The Woman in Valencia, Annie Perreault [parable of the sower read online .txt] 📗

through space, like now, everything’s on track, I’m experiencing a moment of lightness, a momentum that carries me over the border between within and without, between my head and the street, my radar is attuned to all the bumps in the road, to the puddles and the cracks, the broken glass and the dog shit, I let my mind wander, from my love of running to the aches and pains in my joints and everything in between, my worries have been pushed to the back of my mind, a sense of calm settles in, bit by bit, step by step, I refocus on the scenery, on the trees and the storefronts, on what’s going on around me, then on what’s going on inside me, I turn inwards, to the burning in my lungs, the beating of my heart, the wandering thoughts, and the air that’s travelling in and out, in and out, my breathing becoming increasingly laboured as I pick up the pace, maintain the rhythm, give in to the fatigue,

I bend the surfaces to my will, my feet are used to the snow and the mud, the hardness of the concrete that jars my legs, but I’m wary of the paving stones here, the ancient and uneven slabs, I talk myself through it, never losing focus, the excitement in the city is intoxicating, the sound of drums pounding here, people crowding into the intersection further along, I duck into the shadow of a building, on the shady side of the street, I slip into the sensible horizon…

KILOMETRE 15

Love me, love me, love me, say you do

… I can’t believe my mother would run to such a slow song…

Let me fly away with you

… I’ve been running past it for almost a kilometre now, but I can’t remember the name of this park, the one with the museum of nature, the green lungs of Valencia…

Run, sweetheart, run! You can do it!

… I’m running, Mama, I’m running, see how I’m running, I’m not thinking about love, I’m just running, and there’s no one waiting for me at the finish line…

GETTING ORIENTED IN VALENCIA

In Valencia, Claire Halde doesn’t recognize the train station. It’s like she’s never been to the city before, she can’t get her bearings, she has no idea where she is in relation to the hotel. She has to ask directions from a transit company employee, an irascible man with a bushy moustache who eventually hands her a map of the system.

The instant she steps off the N3 bus with her rolling suitcase, her gaze is drawn to the spot where the woman jumped from. The Valencia Palace Hotel is right there, looming large in front of her. The bushes are fuller, and the plants on the rooftop terrace around the pool have grown taller. She walks toward the building, locking eyes on the fourth floor, then on the sidewalk below, mentally calculating the drop between the two. She feels numb—a combination of exhaustion from the trip, the heat and hunger pangs. It’s almost 2 p.m., and the mercury reads thirty-five degrees, she’s had barely anything to eat, her dress is sticking to her back, and her hair is frizzing at the nape of her neck. She squares her shoulders and walks into the Valencia Palace.

STAYING IN VALENCIA:

THE VALENCIA PALACE HOTEL

At the front desk, she’s given a key card for room 1402, where she sets down her case, draws back the curtains, looks out the window at everything happening below: cars driving through the roundabout, taxis pulling up, doors opening and closing, smoke rising from a distant chimney, and a Leroy Merlin warehouse store, rectangular and white, sitting next to a highway.

Claire ventures out to pick up some ham and manchego, yellow-fleshed plums, mineral water and a hazelnut chocolate bar. After the grocery store, she walks over to Benicalap Park, quiet this early in the afternoon. Next to a dry fountain streaked with pigeon droppings, which stand out in stark contrast to the absinthe-green cast iron and rusty spouts, she eats alone, feeling a little unsettled, glancing over her shoulder repeatedly like someone might be spying on her. She doesn’t linger, she scoffs down her meal, eager to be finished.

OFF THE BEATEN PATH: BENICALAP PARK

Skirting the edge of Benicalap Park, she has no trouble finding the overgrown lot again. The abandoned building is still standing, but it’s in shambles. Probably squatter central. She notices two officers—a man and a woman—inspecting the premises. They’re dressed in uniform with fluorescent stripes on their arms, most likely cops walking the beat. The female officer is waving her hand in front of her nose, as though trying to shoo away a stubborn fly, a lingering stench or the smell of death. Maybe they’ve found a body. Or a dead animal, at the very least. Or maybe someone took a shit right out in the open and now it’s baking in the sun. She should have just gone back to the hotel, grabbed her stuff and headed out to the tourist area, where geraniums bloom prettily in pots on window ledges. Claire has no desire to be asked what she’s doing here, spying on the cops at work. And to think she walked through here with her kids, barely an hour after the suicide.

GETTING AROUND VALENCIA

With her index finger, Claire Halde traces the canary yellow line to a transfer station, where it turns into a red line that runs to the Xàtiva stop. She stuffs the tourist map into the side pocket of her bag, which already contains a tattered map of the Barcelona metro system, a pamphlet for an exhibition on the avant-gardists, and a jumble of fortune cookie sayings collected over the span of months. It was a terrible obsession, hoarding all those scraps of paper—brochures, free itineraries and maps from tourist offices, hotel receipts, metro tickets, train tickets, boarding passes—which