The Barcelona Moonlight Express, Part III

by Deirdre Abrahamsson

Stella stepped away to the bathroom. There were two girls in line in front of her, speaking French. She smiled at them, and they ignored her. Fuck that. She was having a good time, and stuck-up French girls weren't going to ruin her evening.

A guy walked up to stand behind her, and the two French girls started speaking English to him.

"Great party," the one in blue gushed nasally. "I love what you've done with the flat."

The one in fuschia was staring at him intently. She seemed to be on another planet or at least on something.

"It is so nice that you ladies could come this evening," he said, in perfect English. "If there is anything, anything at all that I could get for you, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Oh, you are so nice," came the nasal reply.

Someone came out of the bathroom.

"We'll take you up on that," the blue one purred as she slipped into the bathroom. The one in fuschia scurried in behind her.

The French girls gone, the newcomer turned to Stella. "So I haven't met you yet," he said. "I'm Jordan."

"Oh, you're the one who built that chandelier!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, among other things." Jordan smiled. "And you are?"

"Stella. I'm from Boston. And you?"

"Michigan," he answered. "Do you live here?"

"Oh, no, just passing through. Visiting my friend Elizabeth."

"That's cool. Elizabeth is great. We hang out a lot."

"What about you?" Stella asked. "How long have you been here?"

"Almost two years. I can't believe it has been that long," he mused. "I came for a summer, and when it was time to go home, I couldn't leave."

Stella nodded. "It really is a beautiful city."

The two French girls came tripping out of the bathroom.

"Well, my turn," said Stella. She smiled at Jordan and went inside.

---

Stella found Elizabeth, Javy, and Antonio in the kitchen where they were concocting mixed drinks. Antonio had his shirt off. It was hot in the room.

"What will you have?" Javy asked.

"Whatever you're offering," Stella replied.

She took a pink-colored drink and sipped it. It was strong, and the vodka burned her throat.

"Elizabeth." It was Jordan. "Why haven't your introduced me to your friend earlier? She is lovely."

"I was hiding her from you. Stay away!" Elizabeth laughed.

Stella looked at Jordan, and she blushed.

---

The kitchen grew steadily hotter, noisier, and smokier. Trying to talk with Jordan, Stella found herself shouting.

"Let's go outside on the balcony," he suggested. "It's too crazy in here."

The dancers in the living room spilled over into the kitchen and there were sweaty, glistening bodies everywhere.

"Stella," Antonio reached toward her. "You must dance with me. I teach you dancing ... Spanish, Italian . . .love." He danced suggestively closer, resting his hands on her hips.

"Maybe later," she said, laughing.

"She's with me," Jordan said, pulling her away.

They were the only ones on the balcony. It was a warm night, and the music blared through the open windows.

"Still loud," Jordan said, "but better."

"A little bit," Stella agreed.

"So where were we? You were telling me about your trip."

"Yes," Stella answered. "It's been a long month. But I'm not ready to go home."

"Stay here," Jordan suggested. "You would like it here."

"Yeah, but I don't think I could give up what I have in the US. I love my job, the students I work with. I have been there four years already, and I'm really getting the hang of it. Have you ever taught?"

"Not really." He shrugged. "Camp counselor for two summers. Swim instructor. I like kids, but I never really thought about teaching. I like to do my own thing, my art and performing. There's an English-speaking drama society here that I am involved in. I enjoy that."

"And do you work at all?" she wondered.

"I have some savings and some inheritance I got from my grandfather. Enough so that I don't have to really work for awhile. I got lucky that way," he grinned, "so I'm taking full advantage of it."

"Must be nice!"

"I can't complain. But truthfully, it makes me a little lazy at times," he admitted. "I could accomplish more, if I had to. What I do is for me, not to sell or be successful, you know."

They were leaning against the railing, looking out over the tree-lined street. As Jordan talked, Stella looked at the windows in the apartment buildings across the street. Most of them were unlit, with shades drawn, staring blindly back at her. There was another party on the third floor in the building directly across from theirs, another living room filled with dancing bodies. TV screens glowed from several windows. A woman was at a window farther down, staring out onto the street. A few balconies down from them there was another couple leaning against the railing, kissing.

She felt disconnected from it all, like a voyeur, peering into the lives of others. But at the same time, she had a curious feeling that she was also being watched.

"What are you thinking about Stella?"

"Huh?" She hadn't realized that Jordan had stopped talking.

"You seem so far away. Aren't you having a good time?"

"No. I mean, yes." She sighed. "Oh, I don't know."

He put an arm across her shoulders and stroked her hair.

"It can't be as bad as all that," he said gently. "You are here in Barcelona. You have a great friend, Elizabeth. You are excellent company for me. It might seem bad right now. Things could be better. But they could be a whole lot worse."

