Marigolds rotted in the lobby of the three-hundred-year-old Spanish hacienda. The house appeared sturdy with its oversized wooden doors and wrought iron fixtures, yet suffered from years of neglect. As I stood at the bottom of the staircase, looking upward toward the second floor, a feeling of abandonment swept through the room. “Hello,” I said with the tentativeness of a weary traveler. “Is anybody here?” The house remained silent.
A thick-legged, wide-shouldered, blond-haired lady entered the kitchen. She couldn't have been more than twenty-four-years-old. “Oh, hello, you must be Lewis from the U.S., yes,” she said, with an accent too hard to place. “I'm Greta, your entire welcoming committee. How was your flight?” Her black and white striped sweater, reminiscent of prison attire, looked as if she had worn it for several days without washing. Her overlapping teeth were small and sharp and gave way to brown scabs tucked into the corners of her mouth.
“It was fine, only minor turbulence,” I said.
Greta and I sat at the kitchen table and shared small talk. She spoke of how the afternoon sun usually warms the bedrooms, and how the colony has the potential to change an artist's life. She chewed her fingernails without notice; the poor thing had chewed them down to ragged, little nubs, a nervous tic, I assumed. “I'm so sorry for the unexpected change of weather,” she said, and then declared herself as the overseer of the colony, which consisted of showing newcomers to their bedrooms, scheduling cleaning duties, and stocking the refrigerator with food.
Greta led me upstairs to my bedroom, then hurried off down the hall. That's when I noticed her unusual gait. She tended to drag her left foot behind her right. Her rubber sole squeaked against the tile floor and echoed down the hallway.
My room held two twin-size beds separated by a wobbly night stand and a lamp with a frayed cord; a student-sized desk and chair were pushed against the far back corner of the room. A dank and musty odor wafted about; and when I set my luggage in front of a mirrored dresser, a floor tile broke loose. I collapsed onto the nearest bed and shut my eyes to the only window in the room — a window barred with iron rods.
Over several hours, my dreams twisted into a series of bizarre vignettes, and I soon found myself walking along a dark, desert highway. An albino cat with a red vest stood under an olive tree as a 1940s sedan drove alongside of me. “May I give you a lift,” a throaty voice asked from behind the steering wheel.
“Where are you going,” I said, addressing the shadowed driver.
“I'm going to Spain, to the bullfights. Your outfit is in the backseat. We cannot be late.”
I peered inside the sedan, but the driver was turned toward the opposite window. Beneath his fedora, strands of black hair draped over his shoulders like a finely shredded curtain. “Get in, Francisco,” he said, “It's open.”
“Francisco? I'm not Fran—”
“Stop wasting time. They're expecting you. We cannot be late.”
He turned, still shadowed except for his glinting gold-tooth smile, and moved into the moonlight, exposing his doppelgänger appearance. The white cat sprung onto a large rock some ten feet away and snickered with a human voice.
“Get in, Francisco. It's open,” the cat echoed, then snickered again.
“Don't pay attention to the gato blanco. She's always here, for she has no other place to go.”
“Where is here? Where is—”
“No, it is not where is here. That is not the question. The question is, who am I? You understand? Who am I? That is the question, okay?”
“What's the answer? Tell me what the answer is,” I said, feeling the desert sand shift beneath my feet.
“I'm you, Francisco, and you — right here, standing under the moon — are me. And we — the both of us — are late for the bullfight. Now, get in. You can change in the backseat while I drive. We cannot be late.”
A heavy knocking on my door woke me from the dream, but when I opened my bedroom door, only a cold draft swept down the empty hallway. A female voice shouted, “We're down here. You're late, Lewis.” The words came from deep within the house. “We're down here,” the same voice said again. Social chatter guided me down the hallway, down a spiral staircase, and into the dining room, which wasn't anything more than a room with a long table surrounded by mismatched chairs and colored dinner plates; three strangers sat talking around the table. I ambled into the room, recognized the scent of marijuana in the damp air, and sat down next to the only familiar face.
“This is Lewis from…” Greta said.
“The U.S.,” I said, taking a seat at the table. “Nice to meet everyone.”
