Walking With Ghosts

She was already at the entrance when he came down the stairs from his pension.

"Hello!" she called out.

"Morning," They exchanged hugs. "How's it going?"

"Good, good," she replied.

He laughed, shaking his head and pointed to the bright pink scooter, "Yours?"

"Yup. Got it 3 months ago. Helps me get around the city you know. Pretty, isn't she?" she asked, patting the seat of the scooter lovingly.

"Suits you somehow. But not so my colour," he said.

She grinned. "So, slept well last night?"

"More or less. Didn't sleep a lot though."

"Did the tikiteo?"

"I had to," he replied.

"Told you didn't I? The pintxo here is the best. Here, put this on," she said, handing him a purple helmet.

"What? We are going to ride this?"

"What else? Come on!" she put on her own helmet.

"You gotta be kidding," he said as he put on his own helmet.

"Hop on!" she urged.

He got on behind her. She grabbed his hands and placed them on her waist. "Hang on tight."

The engine roared to life and he held on as the little pink scooter suddenly threw itself forward. The few people already up from the previous night's exertions looked amused as she navigated the narrow streets of San Sebastian's Old Quarter expertly, albeit noisily. Soon, they came to Paseo Nuevo. A few people were gathered there, watching the waves crash against the sea wall. She slowed down, as though she was contemplating making a stop to join them, but picked up speed again. They rode along the coast, past the white beaches that have made San Sebastian popular as a summer vacation getaway.

They stopped somewhere before the El Peine del Viento, the sculpture of one of San Sebastian's most famous sons Eduardo Chillida.

She removed her helmet, and her hair flew from the winds blowing from the Atlantic. He removed his helmet too, and came up to her side. She was looking at the waves crashing relentlessly against the sculpture.

She turned to him, brushing her hair away from her eyes, "I don't understand what he was doing. Was he trying to make a stand? What was he trying to prove? What is the point of putting that in the sea?"

He didn't reply her.

"Ridiculous," she said and stared out at the bay, this time eastwards, at the Island of Santa Clara, lost in her thoughts.

She reached into her sling bag, taking out a flower, which she stared at for a second, before flinging it out into the water, where it was instantly devoured by the incoming wave, only to reappear moments later, further out on the sea.

She sniffed, and he put an arm around her.

"I am ok, I am ok," she said softly, patting his arm, before removing it.

"He's still here, you know. I can feel it. Everywhere. His laughter, his nagging. Everything. It is like walking with ghosts. The other day, I went up Igeldo and I was looking out at San Sebastian, and I heard him say, 'Look, the bay is the oyster and the pearl is San Sebastian.' He has been telling me that since I was a child. When I was 5, and now when I am 20. Doesn't he get tired of it?"

"San Sebastian is your grandfather's life. It meant everything to him, the city, the sea…"

"That's why he gave his life to the sea. I know. I know," she nodded furiously and wiped away a tear. "That's why I respect his decision to try and swim across to the island with all the other people. But I have never forgiven him for it."

"It's been a year. Why don't you let it go?"

"He's my only family. I have never seen my father. I never saw my mother again after she brought me here. And… I am sorry. You are right, you are right. I shouldn't keep going on and on. You didn't come all the way back to San Sebastian to listen to me rant."

"I came to see you, see how you are doing. And also your grandfather. He is a good man… Try and forgive him…and yourself. I know you blame yourself for not being able to stop him," he said, putting his hand on her shoulder.

"I will…try," she finally said.

"Good," he sucked in a huge breath of air. "It's beautiful here. I never cease to be amazed by this view, this place."

"You know, sometimes I feel like I need to leave this place."

"Where do you want to go?"

"I don't know. I have been here almost all my life, all that I can remember. It's everything I know. Where can I go? Where do the people who come and go every summer come from? Where do you come from?"

"Somewhere far away. Without a sea. That's why we come here."

"Without a sea, huh? That sounds good. I don't know, I feel like I can't look at the sea sometimes; I can't listen to it; I can't live for it anymore. My grandfather died for it."