"I know. I know you are right," Stella agreed. "It just. . .doesn't make any sense. How could this happen? How could he just leave me like that?" She started to cry, and Jordan pulled her to his chest and held her.

"It's ok. You don't have to understand. It doesn't have to make sense right now. In time it will. Don't cry."

He patted her back while all the numbness of the past two days and the tension of the past month eased from her body. She was in another man's arms, strange arms. Not the familiar arms of Marc, where she spent the last three years.

We began just like this, she thought. Meeting through Elizabeth at a party. I didn't cry when I first met him, but we were drawn together. Getting to know each other, going on a few dates, telling each other all about ourselves. It was something special, magical. To fall in love. And here I am, going through that again. Adrift, unattached, alone. Open to attachment, to have someone like Jordan hitch on.

She felt him stroking her hair, kissing the top of her head, his hands strong against the nape of her neck. She came out of her reverie, her tears subsided and a tingling sensation swept through her. She felt the nearness of his body, his soft breath, the smell of his musky cologne.

"I know I shouldn't take advantage of a woman as vulnerable as you are right now, but I can't help it," he murmured.

This wasn't what she expected, she wasn't ready to meet someone new so soon, let alone to kiss him.

"Listen, I have to go," she said. "This is too much. I can't stop thinking ... I have to go."

"Can I walk you home at least?" he asked.

"No, I'll see you again. Maybe?" She had to get out of there. She needed to be alone.

---

Stella couldn't find Elizabeth in the crowded living room, so she just left. She went down in the elevator alone, and headed in the direction of Plaça Reial. She was heavy with loss and buoyed by possibility at the same time. She felt ok. It had been only two days since she left Marc in Paris, but it already felt like an eternity. Could she really let go?

As she walked down La Rambla, she decided to walk the narrow streets of Barri Gòtic. The maze-like corridors were eerily empty, after the throngs of people that poured through there earlier in the day. She just ambled, not sure where she was going, lost in thought.

She heard the strumming of a guitar, and she turned a corner that led to a square before the Cathedral. The building loomed ominously in front of her, and on a small set of steps to the right of the main entrance there was a group of people. She headed in that direction.

There was a bearded man playing a guitar, and an older man playing a harmonica. A man and woman were sitting with them, holding hands. A group of passersby were listening a short distance away.

As she neared the musicians, she heard the guitarist singing. It was Dylan's "Don't Think Twice It's Alright." The man's eyes were closed, and his voice was strong. It was the end of the song.

I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind,
You could have done better but I don' mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don't think twice, it's all right.

The song ended and the small crowd clapped and then walked down the narrow road, alongside the cathedral.

Stella thought about the song. Marc didn't treat her badly. And she didn't treat him badly. It was just, I don't know, she thought. Not right. But wasn't that better than nothing? Or did they waste their time?

She thought about the men she had met that evening. The available Antonio. The artistic, flirtatious, and sensitive Jordan. The outrageous Fred. How do we end up with one person, and not another? When Marc and she started dating, she really felt like he was the one for her, and that that was it. Forever. And now he wasn't anymore. So she was wrong. How would she know when the right one came along again? If ever?

The older man with the harmonica started to sing, a cappella at first. His scratchy yet soulful voice struck her. The guitarist began to strum softly, finding the rhythm of the song.

I am drifting
like a ship out on the sea.
Ain't got nobody
in this world
to worry me.

Stella was startled by his words. She was overcome by a feeling of being incredibly alone. No one in the world knows exactly where I am at this moment. She was there, in front of the cathedral, where Carrer de Santa Llucia met Carrer del Bisbe.

The couple holding hands on the steps moved closer to one another. People passed back and forth in front of the cathedral. A small white bus with blue and silver lettering--The Barcelona Moonlight Express--passed by, its windows dotted with faces looking out at the cathedral, at her, at the musicians. Again, she was on display, and she laughed. Here in this corner, this little side street, the bus sailed by like a surreal cloud.

All of her past came rushing to a standstill bringing her here, to this moment. She was alone. Yet connected. To the music and the musicians. To the empty faces bobbing like balloons, peering out the windows of the Barcelona Moonlight Express. To the people she glimpsed through windows and their lives. To the people who glanced at her in return.

The bluesman finished singing. She put a 100 peseta note in the hat lying on the bottom step and said thank you. Then she headed in the direction of home.

The Author

Deirdre Abrahamsson is a writer living in Sweden. This story was inspired by a magical evening with friends when she lived in Barcelona. She wanted to capture the moment, and the story of Stella built up around it. If you look closely you will find her Hitchcock-style cameo in the background. A part of her is still there, caught up in the magic and the music and the feeling of contentment, on a perfect summer night in Barcelona.