Landing

by Laia Fàbregas

  “Did you like it?” she asked.

  “Yes.”There were some questions I wanted to ask her.

  “Did you try to understand it or did you just feel it?” she asked, smiling.

  “I didn’t understand it at all. But I felt good.”

  “Then that means it works.”

  Her

  Arjen Salgado was over forty, with tired eyes and a deep voice. We sat down on a bench in Vondelpark. He chose the bench. A few meters away, on another bench, there was a woman with a little boy. The boy must have been seven or eight and was pretending to make a toy plane fly, making different sounds. The woman glanced at us once in a while and shushed the boy when the plane noises became too loud.

  Two days earlier I had received an email from Arjen Salgado. It didn’t say anything about the article in the paper. He wanted to meet me to discuss something private, he said. It had been a month since I’d given up my search. I was certain his name wasn’t on the list, but I still checked it to make sure Arjen Salgado’s name didn’t appear among the hundred.

  When he arrived, I had already been waiting for him a short while. He sat down next to me on the bench, said good morning, and added,“My father died on a flight from Barcelona to Amsterdam.”

  I froze. I wanted to say My father died on the road from Someren to Someren-Eind. But I didn’t. I realized that, suddenly, I had become the object of someone else’s search.

  He wants the box, I thought. But maybe not.

  “I was there,” I said to Arjen Salgado.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  For the first time he looked at me.

  “I don’t know what I want to know,” he said, downcast.

  I thought about the things I wanted to know about my parents. But it wasn’t the same. I wanted to know why the accident happened, what made our car leave the highway and crash into a tree. I wanted to know if my father should have been driving more carefully, or if there was another car driving recklessly that forced our car off the road, or if an animal had crossed the highway, or if my parents had been arguing, or if the car was faulty, or if it had been sabotaged.

  “He never liked to fly,” he mumbled.

  “Yes, he told me.”

  A group of skaters passed in front of us, they were fast. I looked at their legs, their feet, and the wheels beneath them.

  The woman on the other bench held the boy tightly in her arms. Arjen Salgado glanced at his wife and they smiled at each other.

  “Why did you give the police someone else’s business card?”

  “I don’t know.” I tried to think of a reason.“Sometimes I do things without thinking.”

  There was a man sitting next to me who was looking at me because he knew I was the last person who had seen his father alive. And all I could say was that I didn’t know why I did things sometimes. I wanted to be honest, despite the fact the things I did might seem strange indeed.

  “I took a small box with me from the plane.”

  “Is that why you gave someone else’s name?”

  “No, the two things don’t have anything to do with each other.” But as I said this, I realized they might be related. He looked at me in surprise, almost angry.

  “Don’t try to tell me there’s no connection between the fact that you stole something from a plane and then you gave someone else’s name to the cabin crew.”

  “I didn’t steal anything from Transavia.” His surprise was turning into disbelief. “I didn’t steal anything, I just took something with me.” He was silent. “I talked to your father for a while on the flight. He told me about his life in Holland, his wife,Willemien, and their return to Spain.”

  When I said his mother’s name, Arjen Salgado seemed suddenly to believe me.

  “Your father was carrying a small wooden box. He told me that the time had come to show his sons some things.

  That he didn’t want to wait any longer and run the risk of not being able to explain them.”

  “Why did you take it if you knew it was meant for me?”

  “Because I had spoken with him.”

  “I want to see it.”

  “And I want to give it to you.”

  “Here comes the ‘but’. . .”

  “There’s no ‘but.’ I’m going to give it to you.”

  “Have you opened it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you live nearby?”

  “A quarter of an hour by bike.”

  “I want you to give me the box now.”

  I knew he was going to say that. Still, I didn’t like the idea of giving up the box.

  “We brought our car. I’m parked over on Amstelveenseweg. We can drive to your place and you can give me the box.”

  “I’ll take my bike.”

  “We can put your bike on the car. I have a bike rack.”

  “Sorry, I’d rather ride my bicycle. You take the car. We’ll meet at my place.”

  I gave him my address and told him how to get there. He said he didn’t need my directions because he had a GPS. I

  walked to my bicycle and he went over to his wife and son.

