El jardín de tranquilidad

Did I ever mention Eden? – getting back to the garden – It’s quiet in here today.  Everyone who can’s gone to the beach, or to their pueblo in the cool of the Sierra.  I said goodbye to my neighbours an hour ago. I doubt if I’ll see them again.

It’s pushing 40 on the street – too hot to hurry – too hot to stay in.  The buses and bus-stops are empty.  No one’s sitting on the terraces.  

Notes have appeared on bars:
“Closed for holidays.”  
“Gone to the beach.”  
“Cerrado durante agosto.”

Everything is earlier this year.

The asphalt and the paving tiles are hot but in the park the soil is cool – no shortage of space beneath the trees.  I spread my towel beside the man-made river.  The cadence through the foliage is familiar, but softer and more scattered.  Someone rumbles by on skates, but the gatherings with their slalom cones have gone.

A police patrol passes, slowly, slowly, aircon fan intruding – my paranoia amplified by the absence of the crowd.  Loner.  Pen and a bag of books.  The car rolls on – bigger fish to fry, perhaps.  Manteros.  Africans offering fake football shirts.  Pobres.

A woman on the bench behind me, also reading – earphones leading from her phone.  Imaginary surveillance – or is it?  Laughter by the wall of Palacio de Velázquez.

The sun is high above the tree – pinpricks of brilliance move around.  Time’s marked by shade as it creeps across the grass.  I follow it with my towel.  The cicadas’ phasing frenzy.  Parakeets squabble in the pines – high and green, invisible.

A man brings his dogs to drink, each in turn flopping to the ground.  His bicycle wheel ticks to its journey’s own conclusion.

I lie on my left side, rereading passages that passed me by last night.  Slowly, slowly – little by little.  Sipping water from a bottle.  Shifting to my back, head upon my bag, I try to ignore the flies. Between the trees, insects hang then vanish quantum-like.  No sign of swifts and swallows.  

A sting.  I scrape the spot with card.  There’s blood.  Mosquitos.  It could only be a matter of time. And now I’m hungry.  Back stiff from lying on the Earth.  I pack my books.  Stand up.  Contemplate walking on the asphalt.  One small step.  Poco a poco.