A good friend of mine wrote once that, in his heart, Barcelona was twenty five. Now that I think of Madrid, I guess I could write something like that. I still remember when I reached that city in a moving van. I was carrying with me a cheesy poster of Splendor in the Grass, the complete works of Gardel, and The Little Chronicle of Anna Magdalena Bach. I had a black covered notebook tied to my bag with an elastic rope and I used to take fast notes of whatever I saw, anything I heard, somethings I read and mostly what I felt as brand new, familiar or somewhere in between.
I was a hunter back then, just like I still am somewhat, but in Madrid the prey weren’t grazing and stretching before me; they sprinted at the speed of dreams in a transatlantic flight East to West, fleeting, in dry flames. They showed their shiny fur as in a colored film and danced aimlessly in the rain, up and down along the fire stairways, on the pavement of the backstreets as well. It was an animal ballet, it was a thrilling hunt.
I used to hold my mirrored gun and wait for the sun to leave before watering myself down in electric lights. I used to walk Madrid at night. I crossed it underground to reach Heinz’s store and joke with him about noir, yakuza and cinecitta’s. I used to travel in time whenever I went to Salvador’s class and later came back home floating on a cloud, my heart between my teeth, my blood gushing out.
Madrid was also a set of shut eyes facing the sun. It was the sleeping car of a slow train, shared with mom and dad. It was the 5-year-old me posing with a flower avenue at my back. Hopper’s strips, red ballroom heels, charioteers and dramatic plays. Madrid was older than me, but it was also twenty five.