The three female strangers introduced themselves and returned to their conversations without much interest in my presence. And like Greta, the three women appeared unkempt in their appearances and drank red wine and spoke with foreign accents. They didn't bother to slice the loaves of bread; instead, they tore handfuls from the brown mounds with their bare hands. They were satin ribbons, moth-bitten and threadbare, contentious but feigning friendliness; they were slack tourniquets hanging off an injured body.
Anne was petite with a kind, yet forgettable face. A brown-haired, brown-eyed, plain-in-all-the-right-places–type of girl who was born in Portugal, the type of girl who was doing her absolute best to run away from an encroaching domestic life filled with children and regrettable decisions. In between the smiling and occasional remark, Anne rimmed the edge of her bowl with a chunk of bread before dipping it into the soup. She sucked the liquid from the dripping crust and smiled across the table at Consuelo, a heavy-set, middle-aged Latina.
Consuelo's round face was one of a paper mâché doll. Her brown face and rosy, bulbous cheeks were framed with black, radiant hair that draped beyond her broad, sloped shoulders. A silver barrette with red rhinestones nestled in her velvet black strands just above each one of her pierced ears. “I love Mickey Mouse,” she said with an accent. “I hope to visit California, especially Hollywood and Disneyland before returning to Guatemala. I have wanted this since I was a little kid, believe it or not. I don't know why I'm telling you this. Maybe because you're from the United States.”
Anne giggled at Consuelo's noticeable embarrassment before returning to her soup.
“What kind of art do you do, Lewis?” the last unfamiliar woman asked in an Australian accent.
“I'm a writer, fiction, mostly, but I also—”
“I work in ceramics. I create art by sinking my hands into the material — earthy — you know? Can't do that with glass,” she said, taking a bite of pasta.
When Reginald made his way to the table, the marijuana scent grew stronger and made complete sense. All the women welcomed him with wine-stained smiles, as if they anticipated his presence. He moved like a flamingo through the room, and his pink sparkling eyeshadow matched his lip gloss and shined brighter than his chipped-tooth smile.
He spoke with an accent, helped himself to the food, and said, “It tastes special, like drinking rainwater from a stranger's hand.”
“Very good pasta,” I said.
“No, no, it's politcal, not the pasta. The pasta is pasta. We eat it all the time. Now, chicken, that's different, because chicken, there is so many ways to cook chicken, but pasta is only pasta, si?”
“What's political then?”
“A resolution.”
“You mean, revolution?”
“Yes, of course, that is what I said. Either way, it was only a feeling I had this morning. Resolution, revolution, who cares? Maybe a writer does. But I — I am a filmmaker. I made a fifteen-minute film with politics at the core, right at the center, down the middle, bull's eye, split it right open, like a cantaloupe, but it is not a fruit or a vegetable; it's a film. Fifteen minutes of pure cinematic incredibleness. So, if you say this is okay, writer, then it is, okay, yes?”
“Yes, my friend. It's okay.”
Wine flowed, chatter rose, more bread was torn, and I faded into the background, disappearing to my room for the rest of the evening.
The night air blew into my room as I shuttered the window and undressed. A solitary lightbulb hung from the vaulted ceiling, inches from a massive wooden beam, appearing to be set in place to prevent the stucco walls from collapsing in on each other. Two metal rods jutted from the lumber, stretched across the room, anchoring to east and west walls. The work looked recent, so I assumed the walls would hold until my residency came to an end. I would even have gone as far as to admit that the wooden beam, at certain glances, resembled gallows in some strange way.
As I crawled into bed, the mattress springs kept coiling and uncoiling with each and every movement of my body. The spongy mattress carried on, and the squeaking sounds offered many false impressions of my favorite proclivity. It soon became obvious the bedrooms were echo chambers. And as the other residents retired to their rooms, a cornucopia of human noises filled the hallway. I found a divot in the mattress and sank into it, like a foot into peaty soil. A high-pitched ringing rose above all other sounds, but was replaced with the beating of my heart and carried me off to sleep.
“Francisco? Porque no me contestas? [Why don't you answer me?] Francisco, despierta. [Wake.] Francisco,” a female voice whispered into my ear. Her breath was cool and moist. Her speech wafted through the air with the gentleness of a butterfly. “Francisco, despierta,” she again said.
