She took the escalators down to the baggage claim area where the exit to the bus stops was. There were lots of commotion at the time, no doubt passengers from at least one flight had just arrived and were busy waiting for their baggage. Busy waiting, she thought. Waiting is such a passive behavior and yet she sensed the kind of tension in the area that only busy people could emanate. She looked at a few faces. These were Americans, mostly. Her people. They had just arrived in the Spanish capital and many seemed to be on their first trip, their facial expressions a mixture of eagerness, fear, and fatigue. But the way their were dressed, that American lack of sense of fashion or refusal to build one, betrayed their nationalities. And besides, as she got closer, she could hear their prideful American accent and unabashed loudness. She was used to them by now. She had traveled around the country for two months and while it wasn't one of the most popular destinations for middle-aged Americans such were most the passengers here, she had encountered many just by hearing them from behind her.
She wasn't being critical, as she often had been. On the contrary, she felt suddenly a longing to go back. She was going to return soon, but now, hearing their accents, some of which sounded very Southern, as was her background, made her feel homesick for the first time. She didn't miss her mother or brother or the rest of her family, per se, but just the desire to be back in that familiar setting gripped her suddenly.
Then she found herself standing in front of the exit, and for a split second she saw her reflection on the glass door right before it opened automatically. She looked weary. She had just seen her ex-fiancé leave. She had just spent the last four days with him, oh four days so full of drama, and the weight of that drama, of that encounter, had taken an obvious toll on her face. She hadn't slept much those four nights, and none the night before this dreary day. When the glass doors opened and her reflection disappeared into the space outside, the wind brought not only the chaotic honking sounds of the Barajas airport traffic but also the relentless heat.
An elderly lady walks past her, excusing herself, with a little girl in tow, who was staring at her while being dragged out to the heat and noise. She looked at the girl's angelic face and felt an upsurge of tenderness and self-pity. She suddenly felt an acute hatred towards her ex, and while she understood that it wasn't fair to blame all her troubles on him and their failed relationship, she couldn't help it. She felt her face reddening, hot like a cauldron smoldering with a desire to run back, dashing through the security check, to gate 23, past all the whining children, even whinier adults and fat Americans and sulky Germans and annoying Brits, past all those unnamed faces, and grab his neck with her hands and choke him to death, squeeze out the life of the demons that were now taunting her.
How dared he just drop in like this. She had ignored him the whole two months, ignore his emails, the pleads and nuances within. He just wanted to be free after the end of their engagement. She came here to get over the rage and disappointment and the abysmal pain from that end, from the cause of the end, the cause being even more emotionally unbearable than the end itself, which was more of a relief. He had betrayed her, had such a long affair, but it wasn't even about the affair. While the betrayal was painful, she was in some ways relieved because it would, as it did, precipitate the end of the relationship. She knew he wasn't the right person for her, even before the engagement had been made, but somehow she couldn't get out of it.
The two months have been useful. She had spent most of it in the south, in the rolling red and golden hills of Andalusia, where her love for food was satisfied with every encounter with a tapas bar, where her Spanish improved dramatically, where her desire to live the moment was fulfilled at the expense of slowly shedding off this painful episode. She was alone most of the time, and when she was chatting with the locals, she felt even more at peace. There were the usual young men who tried to smooth talk her; there were the elderly men and women who wanted to be sincerely helpful; there were others who just wanted her to listen. She has always been a great listener.
"You're a great listener, you know."
How dared he said that to her this time! How dared he try to connect to her again!
After all this. "Después de todo," in her mind it came out naturally.
"Permiso," said a voice. She was woken up. She was still standing in front of the door that had been open to her for a while now. She turned and saw an elderly couple pushing their cart load of luggage followed by young Northern European backpackers. She realized a whole herd of passengers were coming out this door. They all had big smiles on them, while she was still enraged.
How about a dash through security, to Gate 23? How dare he give her a hug and a kiss on the cheeks as if he had done nothing wrong.
But the neck she really wanted to wring was her own. She was powerless these four days. She didn't get angry. She was sullen in the beginning, not really taken aback, not really surprised, just sullen that he had flown what he considered a romantic and heroic flight from Moscow, where he was staying for the summer, to Madrid.