"What is worth dying for, is worth living for, don't you think?"

She looked at him.

"Your grandfather said that to me last year." He smiled at her. "We talked late into the night. You know, when I first came here, I was so burnt out. So tired of everything. Nothing was just going right. I came here on a whim. I just wanted to get away. I found myself again, and was at peace with myself. But I also realized that my place isn't here, but where I came from. This place, the sea, the people, your grandfather, you, gave me the strength to go back and live on. "

"How have you been this past year?"

"Sometimes good, sometimes bad. Like the waves, you know. Up and down. But I know it is all part of life. Like the seasons. Summer comes and goes. What about you? Summer's ending. Did you fall in love this summer?"

"No. At least not yet."

"Have you ever seen the Pacific?" she suddenly asked.

He nodded.

"I have never seen the Pacific."

"It's beautiful too. It's different from the Atlantic. You should go and see it one day."

"I think I will. See the Pacific. Maybe fall in love too. But I think I will come back… I know I will come back."

And they both stared silently as the waves crashing against Chillida's sculpture in the sea, again and again.

Even the stormiest of seas can be soothing .Look at it, listen to it, become one with it, and you can find peace within yourself.

Her grandfather seemed to be saying in his soft, gentle voice, amidst the noisy waves.

Margriet

She put on the pearl earrings her mother had given her on her 16^th birthday, earrings normally reserved for special occasions. She examined herself in the mirror. Her blonde hair was neatly bundled up in a bun. She had on a grey pullover with a hood, jeans and sneakers. Your average girl next door. A student perhaps. Gone was the promiscuous girl in a skimpy outfit gyrating at one of the numerous glass windows in Amsterdam's infamous De Wallen red light district, soliciting passers-by.

"So, ready for Amsterdam?" an older girl asked sleepily.

She nodded.

"Enjoy yourself in the city."

She had been here for two weeks but had not seen the city, having spent most of the time working or resting. She loves sex, and thought it was an easy way to make money, so she had found her way to Amsterdam through a friend who had done it before. At first, it seemed fun and exciting, but it didn't turn out to be as easy as she had thought. For one, most people just wanted to look; the red light district had become a tourist attraction. And those who did wanted more weren't exactly nice, so much so that she sometimes had to close her eyes and simply hope it would end sooner rather than later.

So, the day before she was to leave for home, she thought she would go see the city, so that at least she could say she had been here.

Her first stop was the Central Station. She had seen pictures of it when she was younger and loved the façade. She arrived to find it under reconstruction, denying her an unobstructed view of the façade. She entered, and wandered through the cavernous main hall, perhaps the only person amongst the crowd not in any hurry. She went to a platform, and a train from Brussels was just easing into the station.

Her father used to work at the Gara de Nord station in Bucharest, so she had spent a lot of time as a kid at the train station, watching the trains… and people parting and reuniting.

She decided she shouldn't be spending her one and only day in Amsterdam at the train station, much as she would have liked, so she left and found herself at the canals.

Concentric levels of hell. Some writer had described the canals of Amsterdam so. One of those old books her mother had. She tried hard to remember. Dante? No, Inferno was the name of the first part of his Divine Comedy.

"Alles kits?"

"Huh?" she turned around, and sitting on the steps leading up to one of the many picturesque townhouses that line the canal was a man with a newspaper spread out to one side, and a plate with a croissant and a cup of coffee presumably on the other side.

"Everything ok?" he repeated, this time in English.

"Yes…" she replied hesitantly.

"I thought you were Dutch. For some reason. That's why I spoke to you in Dutch."

She smiled awkwardly, not having understood everything he had said.

"First time in Amsterdam?"

She nodded.

"How long have you been here?"

"Two weeks."

"Where are you from?"

"Romania."

"Romania…Bucharest?"

She smiled, her eyes lighting up. "Yes."

"Are you here on holiday, or exchange?"

"Exchange?"

