The American

Chapter Ten

Did Papa leave us a letter too? I am left wondering for days, because Mario won't tell me. He dismisses my every attempt to bring it up, disguising his hesitation as business. I become so defeated that I begin to indulge his silence, passing the hours with my camera, exploring Begur's quaint street corners and bustling sites, sometimes with Sahara, though mostly on my own. It is my silent act of revolution against my brother, who, much like my father, sees his secrecy as a form of protecting my heart. But it eats me alive, little by little. We sailed thousands of miles for closure, but I find myself entrenched in a deeper restlessness, wondering how long this feeling will last, if it will ever end. 

I want to ask Mario if the ambiguity haunts him too. I want to ask him about Papa—about Maria. Did we come here to bury our father, Mario, I want to ask him, or did we come to bury ourselves deeper in confusion? These days, it is starting to feel like the latter, like Papa's burial is an excuse to let him slip away without confronting the questions he left behind.

As my brother disengages himself from any confrontation, I consider that maybe it is time I navigate this city on my own, without him or the mahogany eyed boy who has monopolized far too much of my time and potentially my heart. So I venture away from the shorelines, familiarizing myself with the local metro and its jagged routes, often along the coast of the sea. I walk along the great wall in the heart of Girona, through its steep ascents and tapering walkaways, built centuries ago by an emperor who could not fathom his vision would live to see this day. And I find myself wandering along the vicinity every day for the next few days, taking in the city down below as if I am a bird, immersed in transit.

On the third day, I take my camera with me, capturing the edifices intersecting with the moving passersby, merely figurines from this distance. Maybe I will print this one, I think, adjusting the focus. And maybe an unsuspecting stranger will find it a hundred years from today, dilapidated and adrift, brimming with a nostalgia they wish they could own. And with it, maybe they will surmise my story, of how I arrived here on a whim but found it difficult to leave just as impulsively, how I lived centuries before scientists could discover immortality but related to the timeless mortal frustration over passing time just as easily, how I was terrified of falling in love, of falling into anything more than a fleeting connection, and of how cognizant I was of the empty seats in restaurants missing company.

I wander the village through my viewfinder, maneuvering its narrow pathways, until I am back in the metro, exploring its recesses for eclectic shots. It is then that I see him, standing by the entrance. A backpack slung over his shoulders, his head is tucked in the pages of a book that is indecipherable from afar. Murakami, I read, when close enough. I am so mesmerized by his stillness that I cannot help but pull out my camera again. With a click of the flash, he inevitably turns his head towards mine. His eyes meet my lens, but mine meet his. His glance is like a portal to another dimension, to another's nostalgia. All at once, I swell with unfamiliar memories of warm nights by the sea, squandered with strangers, a madman blindly following an elusive trail of freedom, wooden gondolas and mahogany promises, and on damp nights, a cup or two of Papa's café con leche with just a trickle of vanilla. 

"Hi there, stranger," he says. He looks so happy to see me, like this is the most redeeming part of his day.

"Hi back at you, stranger," I say. I am smiling so wide that I wonder if my lips can widen any more. I wonder if it is the most redeeming part of his day. Because it is mine.

He raises an eyebrow as I walk towards him. "Following me?"

"Of course," I say as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. I stop when we are a little less than a platonic distance apart. "What can I say? I'm addicted."