When Roads Meet: Page 1

14 June 2007 at 9:22 pm 1 comment

Chapter One: Reunited 

It all began in a mild winter’s morning. It was the 20th of July, but I did not know that until later. There was nothing special in the day, nor in my routine: wake up, have a shower, grab my laptop and write. Every day seemed to be the same; I knew no difference between Mondays, Saturdays, or any day, month or year, for that matter. I knew my age vaguely, I knew the year vaguely, but as for the day or month, I hardly had any idea, so I did not know when it happened, but it did, and it changed my life completely.         

    It all began with the ringing of a bell a 10:00 am exactly. I went downstairs, by the stairs rather than by the lift; if it works, it’s likely to stop any minute, like everything in the building I lived in. Its walls were bare, not even painted. If you use the stairs without being well acquainted with them, you are likely to break a foot. If you use the lift, no matter how well acquainted you are with it, you are likely to get stuck there, and you won’t be rescued for about three days, if you are lucky. The flats are rather luxurious… considered to those who live outside. They have a bathroom, and one room, with a kitchen, and you have to use it as a bedroom too. When I first bought it, everything was a mess, filthy and disgusting; the simple sight of it could make you vomit. But through by hard work over four years had turned it a bit jollier, with a few pictures and drawings here and there.       

     At the door there was an elderly gentleman, which had once been tall, but had shrunk with age. To me, a young person, this man seemed ancient, but he couldn’t have been more than fifty years old. You could see wrinkles all over his face, yet, his built was large and he wasn’t thin or weak. Neither was he fat, or overweight. He was wearing a black suit with a white shirt, and you could clearly notice he was a very rich and influential man. I was surprised to see that kind of man on the doorstep of my building, in one of the poorer and uglier places in the whole of Buenos Aires.        

     “Who are you looking for?” I asked intrigued, with an idea. Maybe that man was the father or uncle or something like that of one of the people that lived in other flats. Strangely, he looked at a small piece of paper and replied:          

  “Excuse me, I don’t speak any Spanish, I wish to see Maria Gonzalez, she lives in the 1st floor, flat C.” I knew my jaw fell freely. That man was speaking perfect, Oxford English, an English so uncommon and extraordinary to hear that I wanted to laugh, and cry at the same time, for when I heard it, I felt a great want to return to England, greater than I’d ever had for just under 10 years.         

    “I’m Maria Gonzalez,” I said in my fluent, but not-so perfect accent; I had lost it through the years.  


Entry filed under: Writing.

The other face of love. June 14th

1 Comment Add your own

  • 1. lety  |  22 June 2007 at 5:25 am

    hablas espanol =)
    im mexican XD


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