An elderly woman with long, silver hair and an elongated face sat on the edge of the neighboring bed. Her withered body was draped in swaths of black fabric, and fine lace covered her neck and hands.
“Who are you,” I said, cowering against the wall. “And how did you get into my room?”
Candlelight glinted in her gentle brown eyes.
“Please, do not be frightened. I know you, as you know me — we have spent many nights in this house before this happened.” She produced a tiny smile. Her gaze drifted about the room before settling on her gloved hands. “Francisco, por favor, escuchame [listen to me].”
“I've never seen you before in my life. I'm not Francisco. My name is—”
“I know, but do not be fearful,” she said, running her right thumb over her left hand to the point of tearing a small hole in the lace, which, at closer inspection, wasn't lace at all, but instead cobwebs. “Marigolds were always kept by your bed. Do you not remember?”
A wispy, silver strand slipped from behind her ear and landed across the bridge of her slender nose.
“I don't— I'm not afraid. I'm… am I dreaming?”
She smiled and straightened the wrinkles in the fabric around her bone-thin thighs.
“Are you asking if this is real?” she said, exhaling a plume of marigold petals, until the entire room blossomed into a giant flower head.
“This is a dream. Who are you?”
“Francisco, there is no—”
“My name is Lewis. Stop calling me Fran—”
“You have lived many lives, and God has brought you here. This was once our home, and—”
With a sweeping gesture of her hand, the room returned to its original appearance.
“You have me confused with someone else. I'm here because…I'm a writer. My name is Lewis Bennefore.”
“Francisco, por favor. Quiet, please. Let me explain, allow me a moment.”
“Tell me this is a bad dream.”
“You were killed,” she said, her eyes growing darker than ever before.
“If I was killed then I would be dead — I'm not dead. I am alive.”
“And I am a harbinger of fate. Barcelona appears tempting, but whatever you do, Francisco, you must not go. The decision will leave you heartbroken, but alive, brother,” she said, stroking away fallen strands of hair from her face.
“I do not have siblings; I am an only child. You should've known this before you claimed to be my sister,” I said, feeling the room's temperature grow colder.
“After your most exciting bullfight, two men in the crowd began arguing over the love of the same woman. The cheering spectators, showing appreciation for you, tossed red roses at your feet. As you bowed, one of the men drew a gun from his waistband. The other took notice and reached for the firearm. While the men fought over the gun, bullets flew without aim. And through falling roses, you were shot in the stomach by two of the stray bullets. And you—”
“I am not anyone but Lewis Bennefore. I've been trying to tell you.”
The old woman's eyes welled with tears and turned her face into the shadows as they fell. After a moment of silence, she wiped her cheeks and continued.
“Examine your stomach. I know you do not believe me, Francisco. How could I ever expect you to, how could I expect you to believe anything I have told you,” she said, weeping into her frail hands. "If you are killed in the same city twice, your soul can no longer travel through time. Please understand, Francisco, this warning is out of love for your safety.”
“What is your name,” I asked, feeling beads of sweat build on my brow.
“Trust my words, hermano,” she said, pointing to my stomach.
Although I didn't believe her, I hesitated to lift my shirt. Below my last rib on the left side of my torso, two bullet hole scars proved her words to be true. The scar tissue appeared lighter and felt rougher than the surrounding area. When I raised my sights, the old woman was gone; I awoke from the dream and turned on the bedside lamp, wondering if my stomach held the bullet hole scars. Nothing was found, except two, circular birthmarks where Francisco's scars would've been.
Minutes before sunrise, while the other residents still remained in their rooms, I wandered down the hallway and into the kitchen for a meal. A draft swept in from somewhere in the house and brushed against my legs. A young woman, appearing somewhat confused, entered the room.
“Are you lost?” I said, looking over her messy appearance and tattered suitcase.
“I'm here for the artist residency. Is this the…" she said, eyeing the colorful kitchen decor. She gripped her suitcase handle tighter and continued, “… international artist residency house? I was scheduled to arrive yesterday, but my ride — am I in the right place?”
