Ever since they boarded the Baltic they’ve killed the hours with long conversations, which at times have been a welcoming respite and other times a tedious condemnation. Aquilino tends to favor silence and has little in common with these middle-aged married men. But half of the village has decided to emigrate to San Francisco, so Aquilino is resigned to the company that destiny has provided.
His name is Aquilino Fraiz and the first thing you should know about him is that he’d never wanted to leave Ventoxo, his small town in Galicia. The journey felt as endless as a winter night. They traveled by carriage from his village to the city of Vigo, and from there they took a boat to the port of Liverpool. After ten days aboard the Baltic ship, they’re stepping on solid ground in Ellis Island, finally in New York. Aquilino looks around him, absorbing with his eyes the cavernous space where they now find themselves. Crowds of men and women wait in disordered lines, with bags at their sides and disoriented gazes. In front of him is his Uncle José, who is now turning towards him with a tired smile.
‘Wish I was 18 like you. My old bones are not up for this.’
Aquilino gives him a slight smile but looks down sullenly at his shoes. He still hasn’t forgiven him for making him leave Ventoxo. He closes his eyes and remembers the conversation with his uncle and his father. The three of them were sitting on the stone bench by the gate of the house. It was at the begining of lent, some magnolias were in bloom but the air was cold and the men hunched their shoulders as they talked. Like so many other times, Uncle José and Aquilino’s father speculated about the future. Or rather, lack thereof. “In this land, there is no work.” “In this country, there is no way to earn our bread.” But this time there was a plan: America is the solution. They’ve bought two tickets to leave in June and one is for him. Aquilino kept silent and leaned back to observe the cloak of stars over their heads. Ventoxo is all that he knows and where he wants to be, but he’s aware of the part he needs to play in this story.
Aquilino opens his eyes and is back in Ellis Island, following the meandering line. Our protagonist has a slim constitution and clear white skin, the kind that hides neither veins nor arteries. He might seem fragile even, if it weren’t for the strength one can sense from a youth his age. By his side, his uncle glances nervously toward the inspectors seated at their high desks. A legal questioning awaits them but at least they’ve already passed the medical examination, where they were briskly scrutinized and their eyes poked at with a buttonhook. They’ve been waiting for over four hours in this enormous vaulted room and the murmur of voices in hundreds of languages surrounds them, including Galician. About ten fellow contrymen from Ventoxo and other neighboring villages have traveled with them. Ever since they boarded the Baltic they’ve killed the hours with long conversations, which at times have been a welcoming respite and other times a tedious condemnation. Aquilino tends to favor silence and has little in common with these middle-aged married men. But half of the village has decided to emigrate to San Francisco, so Aquilino is resigned to the company that destiny has provided.
‘Baltic, list number three!’ announces a voice in the registry room.
This matches what’s on the identification card pinned to his jacket, it will finally be their turn. Aquilino notices the profile of a young woman seated at a bench that reminds him of Elena. The lady stands up and Aquilino realizes that no, she actually does not look at all like his cousin. He thinks about one of the last times they spoke, just a few days before he left Ventoxo. Elena had come home for lunch and when they were done Aquilino’s mother asked him to accompany her niece to take a heavy sack of potatoes for her.
They crossed the small village, walking by the church of Saint Nicholas. As they entered the house, Elena announced, ‘I have a farewell gift’. She took a folded handkerchief from a drawer and gave it to Aquilino, who opened it to discover a handful of plum pits.
‘Since you like to plant things and I’ve heard that fruit trees grow well in California…’, she said with a shy smile.
Aquilino put the pits away in his pocket absentmindedly and his face turned serious.
‘Do you believe that the future is written?’ he asked pensively.
“What do you mean?”
His cousin looked at him inquisitively and Aquilino rubbed his chin as he searched for words.
‘I sometimes feel as if I’m being pulled by an invisible thread, as if my actions weren’t my own. An external force that tells me what to say, how to act… Is that what it means to be predestined to something?’
Elena shook her head emphatically. ‘No, it isn’t. The future is not written because it simply does not exist. Past and future are stories we tell ourselves and that each of us carry within. They guide our lives but ultimately only the present exists because only the here and now is real.’
Aquilino looked at her amused.
‘So nothing that we lived this afternoon is real, according to you. The time we spent eating lunch, bringing the potatoes here… Did that not happen?’
Elena smoothed her apron with her hands. ‘Yes, but it isn’t real. Those are all just memories and we each have our own version, different and distinct in our mind. As the years go by they will change and become distorted. And at the same time the future will never exist beause by definition it is somethig that has not yet taken place. The one thing we know for sure is that you and I are here at this precise moment.’
At the time, Aquilino had interpreted Elena’s words as mere fancy, but now they gain full meaning and at last he understands. His reverie is interrupted by his Uncle José, who gives him a quick nod to indicate they must go up to the tall desk. The inspector will ask them questions and check their answers against what is stated on the passenger list. Aquilino and José will know how to respond to everything: how much money is in their pocket, if they know how to read and write, who they’ve left behind in their home country… And when they’re asked about their final destination, Aquilino’s uncle will not hesitate to say San Francisco.
And yet, it would be interesting to see what Aquilino might say if we were to get close to him at this instant to tell him that he’ll never make it to California and that instead his path will lead him to West Virginia. Or look at him in the eye and let him know that he is the first of five generations that will cross the Atlantic ocean back and forth, like a perpetual pendulum. But probably none of this is important to him because Aquilino knows that the future is not written and everything is yet to be done. The only thing that matters now are the steps his feet are taking as he walks down to the ferry, the cool sea air he’s breathing in, and the clear view of the city rising before him. And Aquilino has never before seen such a vast sky.
Alana Dapena Fraiz was born in Indiana, USA, and currently resides in Madrid, Spain. She has worked as a copywriter, translator and arts administrator. She wrote her first poems at the age of 6 and after a little break of several decades has decided to go back to writing.
This story was translated by the author.
This short story is part of a research project on speculative historical fiction in Ireland and Spain funded by the AHRC and the University of Plymouth.
Picture credits: Patrick Francis
THE WANDERING BARD 