My Catalonian Love, Julia Anglada

Esteban Aguilar sat on the wooden bench under the palm trees and watched the fountain at the center of the courtyard go about its infinite cycle, breathing in the cool air and caring not a bit for anything in the world. The sky sparkled, the clouds cast sharp shadows on the ground from the morning sun, and a thousand mosquitoes buzzed across the courtyard like an organ in the key of F. Then, into this scene of calm luxury burst Jose Filadelfo Hernandez, a servant boy of twenty-five years, and after drawing in as much breath as he could muster, he cried out "Señor, the protesters are at the door, it is time to leave!"

There was a confusing mix of sadness and fright in the way that Esteban Aguilar slowly stood and looked at Fila. Esteban followed the boy down twisting corridors heaped in cobwebs and through the secret exit and into the endless sea of coffee and corn that lay behind the mansion. They waded through it, and soon the rain began to fall, turning the dry ground to mud in an instant and splitting the languid summer air into many millions of pieces that scattered into the abyss along with any semblance of tranquility, and Esteban's face was pinched with anxiety. They trudged along, and the shouts of the rebels slowly faded away behind the crash of the downpour. Occasionally, an agonized scream or the harsh clap of a gunshot would break through the buzz of the flood, but soon even those were lost, and the world seemed the end just beyond their fingertips behind an infinite wall of water through which they could not even see each other.

In time, the rain subsided, and the mud dried around their shoes. They ate the chicken and rice that Jose Hernandez had had the foresight to bring along with them in the chaotic moments of their escape, and then they took their siesta, and more, and when they awoke the sun was in the last quarter of the sky.

Upon waking, the two of them began trudging toward the forest, where the camp lay that they always used to hide out in when the student protests got out of hand. They wandered along the road which hadn't been tread on by anyone other than the stray dogs since the beginning of time, beyond the abandoned coffee grinder which used to be owned by a cowboy of the wild west, and between the two great oak trees which had been imported from Germany many years prior, and they emerged into a small clearing in the woods, with a fire pit in the center and the golden powder of sunlight sifting through the canopy and into the soft grass that carpeted the ground below their feet. Jose Hernandez lit the fire and set up the tent that was hidden in the brush. They sat down by the fire, chewing on the canned food of the stores hidden in the hole under a boulder, and waited.

"It will blow over. It always does," Jose said in his signature grave tone, earning no response from the Maestro. Not expecting one, he climbed into the tent and went to sleep, leaving Esteban Aguilar alone with his thoughts. He stared out beyond the fire as the night descended around him. Then, in the penumbra of dusk, a figure appeared in the mist in front of Esteban's eyes, and as it stepped out of the fog and into the glow of the campfire, Esteban Aguilar saw the figure for what it really was: a woman. And not just any woman, he instantly recognized her as his Catalonian love Julia Anglada, for whom he had lain awake many a restless night, longing for her in the damp stillness of the Autumn gloom. And now she stood before him, naked, trembling in the cold. He always hoped to God that someday he would return to that apartment in the backwaters of Barcelona where he had spent that infinite night alone with her. So he could relive those precious few moments they had had together before she slipped away in the night and never returned. He could remember it with icy clarity. It was almost three in the morning, and they had just made love. The darkness was as complete as death. He had turned his back on her for just a moment to retrieve his clothes, which had been flung onto the floor near the bookcase. When he looked back, she was gone. The door was locked shut, and the window was closed and the hinges looked as if it had not moved in a thousand years. All that could be heard was the whistling of a wicked wind as it washed in its icy quickness across the spines of the books, stacked unmoving in the bookcase. In a moment, it too disappeared.

Presently, the figure began to walk backward, away from him. Her eyes were cloudy with an emotion that Esteban could not recognize. He did not bother to chase her, but he felt a deep sense of hopelessness at what he was being forced to lose a second time, like dying again. It was not until the image disappeared in a twisting tower of smoke and darkness that Esteban stood, hand outstretched in desperation in the direction the wraith had gone. In the distance, a coyote screamed, barely heard over the howling of the wind. Esteban walked dejectedly back toward the tent, opened the thin fabric flap that kept the mosquitos from eating their toes, and collapsed into bed next to his faithful servant Jose Filadelfo Hernandez.

The next nights passed without event, and the days were only a monotonous repetition of chores and rest. On the fourth day after the revolt, however, Esteban Aguilar awoke to the scent of death. As he left the tent, he could see the leaves slowly dry, turn gray, and flutter to the ground like ash, sifting into the ever-growing layer of gray dust. Winter was upon them, without the joyousness of snow or fire, but with the stagnant dryness and the stench of the end of humanity.

Jose Hernandez awoke just minutes later and emerged from the tent behind his master. "Well," he said, shielding his eyes from the bright glare of the snow, "I always have loved a good snow. Beautiful." Without a word, the Maestro stared at the tree that stood next to the entrance to the clearing. He looked up, through the seemingly endless layers of branches charred by the cold, and he could see a single leaf, hanging on for dear life when all his friends had long since succumbed to limbo.

Jose Hernandez stood behind him, gazing up through the break in the trees toward the overcast sky, hands on his hips.

"Jose," Esteban said, in a distracted and worried tone. Jose sidled up to him, holding a ball of snow in his hands. "She's dead."

"Everyone dies, señor."

"Not the dead."

"Why not?"

No answer, but it wasn't the winning of the argument. It was simply the end of it.

The day passed without event. Jose prepared lunch, then dinner, and finally, they slept.

There she was. Julia Anglada, standing there in front of her. The mountains of Mars surrounded them like monuments to a forgotten civilization. Esteban tried to walk toward her, but he did not move. He could not touch her. They stood there forever, just ten feet away from each other, faces blank, freezing on the red sands of Mars.

Day after day passed, and every night when he slept he would see Julia Anglada standing there in naked glory, unmoving, and he could neither move toward her nor turn away, every night he died again, remembering that perfect midnight, and slowly decomposing under the sharp, salty winds that blew in from the sea and sprinkled the world with the ash of death.