His head hangs low as he sits next to me on the bench. So far, Nicolas has not said a single thing to me since we first sat. But it's all right. I suppose he will tell me whatever is bothering him when the time is right.
"Do you ever feel that you're responsible for someone's death?" he asks out of the blue.
"No," I say. "Not really. I've never really lost anyone to where I can blame myself for their death. I mean, I've felt guilty for not being a more present friend to them while they were still alive."
"Today is March 11th, Corrie."
"Well, yeah. I know that."
He buries his hands in his face and his body racks with quiet sobs. He takes my hand in his and grasps it firmly.
"Nicolas, what is wrong with March 11th?"
He does not turn to look up.
"What is your September 11th, March 11th is that to Spain."
"Oh," I say. "I did not know about this."
"Not many in the United States do. It shook the whole of Spain. We still are afraid to use our trains because of it. It has happened more in other countries, too, but nothing was as bad as March 11th."
"Wait, trains?" I ask. "Nicolas, please tell me what happened."
"When I was around 21, I knew this girl. Her name was Sofia. She loved to read." He chuckles. "Reading was her favorite thing to do. Always had her nose stuck in a book. She wanted more than anything to be an opera singer. I met her when I was in the orchestra pit at a performance for our music program. She was the star soprano of one the operas, a French one. You know the composer, Ignace Leblanc. He actually lived in New Orleans, briefly."
"I know who he was," I say. "And what happened?"
"We became friends and then eventually, I fell in love with her. At first, she did not know what to do with me following her around like a lost puppy, but we were happy together."
"As long as the both of you were happy."
"She was always a little strange. She loved to sing. Always singing everywhere. Sometimes, where it was not appropriate, and she would get looks from strangers." He laughed. "But they were mostly appreciated because Sofia was the most talented soprano in our school. She would have been singing La Scala, Garnier. Garnier was where she wanted to sing the most. I proposed to her, Corrie, at the Garnier. It was her birthday present from me."
"And what happened after that?"
"She said yes. And I wish to God she didn't."
"What? Why not? What happened?" I asked, stroking the top of his shoulder, then resting my head on it. He does not shrink away. "You can tell me."
His eyes close. "The week of our wedding. We got into some stupid fight over plans, como se dice (how do you say), the very structure of the plans of the wedding?"
"The logistics?"
"Yes. That. Logistics. We fought over the flowers. The cake. The groomsmen. The bridesmaids. Their regalos. Sorry, gifts. She did not speak to me for days because of our argument. She almost broke it off with me, but she called me on March 11th, and told me that she was to pick up the dress from the woman who custom made it for her. Some famous designer in Madrid who loved opera as much as she did."
"And what happened then, Nicolas?"
He sucks in a deep breath, and his face contorts as he looks away for a moment. "She took the train. To get to the dressmaker, she had to make the early morning train. She wanted to get there early so she could make it back to Valladolid in time. Valladolid is where the wedding was to be."
I want to ask him what Sofia looked like, but I can't even begin to find the right words to say without sounding nosy.
"The first bombs happened in the morning, around 7:30. The second ones shortly after. She was on the fourth train, Corrie. She did not make it. They said that she," he says, stopping and putting his hand over his mouth. "Was crushed in the weight of the rubble. She died a slow, painful, horrible death and it was all my fault because we fought. If we did not fight, she would be here right now. She wouldn't have left so early."
No, no, no. Suddenly, everything makes sense. The dream I had with the train. The explosions. The rubble. The searing pain all around me. She told me in my dream that I knew her as Christine, but I did not understand what she meant.
"God," I say, my eyes filling up with fresh tears. I pull him into an embrace as he cries into my chest. "I'm so sorry, Nicolas. I'm so sorry."
"It's my fault she is gone."
"No," I say, kissing the top of his head. "It is not your fault. What happened to Sofia. It isn't your fault. You are not the cause of her death."
"Then why do I feel this deep pain inside me all the time? It never goes away. Every day, I live it over and over again. I see her everywhere."
"Maybe she is trying to communicate something to you in her own way," I say.
He shakes his head. "No she is not. No. She is gone now."
"Nicolas," I say. "It's all right to feel this way. But I do feel that sometimes the ones we love do communicate with us in ways we don't quite understand. From what it sounds like," I say, my voice breaking, "Sofia was a beautiful soul."
I bury my face in my hands and cry, thinking of the beautiful person who was on the train with me in my dream. The woman with blonde hair and soulful blue eyes.
He pulls me into his embrace and hugs me tightly. "You are so compassionate. You did not know Sofia, yet you cry for her too. Corrie, thank you. Thank you for being here for me and understanding."
He places his hand over my cheek, then strokes it with one finger.
"I am so glad we met," he says. "I am so glad that it was you who helped me find my flute, Corrie. I knew there was something about you. Something from the first moment that I saw you. You looked so, so much like that woman and I could not help but look at you. I saw you when you were watching us perform. I nearly messed up my solo."
"Nicolas, you're not making much sense."
He sits up. "You're here, sitting next to me."
"Nicolas," I say, tapping him on his shoulder. He seems to be slipping away. "Hey, you're not making much sense. Are you all right?"
He smiles, his eyes brimming as if finding something precious. "My Marie."
***
My heart thunders as I ruminate on what I just heard coming from Nicolas's lips. My Marie? Why is he saying this?
"Nicolas," I tap him again. "Nicolas wake up. Please wake up."
His eyes are still closed. He slumps into me and I hold him in my arms as his head rests against my upper thighs. A moment passes and his eyes flutter open. He seems confused as to why he is laying down on me.
"Corrie?" he asks. "What happened?"
"You fell asleep for a moment, Nicolas. At least I think you did."
He grimaces and sits up, adjusting himself. "I do not know what happened. I must have blacked out for a moment."
"You called me Marie."
He sets his head to the side. "But your name isn't Marie. It's Corrine. Why would I call you Marie?"
"I don't know. Maybe you're just tired. It's been a long week and today, well, it's March 11th, and that must be hard for you. I know it would be for me. Why didn't you tell me this earlier like when we were eating beignets?"
"Because I did not want to make you stop smiling," he says. "I love the way you smile."
I nod. "Yes. Honestly, I've been feeling the pull to you since you touched my hand that way in the library."
Maybe even before. When he first hugged me after finding his flute on Mardi Gras.
He grins. "Is that why your watch was showing such a high heart rate?"
I nod slowly, resting my head on top of his shoulder. "Is this okay, Nicolas? If I stay here like this?"
"Yes, it's all right."
I never want this moment to end.