Chapter 4. La Vela. Torn roads
It was the end of June and we both woke up with the feeling of such a trivial day being unable to figure out where that emotion was coming from. There were three days left until his sailing competition would start.
He was starting his day with a physical training, afterwards having our breakfast together. That morning I remember I kissed him in a hurry as I was being late. I was in a rush to reach to the school where I was teaching yoga classes, after which I had to meet my friends, as promised.
I sipped the coffee with a strong attachment to the cup and I left Oliver reading a newspaper, those dairies with gray and rough papers that were bringing you back in the times when the elegance was led by a political gazette and an intriguing cigar:
“I am going to miss you today. Have a fantastic day!” He said.
“I love you. Dinner tonight?”
“That would be perfect. Let’s go eat at Cala Incognito! Hmm, that spectacular paella, I am already melting…” He added with the desire of a child.
“You have such a humor! Sounds exciting!” I answered him with a sad voice, knowing that the three-weeks of distance would come faster than my own infant thoughts.
I was trying to put aside the moments of maternal paranoia and the pathetic tendency to expect catastrophes. I grabbed my matt and headed towards the school. I was almost never giving more than two one-hour classes a day, giving myself breaks, especially when the arm balances needed to be replaced by a direct, straight look, a kind of a vertigo out of which the only distinguishable things were “Here” and “Now”.
After a well deserved shower at the end of the practice, I heard the message from my friends, sign that I was late. Again.
I was trying to respect the time of the people around me, but usually my counting was not equating the real one.
“We’ve just arrived. We are in Chiringuito Vela. Come.” And two spontaneous faces in the photo attached were replacing the boring “Kisses and hugs”.
Trying to pull the jeans on me, I jumped steadily for few moments with anger, as every post-shower time it seemed that I was putting on two kilograms that were blocking my trousers from dressing up my legs. Irritating.
“Hugs for everyone, I’ll see you tomorrow!” I saluted my colleagues, already running to the bar.
La Vela was a beach bar in Javea, found on Avenida del Mediteranei, with a delicious tinto de verano and tapas that were making you feel just like on vacation. Spotting my friends just like landing from a parallel and absent world, I realised how much I was actually missing them.
I grabbed them towards me with all my strengths, hugging them like an octopus. They were my dear friends, both from Javea, the ones that knew my past and my thoughts.
“What have you been doing lately? Let the emergency news land on the table, Marta!” I said, winking at Maria, intuiting that the disastrous event happening to Marta could have only few choices: she lost the last piece of a famous designer brand new bag, or idem the first choice, or idem the second one.
“…So?” I repeated myself, giggling.
Seeing us already amused, Marta just set her lost eyes to us.
“Well…No, this time it is not about bags. I am getting a divorce. Hell, I do get a divorce.” Marta said.
I could not understand whether that was a joke, good news (considering her questionable partner), or devastating ones, looking into her resigning sight. I was still working on giving up on my own judgments. I was trying to understand why some people do not have the courage to talk about what is happening to them. Or with them. And they decide to leave. Without questions. Without answers.
“Well, that is insane! We are here, with you, for you. There are moments when the roads get torn. When they cease to match and then each of us must go on on his or her own pathway, a little one, maybe drifted away, but under his or her ownership. It will be…”
When I was on the point to tell the word “fine”, I felt like I had just slapped myself, recalling the idiot and fake mantra I was trying to insert into my mind, in my teenager time, while ignoring the reality.
“Actually, it will hurt, and there will be some time needed to pass, before healing. You will cry, and then…probably cry again for what was and was not, for the good and the bad and the going-back-and-forth scenarios. It’s gone. And now, time for cheering a glass of tinto de verano. The mourning time is here.”
“You said it so right. Yes, it is going to be bad, and that is good. For love and for the future. For broken hearts that get to shine brighter than before. And for the beauty and the laughter of the heart!” Maria, smiling, shouted out the passionate toast.
We have raised our glasses of tinto and cuddled Marta’s shoulder. We knew she would be happy, when it all ends.
Love for me had no beginning or ending. Love was simply there, in its plenitude. Love was staying.
“Our night, next weekend? Oliver starts the sailing competition this Sunday. Sounds good?” I asked them so to take the attention away from the recent news.
“Great, Sof. We keep in touch. It’s getting late, I got to run to my parents, it’s Thursday-family dinner.” Maria told us while loudly and lovingly giving a kiss to Marta.
“Should I drop you off anywhere? I have the car in the parking place.” I asked.
“For me, it’s fine, I am going to take a walk. Marta?”
“Yes, I will join you by car, Sofia. I hope he packed his things by now. Let’s go!”, Marta answered this time with more hope in her voice.
Sipping the last drops of my glass of red wine and the beach with the aroma of cigars, I ended the outing full of thoughts and questions without answers.