty? You regret your choice now, don’t you?”
She spat with a scorn that filled me with rage.
“Mrs. Rossini, I have nothing to feel guilty about. If Mariana chose to leave, she did it of her own free will.”
“Yes, this is all your fault,” Mrs. Rossini shouted at me in a tone that I had never seen her use before. “Mariana did not leave you; she wanted to be with you. You pushed her away. You let her go because you're an idiot. Now look at you. Feeling desperate. Right? You want to take back the things you said to Mariana. Don’t you? A fine, pretty, smart girl who truly cared for you. You’ll never find another one like her. Stupid!”
In a fit of helplessness, not knowing what to respond to Mrs. Rossini, I dashed towards the door that led to the living room and slammed it behind me. Just before it closed, I could still hear her angry voice: "Stupid!" The word resonated in the dark recesses of my mind.
Feeling extremely disturbed, I made my way up to my room. I honestly don’t know why I would argue with her. Mrs. Rossini was a kindhearted person. She rented me the room without asking many questions, even when I was unemployed, trusting that I would find a job soon. Most importantly, she adored Mariana.
I stepped into the mess that was my room. Dust, books, papers, CDs, and underwear filled every available corner. I undressed, got into the shower, and allowed the warm steam to wash away my awful mood.
After finishing my shower, I logged onto my computer to check my e-mail, but there were no new messages. I switched on the TV, yet nothing caught my interest. I turned on the radio, only to turn it off a few minutes later. I tried to read a book but quickly grew bored and put it aside. I felt uneasy, depressed, and enraged, like an animal in captivity. I finally threw myself on my bed, defeated by apathy, and stared at the posters of Agnes decorating my walls.
A few minutes later, I approached my desk, grabbed the newspaper, unfolded it, and took a quick look at the headlines. Just when I thought my never-ending day had come to an end, it whacked me like a piece of iron. I couldn’t believe my eyes, but there it was, printed in bold black and white: Agnes was dead! She had passed away the day before in a fatal car crash. Her burial was scheduled for the next day in Oakville, the town she called home when she wasn’t on tour.
She was born into a poor family in a small, destitute town in Newfoundland, the child of Danish immigrants. During her teenage years, she had troubles in school, including being expelled once for kissing a teacher. She also had her share of issues with drugs and juvenile delinquency. However, she managed to turn her life around, clean up her act, or, as she used to put it, get her shit together. She then devoted herself to cultivating the one marvelous gift she had been given: her voice. She quickly became a sensation as a pop singer, climbing to the top of the charts in no time. While she experienced a number of unsuccessful romantic relationships, one of these resulted in the birth of her daughter. My room was filled with her posters, showcasing her captivating look, marked by a deep sadness reflected in her eyes, behind her glittering face.
I often laughed at those fans who scream and cry upon seeing their idols. “Give me a fucking break,” I’d yell at the television set whenever I watched documentaries and reports on music stars, seeing fans 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.”
Then, Agnes appeared, with a bright, pure soprano voice that made me shiver whenever she held it in a tremolo. She had an angel face, the Arctic snows on her hair, the northern lights in her eyes, and succulent butts. She was the only celebrity who inspired sexual fantasies in me. Each time I attended one of her concerts at the Molson Amphitheatre or, before that, at The Forum, I was moved to tears. Just as it happens whenever I watch her video clips.
On the stage, she was the queen of the scene. She could be wild, confident, and aggressive like a tiger or 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 in 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 turn plaintive, like she was 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 picture and save it from the funny tricks of time. In those moments, the aura surrounding her was suffocating. It felt like summer was over, the dark clouds were hiding the sun, and the autumn chill was taking over. She appeared to be sick and tired of everything, like she wished that show was her last show. She looked so lonely. Facing twenty thousand fans, how can anyone be so lonely? As she sang, I had to struggle to hold back my tears.
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; with 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 collapsed onto my bed in tears. I had never actually met her face-to-face, so I suppose I wasn’t truly grieving her death but rather mourning the loss of the emotions she evoked in me, realizing she would no longer be around to stir those feelings.
The following morning I phoned the office to say I was sick. After taking a shower, getting dressed, and enjoying the coffee Mrs. Rossini offered me, I headed out. At Mrs. Anderson’s shop I picked up a bouquet of flowers—dahlias, chrysanthemums, lilies, tulips, and orchids, which were Agnes’s favorites. I then took the streetcar to Saint Clair Subway Station, where I boarded the southbound train to Union Station. From there I transferred to the GO Train to Oakville.
At Oakville GO Train Station, I hopped into a taxi that drove me along Cross Avenue and Lyons Lane to Saint Mary’s Cemetery. It was drizzling and quite windy, with the breeze blowing dead leaves all around. The burial service was still in progress, with a group of people—friends, family, the pastor, and the press—gathered around her coffin. I waited discreetly behind a tree. Once the ceremony concluded and the last mourner departed, I approached the casket, brushed off the fallen leaves, and gazed at her face through the glass, still incredibly beautiful, as though she were merely asleep. I stared at her, lost in thoughts about her life and my own. I pressed my lips to the glass and left a kiss, then placed the flowers atop the coffin. “Rest in peace, Agnes Fahlström; thanks for the memories.”
As I turned to leave, feeling that a part of me was lost, the drizzle, the wind, and the fallen leaves swirled around me, as if urging me to stay, as if they didn’t want me to leave her alone.
©William Almonte Jiménez, 2011
