Train to Barcelona
Train to Barcelona
He had a fierce hangover
when the train slammed to a halt and the Policia Nacional stormed his car. Oliver looked inquiringly at his colleague
across the table. He had been drawing a
diagram to his favorite Barcelona haunts for Oliver. “No worries,” his new friend murmured, abandoning
the paper and sitting up straight against the back of his seat.
He nodded toward the police,
talking very softly in the otherwise silent car. “The policia are always on the train because
the drug flow from Africa is constant.
But also because of what is happening now. Remain still and watch discreetly. If the
situation does not escalate, this can be over soon and we will be on our way
again.” He glanced at his watch; he was
on a business trip.
“It is a gang of artists.”
Oliver could not help but
smile. The gentleman’s English had to
this point been perfect. Was this irony? His friend was not smiling.
“How did they stop the
train?” Ollie asked very quietly.
“They got into the signaling
network.”
Stan then better understood
the stony faces of the Policia next to him.
They were glaring angrily out the windows as they stood at arms. That
was pretty serious business, interfering with the movement of trains. They were playing with the lives of
many. There was a likelihood this could
escalate.
Outside there was a lot of
shouting, some confused, some militant. Bullets were fired. The car was rocking
from shifting weight and then Ollie’s windows were splattered with dark orange
paint.
There were spaces in the
design through which he saw her, the intensity of her expression, her fluid
movements, a choreography of body and creation hardly separated even when she
was simply moving across the platform from one point to the next, leveraging
the rubber of her sneakers to reach and stretch yet further and back again. What was she painting? If they moved in together, would she bring
along a pet panther?
Another policia, with two
guards, briskly entered the car, shouting instructions to the force there. He
moved through to the next car. There were no more shots. The policia in his car did not move. They no longer appeared to even see the
activity out the window they were watching.
The passengers all feigned disinterest as well. Ollie thought how that could never happen in
America. Ten minutes passed before
another battery of bullet fire.
A lithe artist, long, lean
and wearing jeans, a black t-shirt and a black balaclava making him look mildly
sinister, also grabbed the young woman’s
arm, yanking her out of her trance. He nodded toward their compadres, all
wearing sneakers, jeans, t-shirts, and balaclavas, but they were running away
from the scene very fast to beat the Policia to their tunnel and blockade it
before they did. When he jerked her
backward to join them, she still had her finger on the button and sprayed
orange paint on to the purple weedy flowers at the track’s edge. She glanced
down to view what she had done and took it in.
And then she took a final long look at her work on the train, her
midnight eyes meeting Ollie’s when they traveled to his window. He knew her from somewhere. Did she recognize this and smile at him? She
was definitely smiling as she ran past the artwork on the train and as Oliver
passed reluctantly out of her life.
He wondered what she had
painted.
“I could marry her,” thought
Oliver.
As the train picked up
speed, his companion resumed mapping sites not to be missed in Barcelona.
“Where are you going next?”
he asked Oliver.
“I am not sure. I haven’t looked at the routes. Maybe west.”
“Well, I wouldn’t bother
with Madrid,” he said. Then he looked
down and grumbled. “Perhaps I shouldn’t
say that. It is just my opinion. I am a Catalonian and they are different
people in Madrid. Spaniards. We see things differently so what they see as
art in architecture for example, well it is a matter of diffidence. I just can’t honestly say that I would go
there to see anything of cultural significance.
It is a bit if a sepia wasteland.”
He backpedaled a bit,
softening these declarations with apologies that perhaps certain named
buildings were not so bad historically, but by then Ollie had resolved not to
bother with Madrid if he liked Barcelona and didn’t hear what exactly he was
saying. Maybe he’d stay in Barcelona
longer.
On the crowded tram in
Barcelona, Oliver, standing, became a bit irritated that the young men did not
have the manners to offer their seats to the elderly, not even the awareness of
propriety. They were sloppy, with looks
of insolence; their older versions dressed frumpily, letting their bellies
swell and drop and they all had baggy eyes.
The little boys had man heads and faces.
Their eyes were buggy. The little
girls looked like mini versions of the skinny, mean hillbillies Ollie had met
in concrete bars in the South. Scraggly
hair. Smeared mascara. Usually pretty good pool players. Sass, that’s what it was that made them
different from the polite girls of the Midwest and the refined girls of the
Northeast. You almost expected to see a
cigarette hanging out of the corner of their little pouty mouths… and if you
did, well you wouldn’t say nothin’ about it.
Ollie noticed that as his thoughts traveled to a particular locale, they
picked up the vernacular. Maybe he
should study neuroscience and get a grant to research that.
“Ho–laaaa!” shouted the
girl, walking toward her friend, long hair flouncing and three totes almost spilling.
Ollie lost himself in the grillwork, which gave the girls' greetings in the background depth, context. Look at he eyes of the center creature; they were from a wild, dancing cult.
distantly, Ollie heard her friend shout back “Ho-laaaa”.
What scenes must have transpired on that balcony. What scenes could yet transpire?
A third woman exited from the
farmacia and recognizing the others, shouted, “Ho-laaaa!”
“Ho-laaaa!”
Ollie studied the brown balcony. Ole'.