Happy Everyday

Five floors up at number four, Calle Arenes de Sant Pere, in the top flat, skylight to the stars, a book lay on the hessian rug next to neatly folded wrapping paper, a used cut-out Christmas card of winged angels with trumpets, and a reel of green ribbon. There was no other hint of the festive season, no vestige of preparations. Just one book waiting to pass into the hands of another, to be wrapped in the timely manner, a minimalist extravagance. “Who the recipient? ” I wondered.

I had climbed the dark, tight stairwell, fumbling on the way to avoid entry bells, hoping for the click of some light switch, cursing for not having brought a torch, an unfamiliar bunch of keys in my hand. Knee giving in, I finally reached the top flight of stairs, breathless. I managed to let myself in. The light was on, and the place smelled of roasted coffee, chocolate, and some faint scent of hippy-oil.

The flat was ordered, clean, waiting. A bed was made up in the open-plan lounge. Books were piled, music scores stacked, the heating on. No clothes scattered, no food left uneaten or crumbs on the floor. I checked the fridge and wondered whether to crack open the San Miguel or wait, or even make up a hot chocolate for her. It was not as cold as it should be for December, but she liked her hot drink. It warmed her fingers. I chose none of those things and sank into a hessian-slung chair and hovered, sprung in limbo for a moment, and then massaged my frozen knee.

My legs hurt from the long walk from Santa Maria del Mar. I’d found my way through the narrow streets of La Ribera from the Gothic church, getting lost somewhere in the narrow streets crossing L’Argenteria in the Gothic quarter. It was pure instinct when I crossed Calle de Princessa and finally found my way along narrower streets, to her part of the city.

I had not been alone. Street cleaners were working in the early hours of Christmas Day, dragging lead-heavy plastic hoses down allies too narrow for vehicles. Cigarette ends still lay on the stone slabs, dog shit everywhere. No hosing seemed to remove the waste of imprisoned canines, nor the streams of urine. Plastic supermarket bags, knotted, packed and piled high, waited for the city rubbish cart. Other men working this early morning stood in brightly lit doorways of the ubiquitous Pakistani 24-hour mini-market. I arrived at number four. The internet cafe opposite was open, as was the neighbouring speed bakery. Five floors up, residents from across the street could just about stretch out and hand each other some essential item. A close quarter, a closed quarter, yet open to foreigners in the way all cities are. Each generation building on immigrant skill and resourcefulness.

Relief at finally arriving combined with painful anticipation. I could feel my heart rate slowing after the climb, but something else was getting in the way of normal rhythms. Why on earth we had had to meet in that gothic mess was not a question I had in my powers to ask. Sitting in cold churches, let alone on Christmas Eve was not my choice. Why I agreed to return to this city forty years on had not yet sunk in. Don’t get me wrong. Nothing against the place. Loaded memories best left undisturbed, but I had wanted to see her. I desired to see her. I had not felt such strength of urgency, perhaps ever. Quite the opposite when she first emerged into this world. Not that I would really know. The absent father, forever the absent figure.

Tonight, I had caught a glimpse of her as I squeezed through the throngs waiting to kiss the plaster baby. Behind the thickened pillar, just a foot, her ankle and the base of her cello. I knew her sound, her bow across the gut strings. She broke my heart with her playing. Tonight’s mass had been punctuated with the sublime, but I hadn’t been able to bear it any longer. Better the solitary streets and a quiet reunion.

I must have dozed off. I woke in confusion. She was still not back. I picked up the book lying on the floor and flicked through. It opened it at ‘Happy Everyday,’ then I felt bad about opening an unopened book set to be a present. What time was it? She said she would be back after the service. She’d have to get a taxi because of the cello. God knows how she got that thing up the stairs to this place. I found the same page again. “All days are treated equal, everyday has the right to recognition....” Zephaniah’s idea of Christmas for the lonely. Or perhaps he meant I should be putting more effort into giving homage to such a day.

I began unconsciously to pace the flat. I broke open a beer and thought back to the concert. I still had my coat on. Take it off and wait, go downstairs and look for her? Where to start? I had not switched my mobile back on. Could I dare to? What if there wasn’t a message from her? I fumbled in my pockets once again and dropped the phone.