“Welcome to your new home, at least, until your residency is over. My name's Lewis. Have a seat,” I said, ignoring the mud she had tracked into the room. She sat down in a squeaky chair as withered marigold petals fell onto the table.
“For a minute there, I thought I had walked into the wrong house," she said, rubbing out a cramp in her hand. I'm Grace Moonbeam. Photographer,” she said, looking at my cup of tea and scratching the side of her neck. A gold, half-broken heart pendant dangled from her necklace and glinted like a chained firefly; it was the type of jewelry high school sweethearts gifted each other, a simple token of something gone, but not forgotten.
“Would you like a cup of tea,” I said, noticing her chipped red nail polish and two silver rings.
When Grace and I had reached that awkward moment in a small-talk conversation, Greta shuffled in wearing near-transparent pajama bottoms and an oversized, red shirt with "Keep Calm and Carry On" printed in white lettering on the front. She cradled a black-and-white spotted kitten in her arms and acted as though strangers having tea at the kitchen table was a common occurrence. “I love the smell after a good gullywasher, don't you,” Greta said, bending over and placing the kitty in front of a saucer of milk. The tiny fur ball meowed before lapping. You are — wait, let me guess, wait — Kelly, right?”
“Grace. There was a mix-up with my transportation, but I'm here now.”
“Indeed, you are. Welcome, Grace,” Greta said with a chuckle, then stayed calm and carried on, as I disappeared toward my bedroom.
The cracks in the windowpane allowed for terrible drafts to enter my room, so I closed the shutters at nightfall. But for some odd reason, the shutters were open this morning. Beyond the blades of grass, on a sheet of rusted tin, the words "Little pigs have big ears" were written in red paint. I dragged a chair to the window and stood taller for a better look.
There were dash marks below five letters in the message that spelled the word “Leave.” Not knowing what to make of the anagram, I sat in the chair and stared at my luggage, wondering if I should take the emphasized word as a warning. But I had just arrived, and the travel expenses had taken most of my money. How could I travel halfway around the world and leave empty-handed?
Ignoring the word, I pecked and pecked, click-clacking at the laptop keys, another word, another sentence from another thought, until knocking distracted me.
“I'm going to the village store. You wouldn't happen to know the way, would you?” Grace said, pinching her gold pendant between her fingertips.
“We could leave breadcrumbs to find our way back.”
“Great. Two lost Americans in Spain: What could be worse?”
“One lost American,” I said.
From behind her hip, she grabbed her camera, which hung from a shoulder strap, and snapped a picture of me without permission. And before I could protest, she snapped another two, fast and precise like a practiced thief.
Through the cobblestone streets, we made our way toward the village. She spoke with great candor, as if we had been friends for years, having no hesitation for private thoughts and past events.
“Shame the devil, and tell the truth. That's what I say, and that's what I did when I told him I'm leaving for Spain,” she said, snapping pictures of pale yellow, countryside houses, a vacant concrete bench, and a shaggy dog that roamed the street. “It's in my blood.”
“What's in your blood? Telling the truth or taking pictures?”
She lowered her camera, pausing a moment to wipe the lens.
“I was talking about leaving my boyfriend. Well, he wasn't really my boyfriend. It wasn't like we sat down and had an agreement over coffee, you know? We just drove around the country in his van, living life on the move, state after state. It was a pretty nice adventure, most of the time.”
She drew in a deep breath, exhaled, and continued.
“I worked on a Christmas tree farm in Oregon and cleaned fish in Maine and a bunch of other gross jobs. The Christmas tree guy, though, yeah, he was kind of weird.”
“How weird can you be selling Christmas trees,” I said, nudging her with my elbow.
She smiled in a way that said she was enjoying herself, then playfully nudged back and continued.
“I mean, he was nice and all; he let us park on the property without charging us rent, but he was always talking about family values and how the future has a way of sneaking up on young people before they know it. He didn't think much of my boyfriend and would call him ‘Little Big Man’ behind his back. I think he knew he was no good before I did.”
“Little Big Man. That's a good one,” I said, nudging her with my shoulder this time.