"You know, students go to another place for half a year or a year…"

"Oh… yes."

"Why don't you come up? It is easier to talk. Come," he beckoned.

She made her way up the stairs.

"Sit. Coffee? Croissant? Fresh from the bakery. Still warm."

And she realized she was hungry; she hadn't eaten all morning.

"Stay here," he said, and disappeared into the house. She instinctively peeked, as he disappeared into the house. She couldn't see much of the interior of the house, though she could tell he must be well-to-do.

He appeared again, with a pot of coffee, a cup, and a basket of freshly-baked croissants.

"Here you go, help yourself. Go on," he encouraged.

She hesitated, but finally took up his offer.

He smiled, leaning back and stretching his legs in front of him. "It's a good way to spend a Saturday morning isn't it? Just lazing around with breakfast and newspapers. With the sun in your face. It makes you feel alive."

She was sipping her coffee and hurriedly nodded.

"Sorry, I talk too much… So, what's your name?"

She hesitated. "Anna," she finally said.

"Anna. That's a nice name. Short and sweet. I am Marco," he offered his hand, which she shook. "So, Anna, what are you studying?"

"Study?"

"You say you are here on exchange…"

"Art."

"Art?"

"Art," she replied with more emphasis, as though she was trying to convince herself rather than him.

"Well, then I guess you are at the right place. Do you like the works of the Dutch Masters?"

"Yes…"

"Any favourites?"

"Erm…"

"Hard to choose, isn't it?"

She nodded.

"Have you been to any of the museums?"

She shook her head.

"Would you be interested in going later? Maybe the Rijksmuseum?"

She hesitated.

"I will take it as a 'yes'."

She smiled.

"Shall we go after this?"

"Yes."

After they were done, she helped him with the clearing up, and hence stepped into his house.

"You like art?" she asked, looking around, impressed by the paintings on display.

"Yeah. I used to draw," he said, taking the last plate from her and putting it into the dishwasher. "Ok, done. Let's go now."

"Used to?" she asked as they stepped out of the house.

"I have a condition that makes it hard for me to hold, for example, a pencil properly. So I can't draw anymore. Let's walk, shall we?"

They followed the Prinsengracht and he pointed out the Anne Frank House and the Westerkerk to her, where Rembrandt was buried, he added. They finally came to the Rijksmuseum.

"Wow," she exclaimed softly, awed by the architecture of the museum.

"It gets even better inside," he promised, smiling.

He followed her quietly when they were inside, leaving her to choose how she wanted to spend her time in the museum. She stared keenly at the paintings, and seemed to lose herself in them. She did not once speak to him. It was like she was so engrossed that she had forgotten his presence. But he did not mind. Something about this girl had struck him. He was content to observe her metamorphosis from the hesitant girl at breakfast to the girl now who seemed to have rediscovered the spark that had gone missing in her life.

She spent the most time at the works of Vermeer: The Milkmaid, The Love Letter, Woman in blue reading a letter.

They finally adjourned to the museum café. As he returned with coffee, he found her sitting there, staring into space. She turned, facing him when he placed a cup in front of her. And he realized she had been crying.

She tried to smile, but her eyes were all red and watery.

"Everything all right?" he asked gently.

She nodded, but started sobbing uncontrollably. He pulled her towards him as the other people threw curious or concerned looks at them.

After a good ten minutes or so, she pushed herself away from him and murmured, "I am sorry."

She wiped her tears off her face with the back of her hand, and stood up. "Shall we go?"

They were now sitting on the Museumsplein.

"I am sorry. I shouldn't have brought you to the museum."

She shook her head. "It's not your fault. I just remembered some stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Who I was 4, 5 years ago. What I am now." She bit her lip.

"What is wrong with the Anna now?"

She shook her head, smiling sadly. "I can't tell you."

"Tell me. Maybe I can help."

She shook her head again.

"You have helped me."

"Huh?"

"I lied. I don't have any condition. I just couldn't accept the criticisms of my works, so I stopped. I gave up. But after meeting you today, after seeing how affected you are by the works in the museum, I am reminded of my love for painting. So, I want to try again."