"Moscow to Madrid, almost like James Bond movie, don't you think?"
How dared he smiled while uttering such insolent words! He had his right arm around her, but she didn't shake it off. Was it because of some hidden comfort in that familiar embrace, in that familiar scent, a familiarity that did not get obliterated by the warm sun, the cheap tapas, the cold beers, the delectable wines, no?
In front of the security check, he hugged her. Kissed her on her right cheek. His stubbly chin left that familiar feeling on her smooth face. And then, he said something else. She was so enraged that she found her body walking to the nearest bench and sitting itself down.
"I am so sorry. I hope you forgive me."
They didn't talk about the break of the engagement those four days he had robbed from her. She talked about it with herself, in the dark hours in bed, next to him, who was sound asleep. She was boiling in her own rage in bed, cursing herself for being there, cursing herself for being so weak that she couldn't just kick this dead body off her bed, off her life, throw it out the window after cutting it up into pieces using the scimitar of her rage. It was the last week of her two-month adventure here, two months to seek closure, and he showed up.
Last night she felt she was about to explode, but what she ended up doing was quietly peel of the thin sheet from her body, and carefully lifting her body so she could go tot he tiny bathroom, where she turned on the light only after closing the door behind her. Then once she found a spot on the floor, she turned off the light again, laid herself on the cold ceramic tiles and cried without uttering a sound.
That little girl who was being dragged out by the elderly woman before, who was staring at her.
"She looked like me."
And then she started crying. Not on the cold ceramic tiles of a bathroom of the sixth floor of a elevator-less cheap hotel off Gran Via. But in Terminal 3, inside the baggage claim, of Barajas International Airport. She imagined that little girl fifteen, twenty years later, having to cry herself to peace on the ceramic tiles of a foreign land because she was too weak to handle her own rage. That little girl wouldn't deserve it. She was a little blond girl, with chubby face, blue eyes, just like her, except that now her hair was mostly brown, with one or two strands of white.
No one really paid attention to her. The passengers were busy waiting. The dark-skin janitors were milling around, some talking to the security people, who seemed just as bored. Every now and then that same glass door in front of which she was standing for some time would open to let people in or out. Its movement followed by or preceded with the sound of the outside. She remembered one other time she was on the ceramic floor. She was in utter pain. Her insides were twisted and she wasn't sure if it was food or something else. She was on her knees, her face resting on her hand that were touching the cold ceramic floor of her studio apartment. And next to her was her boyfriend, who would be her fiance, then her ex-fiance, then the demon that had descended from Moscow. He was caressing her back, comforting her after having called for an ambulance. His words were soothing. Though she never thanked him for that moment, or staying with her through the ordeal that proved to be harmless but unknown, she didn't forget it. She didn't forget it just twelve hours ago when she was lying on cold ceramic tiles again, which made her rage and pain even deeper.
"Pull yourself together."
That was what her dad had told her so many times as that facsimile of the little girl who had been dragged out by the elderly woman. She always had to pull herself together, not really for her own sake, but for everyone else's. Sometimes she was grateful that her father never treated her like a girlie girl, but rather imposed the same demands a father would with an only son. But still, life was so much harder for her, being a woman who had to take care of everyone, striving to be the best in the world for everyone else's sake, sustaining strength for lifting the weak around her. Now, she had to do the same pulling-herself-together act.
"I am doing this for myself."
She dried her eyes. She noticed how wet the crumpled tissue paper was. It was weird to see her own tears saturating this white piece of dry paper. Without further thoughts she shoved it in her jean-pockets and then lifted her body up. The clock in front of her said 5:34PM. His flight has just pulled out of the gate.
"Maybe it would crash and kill him."
She released a huge sigh after this final curse. She looked behind her, to see if she had left anything on the bench. Why was she sitting there? It was silly. All this was too silly. "Qué tontería!" she muttered. She walked out with two American passengers, who were talking about something really insipid about what they read in their guide books. But she didn't feel critical; she realized that people do infinitely more stupid things than making insipid comments about a city they had never seen but were taking the opportunity to explore.
She realized she would be back in a few days to this airport. Instead of spending the final week in Madrid, she only had three days left. She tried not to think about it. Having oriented herself a little with the signs around her, she headed towards the metro, resuming her exploration for liberation.
