The Spanish Spotlight (LSD, #4)

13. Under The Bridge

Under The Bridge

Chelsea can't believe her imPhone: "50 million friends! I can't believe it. Wonderful. Incredible. Amazing. Awesome! Oh, Arse, I want a photo of this, but I can't take a selfie with my own mobile phone in the picture. Can you take a photo of me, holding my phone with my Facebook page with 50 million friends? Please? I want this so much. All my friends will be green with envy if I send them this photo. When I publish a photo of myself with 50 million friends, everybody will love me, and know I'm successful, and the whole world will like me, and it's really really really my only chance to get 500 million friends, and I want that so much... Please?"

She has 50 million friends and not one of them is around to take her photo? Taking a selfie is like kissing a mirror, Chelsea. Your only friend is the city you live in, with its shops full of expensive clothes and its exclusive restaurants. Your two most reliable partners, the ones you spend almost all your time with, are your phone and your game computer. Now you're successful, all you can think of is making your friends green with envy. I pity you, Chelsea. You love companies and brands, you love machines with software that shows you numbers, but you don't know how to love people. Today was your best-day-ever. How will your life be tomorrow?

I take a deep breath. At least today, you have a partner and a friend. If you like it so much, I'll do you this small favour of taking a photo of you. The question, in which lies the hope of all those victims in the Middle East, is: will you return my favour? It's hopeless. You're so full of yourself, there's no space left to think about others. This Plan B was a stupid idea. Today's best-day-ever will only feed your desire to have a better best-day-ever tomorrow. Your envy will never allow you to be satisfied with what you have. You will never be happy. Nobody can change that. You do that to yourself.

I get my spiPhone from my pocket and select the camera. We couldn't have picked a better spot for a photo, on top of the old bridge that connects the neighbourhood of Triana with the antique city centre of Sevilla. The background shows stars and city lights, and the high lampposts illuminate the biggest star of all with a touch of gold from above. I take three close-ups of Chelsea's smiling face next to her phone with her record Facebook page, one more with the phone on the other side, one more with her finger pointing at the 50 million, one more like the first three I made...

"I want one from a little distance, not only with my face but also with the bridge."

I go three steps back and look at the screen. I can't take the photo yet. Someone is walking in front of the lens, a beggar, asking Chelsea in Spanish for a few coins. Chelsea doesn't understand Spanish, but she does understand what the man wants: "I don't have any coins, old man, and if I had them, I wouldn't give them to you. Go find a job, like everybody else. And now go out of the way because we're doing something important here."

She sweeps the old man out of the way and takes her happy position again, with her phone next to her face. She doesn't look at what she did, but I see the big picture, which includes a stumbling old man who can't hold his balance after the fierce push he got from Chelsea instead of the coins he asked for. He tumbles against the waist-high wall of the side of the bridge and topples over it. With a cry, he disappears into the river below. With one step, I'm next to Chelsea, looking down, where I see an arm waving goodbye. I tear off my jacket, kick out my shoes, drop my phone, and jump.

The water is not moving fast, but the current is strong, and the water is cold enough to take my breath. I fight back to the surface and towards the old tramp, who must be terrified of water; he hasn't taken a bath in a decade. I'm close behind him, grab his coat, and struggle to keep his head above the surface. He doesn't object. He doesn't move at all. I drag him in front of me, get his head between my two hands, his body floating above my chest. We have to get out of here. I struggle against the stream, kicking my way towards the closest bank, but I can't use my hands, and the soaked, heavy clothes of my poor burden drag us down. I can't give up. I can't let go. I can't hold on. I can't breathe. The river is too wide. The flow is too strong. There's nobody around to help me. If I keep holding the old man, we'll both drown. But what's the use of jumping in to save him, if I let go when the going gets tough? I need to try harder, that's all. Saving the world is easy. Saving another human being from drowning is a lot more difficult. But there is hope. The river makes a curve to the right. We come closer to the left bank. The current pushes us slightly towards the shore. That's all we need. My legs protest, but it's our only chance, so I give everything I have left. We're making progress. The current loses its speed. Finally, I feel the sand under my feet, crawl out of the river, and drag the old man onto the shore. When I can't see him breathing, I lay the tramp down on the small strip of grass and let the water flow from his mouth and lungs. I grab his feet and hold him upside down. After a full minute of artificial breathing, he coughs up more water, opens his eyes, slaps me in the face, and says: "You dirty bastard. Are you trying to kiss me?" He stumbles up, like nothing happened, and walks back towards his home under the bridge.