She stared at him.

"Thank you. How do you say that in Romanian?"

"Multumesc."

"Multumesc."

"Multumesc," she corrected his pronunciation.

"Multumesc."

"Good," she smiled.

"You like Vermeer, don't you?"

"Who is Vermeer?"

"A great artist. You were looking a lot at his works just now."

"I don't know. I just looked at what I liked."

"Most of them were from Vermeer. Do you know his most famous work? The girl with the pearl earring. It is in a museum in Den Haag. We can go there and look at it. I am sure you will like it."

"I leave tomorrow."

"What?"

"I go back Bucharest tomorrow."

"I don't understand."

A little ball rolled over to where they were sitting. She picked it up. A little girl ran up to her but hesitated. Her smiling parents came up and said something to their daughter in Dutch.

She smiled and handed the ball over to the little girl, who took it. She patted her on the head, and the little girl smiled shyly and ran to her mother, hiding behind her leg. Her mother laughed and said something in Dutch.

The girl, from behind her mother, peeked out and said, "Dank U."

She smiled, and bade the family goodbye.

"Shall we go?" she asked.

He nodded. They walked in silence up to the canal.

"How do I go to the train station?"

"Straight here, all the way. I will take you there. Why do you want to go there?"

"It is ok. I want to go alone. And you need to go back. I have taken up enough of your time."

"It is ok. I like being with you."

She shook her head.

"You go back to Bucharest tomorrow?"

She nodded.

"I thought you would be here for a semester?"

"I lied. I have to go. Thank you, for the breakfast, and for showing me around. Goodbye," she held out a hand.

"You say you leave tomorrow. So we still have time today. Stay. Don't go. I like you."

"You can't like me," she put down her hand.

"Why not?"

"You don't know me at all. You only met me this morning."

"So what, Anna?"

"I am not Anna. It is not my real name."

"What?"

"You see? You don't know me at all."

He looked at her, at a loss for words.

"I am sorry I lied. You are very nice. That is why I lied. I go now. Bye bye."

She turned and started to walk away in the direction he had pointed out earlier.

"Wait."

She didn't turn back.

"What's your real name?"

She stopped.

"What's your real name?"

She turned. "Margareta."

"Margriet."

"Margareta."

"I know. In Dutch, it would be Margriet. Pearl."

She nodded, smiling.

"Multumesc," he said.

She smiled, and turned.

"Hey! I don't know your problem. Because you don't want to tell me. But you remembered the old Margareta today. I am sure you can find her again. When you get back to Bucharest, find her."

She started making her way back.

 

 

Mr Broken-Hearted Man

In the heart of Berlin. A rooftop. Alexanderplatz in the distance, the TV tower a beacon in the night. Guiding broken hearts home...

"A cigarette?" a girl appeared beside him, taking him by surprise and interrupting his thoughts.

"I don't smoke."

"Do you mind if I smoke?"

"No."

She lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply, then exhaled, turning away from him. "Nice view isn't it? Berlin looks fabulous at night."

"It does."

"So what are you doing in Berlin?"

"Would you believe me if I tell you I came here to salvage a relationship?"

She laughed. "No way. You think what, like in the movies?"

She noticed his silence. "I am sorry if that was rude. It's just that…you see, I don't believe in love. I don't believe in relationships and stuff… so, any luck?"

He shrugged.

She placed an arm around his shoulder. "Look, I don't know her, so I don't know how fantastic she might be and all, but look, look at this city. There are thousands of girls out there. So why waste your time over one girl?"

He frowned.

She removed her arm and laughed, shaking her head. She flicked her cigarette butt over the railing and it disappeared into the night. "I am going in. Cheers, Mr Broken-Hearted Man," she clinked her glass against his, and disappeared down the stairs, back to the bar.

With the girl gone, peace and quiet was restored. But he couldn't continue from where he had left off.

