Our only importance is that we have the ability to make contact with other human beings.
-Ingmar Bergman
Néstor woke up to the ringing of his alarm clock, feeling startled and irritable. With a strong and spiteful slap, he silenced the damned mechanism he hated so much. After a sleepless night, or sleeping at short intervals, tormented by inexplicable dreams, the worst thing that could happen to him was to be frightened by that infernal machine that forcibly took him out of the pleasant sleep he had finally managed to drift into at daybreak. He sat up on the bed for a moment, still half asleep, with shadows and shapeless lights swirling in his eyes. Letting out a long sigh, he looked at Edith, who lay sound asleep, half naked, wrapped in the sheets, and her disheveled hair. The realization of her presence restored his composure. Gently, so as not to wake her, he leaned down and kissed her buttocks, her shoulders, and her hair.
In the shower, he floated amid the mist shrouding him and the memories coming to life in the spirals of water vapor.
"What a pain!" he grumbled. "I don't want to rehash the past; I don't like to do it, but it always shows up without an invitation."
Indeed, he despised revisiting the past, knowing it was behind him and should remain there. However, memories were constantly lurking, often assaulting him at the most inconvenient times. And there they were, haunting him in the shower, like ghosts performing a macabre dance, reproaching him for his failures, with their devilish laughter echoing from their hollow mouths as they let the shattered glass of his unfulfilled dreams slip through their skeletal hands. He reflected on the winding road he had traveled—his achievements, setbacks, the great mistakes, the dramatic divorce, the heart-wrenching separation from his children, the loneliness, unrequited loves, the disintegration of the psychic framework that defined his identity, and the descent into madness that he managed to avoid without turning to narcotics. Currently, his life resembled a ceasefire. Edith was a breakwater, the eye of the storm, the Sea of Tranquility, Sigma Octantis, Polaris, the counterweight that balanced the scale of his everyday existence. He hoped fervently that this state of peace would last as long as possible.
He sipped his coffee while seated on a chair at the kitchen table. The rich aroma and bold flavor of freshly brewed coffee—black and strong, with a slight hint of nutmeg— gave him an ineffable pleasure that helped him shake off the lingering drowsiness from a restless night. Somehow, the morning coffee softened the acrid crust stuck to his soul, and that seemed to be reborn every morning, exacerbated by the strange dreams. He fastened his scarf, buttoned up his coat, and put on his cap before heading outside.
The slow fall of the snow on the dimly lit street brought him a sense of tranquility. A group of individuals waiting at the bus stop huddled together in an effort to generate warmth and ward off the chill. The winter season compelled them to abandon their cherished personal space.
He headed for the bakery at the corner. The man who usually slept on the sidewalk by the entrance, even in winter, covered by many blankets to withstand the freezing temperature, was still fast asleep. Upon entering the shop, which was already bustling with people despite the early hour, he was greeted by a delightful fragrance of newly baked bread, cookies, cakes, pies, and other pastries that permeated the air. He ordered his regular apple Danish, with its flaky, crispy crust and warm apple pieces sprinkled with cinnamon. That’s something he enjoyed very much.
He stepped outside and immersed himself in the pale, almost ghostly mist created by the falling snow. The beggar was already awake and asked him for some change. Néstor searched his pockets and took out a loonie, which he placed in the man’s outstretched hand. After walking a short distance, he paused and returned to the homeless man, who looked at him with a puzzled expression. Once again, he searched his pockets, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to him.
The sharp sound of the crossing guard’s whistle stopped the traffic. A group of children crossed the street, bundled up in their winter clothes, carrying their backpacks as they headed for school. This scene brought back memories of his children when they were little, when he would take them to school before going to work. This reminiscence put a smile on his face and wiped off the discomfort caused by the previous sleepless night. They were good boys, now grown and living on their own. They often came to see him, and they all would talk about the old days. They got along well with Edith, even though she was not their mother. Néstor figured that as long as they were doing well, he would be fine.
The path leading to Eglinton West subway station always gave him the impression of being in a foreign land. It extended downhill alongside Allen Road, isolated from it by a noise barrier. On either side there were neatly lined trees, exhibiting their charming foliage, which changed with the seasons: bright, green, and new in spring; dark green and shiny in summer; orange, red, and yellow in autumn; and bare branches covered with snow or ice in winter. Walking under their mantle brought him joy and reminded him of the Boulevard Saint Michel, and Les Jardins du Luxembourg.
At Eglinton West, before descending into the bowels of the earth, he picked up a newspaper. Once the train arrived, he took a seat at the back of the car, from where he could observe the crowd. He liked spying on people and guessing what their lives were like based on their facial expressions or the brightness in their eyes. The crowd was typical: those who were sleeping; those who were reading; the man with the briefcase, in a suit and tie, who was obviously in a hurry, as he was constantly looking at his watch; the girl who listened to music with tiny earphones in her ears, her eyes closed, bobbing her head, and whispering a melody; the girl who chatted loudly on her cell phone; the elderly man with an empty stare, who spoke to himself, seemingly lost in his thoughts and solitude.
He unfolded the paper, pulled out the first section, and glanced at the headlines. Radioactivity in water higher than previously thought. Iraqi man kills daughter involved with Al-Qaida. Depression in men on the rise due to socioeconomic changes. 7.4 magnitude earthquake in Pakistan. Floods in the Philippines leave 51 dead and 1.6 million homeless. Suicide bomber kills 21 in Egyptian church. Philadelphia doctor accused of killing patients and newborns. Israeli soldier kills Palestinian at checkpoint. 15 headless bodies found in Mexico. Mother kills her children. American officer kills two Pakistanis in Lahore.