“Yeah, that's pretty funny. I had some good laughs on that farm. Anyway, I took lots and lots of pictures. That's how I got accepted to the residency, from all the pictures I took on the road. Have you ever been to Wyoming in winter? A beautiful place,” she said, hints of reminiscent sadness glinted in her green eyes. “Herds of buffalo and amazing mountain ranges, but it was a picture of two snowbirds perched on a barbed wire fence that got me accepted.”
Before we knew it, we were walking down a dirt road lined with olive trees. The olive grove against the landscape camouflaged an approaching old man. He was hunched over and wore a gray vest with a black cap. He lumbered toward us with the rigidness of a gnarled oak branch. “Privado. [Private.] Este calle camino es privado. [This road is private.] Privado. Privado,” the old man shouted in the near distance, waving at us to turn around and go back the way we came. Grace rotated her hip, whipping her camera to her hands, and fired off several rapid-fire photographs of the old man. She moved like a gunslinger in one of those spaghetti westerns movies.
“Lo siento,” Grace repeated, releasing her camera and threading her arm into mine, and spun us around. “We better get out of here before he accuses us of stealing olives.”
“I didn't know you spoke Spanish,” I said, feeling her press close enough to smell the scent of her rosewater perfume.
“You pick up a thing or two on the road.”
She remained silent for a moment, retracted her arm, and continued with her thought.
“But, you lose more than that — pieces of yourself sometimes, you know?”
The village was a single street dotted with a bar, food market, and a few cafes at one end. There was a school, church, and a fenced lot with park benches at the other end. It didn't take us long to find our seats at the bar.
Over a pitcher of sangria and tapas, we shared hopes for our Spanish sojourn. And the more we drank, the more we abandoned our inhibitions. Grace confessed that she was looking for a new cause, something other than shacking up with a guy and driving around the country in a van taking pictures; she wanted something real this time, she said, something bigger than herself — something truly meaningful.
At the end of the bar, a small television sat on a shelf; the local news anchor said something controversial, because the bartender and her patrons got into a heated debate over Catalonian separatists and their rights for independence from Spain. The images on the television showed police officers arresting a group of men, and these images did not sit well with the patrons in the bar. Their palpable energy swept through the place with contemptuous stares, as if we had something to do with Catalonia and Spain. We were no longer tolerated out-of-towners, but rather uninvited guests to a private matter, a national situation that Americanos could never understand, so Grace and I finished our drinks, anchored the tip under a glass, and walked out.
Some hours later, after dinner, the house had settled in for the night. It was in these late-night hours that allowed for undisrupted writing. I had written four pages when I heard a subtle scratching on my door, like a brittle branch against an old house on a windy night.
“Are you sleeping?” Grace said, wearing Pokémon slippers and wrapped in a gray wool blanket.
“Is there anything wrong?” I said, opening the door wider.
She brushed past me, gestured to close the door, and slipped into my bed.
“This house is so cold. Aren't you cold,” she said, scooting closer to the wall.
Kissing precluded tumbling about; we were road-traveling acrobats sailing through the air under a Spanish big top, walking emotional tightropes without a net, and taking center stage like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing under moonlight; we were two celestial bodies inching toward the brink of physical collapse, then separating before the first glimpse of sunlight.
Midday in the garden, the sun warmed our faces, as she snapped pictures of a slow-running creek and the surrounding foliage anchored in the adjacent banks. “My parents don't understand,” she said, focusing her camera lens and firing off a couple more shots. “They once believed in something greater than themselves, but then I came along. Don't you think it's weird how a baby can change people? One day, you're young and invincible, then the next, you're pregnant, shacked up, and strolling the grocery store aisles arguing over salad dressing. What's that all about,” Grace said, spinning around on her heels like a whirligig, her camera clicking away, taking rapid-fire shots without aim or concern. “Youth is wasted on the young, they say, and they're right. Take a picture with me, Lewis, our proof that we were once young and invincible, too.”
We again wandered through the village streets, past the old man's olive grove, up to a rocky hillside plateau. It seemed like the perfect place for a romantic picnic; but instead, we used the spot to smoke a joint that Reginald had given Grace on her first night at the house (actually, he traded her a joint for a dollop of mint-flavored toothpaste, which he stored in a small drinking glass).
“So, what's your story, Lewis,” she said, in between a puff and pass.
