Chapter 4
Two strangers meet, hoping never to part. An absurd premise, requiring a high degree of magical thinking. A retrospective told in advance. Imagine if this was how it all happened.
Luciana had been through it so many times she’d lost count, yet still, on certain evenings, she would drift back into that sparkling feeling she’d had before those impending encounters, which were meant to liberate her from San Jerónimo, into a new life, the real one. Perhaps as an au pair in London, or a marketing assistant in Bonn. The hopes resembled abruptly ended dreams, cut off halfway through, if even that, like a dream about a dream. Each time with the same naïve conviction, that everything else had merely been a rehearsal for the decisive moment.
Like the sweet Belgian she’d met outside the football stadium, who spun lightly on his heel, and she knew at once that he was the one, and he remained so for several days until it emerged that he was the father of three children with as many women. Or the Scot who bounded up to her like a giant rabbit and whispered in her ear: It’s you, it has always been you. There was the overly clever Moroccan woman who talked about taking her to Rabat, and they had already booked the trip when Luciana began asking reasonable questions about whether things weren’t going a bit too fast, and then the Moroccan changed her mind, because questioning wasn’t part of her vision for how it was supposed to go.
And then there was her, the one who really was her. The Canadian, Lucy, who was only looking for company for an afternoon. They bought churros and dipped them in chocolate. That was all. Still, it was as if Luciana’s entire being was shaken by those pale blue eyes. It felt magical, she thought. Luciana and Lucy. This will change my life. Which, in a way, turned out to be true. Through the Canadian’s mere presence, she discovered what emotions could be stirred into life.
The object of affection, unfortunately, always disappeared in physical form, just like all the others. At best, she would receive a few short messages and photos on her phone in the following days, from Málaga, Granada or Madrid, before time swept away all traces of the strangers.
All of it was part fairy tale, part tragedy, so it was a matter of attitude. There were also elements of comedy, often too many, when intuition would pass its verdict on the hopeful in an instant. The hairy estate agent from Genoa she didn’t even recognise from his pictures and therefore simply walked past. The Swiss poet whose voice had such a clipped factual edge it was like he was reading aloud from a manual.
Others were dismissed outright, like that sleazy Australian who immediately asked about Luciana’s relationship with her parents, or the strange Dane who smelled of manure every time he opened his mouth. She gave him a map from the tourist office and took the bus home, and once in the bath she told herself the experiment was over. No more tourist walks. Next time it would be for real, and serious. Only death would part them.