  On the way home I passed Karen Abrams’s street. For a second I wanted to tell her what was happening, to get her to come to my house, too. I stopped in front of the bar, propped my bicycle against the window, and hurried in.

  Karen Abrams was behind the bar. The place was quiet and I decided there was no reason she couldn’t come.

  I was still a few meters away from the bar when I said, “Can you get away from here for an hour or so?”

  “No,” she said, without hesitating.

  “It’s important, you have to come with me. I found the dead guy’s son. He’s coming over to my place right now to get the box. I’m in a hurry. You have to come with me right now.”

  I had forgotten to breathe. I felt like a different person somehow. As if I wasn’t the one in a hurry. Karen Abrams looked at me as if I were a different person.

  She opened her mouth to speak but I wasn’t listening. I had turned my attention to the street, to make sure my bicycle was still propped against the window. I turned. The bike wasn’t there.

  “Shit! . . . Shit! Shit! Shit!” I rushed to the door and looked up and down the street, but my bike was gone. It had happened so quickly. I clenched my teeth, standing silently in the middle of the street. Karen Abrams came over.

  “What’s wrong, cutie?”

  “Shit. Karen. It’s not my day. My bike was just stolen. I didn’t lock it because I thought I’d only be in the bar for a second, but look, now I know that you can steal a bike in thirty seconds.”

  She put her hand on my shoulder.

  “What can I do?”

  “Not much, now. I have to run home, I have to get there before Arjen Salgado and his wife; if I don’t, they’ll think that I’ve tricked them. I just wanted you to be there, too.”

  “Give me a moment; I’ll make some arrangements so I can come with you. I’ve got my bike but I can’t give you a lift, we’ll have to walk to your place together.”

  “Walk? We have to run!” I said, all worked up.

  “Fine, we’ll run! Wait a sec. I’ll be right back.”

  I couldn’t imagine Karen Abrams running. It didn’t suit her. This was the first time I had seen her outside. In my mind she was always inside. Behind the bar, in her living room, in my living room. Never outdoors. But it turned out she also went outside and she was going to run with me.

  A car pulled up beside me. The window rolled down and I recognized Arjen Salgado’s wife’s face. I was taken aback, and she noticed.

  “Hey.” Her expression said she didn’t trust me.

  “Someone j
ust stole my bike,” I said to convince her that I wasn’t trying to run away. Arjen Salgado leaned over his wife’s skirt, to get a good look at my face.

  “Then hop in the car,” he said. “We’ll give you a ride.” The thought of even touching the car paralyzed me. My feet felt like stone. Like the street had melted and my feet had sunk into the red asphalt of the bike lane; like I was at the beach, with my naked feet sinking into the sand as the waves came in.

  I looked at the ground and suddenly Karen Abrams was next to me.

  “Shall we?” she said hastily.

  I couldn’t respond. I couldn’t breathe. I was at a crossroads, and the choice I made seemed to be one that would be final. It was my last opportunity to get in a car. If I didn’t get in now, I never would again.

  “Shall we?” Karen Abrams said once more.

  Arjen Salgado got out of the car and extended his hand to Karen Abrams, announcing his name loudly and clearly.

  “Karen Abrams,” she said.

  “We have to go now,” he said, opening the rear door for me. I heard Arjen Salgado’s son in the back seat, playing with his plane.

  Time stood still. Karen Abrams waited for me to say or do something; Arjen Salgado held the door open, waiting for me to get in. I wished I would faint, to get out of the predicament. But I didn’t. Karen Abrams came to my rescue.

  “I’m going too,” she said decisively.

  “Why?”Arjen Salgado asked.

  “Because she asked me to. And because I’ve seen the box, too. And because right now she’s confused and she needs me. And because . . .”

  “Fine. Let’s go,”Arjen Salgado said gesturing toward the car.

  Karen Abrams didn’t know that I had never ridden in a car since the accident. Maybe she thought I was frozen there because I didn’t want to give up the box. Or maybe she thought I was afraid of cars. It didn’t matter. Suddenly, I came up with a solution. I could borrow Karen’s bicycle. And she could go in the car. I explained my idea, and with each word my feet felt like they were released from the soft, sticky asphalt. I felt relieved, safe, and I was about to take Karen’s arm and enter the bar to get her bicycle when Arjen Salgado froze me to the spot again.