“If you really want to know, I'll tell you, but it's not finished.”
She drew a big hit, squared her shoulders against the flat rock, allowing the smoke to escape her gaped mouth at will.
“Tell me a story.”
When I had finished, Grace paused a moment, entertained the idea, then busted up laughing. It wasn't a simple, everyday kind of laughter, but rather the kind of laughter that builds deep in one's stomach, one without sound, the kind of anticipated laughter that evokes another person to laugh as well. Some moments later, Grace leaned in and kissed me, slow and long. I held her hand and felt her breathing quicken against my skin. At first, I didn't know what to think of her affection, then I stopped thinking entirely and lived in the moment to the very end.
“Let's steal some olives,” she said, looking toward the grove. “Follow me.”
We soon found ourselves in the grove, making love beneath one of the many olive trees with the sun disappearing in the distance. That was how we spent the remaining afternoon hours on that Spanish hillside, not far from the artist colony.
After dinner, Anne, Greta, and Grace sat in the garden with a bottle of wine. I had been working on my story for just over an hour when Grace appeared. She had learned of the Catalonian separatists who were arrested days earlier and now waited to be sentenced to prison. Although the news was unfortunate, I wondered why she took it so personally. She sat on the neighboring twin bed, glass of wine in her hand, and seemed guilty for not coming to the aid of these rebels.
“They want their liberty, Lewis. You can understand that, can't you? Freedom from their oppressors,” she said, swallowing more vino.
Her eyes were glossy and half-massed; the red wine had dulled her smile and stained the corners of her mouth maroon. She spoke of her parents’ shortcomings, especially failing to join the Peace Corps and Doctors Without Borders, and her resentment was palpable. She confessed to never wanting to be like her parents and secretly snapping photos of the loudmouth drunks at the village bar.
“They're the types of pictures that will win grants. I wonder what I could win if I joined the protestors. Imagine, pictures taken in the middle of civil disobedience, chaos in the streets, fires and riot police and — me with my camera — a photojournalist on assignment in a warzone. I might even be offered a job if I can get the perfect shots. Maybe you can write the article. We could be a team.”
“What are you talking about?” I said, sensing a change in Grace's tone.
She finished her glass, paused a moment, and continued.
Greta said, “There are thousands of people from the surrounding area walking toward Barcelona in protest.”
“For the separatists?”
“Yes, exactly. They're going to take over the freeway and march straight into Barcelona. It's a huge deal. Transportation of goods and services will come to an absolute stop. The world will take notice. Mark my words, Lewis.”
“What's going to happen once they reach the city?”
“I assume history will be made and maybe justice will prevail, but I don't think it will.”
“We should get out of here first thing in the morning. Me and you, just pack up and leave while we still can. What do you think?”
“Oh, Lewis, there's nothing going to happen to us here, not in this sleepy town, but the protestors will be passing through. That's for sure,” she said, kicking off her shoes and stretching out. “Now, come here. I'm cold.”
“I'm serious, Grace, we should catch a train to Madrid, spend a few days there, then push on to Lisbon. We can find a cheap place and spend days at the beach. You can take pictures of the colonial buildings, what do you say?”
She pulled the bedcover up beneath her chin, nestled into the bed, and faced the wall.
“Then what will we do, Lewis, hide from the world, escape reality, like two privileged Americans?”
She ran her hand over the rough plaster wall as if petting the protruding ribs of an emaciated horse. She circled a noticeable dark spot on the wall and picked at the plaster until a chunk broke free. As I leaned forward to untie my shoes, she whispered, “Francisco.” On the wall, beneath the fallen chunk of plaster, “Francisco” was written in fresco. Her finger traced the word. “It's sticky, like paste,” she said, sounding like a curious child, then held up the tip of her finger. In that moment, Grace appeared naïvely beautiful yet equally tragic, a mind full of facts and unsolved mysteries on the verge of self-discovery, spinning toward some momentary truth.
“You need to wash that off,” I said with urgency, staring at the familiar name on the wall.
“Calm down. What's wrong?” she said, moving to touch the wall again.
“No, don't touch it, just go wash your hands, okay?”
