La Cancíon- Simone

Outside, the snowflakes are so big they have their own shadows, cast in the glow of the café’s warmly lit windows. Upon entering, the coziness of the small bar floats amiably through the smoky atmosphere to easily settle on shoulders like the comforting arms of an old friend. There are low hanging casual chandeliers and too many barstools for the handful of regulars who come for an after work unwind. The décor is reminiscent of old bull fighting times; walls scattered with matador posters, framed photos of glory pinned beside swords and hats, and through the haze you can just make out a faded no smoking sign. The dark hardwood bar is polished to shine, but you can feel its age nonetheless; it’s comfortable, beckoning inwards.

Behind the bar stands an elderly man in a button down shirt and red vest, peering through round rimmed glasses at the tumbler he slowly dries. His absence of attention to the customers feels normal, as though everything there was meant to move in this slow motion manner. People chat quietly in corner booths over tall beers and tapas, their work troubles and worries gradually draining out of them like the tapped keg that fills their glasses. Off in one corner, a man sits on a bar stool, cradling an old guitar in his arms. Now the warmth of the room becomes more complex, and the distinctly sweet scent of a man broken down and battered by life mingles itself in.

A slow trickle of notes issues from his guitar, but distractedly, and although he performs for a small audience, his thoughts are clearly elsewhere. The melody is graceful, dancing along your eardrums with the tease of far off dreams. Although he is hunched forward in despair, you can see a neatly slicked back ponytail, falling over a loose fitting tunic shirt. Despite brokenness, he is well kempt and handsome. Eyes closed, he strums gently to the cluster of people around, many of who lend a half-listening ear to the melody. Except for one man, who sits in a chair near a corner booth dressed in casual workday clothes and nurses a beer. He watches the guitarist contently, enrapt in the tune. His eyes don’t leave the player’s hands, and he nods slowly at the tune. It leisurely drifts to an end, and an eerie hush falls over the café.

The guitarist remains hunched over his guitar, lost in thought, but starts upon the utterance of one word.

“Marisol” he quietly says.

The guitarist draws a long breath in contemplation, regarding the old man with tired eyes. A pregnant silence follows, endlessly, with every person in the café now alert but pretending not to listen. He sighs, long winded, and rearranges himself on the stool in relent. Unhurriedly, he draws a scale along the guitar’s neck, and after another pause he begins the song. And delicately, the notes come forth, lightly and without much emotion at first. But as the song continues it builds, the notes taking on a life of their own, to dance through the room and tantalize every listener’s ear. As the song crescendos it becomes charged, the melody invoking a sadness, longing, and love so strong the air beside the stooped guitarist begins to shimmer in a deep red hue.

Now the audience’s eyes grow wide, but not a sound is uttered. With each emotion packed note the shimmering grows stronger, taking on shape and more colors; the black of silky hair, the porcelain white of perfect flesh, the even deeper red of lips. And still the guitar plays onward, emotion pouring forth from the instrument, and yet the guitarist doesn’t even notice the figure taking form beside him, so lost is he in the music. Shimmering brighter and brighter, as the song launches forward towards climax, it begins to take shape, an elbow here, a black high heel there, the curve of a bosom and the sweep of long black hair until, at the very peak of the song and woven from the intricate melody, is a nearly solid woman.

Following the intense crescendo of notes the music mellows downward, and her body becomes yet more solid. As final notes issue from the guitarist’s tired palms, the old man sits back, arms folded in a look of self-satisfaction. The song closes and she is now fully there, tangibly formed from the player’s heart. Her long, smooth legs extend from a red sequined flamenco dress, a scarlet begonia pinned in her hair. Finally taking notice of the crowd’s awestruck silence, the guitarist lifts his head, his weary eyes taking in those around him, including the old man, who is nodding, his eyes smiling, at something to the player’s left. Languidly he turns his eyes in that direction, and upon seeing her form gives no visible reaction beyond the tears that spring to the corners of his eyes. He takes her in, his longing now silently crashing down around him as there she stands, but can she be is she truly?

The moment stretches out as though inscribed in molasses. And bit by bit the space between the player and woman fills with emotion, their loss and love pouring between them; a tear slides down his face, but he does not notice. No one in the room breathes a word, not a sound is made as every person takes in this scene of passion, longing, love so heart-wrenching it could draw tears from a statue.  Their eyes glide across each other’s skin, their souls engaged in a silent dance of words, unspoken but perfectly clear. Finally, with apprehension, the guitarist draws out three syllables, uttering them with unadulterated reverence,

“Marisol”

And with that single word, she is gone, her graceful figure pulled from the air in a single moment.

The guitarist collapses over his guitar. His fleeting moment now gone, his body shakes in remorse and renewed grief. The room is quiet, no one has words for what just occurred, and instead find themselves closely examining their beers or looking any direction that is not towards him. Only the old man moves, shuffling to the only moments ago vacated spot and bending creakily to retrieve something from the floor.

Turning to the guitarist, he delicately holds out a single scarlet begonia.