by Jack Tollers
Chapter Nineteen
Emmaus
Naturally, Bella Vista is quite different nowadays, but some things remain, like the old railway and the aggressive dogs. Nevertheless, time has taken its toll and few people care to remember what it was like. I mean the old Bella Vista of course, the one with venerable houses and glorious pasts, very little money, very few cars, lots of bicycles (which you could leave lying around with no fear that someone would pinch them), cracked swimming pools, muddy boots, a faint smell of kerosene stoves in winter, or of coils that kept the mosquitoes at bay in summer, rosaries on the walls, books and more books, children playing at hide and seek in neglected gardens or flinging stones at each other on the streets, making paper boats to float where the ditches were filled with water, or flying home-made kites, smoking in clandestine hide outs (tobacco, pot was unheard of in those days—there were kiosks where you could buy cigarettes by the unit) or playing polo on bikes. And of course there were those festive weekend barbecues, lots of wine and guitar playing and arguments and discussions about everything and anything under the sun, but mainly about politics, or history, or soccer. And the long afternoons playing ‘truco’, that most subtle and rowdy and enjoyable card game.
Gone now, the old Bella Vista with street vendors yelling their wares, the baker driving his incredibly graceful cart with its exquisitely painted designs and his characteristic whistle which you could always hear at the same time every morning, going from house to house delivering bread muttering to an old horse with enormous earmuffs. It was a delightful place, this place where Victoria was born.
On that particular day, Victoria was walking thoughtfully at a very slow pace. That autumn evening everything seemed especially quiet, and Boulevard Francia was magically lit with the rosy last rays of the sun. The sycamore-trees proudly displayed their glorious yellow leaves and a lighted bonfire slowly smoked—and scented—its surroundings as if it were incense for some cosmic ritual.
But Victoria was thinking of the disciples of Emmaus and their words to the Stranger that had approached them and walked by their side: ‘Abide with us: for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent’.
Far spent, indeed.
However, on seeing her that evening one would have thought that Victoria walked with a certain purpose, her jaw showed a determination of sorts and her forehead was high. She was thinking of God’s games of hide-and-seek. The Emmaus companions had been practically compelled to ask the Stranger to abide with them because he had ‘made as though he would have gone further’.
The great pretender, she smiled. And then, sure enough, the day was far spent. It was later than they thought.
Twilight.
She looked up and saw the first stars looking down at her, those comforting bright spots in the middle of the darkening skies.
Abide with us, oh Stranger, the Great Pretender.
It was getting cold, and she shivered in her dark green Loden coat. She had thought of lighting a cigarette but then thought better of it and left her hands well dug into her pockets. She sighed.
She was thinking, of course, about Peter. Her ideas drifted inconsequentially and she thought that maybe he was in Heaven singing with St Peter a glorious litany: ‘Lord, thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love thee’.
Once again, Victoria was talking to herself: anyone nearby could have heard her repeat ‘Thou knowest that I love thee’.
Except that she was thinking of Peter.