She appeared somewhere between confused and offended and left the room without another word. I grabbed the bedside lamp, removed its shade, and brought the lightbulb to the writing on the wall. The area around the name was moist with a slight sheen, and the longer I stared at the wall, the greater the pit in my stomach grew.
Somewhere between three and five in the morning, the temperature in my room dropped to near freezing, or so it seemed. In a far corner, opposite the door and below the window, an opaque, undefined figure undulated, like a swath of mist, until the blurred edges sharpened, defining the old woman in the black gown. This time, I was not asleep, even though I could not trust my eyes.
“Do not be frightened and follow me now,” she said, gesturing toward the door.
She led me down the hallway in the most unnatural way; her feet never touched the tiles as we descended the staircase and moved through the house. I followed her into the garden, through the dewy grass, and stopped by the creek's edge. Moonlight cascaded over her, creating a shimmering silver glow, as she began to undulate again. The scent of marigolds had taken to the air around us.
“Why have you brought me here?” I said, stepping into the nightshade.
“Death waits in Barcelona, Francisco. Leave this house and never return. I cannot tell you anymore, my brother,” the old woman said, turning toward the water.
“Where should I go?” I said, reaching out to touch her.
She was halfway across the creek when she turned and said, “Heed my words. I will return to you when the moon is red.” She vanished from sight with those final words, yet I called out for her to no avail. The black-and-white spotted kitten purred, brushed up against my legs, circled three times, and wandered off into the dark foliage.
The following morning, I awoke in bed, believing I had suffered another strange dream. The name Cassandra repeated in my mind, over and over, until it escaped my lips. I soon noticed a trail of muddy footprints, which began at my bedroom door and stopped at the bedside. When I pulled back the bedcover, I realized it was not a dream; my feet were slathered in mud and pasted to the once-white bedsheet.
After a long shower, I returned to my room and started to pack. It wasn't until I had finished that I realized the house was oddly quiet. I walked out of my room and noticed all the bedroom doors were closed; the place appeared as abandoned as the day of my arrival. I gathered my luggage, closed the bedroom door, and prepared to say my departing goodbyes, but there was not a single person in the decaying house.
When I reached the bus stop, I saw a multitude of steadfast protestors marching through the village. A young man with a scraggly beard and threadbare flannel shirt wore a silver drum over one of his shoulders. He beat out a rhythm with a stick and led the marching protesters with great fervor, chanting lib-er-tad, lib-er-tad, lib-er-tad….
A red and silver bus appeared from around a corner some moments later and stopped in front of me. The doors folded open to a buck-toothed bus driver gesturing to hurry. I stepped onto the bus, plopped down in a window seat, and watched the crowd of protestors grow in size, so many determined faces shouting for liberty.
Among the crowd, I noticed Grace in lockstep, chanting as though she had been personally oppressed. Maybe she was, in her own right. I opened the window as much as it would allow and called out to her. When our eyes finally met, I waved to her through the tiny opening in the window. She smiled, raised her camera, and shot me. We stared at each other for a moment, that seemed to last a lifetime, and then she blew me a goodbye kiss. When the street cleared, the bus grunted away from the curb and left the crowd of marching protesters behind.
The following afternoon, I drank beer in an airport café and waited for my flight to be announced. The television in the café showed protesters congregating in the center of Barcelona, and from the looks of the demonstration, it was a powder keg ready to explode. I prayed for Grace's safety as my flight information blared over the intercom system.
The moment I landed at San Francisco International Airport, I pulled out my phone and searched for Barcelona news. The Spanish headline translated to “Protesters Clash with Police.” The photographs captured police officers, dressed in riot gear, battling with angry protesters. Vehicles burned, storefront windows were shattered; the streets looked like an apocalyptic warzone.
As I scrolled down the page, there was a photo of Grace lying unconscious and bloody-faced in the street; her broken heart pendant glinted gold on her neck. Oxygen purged from my lungs, and my phone fell from my hand. I sat motionless while passengers retrieved their luggage from overhead compartments. The fragrance of marigolds surrounded me again. I closed my eyes and inhaled as if drawing my final breath; and for that moment, I was back in my Spanish room, opening my door to a girl named Grace.