Saturday, Hackescher Markt. Weekly market. Homely grandmothers peddling their ware. Gruffy grandfathers carefully slicing cuts of meat for their long-time customers. Little kids begging their parents to buy them the colourful sweets. Just like any Saturday. But strangely, it feels a little different now.

And then, he saw her. Sitting by the side of the courtyard, sipping from a cup of freshly-squeezed orange juice. The girl from the night before. He wasn't 100% sure. She was taking in the hustle and bustle around her. Calmly. Their eyes met. She didn't show any sign of recognition and proceeded to fixate her keen eyes on the little girl holding her ice cream with both hands, breaking into a small smile. And just like that, he became part of the background again.

 

Crossing the Spree. Friedrichstrasse. You loved the overhead railway tracks. Character, you would declare. And you loved the little shops tucked beneath. Like secrets of the city, you described.

Our secrets.

Gendarmenmarkt. The cathedrals gleaming in the sun. People sipping beer or wine at the cafes. A couple cuddling on a bench, laughing in delight, oblivious to the world staring at them. We were like that once, weren't we? It could have been us.

Döner.

And he remembered how she used to drag him all over Berlin, searching for the best Döner, the best currywurst, the best this, the best that. She would be looking intently at whatever was on the agenda that day, almost studying it, before taking a careful bite. She would then chew slowly, closing her eyes, savouring it, before proclaiming her judgement.

And he found himself back at the bar again.

He got himself a drink, and climbed the stairs to the rooftop.

Someone was there. She turned around upon hearing his footsteps. It was the girl again. "Oh, it's you, Mr Broken-Hearted Man."

She smiled. And he knew it was the same smile he saw hours earlier.

He joined her at the railing.

"So, how are you feeling today, Mr Broken-Hearted Man?" she asked, staring out at Alexanderplatz.

"I saw you at Hackescher Markt today."

"Oh? It's one of my favourite places. There's a weekly market on Saturdays."

"Yeah I know."

"You know Berlin well, don't you?"

"I used to come here a lot. Like every two weeks."

"I see."

"What about you? Do you live here? Why are you always at this bar?"

"I live around the corner. I don't have such a great view of Berlin from my apartment."

"So… you don't come from Berlin right?"

"Ich bin ein Berliner," she said and laughed. "But yeah, you are right, I don't come from Berlin."

"So why did you come to Berlin?"

"I fell in love with this place, and thought I would stay here forever," she answered simply, and they drifted off into their respective thoughts.

"So, what are you going to do now, Mr Broken-Hearted Man?"

"What do you mean, 'going to do now', and could you please stop calling me that?"

"I mean, when are you going back to wherever you came from, and what are you going to do between now and then, Mr Broken-Hearted Man?"

"I am leaving tomorrow morning. I guess I have no reason to stick around. It's like there is no place for me. Even the city itself seems to have changed. It's like I don't know it anymore…"

She smiled and shook her head. "Hopeless."

"What?"

"Well, Mr Broken-Hearted Man, you looked so sad the first time I saw you. And you still do." She put an arm around his neck, pulling his face close to hers. She grinned. "Smile."

She released him, and patted him gently on the cheek, winking. "Remember that. Good night, Mr Broken-Hearted Man. Leave Berlin and start afresh."

She walked towards the stairs, and before going down the steps, she turned and pointed a finger at him. "Smile. Remember that."

And he was alone again.

It took him a while to react, but when he ran down to the lift, it had already reached the ground floor. He ran down the stairs.

Stepping out into the cool Berliner night, he knew she was gone.

Berlin Hauptbahnhof. A monument to our dead love. They demolished the old Lehrter Bahnhof, and built a new, sterile juggernaut in its place. As my train pulled away, I saw, amongst the people waving from the platform, firstly Lisa, whose face blurred as the train picked up speed, and then I saw her.

Smile, she seemed to be saying.

Berlin Hauptbahnhof slowly disappeared from sight.

I haven't been back to Berlin since. But I am sure she still believes in love.