  “Don’t even think about it! You’re not going anywhere.” He was angry and had run out of patience. “We’re going now, in my car, to your place.”

  The boy in the backseat had stopped making noises. The woman in the front seat got out of the car. Karen took my arm and whispered in my ear. “What’s going on? Why are you acting like this?”

  I mumbled, “I can’t get in the car. I can’t. You go with them. I’ll give you my keys and you can give them the box.”

  “Oh, sweetie. That’s not what they want. They want you to go. C’mon, I’ll hold your hand the whole way, I promise.”

  Karen put her hand on my back, caressed my cheek, and guided me to the car; I felt my body moving with her. First I put one leg in the car, I bent over to duck in, I perched on the edge of the seat, I lifted my right foot off the ground and all of a sudden I was sitting in the car. I scooted over to the middle of the seat, next to the boy. Karen sat beside me and shut the door gently. Arjen Salgado and his wife got in the car and shut the doors.

  I was surrounded by people who were surrounded by a car. I tried to think about the people, not about the car. The son of a Spanish immigrant was driving silently next to his wife. The grandson of a dead man looked at me while he flew his toy plane. The first woman on my list of one hundred people stroked my hand softly. It was quiet. Dead quiet. I felt far away from the street and everything outside the car. It was quieter than a train or a plane. If I shut my eyes I could imagine I was in a movie theater, not a car.

  When I opened my eyes again a few minutes later, my fear seemed to be gone. I wanted to call Anneke and Jan to tell them that I was in a car. I wanted to thank Arjen Salgado. I wanted to thank Karen. But I didn’t say anything.

  We got to my house. I got out of the car and waited for Arjen Salgado’s wife to get their son out. I felt the warmth of the spring sunshine on my face.

  I wished I could tell the dead man, Señor Salgado, that I had overcome my fear of cars thanks to him. Perhaps that was the reason we had been destined to meet. Perhaps Arjen Salgado was an angel, like the one I had been seeking for so long.

  FINIS

  To write the chapters about Him, I researched Spanish emigration during the 1960s and 1970s. My most important sources were the book Ik kwam met een koffer van karton*, by the Dutch anthropologist Geertje van Os, and the website emigracioneindhoven.dse.nl, run by Miguel Ángel Luengo Tarrero, the son of emigrants.Without their work, I would not have been able to write this book.

  Some of the situations in this book were inspired by the experiences of Spanish emigrants in Holland. All the characters are fictional, except one: Father Driessen. The Spanish emigrants in Someren held him in high regard and I have described him just as I imagined he would have conducted himself during the period. I hope I have done so accurately.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  LAIA FÀBREGAS (Barcelona, 1973) has a degree in Fine Arts from the Universitat de Barcelona. She has published three novels that have been translated to several languages. Since February 2012, she teaches creative writing at the writing school Laboratori de Lletres in Barcelona.

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  SAMANTHA SCHNEE’S translation of Mexican author Carmen Boullosa’s Texas: The Great Theft (Deep Vellum, 2014) was long-listed for the International Dublin Literary Award, short-listed for the PEN America Translation Prize, and won the Typographical Era Translation Award. She won the 2015 Gulf Coast Prize in Translation for her excerpt of Carmen Boullosa’s The Conspiracy of the Romantics, which will be published by Deep Vellum in 2017. She is the founding editor of Words Without Borders and currently edits “In Other Words,” the biannual journal of the British Centre for Literary Translation and Writers’ Centre Norwich. She is also a trustee of English PEN, where she chairs the Writers in Translation committee. Born in Scotland and raised in Texas, she lives in London with her husband and three sons.

  * Geertje van Os, Ik kwam met een koffer van karton; Spanjaarden in ZuidoostBrabant, 1961-2006,Alphen aan de Maas, Uitgeverij Veerhuis, 2006.

  Spanish translation: Me vine con una maleta de cartón y madera. Emigrantes españoles en el sureste de Holanda, 1961-2006, Cáceres, Junta de Extremadura. Consejería de Cultura y Turismo, Museo de Cáceres, part of the series “Memorias”, 2009. (Author’s Note)

  HISPABOOKS

  Contemporary Spanish fiction in English-language translation

  www.hispabooks.com