Category: Parent

The first shot of vodka

Francesc arrived first. He asked for a beer and rubbed his hands through the jeans while examining the place again. Just in case. He recognised her by her way of dressing, when she turned around to close the door quietly. Some minutes later, when she went to the toilet, he realised about that fact: to recognise someone else not by the face or the body but the clothes. She recognised him quickly too. Actually, there was not a lot of people and he was the only one alone in that bar.

Katerina was the one to make the first step, to contact Francesc, weeks ago, thanks to a mutual friend during an academic visit to Berlin. It might seem random, but it is not. People go to certain places depending on their tastes, their intentions and their possibilities and none of this is part of the characteristics of chance. I mean, both Katerina and Francesc’s friends went to the same place because they were looking for someone like them.

Francesc started to make contacts with people who were interested in acquiring a very specific kind of weapons. The first time he witnessed a conversation on the subject he did not think about the possibility, he was just there, listening without any interest. But when he arrived home, when he sat together with his brother in front of the TV to tell him about that evening, he realised that perhaps it was an interesting business to take care of. It would not be so difficult to find a contact abroad, ask some questions and evaluate the potential earnings and risks.

And that is why Katerina was there, to give information, data, basically numbers, related to ammunition, calibre, boxes and calculation made by herself during the long and boring journey via London. Those calculations, those ideas had an objective: to encourage Francesc to enter the game with her. She said to Francesc, simple and clear, that they should be partners, before the waiter placed over the bar the first shot of vodka.

Manuel de Pedrolo

‘Touched by Fire’

1959

She saw Sogues look up and partially open her lips as if she were about to ask something. But the girl merely looked at him for a moment before digging into the beans again with her fork. Anto took the bottle and poured wine into all four glasses.

“Legumes make you thirsty.”

The woman took a swallow and, with moistened lips, said:

“In the village, some years we ate them all winter long.”

Her husband replied:

“It’s not winter now.”

“I know.”

Ange swallowed the forkful he had just put in his mouth, and then inquired:

“Did you have your own land?”

It was her he was asking, but her husband answered before she could:

“A little bit…”

Sogues, putting down her glass, specified:

“Three little fields and a house.”

“Well, I don’t know if you could call it a house…”

“It was better than this, anyway.”

She saw that the young man was looking at her again, but he quickly turned his eyes toward Anto.

“Did you sell it, when you left there?”

“No. I’ve never believed in selling anything.”

Ange reached for the wine, but didn’t raise his glass from the table.

“Did you lease it to someone, or what?

“No, I don’t want to get into problems.”

Sogues looked at the young man, who was now drawing the glass to his mouth. Isa looked at both of them, and when Ange had taken a drink, she asked him:

“What about you? Do you have anything?”

The youth responded with a look of surprise:

“Me?”

“Aren’t you a farmer’s son yourself?”

“My father was a day laborer. He never owned anything but the clothes he had on.”

He picked up the fork and, with the help of the piece of bread, cut off a piece of sausage, adding:

“And I’m glad of it.”

Isa noticed that her husband was wrinkling his brow, and she observed how one of the beans slid down the edge of his fork and fell back onto the plate.

“What? I’ve never heard anyone say that before.”

The young man chewed the piece of sausage he had between his teeth, and now his expression was serious too, almost severe.

“Maybe not. But you see, to me possessing things seems immoral.”

There was a sudden, heavy silence until the husband scratched his neck with a puzzled look and then expressed his amazement aloud:

“Immoral? What do you mean?”

“I mean if I owned something I’d feel guilty.”

Anto set his fork back on the oilcloth with a disconcerted expression.

“I don’t get it.”

Sogues looked up from her plate and almost smiled.

“I do.”

Her father moved his head, but didn’t look at her.

“You be quiet.”

It’s me and the animals. Their growls, their pawns, their scars… The fear in their eyes as the solid white round moon above announces the end of us.

It’s me and the darkness now, like lovers blindly looking at each other, feeling one another like lost animals. The silence is so immense I could even hear my heartbeats. If only I wanted to.

Alone for the very first time, I acknowledge the simple and undeniable truths of silence, and open my ears to many other mysterious sounds I never knew existed. It is only there and then, in the depths of my own absolute calm, that I am finally able to hear her; she has the most beautiful voice in the entire world.

I imagine her golden hair gleaming at the night, her soft skin healing my fingertips, her burning eyes. But she will never be the same in every thought; in my dreams she’s always changing. Every time I open my eyes again my memory of her will be gone in a second. Every time I wake up from a dream the animals are still there, they feed from my memories, they crave on the images I keep of her.

It’s her and the elements, her terrible way of telling the moon she is never coming back. The rain falling over the burning fields, as if to break fire into little pieces. The fury in every flame coming flickering back and forth, threatening to burn both of us from the inside.

It’s us and the other beasts, growling forever, our eyes and their eyes fixed in some random point in the distance. The fear in our eyes as we tell the moon that it’s the end of us.

It is said that the Sami have more than 300 words for snow and ice. Heavy snow, new snow, sleet… But as a half Sami, he does not know them, not yet. He gazes out from the peak where he stands against the white mountain tops and green pine forests. He takes a deep breath and feels the cold air in his lungs. The snow falls softly and lands his shoulders. With a smile he looks up towards the sky and thanks Mother Earth for being on his side.

It has taken him a long time to get here, to finally be free. He never would have guessed the he would end up here, never. His mother’s roots were never something that interested him, even less when his family pointed out how much he looked like a real Sami. He did not want to be different, he wanted to be like everyone else: ‘normal’.

His aunt and uncle had welcomed him with open arms the day he knocked on their door. They had regular jobs like most other Sami, but always needed help with their reindeer’s.

The first night he arrived, one of the women in the village had joiked in front of a campfire. It had been a magical moment he would never forget; the moment when he finally found home.