Requiem
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 13: The Next Big Thing
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Shane Strange
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Shane Strange's biography and other articles by this writer
On March 11, 2004, Fresneda walked down the street outside El Pozo station in Madrid. It was a beautiful spring day and Fresneda was feeling good. He had come to Madrid on holidays to stay with his sister and her husband and children, who lived near the station. He was glad to see them. He hadn't seen them in over fifteen years, since his sister had come back to Spain from Australia.
On his way to the station, he stopped at a small cafe for a strong, black coffee. He was aware of the workers going by around him, down to the station on their way to work. He watched them tramp by, all briefcases and stockings and ties, but he did not want them to be there; he did not want to recognise the mundane, not here in the city of his birth.
He wondered what he would do today. Yesterday, on the Calle de Bailen in Old Madrid, he had seen the King drive past on his way to the Palacio Real. Today, he thought he would stop in the Bourbon quarter and see the Prado. He wondered if he should come to live here.
His grandfather was a socialist who fought Franco during the Spanish Civil War. He had been imprisoned when Fresneda's father was a baby, and tortured and killed. Fresneda's grandmother died when she was 50. When this happened, Fresneda's father brought his family to Australia, where he thought they would be safe. Fresneda was just five years old.
When he was seven, Fresneda's mother died of cancer. Franco had died the year before.
Fresneda finished his coffee and walked along with the stream of workers down into the El Pozo metro station. He waited for five minutes for the metro that would take him to Atocha station. On his way there he noticed the people around him in the crowded train and again he was struck by the familiarity of the scene. "You cannot escape it," he thought.
It happened when he walked out on to the platform at Atocha. It was 7.30 in the morning. Fresneda died instantly with 200 others as a bomb went off in the train carriage behind him, disintegrating him into nothingness.
STRANGE WAS AWOKEN BY A CALL FROM Fresneda's sister early on the morning of March 12. Strange hadn't been dreaming anything that he could remember but later, on reflection, he imagined that he'd dreamt about the ocean.
Fresneda had left some things with Strange; his sister was anxious to make sure Strange knew of the events of March 11. Strange's only memory of this call was waking suddenly from a deep slumber, and falling completely into a sense of shock. "Yes," Strange assured Fresneda's sister, he would help in any way he could.
When he hung up the phone, Strange wondered if he were going mad.
FRESNEDA HAD COME TO STAY WITH STRANGE for a couple of weeks before he left for Madrid. There was an overlap between the end of his lease and the start of his long holiday to visit his sister, and he had asked Strange if he'd mind putting him up until he left. Fresneda was an old friend of Strange; they knew each other in high school and, through the various turns in their lives, had kept in contact. Strange liked Fresneda and was always glad to see him – and, as Strange lived by himself, he thought he'd be glad of the company for a while.
The first days of Fresneda's stay were good. Fresneda was a great cook and he made fine meals: paella, tortilla Espanola and sopa Castellana – a garlic soup that his mother had made. They would eat the food at the table together and, after dinner, sit on the balcony with a cold beer. Here, Fresneda talked of his hopes for his trip to Spain – the joy of seeing his sister again, of meeting his nephews, of walking in the city of his birth and speaking its language. Fresneda taught Strange how to swear in Spanish. "Me cago en Dios!" they would shout into the night. The nature of their talk and the situation itself led them both to pretend an intimacy between them that each knew, in reality, would not outlast the fortnight.
And, in fact, within a few days Strange began to tire of Fresneda's company, and increasingly to regard it as an intrusion on his privacy. Strange would come home from work to find Fresneda lying on the couch, reading a book or watching television, and would feel annoyed and put upon. His small unit suddenly seemed too small and his personal space almost non-existent. But a good dinner would always follow, though the conversation on the balcony would wind down ever more quickly, or be drawn over similar, well-trodden ground.
On the Saturday before Fresneda's plane was scheduled to leave, Strange and Fresneda caught a bus to the ocean. They had a beer and lunch at the Verandah Bar and walked the few kilometres out on to the cliffs overlooking the bay. The day was clear and the view from the top of the cliffs stretched away far into the distance, out across the murky green sea.
After standing there for some time, Fresneda suddenly confessed to Strange that he was afraid of dying. Even though he was only in his mid-thirties, he was approaching the age at which his mother had died. This age, he confessed, was a number that had haunted him for years.
Strange could only look at his friend and tell him that it was only natural that these things should bother him, but that in all likelihood he would live a long time and that he should not worry. He was going to Spain soon, to see his sister, and everything would be fine. Fresneda seemed to take heart from this and he thanked Strange for understanding. But, as they walked back, he turned and said: "If something does happen to me, you must come back to that place overlooking the ocean and remember me."
The next day Strange took Fresneda to the airport and wished him luck. Fresneda thanked him and promised to send a postcard.
Strange thought, as he saw Fresneda walk down to the departure lounge, that his friend looked happy, like the world had finally converged with his dreams.
Strange walked away from the airport feeling a sense of sadness that he suspected was the mask of his overwhelming relief.