The second section brought more hopeful news. Hundreds work in Vietnam to save the Sacred Tortoise. India and Bangladesh settle their border disputes. Radio stations in Senegal promote peace using local languages. Nepalese rebels join government. Cuba frees political prisoners. South Korean president begins talks with North Korea. Jordan lifts ban on public gatherings. Philippine government and rebels begin peace talks in Norway. Egyptian military agrees to transfer of power. Israeli woman gives birth in Palestinian hospital. Pizza delivery man saves elderly woman. Philanthropists give more than money; they donate their time and talent to students. Woman rescued after 24 hours in New Zealand earthquake.
When he arrived at the office, Rosina, the receptionist, greeted him with her usual cheerful smile and inquired about Edith. She enjoyed sharing harmless gossip and usually inquired about Néstor’s personal and romantic life, curious about how things were going. He happily would update her, as he saw no malice in her interest in his private affairs. Her face would light up with joy when he reported that everything was fine, and she would express genuine concern if the news was less favorable. He was very fond of her. She was married and had two young daughters. Néstor liked trying to read her mind through the expressions she displayed each day: apathy, enthusiasm, sadness, melancholy, worry.
As he walked through the control center Mariela stood up and gave him a hug, as she did every morning. There was nothing romantic or sexual about it. They had been friends for a long time. From the very start, he and Mariela developed a close bond, and they came to the conclusion that the only healthy way to start the day was with a hug. When they first met, he was on his own, while Mariela was unhappily married. They both found comfort in those morning hugs. They were truly meant to be friends. Now he had Edith, just as she had her husband, but one thing had nothing to do with the other. Romantic relationships are frequently unpredictable; lovers come and go; nevertheless, the complicity between them always remained, like a safe haven in the middle of a hurricane. Their coworkers didn’t misinterpret them or spread rumors; they saw nothing inappropriate about that hug. Instead, they just watched this daily ritual, bewildered, unable to understand, and lacking the courage to step out of their own comfort zone and do the same. They stared at the couple with healthy envy, perhaps wishing they too had a safe harbor like theirs.
After a morning of toiling in the warehouse, where he worked, receiving and shipping merchandise, he put on his coat and went out to grab a bite from the food cart that parked at the corner each day, serving hamburgers, hot dogs, and soda. The temperature had increased slightly, and the snow was beginning to melt. However, there was a chilly breeze, and everyone gathered around the cart, seeking its warmth and worshiping it as if it were the sacred life-giving fire. He ordered a Polish sausage with Perrier water. While eating, he engaged in conversation with Czeslaw and the other people present about sports, politics, and, inevitably, the miserable winter they were experiencing. But really, when had Winter ever been anything but miserable?
After he finished his meal, he didn't go back to the warehouse. He was only working half a shift that day because in the afternoon he had a doctor’s appointment. For months he had been experiencing pain deep within his abdomen. He had already undergone a few tests, and that afternoon he would receive the results.
At the doctor's office, Néstor listened with some indifference to what the doctor was telling him, as if the doctor was talking about someone else, not about him, as if he did not understand, or did not want to understand, the seriousness of what the doctor was communicating. In the best case, with treatment, his life could be prolonged to about five years. In the worst case, he would live around eight months, or a year.
The subway passengers were the usual crowd: those sleeping, those reading, those looking at their watches impatiently, those talking to themselves or on their cell phones. The only difference was a girl who was shamelessly kissing the boy beside her. A few riders, including Néstor, cast sidelong glances at them, frowning in disapproval. “Get a room!” thought Néstor to himself. They were aware of the attention they were attracting. She didn’t seem to care. “What the fuck!” “What the hell!” The boy was overwhelmed with embarrassment, but he couldn’t shake her off.
Néstor was musing about what the doctor had told him, yet feeling detached and aloof, as if these events were happening to someone else rather than him, and he was merely reading about them in the newspaper or on the advertising signs pasted on the walls of the subway car. Once he exited the Eglinton West station, he thought no more about the matter; he left his potential death sentence buried in the belly of the steel snake. The temperature had risen, the snow had melted away, and rain had fallen. The tram tracks, still wet, were glowing, reflecting the orange light of the dying sun. The atmosphere was fresh. The rain had a way of cleansing everything: the air, the streets, the city, and even the souls and consciences.
He didn't head home right away. Instead, he stopped by the churrasqueira to pick up some grilled chicken, potato dumplings, and seafood rice. The vibrant ambiance, the crowd of people buying their meals before going home, the enticing smell of so many tasty dishes, and the ever-jolly voice of Mrs Martinha calling out to the staff lifted his spirits.
As he waited for his turn, he smiled, looking forward to being home in just fifteen minutes. Upon arriving, without even removing his coat, he would immediately switch on the radio tuned to 91.1 FM. Next, he would step into the shower and levitate in the steam of the hot water. After that, he would set the table with plates, food, and a bottle of wine. Finally, he would settle on the sofa to continue reading “Tess of the D’Urbervilles,” while enjoying the soothing trumpet of Miles Davis, the elegant piano of Oscar Peterson, the sensual saxophone of Stan Getz, and the lulling voice of Suzie Arioli. He would jump off the couch driven by a flash of joy as he heard the sound of Edith’s key opening the door; he would stand at the threshold, feeling her presence before she stepped inside; then they would embrace gently, their bodies pressed together, and time would stand still.
Mrs. Martinha's voice, saying "17 dollars," snapped him out of his daze. After settling the bill, he stepped out of the churrasqueira. It was almost night. He looked down the street toward the horizon, still glowing and fractured by the sun’s rays, which was reluctantly going down. The magic of the air, which absorbs the blue light and lets the red shine through, never ceased to amaze him. The twilight appeared magnificent and enchanting, like it was yesterday, and every day before yesterday, like always. Nothing had changed.
© William Almonte Jiménez, 2024
